Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident

by Michael Druce

“Rest assured, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson will be dealt with, as you will be dealt with.”

  The copilot turned away and pulled the curtain closed.

  As cavalier as Piper Sands tried to present herself, she had to admit she was scared. The risks of this operation had been carefully laid out and every contingency planned for, all except one. Who could have foreseen the intervention of Sherlock Holmes? How had that happened? The attempted snatch was designed to take place in a public setting. Her personal residence was a closely guarded secret. Even the mole didn’t know where she lived; otherwise she would have been snatched long ago. A great deal of effort had been undertaken to create the impression she lived on base. The use of a double and an elaborate security plan had been devised to allow her to live as normal a life as possible until Operation Deceive was completed. How the hell had Sherlock Holmes managed to find her? Give him credit for that, but not for the fact that he wasn’t clever enough to know Soviet agents were tracking him. It wouldn’t take long for the Soviets to discover she wasn’t Jenny Winston. Piper dreaded to imagine what tools they had in their arsenal to make her talk. Whether she had anything useful to tell them or not, her future did not look bright. Piper’s training had prepared her for almost every contingency. Being bound, drugged, and kidnapped was not one of them.

  Twenty minutes later the plane began its descent. The landscape below appeared as a barren desert. Piper Sands hoped she was still in the United States. Could be Mexico. The sedative her abductors had administered had erased her grasp of time.

  The Bobcat T-50 made a hard landing.

  “Good God,” Piper Sands yelled from the back of the plane. “Do you know how to fly this thing?”

  Neither man responded.

  The small plane whipped up a whirlwind of dust as it taxied to a stop.

  The copilot threw back the makeshift curtain, pushed open the door, and waited on the ground, holding a pistol at the ready in case Agent Sands tried something silly. The pilot undid Piper’s restraint and nudged her through the door. She stepped onto the wing and then onto the sandy runway. An old tin hangar nearby and a Mobil gas pump suggested she was still in the U.S.

  “Over there,” the pilot said. He pointed to the hangar.

  “I hope there’s a bathroom in there. A shower wouldn’t be bad, either.”

  “You talk too much,” the copilot said.

  “You really know how to make a girl feel welcome, Larry.”

  “I told you, my name is not Larry.”

  “What is your name?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Larry it is. And the little guy, he’s Moe.”

  The two Soviet agents led Piper Sands into the dilapidated old building. It was filled with machinery, airplane parts, and room to park the Bobcat inside.

  “This way,” Moe said.

  The agents led Piper through a door down a set of stairs that led to an area underground. She prepared herself to be locked in a dark and dank basement. Instead, she entered a spacious, well-appointed room. An identical room was next door.

  “Your room is number one,” said Larry. “You will find everything you need to make yourself comfortable.”

  “Not what I expected,” Piper said. “If you think this will soften me up to make me talk, it won’t. You won’t get anything out of me.”

  “We don’t want anything from you,” Moe said sinisterly. “We are not the ones doing the interrogating. That will be left to The Caretaker.”

  “The Caretaker? Who is The Caretaker?” Piper asked warily.

  Moe shrugged. “He has a reputation. He takes care of things. Enjoy your stay, while you can.”

  Piper Sands surveyed her surroundings. “I guess it could be worse.”

  “It will be, count on it,” Larry said.

  Having done their best to unsettle their captive, the two men returned to the upper area of the hangar, locking the basement door behind them.

  “How long must we babysit this girl?” Larry asked.

  “Two days, three days. Until the Caretaker arrives. He will be coming from Moscow. He won’t be here any time soon.”

  “Is he really as bad as they say?”

  “I have never met the man, but from what I hear, he is most effective. He will deal with the girl.”

  “Good! She has a big mouth,” Larry grumbled. “She is most obnoxious. If she doesn’t shut up, I may kill her before The Caretaker arrives.”

  “Forget her. Now, open the doors. I should park this plane inside.”

  Holmes Alone

  After slipping out of the restaurant, Holmes disappeared into a crowd of pedestrians and made his way to the Carlton Hotel.

  “Will you be staying long, Mr. Holmes?” The desk clerk asked.

  “I am afraid my stay will be all too brief.”

  The clerk handed Holmes a room key. “Fifth floor. Room 517. Welcome to The Carlton. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Holmes took the lift to the fifth floor, dropped the room key into a waste bin, and exited the hotel by way of the back stairs.

  The following morning a Soviet agent posing as a housekeeper entered room 517. The bed had not been slept in; the towels were still fresh. Immediately she placed a telephone call.

  Holmes had no time to create a disguise. Sans hat and overcoat, Holmes knew he was less likely to stand out. He went a step further by gifting his suit jacket to a panhandler who looked as if he needed a good coat more than he. Next, he popped into a local sporting goods store where he purchased a baseball jacket and baseball cap.

  “Which is it?” The clerk asked. “Phillies or Cubs?”

  “Excuse me?” Holmes asked.

  “You got a Phillies cap and a Cubbies jacket. Neither of those teams has a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the pennant. The smart money is on the Yankees to repeat. Me, I’m a Dodgers fan. I’m seeing Brooklyn go all the way.”

  “Where is Brooklyn going?”

  “Are you kidding me? The World Series!”

  “The series, of course!”

  “I’ve got plenty of Yankees and Dodgers gear.”

  “I’ll stay with the underdogs.”

  Holmes paid for his purchase and disappeared into the hustle and bustle of Washington D.C.

  Our meeting with Colonel Hawker had left me uneasy. In such a climate, could Holmes be sure of Colonel Hawker’s loyalties? The Colonel had expressed guarded confidence in Cherepanov. What about Cherepanov’s loyalties? Was he entirely trustworthy? I felt as if we had entered a den of snakes devoid of protection. Which ones were harmless? Which ones were lethal? No longer were matters simply black or white. These shades of gray had introduced a confounding complexity to our relations with friend and foe. Perhaps the chaos and uncertainty that issued from these events was the point. Keeping one off balance ultimately undermined our trust in the values and institutions we had come to rely on for stability.

  In his new role as ordinary Joe, Holmes needed a telephone. A bus or train station was out of the question. Those places would be crawling with agents. He decided on a place where it seemed least likely to encounter a Soviet agent: a coin operated Laundromat.

  Holmes settled on the K. Street Washateria. With the assistance of an operator, he fed several coins into the pay telephone and connected to the number Colonel Hawker had given him. After three rings, the telephone at the other end picked up. No one answered.

  “Hello?” Holmes said. “Hello? Hello?”

  There was still no answer, but the call remained connected.

  Holmes had no choice but to take a chance. “This is Sherlock Holmes. A Washington friend gave me your number.”

  The silence continued.

  “I am calling from a Laundromat on K. Street. The n
ame of the establishment is K. Street Washateria. I will provide you with the telephone number if you wish to call back. I will wait five minutes, not a second longer.”

  After another long pause, Holmes received a response. “The Wide Eye Café on Route 66. Tucumcari, New Mexico. Ten in the morning, the day after tomorrow.” The line went dead.

  Holmes had less than 48 hours to get to New Mexico. Two blocks down K. Street he found a bookstore. It was crowded, perfect for easily blending in with other patrons. He made his way to the travel section. There he found a travel guide with a driving distance chart. Washington D.C. to Tucumcari, New Mexico was approximately 1500 miles. Driving or taking a bus was out of the question. A train seemed hardly faster. He had to fly. The Washington area airports posed too much of a risk. Consulting the travel guide once again, he decided on Philadelphia. He would hire a car and drive to Philadelphia. Barring unforeseen delays, he should arrive in Philadelphia in less than five hours.

  As Holmes was being pursued by the Soviets, rather than the Americans, he felt safe renting a vehicle and flying under his own name. His name was well known; his face was less familiar. Neither raised the least bit of concern from the clerk at the obscure rental agency from which he had hired a vehicle. The ticketing agent in Philadelphia recognized the name but said nothing. She was used to selling tickets to celebrities.

  Shortly after midnight Holmes landed at English Field in Amarillo, Texas. The airport in Amarillo was the closest major airport to Tucumcari, which was 120 miles away. Holmes spent the night in a nearby motel called The Flight Line. The following morning, after consuming a quarter of what The Flight Line Café billed as a belly busting breakfast, Holmes made his way to a local airpark that offered various flying services. Holmes settled on Bob’s Air Taxi. Bob advertised safe and courteous service to Tucumcari four times a day.

  Bob had a long white bushy moustache permanently stained from years of chewing tobacco. He had been a World War I air ace too far beyond his prime to fly in World War II. By the time Holmes arrived in Tucumcari, he knew more about Bob than most members of Bob’s own family. As Holmes was about to depart, Bob said, “Thanks for the business, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes drew up short. “I don’t believe I introduced myself.”

  “You didn’t have to. I recognized you even with the baseball jacket. If you don’t mind my saying, there’s only one reason a man of your reputation, dressed as you are, is flying with a feller like me.”

  “What would that be?” Holmes asked, curious about the crusty fellow he had been flying with.

  “You’re either on a case or someone is after you.”

  “You have a keen imagination, Bob.”

  “You know, I’ve seen all types throughout the years. I think I’m a pretty good judge of character.” Bob handed Holmes a business card.” If you need anything, Mr. Holmes, you call me, you hear?”

  “Thank you, Bob.”

  Twenty minutes later Holmes found himself in the heart of Tucumcari confronted with a fair selection of motor hotels featuring colorful names. He settled on The Blue Bird. After registering, he took a much-needed shower. Later he walked along Main Street, otherwise known as Route 66. He easily found The Wide Eye Café, fixed its location in his mind, and returned to his motel room, where he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  At 10 a.m. the following morning Holmes sat alone in a booth at The Wide Eye Café drinking a cup of coffee. Periodically he glanced up at the clock above the counter.

  “Hon, you’re gonna stare a hole in that clock up there.” A waitress in a white uniform and cap hovered over Holmes with a fresh pot of coffee. “More.”

  Holmes nodded.

  “Are you going to eat anything, or not? You look as if you could use a meal. You need to get some meat on those bones.”

  “I will have a simple order of eggs and bacon, nothing man sized or belly busting, please.”

  “How do you like them?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your eggs. Do you like them like me, sunny side up? Or over easy?”

  “Surprise me,” Holmes replied with a wink.

  “Sure thing.”

  When the waitress returned with the breakfast Holmes had ordered, she asked, “Phillies or Cubs?”

  “Neither. If I were a gambling man, my money would be on the Yankees or the Dodgers.”

  “I’ll bring you some more coffee,” the waitress said with a smile.

  The man reading a newspaper a few booths away had been watching Holmes from the moment he had entered the café. From his position he had a wide view of the street. After almost twenty-five minutes, he was satisfied Holmes was alone and not being tailed. The man slid into the seat opposite.

  “The cap and baseball jacket are a nice touch,” the man said.

  Holmes ignored the comment. He was tired of talking about a sport he cared nothing about. “I wondered when you would make contact. If you hadn’t done so in the next few minutes, I would have come to your booth.”

  “Was I that obvious?”

  The young agent had a lot to learn.

  “Victor,” the agent said, offering his hand. “I go by Cherepanov, but that is not my real last name.”

  Holmes waved his hand. “Don’t say anymore. The less I know of your identity, the better it is for you.”

  “Point taken. Have your breakfast, then we will go for a drive. I have a Jeep outside.”

  Holmes finished his breakfast of manageable portions, after which Victor Cherepanov drove Holmes to a desert location a few miles from town. Both men exited the Jeep. Holmes was impressed by the vast desert vista that lay before him. Such wide-open spaces must allow for a feeling of freedom one did not experience in the claustrophobia of the cities. The location was well-chosen. The two men might be seen, but they couldn’t be heard.

  Holmes quickly filled the young agent in on the details of the kidnapping without disclosing that Jenny Winston was in fact Agent Piper Sands.

  “What do you want to know, Mr. Holmes? How can I help you?”

  “Let’s begin with how the Soviets communicate with you.”

  “Most often through an ordinary Post Office box in Roswell. Nothing bears a Russian postmark, of course. Anything coming directly from the Soviet Union is scrubbed in Seattle.”

  “Scrubbed?” Holmes asked.

  “Repackaged, so the envelope bears a Seattle postmark.”

  “How do you communicate with them?”

  “There is an old farm with several junk cars on it a few miles from Roswell. The trunk of one of the cars is a drop box. That is where I drop my regular reports. I drive to the farm and leave my package. I have never seen anyone at the farm. I assume it is a Soviet owned property.”

  “Might the girl be there?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “The telephone number Colonel Hawker provided me with, do the Russians have it?”

  “Yes, but we never speak over that telephone. That is only ever done through a pay telephone. The phone will ring and a voice at the other end will either speak the number one or thirty.”

  “What is the significance of that?”

  “Time. Thirty means respond within thirty minutes. One means one hour. They allow for travel time to a phone booth.”

  “Thirty minutes would suggest a call of higher priority.”

  “Calls are rare, Mr. Holmes.”

  “If the need arises, are you able to initiate a call?”

  “Yes, I have a telephone number. I call. Someone answers. I identify myself by repeating the banner headline of that day’s New York Times. A few minutes later I get a call back. It is impossible to determine where the incoming call is coming from. The Soviets are thorough.”

  “Tell me about your predecessor.”

&n
bsp; “The former Comrade Cherepanov had gained access to a number of highly classified programs regarding aviation and technology. He had been copying documents and dropping them at the farm. From there, the agent who had recruited and groomed Cherepanov would pick up the documents and pass them on. The recruiter went by the name Smith. Like me, Cherepanov is American. He had never been to the Soviet Union, nor had he any contacts there. No one in Soviet intelligence has ever seen a photograph of Cherepanov. He was a name only. As he had been providing valuable intelligence, what did it matter if anyone had seen him? Everyone was happy. The Soviets had a well-oiled machine until Mr. Smith got drunk at a local bar, crashed his car, and ended up in intensive care. When the police investigated, they found copies of highly classified documents in the trunk of Smith’s car. Intelligence was called in and Mr. Smith received a bedside visit. In his weakened condition, he gave up Cherepanov and numerous other details about his activities. As no one had ever seen Cherepanov, Central Intelligence plucked me from the ranks, and I took his place. Like Mr. Smith, Cherepanov was more than cooperative. He laid bare his soul. We knew the Soviet’s would smell a rat if Smith simply disappeared. We made sure he notified the Soviets that he would require a lengthy period of bed rest once he was released from the hospital. To preserve my cover and prove my value to the state, I notified the Soviets that Smith had expressed reservations about continuing in his role. I added that I felt my own position was in jeopardy, that I had lost confidence in Smith. A few days later Mr. Smith passed away unexpectedly. Not long after I received a thank you card postmarked Seattle.”

  “Do you still use the farm to transmit reports and documents?”

  “No. Apparently having someone pick up reports was viewed as a liability. Now I send them to a private box in Portland.”

  “What do you know about the Jenny Winston operation?”

  “Hardly anything. From the moment the Roswell incident hit the newspapers, the Soviets wanted as much information as possible. I am still in the dark about Roswell.”

  “Why do you think the Soviets are so interested in Jenny Winston?”

  “She was a witness to what happened. Supposedly she disappeared, or she was dead, and now she shows up in an Air Force newspaper. That’s the kind of thing that gets the Soviets’ attention.”