by Phil Swann
“What did you do?”
“We decided we had to bring Yuri in and get that list. Calls went out to DC, and by Saturday morning, we had a plan. Lydia knew something had to be in the works, so she broke protocol and came in for a meeting.”
“Her visit to Ray’s Market Saturday morning,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“But how did you know what Ken had told her?”
“We’d had Yuri’s house bugged from the time he got to Vegas. Agent Simon had even placed transmitters on his person—shoes, tie clips, his glasses, you name it. There was hardly a thing Yuri said we didn’t hear.”
“You can do that?”
Clegg laughed. “You’d be amazed at what we can do, wouldn’t he, Greg?”
Skipper only looked at Clegg.
Clegg went on, “Yes, we heard what he told her. But more importantly, Agent Simon knew we had heard what he told her.”
“Then what?”
“Saturday morning, when Agent Simon came into the store, we informed her of the plan, which she proceeded to carry out flawlessly.”
“Which was?”
“That afternoon she gave Yuri an ultimatum. She told him she loved him, but couldn’t betray her country. She convinced him to defect, with the list of course. She told him it was the only way they could live happily ever after. She also told him she had some friends who might be able to help. That’s when Yuri was introduced to—”
“Mr. Carson and Mr. Stevens,” I said, looking back at Square Head and Tonto.
“Yep,” Clegg replied.
“And he went for it?”
“I think Yuri would have walked barefoot across Death Valley to make Lydia Starr happy. Besides, given her occupation, I’m sure Yuri surmised it wasn’t such a farfetched notion for a Copa Girl to know the right people who could help in this type of situation. That being said, we weren’t expecting what he did next.”
“Which was?”
“He went for it immediately, literally right then and there. We thought he’d take at least a little coaxing. He didn’t. Which meant we had to move fast. The plan, flimsy as it was, was for them to meet that night after Lydia Starr got off work at the Sands. From there they’d go to L.A. with Mr. Carson and Mr. Stevens. That’s where Yuri would officially turn himself in to the FBI and ask for asylum.”
“Why Los Angeles?” I asked, though I suspected I knew the answer.
“We wanted to get Yuri out of Las Vegas. Yuri had handlers, KGB agents planted here to keep an eye on him and receive any information he might acquire. We don’t know who those people are, and since we were moving so fast, we thought it prudent to get him out of town. Also, it was another way for Agent Simon to sell the lie. She told him they could start over in L.A. and she could finally pursue her long-awaited acting career.”
“And that’s when you guys started shutting down Lydia’s life, getting her out of her apartment and her job at the Sands.”
“No, we didn’t do that until after we learned she’d been killed. Our plan was for Agent Simon to deliver Ken to the bureau in L.A. and then return to Vegas and resume her life as Lydia Starr. She was too good of an asset for us to lose.”
“So the stuff about Ken being fired from his job, the depleted bank account, the police complaint Lydia supposedly filed against him, that was all you guys.”
“The job, bank accounts, even the résumés around town. Yes, that was us. Standard protocol when an asset is removed from the field. But the police complaint wasn’t. Someone else planted that. We don’t know who.”
I was digesting the information when Skipper asked, “What went wrong?”
“Saturday night, Ken went to The Jam Jar accompanied by Carson and Stevens to wait for Lydia to get off work just as planned. Yuri was happy, talkative, and excited to be starting his new life with Lydia. But something happened. We don’t know who, and we don’t know how, but someone got to him. He bolted from The Jam Jar and was out of transmitter range before we knew he was gone.”
I looked at Square Head and Tonto. “Then these two went back to the Sands and picked up Lydia after she got off work.”
“Right,” Clegg said. “We didn’t know where Yuri was, but decided it would be best to play it straight. So, we took Agent Simon to Yuri’s house to wait for him, hoping he’d return and continue with his defection.”
“Shouldn’t have done it,” Carson, the man I knew as Square Head, said.
“We had no choice,” Clegg responded. “We were making it up on the fly. Anyway, to keep from spooking Yuri, we decided to leave Agent Simon at his house alone. We didn’t want to run the risk of him, or whoever had gotten to him, eyeballing Carson and Stevens. That was my call, and one I’ll forever regret.”
“They must have been waiting in the house when she got there,” Stevens, the man I knew as Tonto, said.
“Yeah,” Clegg whispered. “Anyway, as the night went on and we were out searching everywhere for Yuri, we ended up losing them both. We were left hoping Yuri and Agent Simon had managed to meet up and were heading to L.A. We didn’t actually know what had happened until you showed up at Yuri’s house, found Agent Simon dead, and called the police.”
“A call that went to you guys.”
“Of course.”
“Why were these two following me? Even before I knew I was going to Ken’s house.”
“Because you were Ken Baldwin’s friend. His only friend. If he was going to contact anyone other than Agent Simon, it was going to be you. Also, Trip, you need to understand, we weren’t one hundred percent sold on you. We needed to make sure you weren’t one of Yuri’s KGB contacts. Once we realized you were okay and just in the wrong place at the wrong time, we tried to pick you up and bring you in. But you’d have none of it, would you?”
I shook my head in disbelief. “So, you weren’t lying to me. You really didn’t know where Ken—sorry—Yuri was?”
“Not until he ended up in the morgue Monday morning.”
“What about the call he made from my place? He called here, to the Ranch.”
“He never called us. He must have called his KGB contact to set up a meeting at that gas station in the desert. I’m sure he said he had a change of heart, or something like that. At any rate, he was lying. That’s not what he wanted.”
“What did he want?”
“To kill the person who killed the great love of his life.”
It was my turn to drop my head. Even though Ken had lied to me, I couldn’t help but feel sadness for the man.
Clegg said, “I suspect when you told him Lydia had been killed, he snapped. He must have gotten the gun he was carrying stashed at his own private dead drop. That’s typical KGB protocol.”
“I presume he didn’t succeed.”
“Never had a chance,” Clegg responded. “There are two types of spies, Trip. The hardened field operatives, men and women trained to lie, cheat, and kill without the slightest hesitation. And the other kind, people who are spies because of their expertise in a field. More often than not they’re just scientists and engineers who’ve been given a history and cover story. Yuri was the latter. His spy craft was limited. He could make up a story on the spot like the one he told you at your apartment, but that was about it. He was out of his league against someone like Sokolov, the same man who tried to kill you. It probably got ugly. I’m sure Sokolov tried to get Yuri to tell him where the list was. He obviously failed.”
I nodded. I’m not sure I wanted to know the answer to my next question, but I asked it anyway. “Clegg, did Ken ever learn Lydia’s real identity?”
Clegg must have noticed the look of anguish on my face, because he answered with a softer tone. “I suppose if there’s a happy side to this mess, it’s that Yuri never learned who the love of his life really was. He died thinking the beautiful Copa Girl, Lydia Starr, was head over heels in love with him too.”
It was little consolation, but it was some.
I glanced at Skipper. He was looking
off to the side, his face like stone, eyes staring blankly into space as if his mind was preoccupied with other things. It occurred to me if it was hard for me to hear about someone losing the love of their life, I’m sure it was especially poignant for Skipper.
I looked back at Clegg. “What did Lydia want to talk to me about at the Sands?”
“You mean Agent Simon.”
“Right. That’s going to take some getting used to.”
“She wanted to tell you that she and Ken were going to slip away together for a few days—just a little vacation. She’d concocted a pretty elaborate story too. One that was intentionally vague but would sufficiently explain her and Baldwin’s sudden disappearance.”
“Why tell me that?”
“Again, we weren’t sure whose side you were on, Trip. We were just trying to cover all our bases.”
I nodded. “Last question, how did the KGB know what Yuri was planning to do?”
“We weren’t the only ones listening.”
“You mean they bugged his house too?” I asked.
“Can you believe it? Russian spies spying on their own spy. I guess the KGB is nothing if not paranoid. We found their bugs when we were clearing out our own after Agent Simon was murdered. They’re not nearly as clever at hiding them as we are, but they still heard everything Yuri told Agent Simon.”
Ira returned, carrying my record. He handed it to Clegg.
“Well?” Clegg asked.
“Like it was never touched,” the old man answered.
Clegg held the record out for me. “All you have to do is deliver it.”
“Peter,” Skipper said, “you’re not going to let him do this, are you?”
“Why not?”
“He could be killed, that’s why.”
“All they want is the record. Which we will happily give to them. We’ll pick up some of the names on the list, but the ones we don’t—”
“But—”
“Greg, don’t you get it? The company’s disinformation campaign just went to a whole new level. We’ll be able to feed bogus intel to countless KGB moles throughout North America. Besides, it’s the only way to get Miss Beaurepaire back, isn’t that right, Trip?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Then I’m going with him,” Skipper demanded.
“No, you can’t, Skipper,” I said. “If they see someone else with me, they might think you’re the police, and I can’t risk that. I have to do this alone.”
Skipper said to Clegg, “Peter, they must know you guys got your hands on the record first and found the list?”
“No, they think Trip’s had it all along.”
“Are you sure?” Skipper asked.
“We’re sure. That’s why they snatched Miss Beaurepaire. To get Trip to give them the record. They have no idea we’ve had our little hands on it.”
“I’ll be okay, Skipper.”
“What’s the rules, Trip?” Clegg asked.
“I give them the record, they release Betsy. That’s all they said. But I have to be there by eight o’clock.”
Clegg looked at his watch. “That gas station is roughly fifty miles away, and you have less than thirty minutes to get there.”
Skipper shook his head. “At night, over a mountain. He’ll never make it in time.”
“Yes, I will,” I said.
“No, you won’t, actually,” Clegg countered, rubbing his chin. “Not without our help, at least.” He turned to Square Head and Tonto. “Get his car into the Long Island Expressway.” As the two men ran off, Clegg turned back to me and smiled. “You like to go fast, Trip?”
“Yes,” I answered cautiously.
“Good. Then get ready for the ride of your life.”
Chapter 17
Skipper and I stood behind Clegg in a small, open elevator. We were dropping fast. With every foot we descended, my heart rate went up. I was beginning to think we were going to ride all the way to China when we finally came to an abrupt stop.
Clegg yanked open the caged door. “Follow me,” he ordered.
We trailed Clegg into a narrow passageway lit by flood lamps mounted to the rock walls surrounding us. The air was damp and cool, and the floor was hard dirt. Also, we were still descending.
“Where are we?” I said to Skipper, hurrying to keep up with Clegg.
“I can only guess,” Skipper answered.
“We must be close to a mile down.”
“Not that far, but we’re deep. At least deep enough to get to the silver.”
“We’re in a mine?” I nearly yelled.
“Not anymore. But I’m pretty sure that’s what this place started out as. Southern Nevada is honeycombed with them.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said as much to myself as to Skipper.
Skipper continued, “The government started purchasing mines around Groom Lake right after the war. When Area 51 was hatched, they really went on a spending spree. I always thought they were buying up these places to keep civilians away from the Ranch. Now I see there was another reason.”
“Indeed there was, Greg,” Clegg said, pushing open a metal door.
It looked like the 42nd Street subway station, only a lot cleaner. Okay, I’ve never actually been to New York City and don’t really know what the 42nd Street subway station looks like, so let me try again.
There were at least two dozen men walking around, but only the ones in uniform appeared to be armed with pistols at their waist. The others looked like any workers toiling on a loading dock, except it wasn’t a loading dock. It was more a train yard, with railroad tracks cutting through the cavernous chamber from one end to the other, three sets if I counted correctly. Furthermore, they all led to the same place, a dark tunnel at the far end. The arched walls, which had to be at least five stories high, looked to be white marble. The floor resembled the one in the room I was just in, but this one had obviously been subjected to much harder use. On the other end of the structure was a wide ramp ascending upward. I noticed a crane was stationed at its base, along with two vehicles that looked like tiny train locomotives. Directly across the tracks, I finally spotted some airplanes, four of them to be precise. I mean, I think they were airplanes. I can’t really describe them because…well, to be honest, I can’t think of a reference to compare them with. They had wings, kind of. And were sort of shaped like an airplane, but not really. And they looked like they might have cockpits…or not. And they must have had landing gears, though I didn’t see any. Notice how I’m resisting saying they looked like something from outer space? I’ll just say this: if they were airplanes, they looked like none I’d ever seen before or since.
“Impressive,” Skipper said. “When did you guys do this?”
Clegg chuckled. “After the Oxcart fiasco. We didn’t want to go through that again. The powers-that-be decided there had to be a better way to get our articles up here without anyone knowing about it. We’ve been wrestling with these old mine tunnels for years. Nice to finally put them to good use.”
“What’s the Oxcart fiasco?” I asked.
“None of your business,” Clegg said.
“Come on, Peter,” Skipper said. “He’s down here, for crying out loud.”
Clegg looked at me and shook his head. “Son, you and I are really going to have to talk when all this is over. Oxcart was the code name for a project—I’ll leave the specific name of the article out of it—an article, by the way, is what we call our aircraft around here. Anyway, this article happened to be in Burbank, and since we can’t fly these things until they’ve been tested, and since this is where we test them, we had ourselves the classic chicken and egg conundrum. So, we took the unnamed article apart in Burbank, loaded it onto sixteen semis, shut down the highway, and drove it up here. Peter remembers what it was like. It took forever and was a security and logistical nightmare. Afterward, everyone decided there had to be a better way. Thus, you’re standing in it. Now we can get our toys here from a dozen different locations, and no
one’s the wiser. And we don’t have to shut down the US highway system to do it.”
Just then, I heard a low grinding sound. I looked over and saw my Falcon being slowly rolled down the ramp. Nobody was behind the wheel. Instead, it had a chain attached to her rear axle, with two men in white coveralls flanking her on either side. Another man, this one in blue coveralls, walked in front.
“What are they doing with my car?”
I no sooner got the question out of my mouth than I saw what appeared to be a small train, or maybe it was a missile, coming out of the tunnel. Not only was it small, but it didn’t make any noise. It was silver and perfectly cylindrical in shape, ergo, why I thought of it as a missile. It also sat very low to the tracks. So low, in fact, I couldn’t imagine how a human could fit inside it. As it got closer, I realized none did.
As the—let’s call it a missile train—got closer, my car rolled off the ramp and onto the floor. Then, somehow, and I’m not sure how, that part of the floor released from the rest of the floor and attached itself to the missile train. The three men who escorted my car down the ramp proceeded to detach the chain from the rear axle as three other men hopped onto the platform and began securing my Falcon to its new ride.
“Can you tell them to be careful?” I moaned. “She’s very fragile.”
Clegg looked at me and said with a far too condescending tone, “Son, these men work with state-of-the-art aircraft that cost more than the national debt of most countries. Relax, I think they can handle your Ford.”
I heard another sound coming from above. I looked up and saw something resembling an eggshell canopy dangling from a crane. It moved over my car and began descending. It stopped a few feet above the Falcon.
“Okay, that’s your cue,” Clegg said. “You got the record?”
“Right here,” I answered, showing Clegg the record.
