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The Mile Marker Murders

Page 3

by C. W. Saari


  “You had four years of Russian at prep school and two more at Dartmouth,” Gordon commented.

  “That’s right,” Bannister said.

  “Fluency in Russian has always been a vital need for the Bureau, and successfully recruiting a guy with your skills was a nice break, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bannister was silent.

  “You were brought to Atlanta because the office needed a Russian-speaking agent experienced in counterintelligence.”

  “We had a sensitive espionage subject here,” Witt interjected. “A source of the Agency fingered a subject who was living in Atlanta and working as a consultant for the CIA and Pentagon. The subject was cleared and that investigation fizzled. The real subject was never identified. In any event, Bannister stayed here. For the past three years, he’s worked both intelligence and counterterrorist cases. He’s on our task force and has been our liaison officer to the CIA.”

  Gordon said to Bannister, “I understand you were helping Williamson with his Russian.”

  “I was. Both of us thought it was a shame to know a language and not use it.”

  “We’re exploring all connections,” Gordon said. “Williamson’s emergency contact form listed two people. One is the lawyer, who is the executor of a trust for his daughter. The other is you, Bannister. What we want to know is, why was Williamson interested in improving his Russian? And you were tutoring him in that language. How did that come about?”

  “About two years ago during one of our runs, Cal mentioned he was still handling a sensitive source whose native language was Russian. When Cal returned from running the London and Bermuda marathons last year, he enjoyed telling me all about the races. Each time, however, he also winked and mentioned he had a good workout with his Russian.”

  “What did you think he meant by that?”

  “I assumed he’d met with sources. Cal told me he hoped his next job would be the Russian desk, and being conversant would be advantageous.”

  “So, where did you do this tutoring?”

  “Once a month we met for a ninety-minute lunch at a nice restaurant. The game rules were that other than ordering our food, the entire conversation would be in Russian. Absolutely no English.”

  “What did the FBI think about that?” Gordon asked.

  “The Bureau didn’t know.” Bannister felt Witt staring at him but didn’t bother to turn around. “There was no requirement to document it. As far as I was concerned, this was just a continuation of my liaison responsibilities.”

  There was silence for a few seconds while Gordon looked at something in his notebook. He resumed his questioning. “Williamson, at least we think it was Williamson, had some notes written on a Post-it pad near his phone. Do you know what the ‘Monday-Ty’ note meant?”

  “No. When I last saw Cal, I suggested he give me a call after the dust settled and give me his spin of what it was like to be back in Washington. He said he’d call and give me his direct office number, official e-mail, and the like. He never phoned.”

  “Did you try to reach him?”

  “No. I think we all know whenever you change assignments, things are pretty hectic for a while. I figured he’d get around to it sooner or later.”

  “One last thing. Did you know Williamson listed you as a person to be contacted in case of an emergency?”

  “Yes. He trusted me and figured if anything ever happened to him, I’d be able to make some solid decisions in his best interests.”

  Gordon thanked Bannister and asked him to call if he thought of anything that’d be useful.

  “Is that it?” Bannister asked.

  Gordon nodded, and Bannister got up to leave. Gordon said, “Give me a minute,” excused himself from the group, and followed Bannister outside the office. He closed the door, and as the two of them were standing in the hallway, he put his arm around Bannister’s shoulder.

  “Look, I tried to put myself in your situation. This has got to be tough. The just-not-knowing. As soon as I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll give you a call,” Gordon said.

  Bannister sensed that he meant it, and that he wasn’t an investigator with a hidden agenda. “I wish there was some lead I could give you to help find him. I feel pretty helpless right now, Doug. If I were back there, I’d focus on finding his car. I think that’s the key.”

  FIFTEEN MONTHS EARLIER—VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  Lillian Wells was living in one of the cultural capitals of the world. She had been told it would be a never-ending opportunity to experience new things. Now it just seemed never ending. When her husband, Felix Wells III, was assigned by the State Department to Vienna twenty-eight months ago, he had made her many promises. For her, the most important one was that before they left they would try and start a family. All of Felix’s promises were the same—empty.

  When Lillian turned thirty, Felix had literally waltzed into her life at a formal reception. He was handsome. He held his chin up high when he talked, and his voice was polished. His straight, bright teeth gave him a Hollywood smile. His clothes were expensive and carefully tailored. He impressed her with his first-hand descriptions of the world’s historic sites. His enthusiasm for sampling what the world’s great cities had to offer captivated her. Her interest in international causes intrigued him and he was impressed with her questions and the way she listened to everything he said. But Felix’s love for Lillian blossomed after hearing a rumor she’d inherited a substantial sum of money. After a quick courtship, the two were married and Lillian became a diplomat’s wife.

  His infatuation with Lillian and his enthusiasm for their marriage began to fade after the first year. Other than physical intimacy, Felix shared less and less with Lillian. He’d seek her opinion for what he had chosen to wear, but he never offered his comments or compliments about how she was dressed. He didn’t need to. Although Lillian didn’t go to extra lengths with her makeup and hair, she chose her wardrobe for its simplicity and classic style. If pushed, she could accent her appearance with family heirloom jewelry.

  Felix was only obsessive about his own appearance. He felt it beneath his lifestyle to help out around their quarters and left it to Lillian to do all the cleaning, cooking, and picking up. Lately she thought better than to ask Felix to handle even the smallest task.

  To get his first overseas posting, Felix had to work hard to prove himself, and he resented it. He believed his superiors should have recognized his talents early and rewarded him without the necessity of a long trial period at headquarters. Finally, however, he had been assigned to Vienna.

  As a Second Secretary in the Public Diplomacy Section, Felix stayed busy with appointments during the day and official functions at night. He never tired of the numerous invitations to cocktail parties and other social events, most of which, after the first few months in Vienna, he attended by himself. He consciously neglected to invite Lillian, who spent many evenings alone. It didn’t have to be that way. She could have been an asset. Earlier in Vienna, Felix had discovered the men he was trying to curry favor with were ignoring him to talk with his wife. He resented that, too. Lillian was an excellent conversationalist and well read. She put people at ease and made them smile. Besides that, men always stole a second glance at her because of her natural beauty. Her perfect posture and the grace with which she glided across a room made her seem taller than she was. Her long, brunette hair cascaded to her shoulders in soft waves. She tried to wear her hair in a style that drew attention to her face and away from her breasts. To put it simply, she was well-endowed. She once asked Felix if he thought breast reduction surgery would make her more attractive.

  “The only thing that would change would be that men wouldn’t wonder if you had implants, and your friends wouldn’t be as jealous. Why should you be concerned about what others think? And why would I ever want to waste that kind of money?” He had never asked her how she felt. He had quit asking her what she did during the day.

  Lillian tried to stay busy. She spent hours organizing ev
ents for the Overseas Wives Club. When not scheduling club functions, Lillian attended Pilates classes and worked at improving her tennis game. It was on the tennis court that she would meet the man who would change her life forever.

  On Friday mornings, Lillian drove to the tennis courts at the Prater, a public park in northeast Vienna. She liked the Prater. It reminded her of Central Park in New York City. Of course the Prater’s amusement park was famous throughout Europe for its century old Ferris wheel, but the park had flowers and the woods where she could escape from the clanging sounds and glaring signs of the city.

  The Prater’s public tennis courts, near the banks of the Danube, welcomed her as if she were somehow a club member and not a just a visitor. Although she didn’t advertise it, Lillian was an accomplished tennis player. She had been on her high school team and played well in league play for many years. She usually met one of the other wives at the park, but if her partner for the day failed to show, she would work on her backhand, taking advantage of the excellent practice walls at the end of the courts.

  It was on a cool overcast Friday morning that she met Andre. Cecilia had called her earlier in the morning to cancel; she told Lillian she had some things she absolutely needed to do and thought it would probably rain anyway. It wasn’t the first time Cecelia or one of the other wives had made a last minute cancellation. Lillian didn’t mind. She drove to the courts alone.

  She removed her baggy black sweatpants, but kept her jacket on because the air was misting. She had been hitting volleys against the practice wall for ten minutes when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Did you read your horoscope today?” asked a man in perfect English. He was carrying a Prince tennis bag with several rackets in it.

  “Pardon me?” Lillian said.

  “Did you read your horoscope today?” he repeated. “What sign are you?”

  “Libra,” Lillian replied warily, wondering if the man was trying to pick her up.

  “Well, you’re in luck.” He pretended to read something in his hand. “Your horoscope today says, ‘You are about to embark on new opportunities, so don’t procrastinate. Focus on what you want and refuse to let anything hold you back. The sun will shine on you today, and a stranger will help you with your backhand.’”

  Andre studied things other intelligence officers overlooked. He stayed current on the latest women’s fashions, knew about trends in cosmetics, read reviews of bestselling diet books, and studied astrology.

  Lillian laughed. “How did you know the backhand was the weakest part of my game?”

  “I was watching you. I admired your forehand and quick footwork. When you switched to your backhand, you concentrated too much on your grip and weren’t aware of the angle of the racket face at impact.”

  “You talk as if you know a lot about tennis,” Lillian said.

  “Not as much as I know about women.”

  Lillian didn’t know whether to blush or get angry. It had been a long time since a man who was not drunk had made a pass at her.

  “I’m sorry for being so forward. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Andre Neff.”

  “I’m Lillian Wells.”

  “It’s so nice to meet someone with such a beautiful smile on a gloomy day.”

  “I’m sure the sun will come out,” Lillian said.

  “The weather forecast said cloudy all day.”

  “But my horoscope said the sun will shine on me today,” Lillian reminded him.

  “How right you are,” Andre said, and Lillian could see his eyes sparkle.

  “I really hate practicing by myself, so until your partner gets here, why don’t we get in a few minutes of real practice?”

  “My partner had to bail out on me today. I wouldn’t mind if you did give me some tips,” she said. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “I’ve only been here a few times. I’m trying to get in more practice and maybe re-discover my old form.”

  They collected their gear and walked to a vacant court. Andre removed his warm-up. As Lillian starting unzipping her jacket, Andre deftly stepped to her side and helped her with it. His obvious manners did not go unappreciated. As Andre selected a racket, Lillian held her racket up as if examining the strings. She really was checking out his physique. He was about three inches taller than she was and solidly built. She noticed his well-muscled legs and tight butt. The muscles of his chest and arms were solid and defined. It was obvious he took care of himself.

  Andre asked if she wanted to work on her backhand, or was she more interested in having a good physical workout? The answer for Lillian was easy. Some recent bouts of fatigue combined with weeks of frustration and boredom told her she needed a workout harder than her Pilates classes.

  “Why don’t we play hard singles for forty-five minutes and see how we both feel then, okay?” Lillian said.

  As they got into their match, Lillian was hitting legitimate winners against him. Lillian was aware of a long dormant competitive feeling surfacing within her. She was not only having fun, but reveling in the intense muscle burn from the hard exertion.

  At the end of forty-five minutes, they called it quits and walked over to the bench to towel off. Andre reached out and took Lillian’s hand in his.

  “Thank you for a wonderful time, even though I may hate you in a few hours when my body catches up,” Andre said.

  “I feel wonderful,” Lillian said, and she meant it.

  “If you’re not in a hurry, it would be my pleasure to treat you to something to drink, perhaps a cup of coffee. Are you familiar with the Lusthaus? It’s a restaurant about a five minute walk from here. The walk will give us a chance to cool down.”

  “I’ve been there. It has great coffee and sinful pastries.”

  Ten minutes later they were sitting under a Cinzano umbrella on the patio of the Lusthaus, each enjoying a bottled water and a steaming cup of Viennese coffee.

  “Does your husband play tennis?” Andre asked.

  Glancing down at her rings, Lillian said, “No, he’s not into sports.”

  “Are the hours of his job too intense?”

  “He’s with the US Government, and he does work long hours.” For a moment Lillian thought of the warnings the wives had received about discussing personal information with strangers, or answering questions about the embassy. Well, if Andre was a terrorist, then she was Superwoman. Switching subjects, Lillian asked, “What about you, Andre? What type of work do you do?”

  “I’m a journalist. Mostly freelance. In addition to my current assignments, I’m helping a colleague who’s trying to get a cookbook published.”

  One of Lillian’s current projects with the wives club was organizing the publication of a cookbook for charity. “I’m working with our wives club on a cookbook right now,” she said. “Perhaps we could compare notes someday.”

  “How about this time next week? I’d love to see your backhand improve to the level of your forehand.”

  Lillian stared at him for a few seconds, contemplating her situation. “Fine. Could we make it an hour later than today? It would work out better if it was closer to lunch.” She wanted to avoid running into one of the other wives.

  “I don’t know your telephone number in case I need to leave you a message.”

  “I know,” she said with a sly smile. “I guess you’ll just have to trust I show up.”

  After Andre paid the bill, they walked the short distance back to their cars. The sun came out and bathed both of them with its warming rays. Lillian waved goodbye with a quick flutter of her hand. She turned around and said, “I’ll be curious to hear what my horoscope is next Friday.”

  The week couldn’t go by fast enough for Lillian. Cecilia called her Thursday afternoon to see if she was playing tennis on Friday. Lillian told her she had arranged to take a lesson and she’d get back with her over the weekend.

  Around noon on Thursday, Lillian’s husband Felix called her from the embassy, advising her that he didn’t have any
commitments for that evening and asking if she minded fixing dinner at their apartment. Lillian wondered if Felix might be maneuvering for a night with her. They rarely made love any more. Whenever she brought up her desire to start a family, his interest in sex declined to almost nothing. Lillian wondered if Felix was seeing someone else. There were signs, but nothing definite enough to justify her confronting him.

  Lillian prepared a pasta dish with shrimp and a Greek salad. After she and Felix had finished eating, she cleared the table. “Honey,” she asked, “what would you think if someone told you I was having an affair?”

  Felix laughed. “Who would want to have an affair with you?” He didn’t emphasize the word “who” but stressed the word “you.” Lillian felt sick. She couldn’t believe Felix would make such a hurtful comment. She turned away from him and walked toward the living room. With her back to him, and hiding the pain which was obvious on her face, she nonchalantly stated, “Just curious.”

  Friday morning finally arrived. The sun was shining through puffy clouds, and the wind ruffled leaves on the trees. Lillian spotted Andre walking toward the courts. They both carried tennis bags. Lillian had left her frumpy sweatsuit at home and wore a new designer outfit.

  “I don’t want you to be disappointed this morning, but I don’t have your horoscope. Maybe after we’re finished, I could read your palm instead,” he flirted.

  “Only if you win.”

  They went through a pre-game routine and decided to play an easier match and concentrate on quality ground strokes. For Lillian, it was invigorating. With her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she felt like a college girl on the court. She was surprised at the extra energy she had, even as the minutes flew by. All too soon their court time was up, and they retreated to the sideline to towel off.

 

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