But the end of hostilities did not mean an end of my ordeal. Every law enforcement and regulatory agency, state and federal, had been alerted that there was trouble right here in Starkshire County. And what had me initially on edge was that the point man for my defense was Kyle.
But, surprisingly, I need not have feared. During the following days of getting the Stoner Papers back, he proved to be a master of distraction, subterfuge, and stonewalling. He deftly dealt with federal agents from the FAA, FBI, DHS, EPA, and the State Department, to name just a few. At the same time, my brother skillfully handled the state police, the county coroner, and local news reporters. He answered questions about Luger’s dead associate, the downed helicopter, the sighting of the ‘man-eating’ catamount, and the rumors of international poachers pursuing the animal. It would have been a legal minefield for any experienced Washington lawyer, and yet my brother successfully navigated through the hazards like a pro, though he did get some help.
Yes, quite unexpectedly, help came from many quarters. Luger and his associates—purely out of self-interest and self-preservation—didn’t give any specific detailed information to state and/or federal investigators about what had happened at Uncle Raymond’s residence. Their lack of full cooperation was a mix of a feigned lack of English comprehension on their part and of a claim to privileges under diplomatic immunity. For added effect, Luger declared that he and his associates were part of the Stoner Papers research team and spun a tale that they were victims of series of unfortunate circumstances.
The damage to the helicopter, the crime boss explained, resulted from a mechanical malfunction. In his tale, the craft developed trouble with its rear rotor and had to make an emergency landing on my uncle’s property. After it touched down, the failing rotor exploded. Luger’s tall tale made the Vermont Volunteers quite happy, as it put to rest all their worries about a possible lawsuit against them for actually damaging the aircraft.
Luger also reported that after making an emergency landing, one of his associates went off looking for assistance and, in doing so, got himself mauled to death by a “puma.”
Heike and Bernie calculated that it would be in their best interest not to mention anything about their ‘theft’ of the Stoner Papers or of their kidnappings.
Even Chester was sparse on the details of the affair. I am sure that his position at the college and a promise of a sizable donation to the school by HIFT may have had something to do with his reluctance to give specifics. And I heard through the grapevine (Morgana) that Dr. Krauss expressed her gratitude to Chester for his discretion on a very personal level the night before she left for home.
Kyle told me, further, that Chester was quite reserved in divulging information during official interviews. In his official statement, Chester said that the college’s initial report of the “Stoner Papers” theft was erroneous. According to Chester’s account, the papers were somehow misdirected and sent to the home of the papers’ donor—my uncle’s place. Whether the authorities fully accepted the story as fact or even cared, I don’t know. But in either case, what Chester said, in essence, was correct. And, thank the Lord, the investigators didn’t press Holland for any additional information. Because as I found out during this affair, he doesn’t do well under pressure.
So, in short, it was tacitly understood by all parties involved that the less the outside world knew about the incident at my uncle’s place, the better it would be for all of us.
As for Luger, the last time I saw him was two days after the hullabaloo. We met, oddly enough, at Uncle’s house, in the dining room. Kyle and I thought it best to resolve some issues with Luger before he left the country, a departure that wasn’t of his choosing but of the US State Department’s.
You see, our government had decided that Luger had overstayed his welcome to our fair shores. With uncharacteristic speed, the State Department had arranged for Luger’s exodus the day after the ‘helicopter incident’—so named by the locals—on a 10:45 PM flight out of JFK. Deftly appealing to the custom of professional courtesy, Kyle managed to get the Feds to let us meet with Luger and his associate before they journeyed south to New York.
Under the watchful eyes of four governmental agents, Kyle, Peterson, and I sat on one side of the long dark mahogany dining table while Luger and his friend sat the other. Firmino joined us at the last minute and sat with us. He readily apologized for his tardiness, saying that he didn’t get Kyle’s message about the meeting until after breakfast. As he took the seat next to Peterson, Firmino gave Luger a scowl, saying, “It is very difficult for me to keep appointments when I don’t have a mobile.”
“It must be,” said Luger. “In this modern age, it is very difficult to keep track of things without some electronic gizmo.”
Firmino leaned forward in his chair. His hands rested on the table; they were clenched and white-knuckled.
“Now, Sheriff,” said Luger almost obsequiously, “what can we do for you? As you know, my associate and I have a plane to catch. And these fine gentlemen are going to make sure that we do.”
“It seems that you always have a plane to catch,” I said out of turn.
“I am a very busy man.”
“So, busy, in fact, that the US government has asked you to leave.”
“A simple misunderstanding. I will be back.”
“That being said,” interrupted Kyle, “I would like to return some personal items to you before you go.”
“Really?” responded Luger, a little surprised.
Peterson produced Luger’s leather bag and slid it across the table to his boss from beneath the table. Kyle opened it, took a quick glance at its contents then pushed the bag over to its owner.
“My travel valise,” said Luger as he put it on his lap and took a quick inventory.
“As you can see,” I remarked, “we have removed The Stoner Papers, but nothing else.”
“Yes, I see that you have,” Luger replied brusquely. “I have, shall we say, some strong concerns about your confiscation of the documents in question.”
“There is no need for any concern on your part,” I said. “ I, the de facto inheritor of the papers, have returned them to the college’s archives for further historical examination. They are very safe and very, very secure; you need not worry.”
Luger’s eyes fixed on me. There wasn’t any doubt that he was not happy with the arrangement.
“And now,” I said, making obvious eye contact with the federal agents in the room, “I want to take this opportunity to thank you and your associates, on behalf of Stark Monument College, for your efforts and support for the historical research into The Stoner Papers. I am so sorry to see you go. Of course, the college will give you updates on any findings, as they happen. I hope your troubles with our government are speedily resolved.”
Luger gave me a knowing grin, acknowledging my vaguely veiled sarcasm
“Very kind of you, but as to the matter of the papers themselves—”
Again, I steam-rolled ahead. “Oh, yes, I almost forgot. I found these items mixed in with the Stoner documents. I wouldn’t want you to think that we took something that didn’t belong to us.” I took out a manila envelope from my inside jacket pocket and emptied its contents on the table. Out came some US coins, a trifold brochure of the local outlet shops, two credit card receipts, and finally a red book, half wrapped in wax paper.
As soon as the book hit the table surface, I saw Luger’s eyes widen.
“The Sheriff and I didn’t know if these were important or not, but as the saying goes, ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’”
A look of astonishment grew on Luger’s face as I nonchalantly pushed the articles across the table to him. His agog appearance was matched by his companion’s, whose mouth dropped as if he were trying to catch a tossed sardine.
“You are returning these things to me?” asked Luger.
“Of course. They are of no particular value to us,” I said indifferently.
/> Firmino, on the other hand, had come to a different opinion. “What are you doing?” he protested. “These things could be evidence.”
Peterson quickly grabbed Firmino’s outstretching arm and pinned it to the table. “No, you don’t,” coolly whispered the deputy into Baldewin’s ear. “I don’t know what you foreigners do in Europe, but we don’t take people’s personal stuff without cause.”
“You fools! You are—”
“Agent Baldewin,” bellowed Kyle, “you are here at this meeting to observe. You are not a participant. You are a guest. I have no obligation to have you present at all.”
“But you are making a big mistake.”
“We do not shine to European meddling or to its old-world standards. When we are following the precepts of the US constitution and her twenty-seven amendments, there are no mistakes made.”
I had no idea what my brother was talking about, but he did get a nod of agreement from one of the federal agents. I also knew that if Firmino kept up his protest, he could spoil the plan.
“You have a choice,” continued Kyle, “you may observe and bite your tongue or leave.”
Before our Vatican friend uttered another word, I said, “Listen to the Sheriff. Trust him. Trust me. It is for the best.”
Firmino conceded to our request and sat back in his chair. Peterson let go of his arm. With calm restored, Luger slowly gathered up the items while keeping a wary eye on Firmino.
“Is that guide book important to you?” I asked as it disappeared into Luger’s bag. “It can’t be much use now; it must be very out of date.”
The question gave him pause, and he asked me if I had read it. I told him no, not really. I spun a tale about paging through the book out of curiosity, minutes before our meeting, and noticed its publication date. Doubting the usefulness of such an antiquated travel guide in the present day, I wondered why he would have one.
Again, there was a brief silence. Then almost apologetically, Luger said with a faint smile, “I collect old guidebooks. It is a new hobby of mine. My frequent traveling over the years got me interested. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, it may seem silly to you, but it is relaxing for me.”
“Whatever floats your boat.” The idiom was apparently lost on Luger because he started to explain that he did not own a boat.
“I meant good luck with your hobby.”
“Thank you.”
The false cordiality around the dining room table may have fooled the federal agents, but not anyone who knew what had happened days before the meeting. I did not believe a single word about Luger starting his guidebook collection. But more importantly, I didn’t know whether he bought my act about my not understanding the significance of the guidebook or knew its recent origins.
But to Kyle and me, he appeared to have taken the bait, which was good enough for us at the time; besides, there was nothing else we could do. With official business being concluded, I saw Luger and his entourage to the door.
On the house’s front steps, the international crime boss turned to me, grabbed my hand, and shook it. “Tell President Holland I am sorry for any inconvenience that may have come to his college. The less said about this matter, the better.”
He let go of my hand, and I found a folded paper in it, which I discreetly slipped into my pocket.
“Goodbye, Dr. MacKenzie,” said Luger with a sinister grin. “And may I say that I find you to be a very puzzling man. You are either an excellent chess player, or very lucky, or, do I dare say, a damned fool.”
“Goodbye, Úr. Luger.”
“Ah, Hungarian . . .Viszontlátásra, MacKenzie.”
Luger turned away, walked to the first of two parked black sedans, and got in. I stood in the misty morning air and watched him and his entourage drive away and wondered if we had done the right thing.
“Luger was right. You and your brother are fools,” said Firmino angrily, stepping up from behind me.
“That may be,” I replied calmly.
“Your brother runs the most incompetent constabulary in the country, in the world . . . in the . . . in the entire solar system.”
“Do you really think so?” I asked smugly.
“Yes! You know how dangerous Luger and his organization are. And you let him go with that book because you don’t want any more trouble . . . because your brother doesn’t like paperwork.”
“That is very true. My brother has a real phobia about legal paperwork. It keeps him up late many nights,” I said, returning to the comfiness of the indoors.
“It keeps him up late!” responded Firmino, following me into the house.
“It is not good for his health. It gives him high blood pressure. And as for me, the less I have to do with Luger and his kind, the better.”
The Vatican agent stepped in front of me and got inches away from my face. “That red book may have been useful in prosecuting him.”
“Do you really think so?” I innocently asked
“Yes!”
“That is good to know. I feel better now,” I said.
Well, that set off our new friend. He launched a passionate tirade of insults at me, of which I could identify only a few words since the assault was in Italian. My only response was a self-congratulatory smile.
During his comparing me and to the wrong end of a dog, Firmino stopped. He suddenly appeared as if he had been hit with a snowball.
“Oh, you have been jerking my leg!” Firmino declared, having a eureka moment. “You planned something.”
“It’s ‘pulling one’s leg’ or ‘jerking one’s chain,’ but, yes, I had a plan, and, unknowingly, you may have helped to execute it successfully.”
“How? You gave the red book to Luger?”
“I gave . . . a red book to Luger. That doesn’t mean that we don’t have our own red book, which is being picked over very carefully as we speak.”
“But why did you give Luger a copy at all?”
“Kyle and I thought it best to keep Luger and his friends in the dark about what we knew about him and this whole affair. He could, hypothetically, destroy his red book on his way to the airport in the false assumption that he was eliminating the last paper trail to the participants involved in Operation Hotspur.”
“Rich,” called Kyle as he sat on the sofa in the living room dusting off powder sugar from his hands, “did our guest leave, okay?”
“Without a hitch. He ought to be out of your jurisdiction by now and on his merry way to the Big Apple. And good riddance,” I said with relief. “Oh, you may want to run this over to Chester Holland.”
I handed Luger’s folded paper to Kyle, who opened it and took a peek. “Humph, check for a thirty thousand euro donation to the college.”
“Almost thirty-seven thousand dollars,” I quickly calculated. “That should help Chester out with the board of trustees—God only knows what they may have heard. Anyway, take it to him. For me, I am going to get myself a much-needed cup of coffee. And after that, I am going home for a quiet lunch with Morgana . . . alone.”
“No, you’re not,” replied Kyle with a growing smirk.
“You, dear brother, are not coming home with me.”
“That is true. But you are not going home either. Morgana, Joe, Chester, and Bernie’s blond professor friend—”
“Fuerst”
“Yup. Anyway, they have all gathered in the college’s historical document room. Morgana wants us over there.”
“When did she tell you this?”
“Just now. She called when you were kissing Luger goodbye.”
“Why did she call you and not me?”
“Because, Dear Brother, Uncle Raymond’s landline has been turned off. And you don’t have your phone with you.”
I patted myself down. I felt something small and boxy beneath my house keys in my left hip pants’ pocket. I started to fish the object out.
“Don’t bother looking for it,” advised Kyle. “Morgana has it. She said that old flip phone of yours was
left next to the bedroom TV.”
“Then what is this,” I said, revealing my catch.
“That is your TV remote, genius,” glibly remarked Kyle.
And it was.
“Yeah, well, talk among yourselves,” was my pitiful attempt at a retort. “I’m definitely getting some coffee.” I left Kyle and Peterson to brief Firmino on the details of our plan while I went to the kitchen in search of a few moments of solitude and a cup of revitalizing joe.
#
CHAPTER 38
As any good deputy would have done, Peterson brought a thermal box of hot coffee and a dozen doughnuts to our meeting. Using one of Uncle’s mugs, I poured myself a coffee and took the last remaining policeman’s delicacy. With the apple cider doughnut in hand, I looked out the kitchen window at the autumnal display outdoors.
For the most part, the mountains beyond had exchanged their green leafy coat for a mantle of flame. Patches of oranges, reds, and yellows festooned the distant landscape, a scene that I have encountered many times before and have always enjoyed. But on this occasion, the autumnal beauty had affected me more than usual. I was drawn to go outside. I had the urge to more fully experience the landscape’s charms.
Finishing my doughnut, I strolled out into Uncle’s backyard. Stopping to sip my coffee, I sat myself down on an old marble bench that Kyle and I, as kids, used as a Viking ship. He and I imagined ourselves sailing across the icy North Atlantic in the quest for adventures. “Be careful about what you wish for,” I chided myself, putting the coffee down next to me. “Because life is an adventure. One doesn’t need to add more stress to it than it already has to offer.”
In the quiet solitude, I was alone in my thoughts of my youth and lost track of time and place. I was back with Kyle fighting off fire-breathing serpents with an old dust mop he had found in the weeds.
“I think I got the dragon’s neck. He’s bleeding,” announced Kyle with pride as a glob of mud blood fell from the mop head and onto his suit jacket. “He’s bleeding!”
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 34
