Shattered Bone

by Chris Stewart

  As Tray turned to the last message in the file, he couldn’t help but notice how thick it was. It must have been at least twenty pages, which was unusual, for normally the different agencies which passed classified intelligence information to one another tried to keep them very short. It wasn’t until Tray read the electronic return address at the top of the page that he realized the message had originated from the ICED detachment out at Wright Patterson Air Force Base in Ohio. The message was addressed only to the ICED director, which was good. That would mean it would not yet have been disseminated out of the ICED agency. As Oliver Tray perused the lengthy report, he became even more relieved that no one outside of ICED had yet seen it.

  He read the report several times, highlighting key points with a light yellow marker while jotting down more than two pages of questions and notes, then picked up his STEW III secure telephone to make a few calls.

  The first person he contacted was Major Oonnald, the author of the report. Tray knew him well enough to know that he didn’t have to doubt his work. Still, after getting Donnald on the phone and going through the usual exchange of brief pleasantries, he began to fire off a series of questions. How long had he been working on this project? What first had made him suspicious? Who were his sources? Had he been working alone? How far along did he think they might be in assembling the stolen equipment?

  All through the grilling, Major Donnald remained cool. He was obviously very well prepared. As he answered his questions, Tray could hear the major sort through his notes. He remained extremely factual, answering Tray’s questions as directly as he could, all the while being careful not to interject his own feelings or personal opinions. He seemed to have done a lot of homework. Tray could just imagine. He tried to picture himself in Donnald’s shoes. If he had fired off such a message to his boss, he would have stayed up all night preparing for the arrows of doubt that he knew would soon be lobbed in his direction.

  “What about documentation? Where do you stand? Have you got a reasonably good paper trail?” Oliver asked.

  “Yes, I think we’ve got a good start,” Donnald replied. “I’ve got invoices and inventory logs for the missing computers, security police reports of the stolen software, as well as receipts from the contractor and statements from the guys out there in the state department who have been helping me track the destination of some of the illegally exported goods. It’s all here. But unfortunately, it still paints a very muddied picture.”

  “One last question, Major Donnald.” Lt Colonel Tray was ready to wrap it up. “Why? Why could they possibly want all this equipment? What are they planning to do?”

  A rather lengthy pause. “Sir, I have absolutely no idea. I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Yeah ... I wish I could. But we better find out. Listen, what have you got planned for this afternoon? Any chance you could come out and meet with Colonel Fullbright? I’d really like you here. It would save us a lot of time.”

  “My secretary has already made reservations. I can be at National by sixteen thirty. Can you have someone pick me up?”

  “I’ll send someone over. And Major Donnald, bring the documentation. We’ll want to go through as much of it as we can.”

  “It’s already packed. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

  Oliver Tray hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes.

  No wonder the director didn’t know what to think. This one was beyond even weird.

  All those parts stolen from the B-1 simulator building up at Ellsworth. Whole racks of computers. And an entire bank of missing simulator software from the Rockwell facility out in California. And what about the 28,000 gigs of highly sophisticated computer programs that had been shipped out to Helsinki, all of it legal, but highly suspect?

  But why? Who would want all that stuff? It had very little military or intelligence value. It just didn’t make sense. If Oliver Tray didn’t know any better, he would almost believe that someone was trying to build themselves a B-1.

  HELSINKI, FINLAND

  That night, Ivan Morozov stalked into Andrei Liski’s office and slammed the door shut behind him. He was angry, and his mood showed on his face. Liski looked up from his reading, then leaned back in his chair and gestured for Morozov to sit. Morozov shook his head and remained standing.

  “How is the simulator training going?” Liski asked. “Better than expected, I hope, given the deteriorating situation in Russia.”

  Morozov grunted. “Some good. Some bad. But all in all it is coming along. We’re about where I thought we would be.”

  “How long until you are ready? We have far less time than we originally planned for.”

  Morozov didn’t reply. Liski returned his cold stare.

  “Did you call me here to chat about our training, or have you got something else on your mind?” Morozov finally asked.

  Liski reached down, opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He tossed the paper across his desk with a flip of his wrist.

  “Recognize this?” he asked dryly.

  Morozov studied the paper and shrugged. “What is it?”

  “It’s a phone number.”

  “Okay,” Morozov replied. “So it’s a phone number.”

  Liski leaned forward in his chair. “The night we brought Ammon in, he made two phone calls. One to his woman out in California. The other one to this number.”

  A hint of fear flashed in Morozov’s eyes. “Whose number is it?” he demanded.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Liski snapped. “It’s no longer a working number. Doesn’t have a country code. No area code that matches any within the United States. Nor any other nation, as far as we can tell. So you tell me. You’re the intel genius. Who did your boy call?”

  Morozov didn’t answer.

  “Ammon is looking like a total disaster!” Liski announced in a disgusted tone.

  Morozov shot Liski a menacing glare. “How did you get this?” he demanded.

  “It wasn’t hard. A little checking around with the Korea phone company was all it took.”

  Ivan Morozov swore again under his breath.

  “So what do you think, Ivan Morozov? Who did Ammon try to call? What kind of outfit has untraceable numbers?”

  Morozov didn’t look up. Inside his head, his mind was racing. “That sonofa ... ,” his voice trailed off.

  Morozov finally looked up from the paper. “Get the girl!” he commanded in a raspy voice. “Get the girl! No more excuses! No more delays! I want her by the end of the week!”

  He turned and stalked from the room.

  TWELVE

  ___________________________

  __________________________

  LONE PINE, CALIFORNIA

  JESSE MORREL STARED OUT THE CABIN WINDOW AT THE TOP OF THE Sierra mountains. It had snowed for the first time last night, much earlier than usual, and the highest peaks were blanketed in a deep white powder. But the lower valleys received only a light dusting, leaving clumps of desert wiregrass to stretch their brittle fingers through the thin layer of snow. The morning sun created millions of sparkling prisms as it reflected off the grainy white powder.

  It had been more than two weeks since Jesse had come in from her morning walk to find the message Ammon had left her on her answering machine. Within two hours of receiving the message, she was driving the winding mountain roads that led to their summer cabin above the small town of Lone Pine.

  As she drove along the highway toward the thin air of the Sierras, she wished for the thousandth time that this was just another weekend getaway. She glanced at the empty passenger seat, remembering the many happy days that she and Richard had spent in the cabin. It had been their mountain hideaway. Every weekend they could, they drove up to the cabin, where they spent the days hiking and swimming and sleeping in each other’s arms in the hammock that swung from the back porch.

  One morning, just over a year ago, when they had been married for just a few weeks, they had come up to the ca
bin for Easter break. Early one morning they were hiking along a steep ridge line when they encountered a small black bear. The bear was high on the ridge, about fifty feet up the trail, but still Jesse quickly scrambled back down the trail to safety. While Jesse retreated, Richard stood his ground, insisting there wasn’t any danger. Suddenly the furry black bear hoisted herself onto her hind legs and began to swat at the air. She growled and tossed her head around as she glared at Richard Ammon. His evaluation of the harmless bear changed very quickly and he ran for the nearest tree. And that’s where Jesse found him, when, half an hour later, she cautiously hiked back up the mountain. Richard sat treed like a coon, perched high in an old white aspen, while the small bear waited patiently below. When the bear heard Jesse approaching, she must have felt outnumbered, because she quickly ran off into the trees. Richard shyly climbed down from the aspen while Jesse doubled over with laughter. From then on, if Ammon ever acted just a little too cocky, Jesse would smile at him, then growl like a bear.

  Memories such as these had made Jesse happy to be back in their old mountain refuge. But as time wore on, the rooms seemed to grow more empty and a heavy loneliness began to set in.

  The plan had been very simple. If Richard Ammon ever gave her the code, she was to go immediately up to the cabin. He would call her there as soon as he could. It might take some time, he had warned her, but eventually he would get to a phone. For more than two weeks, Jesse Morrel had been waiting, literally living each minute by the phone. She would stay all day in the cabin, then usually sleep in a bundle of quilted blankets by the fireplace, the telephone sitting next to her ear. Once or twice a day, she would pick up the receiver and listen for a dial tone just to make sure the phone was still working.

  One morning, very early, the telephone rang. She awoke instantly from a deep slumber and snatched up the receiver with trembling hands. A bright female voice asked if Benny was there. “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” Jesse muttered. The girl giggled an apology and hung up. Jesse’s heart nearly broke. She held the receiver next to her chest and listened to the perfect silence of the room.

  Late one evening she called a close friend. She couldn’t stand the loneliness anymore. They had only talked for a moment, but since then, Jesse had lived with a constant fear that Ammon had tried to call her while she was on the phone. Her mind knew it was unlikely, maybe one chance in ten thousand. But so many unlikely things had happened. She figured her chances of falling in love with a former spy had been pretty unlikely, too.

  The waiting and wondering was driving her crazy. But where could she turn for answers? What was she to do? Drive to Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas and walk into the base commander’s office and ask if they knew that one of their F-16 pilots was a Soviet spy? Well, not really a Soviet spy, she would explain. The Soviet Union no longer existed, of course. He was a former Soviet spy, former in the sense that he was now a good guy. He wasn’t a spy anymore. Never really was. Didn’t ever have the chance. And he certainly had never done anything illegal. He was forced into the situation by ambitious and evil men who took advantage of his childhood. Now he considers himself an American. And he is completely loyal. He loves this country and he loves me, too, and he wouldn’t leave us voluntarily. He was taken in against his will. Why are you looking at me that way? I’m not crazy! I’m his wife!

  Jesse could picture the expression on the base commander’s face as he threw her out of his office and had her shipped back to Circus Circus.

  Of course he wouldn’t believe her. Jesse hardly believed it herself. And that meant she was on her own.

  And so she waited. As long as she could. But after two weeks, she couldn’t take it any longer. She couldn’t stand the loneliness of the cabin or the frustration of not knowing what to do. She was tired of waiting for Ammon, and she wasn’t going to wait anymore. Fourteen days after arriving at the cabin, she packed up her small bag of belongings and headed home to Santa Monica.

  She arrived late that afternoon. She parked her red Mazda next to the complex pool, then got out and cut through the grass, ignoring the winding sidewalks that led through the maze of buildings. Dressed in white summer shorts, a striped cotton shirt, and white sandals, she walked quickly toward her apartment and let herself in. The first thing she did was check the answering machine. Perhaps Ammon had tried to call her here. Pushing the play button, she tapped impatiently on the counter top as she waited for the tape to start playing. But nothing happened. When she remembered that she had turned the machine off after getting Ammon’s code, she let out a long, whispered sigh. It was just another link in a chain of disappointments. She was starting to get used to them now.

  It wasn’t until then that Jesse noticed the stale, musty air. The apartment smelled like an old tangy sweatshirt. She walked to the sink and saw the spilled orange juice that had been left there for over two weeks. It was now a smelly puddle of brown pulp. She opened the drain and turned on the water to wash it away, then propped open the front door and raised the kitchen window to let the outside air circulate through the room.

  Jesse walked through the apartment, looking things over. Everything appeared just as she left it. She grabbed a notebook and pencil, sat down at the kitchen table, and tried to collect her thoughts. You’re a smart girl, she said to herself. You can figure this out. After all, this wasn’t brain surgery. The problem was where to begin?

  She tried to consider every angle. But Jesse was not trained in counter-espionage and one very important consideration never entered her mind. It never occurred to her that Ammon’s former master would have any interest in her. And though Ammon had warned her to go to the cabin, she never really thought that her life might be in danger.

  Seven miles away, in another rented apartment, a man suddenly sat upright in his chair. For the first time in over two weeks he heard what he had been waiting for. Although he hadn’t yet heard any voices, he could make out the distinct sound of light footsteps walking down the un carpeted hallway. He could distinctly hear the sound of a window being opened and then the faint rush of flowing water.

  He immediately picked up the telephone and quickly dialed the number.

  “Someone’s in the apartment,” he said in a cool and even voice.

  “Is it her?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t heard any voices. But someone is definitely there. I can hear them walking down the hall. Whoever it is, they don’t appear to be in any hurry. It’s not like they’re rushing around.”

  “Maybe it’s just the landlord,” the voice at the other end of the telephone said.

  “Maybe so. That’s not my problem, is it? I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “Has he tried to call her again?”

  “No. Nothing but that one time. At least he hasn’t left any messages on her machine. Lately it has been very quiet. The phone hasn’t rung at all for three days.”

  “Okay. Keep listening.” The line went dead.

  Within a matter of minutes, a tall, burly man and his middle-aged wife climbed into an old Toyota. The man threw two canvas bags into the back seat, started the engine, and pulled quickly out into traffic on Southwestern Lane. His name was Clyde. His wife’s name was Nadine. They were on their way to Jesse’s apartment. They had about five miles to travel. It would take them twelve minutes to get there.

  Meanwhile, Jesse Morrel sat at her kitchen table. As she doodled on the notepad in front of her, a plan was taking shape in her mind. She knew that the Air Force would know what had happened to Capt Richard Ammon. They would have to know, or at least have some idea. He couldn’t just disappear without some sort of investigation. That was where she would begin.

  But she also knew that she had no standing. Her marriage to Richard Ammon had never been reported to the military. She was not listed as a dependent on Ammon’s records. She wasn’t even a beneficiary on his life insurance policy. The only proof she had was the marriage license that had been issued to them from the Justice of the Peace at
the white chapel. That was the way Richard had insisted it must be. He wanted no official ties that would lead the Sicherheit to Jesse.

  But that was irrelevant now, and Jesse had already decided that, if she needed to, she would use the paper. She would go in and demand the kind of answers any other wife who had lost her husband had the right to demand. But she wasn’t ready to do that yet. Maybe later, if Richard didn’t reach her, or she didn’t get any answers herself. But she would wait a few more days before she pulled out her trump card.

  A slight breeze through the open window blew back the thin curtains, waving them gently. Behind where Jesse sat at the kitchen table, the front door stood slightly ajar, allowing the fresh air to circulate through the stale apartment.

  Suddenly, she stood up from the table. She shook her head and shivered with unexpected excitement.

  What about the mail? She had asked the apartment manager to check her mail! Could it be that Ammon had been able to write her? Maybe he couldn’t get to a phone. Perhaps a letter was waiting for her now.

  She grabbed her jacket and ran from the apartment, locking the door as she left. She jogged down the sloping sidewalk, and around the corner of the pool house on her way to the manager’s office.

  When Jesse entered the tidy, oak-paneled office, she was slightly out of breath from her run. Her brown hair tossed about her shoulders as she walked into the room. The manager, a pudgy man with a shiny, bald head, looked up from his small television and visibly brightened. He was glad to see her. She was one of his favorite tenants. He noticed the flush in her cheeks as she stood behind his desk and asked him if she could pick up her mail.

  Without getting up, he rolled his chair across the plastic floormat and pulled out a paper sack tucked behind the counter. He handed the sack to Jesse with a smile. Once again, she didn’t notice the look in his eye. She was too used to being admired.