Well, there was still time to decide and now Natalya waited. He snapped off the light, grabbed another cigar and headed for the bedroom, whistling softly to himself, the lighter bouncing happily in his hand.
***
If Mike Savage had a complete opposite, it was Mel Highlands, the security chief of Triton Industries. Fox spotted him immediately from the personnel file in the arrivals lounge at San Francisco International Airport. Medium height, short brown hair, well cut three-piece suit and carrying a light attaché case. Fox caught his eye and stepped out of the crush of passengers.
Highlands was all business as he greeted Charles. “Mr. Fox?” He extended his hand in a firm grasp. “I have a car waiting. Do you have any other luggage?”
“No, just this bag,” Charles said. “I left some things in Los Angeles.”
“Right then, shall we?” Highlands guided them through the labyrinth of the tunnels and passageways to a car. They were whisked across the airport to the executive terminal and the Triton plane. It was a small Lear jet, fitted as a company plane might be expected: comfortable lounge chairs, a bar, and a television. A quick nod to the pilot from Highlands and they were off. Once airborne, Highlands filled Charles in on their day.
“The telex said you’re cleared for anything which makes it easy for me. You have anything specific in mind or is this just a general look around?” Highlands’ manner was easy, efficient, and reassuring. Charles suspected he was good at his job.
“No, just a quick look around and of course anything you can tell me about Owens. I’d like to see his personnel file.” Highlands knew about Owens, but had not been informed about his planned return.
The security man nodded and stared out the porthole of the small jet, reflecting for a moment over the city of hills. “You know, even now,” he said, “after all these years, it’s hard for me to believe anyone would leave all this.”
Charles wasn’t sure whether Highlands was referring to the company jet or the city of San Francisco. “People are motivated by different things,” he said. “Perhaps Owens was fighting some inner battle.”
Highlands’ answer was a disapproving shrug, but Charles could sympathize. His job was an unenviable one at best. Despite the stepped up security measures in recent years, the Soviets continued to concentrate their efforts in securing technology and Silicon Valley was a prime target. The Soviet consulate and communications facility sat atop one of the highest hills in the Bay area and targeted the valley as well as Mare Island Naval Base where the U.S. nuclear submarines were serviced. Here and in other principal areas of Soviet activity, such as New York and Washington, D.C., the centers were staffed with the cream of the KGB crop. And despite the massive campaign by the FBI to stem the tide of information flowing to Moscow, Robert Owens had simply walked into the Soviet embassy and offered himself, his head crammed with data the Russians must have salivated over. And all right under the noses of men like Mel Highlands who tried to prevent such occurrences. It was no wonder Highlands felt little sympathy for Owens.
“We’ll be landing in a moment,” Highlands said, breaking the silence. The plane glided in smoothly and taxied to a small terminal. Another short drive brought them to Triton, a complex of manicured lawns, low white buildings and impressive landscaping. Triton was but one of hundreds of companies in Silicon Valley that had become the very heart of the computer industry and microchip technology. Triton, Charles reminded himself, was the only company with the dubious distinction of having one of its former employees defect to the Soviet Union.
They checked in at the front gate where Charles was given a visitors pass and Highlands led them to his office. “Thought it would be better to talk here,” he said, motioning Charles to a comfortable chair. “I’ll order us some lunch in if that’s all right with you. Then we’ll do the big tour.”
“Fine,” Charles said. “I suppose we can get started by telling me about Owens’ work here at Triton. What kind of projects was he working on when he left?”
Highlands leaned back and clasped his hands together. “Developmental stuff mostly.” He consulted a dark green file folder on his desk. “We do all kinds of things here. Research into laser physics, non-linear optics, spectroscopy, as well as tunable lasers.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me already,” Charles said laughing. “Science was not one of my strong subjects.”
“Nor mine,” Highlands said, slapping the file. “But the list goes on and on. I know about enough to know how valuable it would be to any foreign power, never mind the Russians.” His eyebrows knitted into a frown. “We might just as well open the gates and let them walk in and take notes. We’ve almost done that already, though not at Triton,” he added quickly.
“How do you mean?” Charles asked.
Highlands leaned back in his chair again and lit a cigarette after offering one to Charles. “A few years ago, the State Department, in its infinite wisdom, arranged for a group of Soviet aircraft specialists to visit some of our factories—Boeing, Lockheed, McDonnell Douglas—to improve relations,” Highlands said sardonically. “Give them a look at our production lines, have a little shop talk, that kind of thing. Well, it turns out that this supposedly benevolent group of visitors the tour were wearing special shoes to picked up metal scraps and shavings from the factory floors. Those particles were later analyzed back in Moscow and eventually led to the Soviets being able to acquire the metal alloys necessary to produce their Illyushin II-76T transport plane.” He paused to give Charles a rueful smile.
“Want more? Okay. I was told that story, by the way, to impress on me the importance of security at Triton.” He shrugged again. “The Soviet embassy in Washington spends several million dollars a year for copies of thousands of technical reports on file at the Department of Commerce’s Information service. They get this stuff legally. The magazine Aviation Week & Space Technology, each issue mind you, is flown directly to Moscow and translated en route. A friend of mine at the FBI tells me they get up to ninety percent of their intelligence from open sources—unclassified material, seminars and trade shows.” Highlands angrily stubbed out his cigarette. “You figure it out. Then along comes a guy like Owens and well...”
“What exactly was Owens working on?”
Highlands consulted the file again. “Oh, nothing important,” he said. “Just a device called an accelerometer. Apparently, it measures changes in the pull of gravity on an airborne vehicle. It’s crucial to guided missile systems. I’d say that would be fairly high on the Soviet shopping list, along with high-speed micro pressers and integrated circuits. All stuff we do here at Triton.”
Charles got up and walked to the window. Over the complex he could see a number of white-coated employees hurrying in and out of buildings, reading printouts on the run, talking, laughing. He tried to imagine Robert Owens in this setting. What had made him do it? And more important, why were the Soviets willing to let him go now? According to the latest word from Washington, the Kremlin was getting impatient over Zakharov. Why again? It wasn’t as if Zakharov was a prize catch and they must have him back at all costs. Zakharov was not a known operative, so why the panic?
Charles fought to grasp the thread of an idea running in his mind, but it continued to elude him. What was the key? He turned back to Highlands.
“Anything you can tell me about Owens’ personal life?” There was always the chance there was a name that hadn’t already turned up.
Highlands shook his head. “No, not really. He didn’t have one. Clean record but a real loner. Obsessed with work, seldom if ever spent any time outside with anyone. Lived with his mother, definitely not a bar hound. We were pleased with that because the Soviets trawl the singles bars for any likely tidbits. Owens had been doing a lot more than that. Art Mason might help you there. You still want to talk to him?”
“Yes,” Charles remembered. “If you can arrange it.” Arthur Mason had at least seen Owens in Red Square, but Charles felt there was little he could provide c
onsidering the shock the sighting must have caused him.
A buzzer sounded on Highlands’ desk. He picked up the phone. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be right down.” He hung up and turned to Charles. “Something has come up but I shouldn’t be long. Make yourself at home. I’ll have lunch sent in.”
“Fine,” said Charles. He sat down wearily. There was nothing here and Highlands certainly didn’t fit the bill. In a different way he was just as unsuitable as Mike Savage, who would have been ideal had Charles been recruiting for an anti-terrorist group. Highlands’ attitude in regard to Owens was equally negative and Charles realized he was no closer to finding someone to identify Owens. Only one name remained on his list.
With Highlands gone, he took the opportunity to look at the file the security chief had left on his desk. Almost absently, he flipped through its pages, but halfway through, something caught his eye.
***
When Highlands returned, he found Charles already at work on lunch. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Minor problem.”
“I’ll take the tour now if you don’t mind,” Charles said.
“Sure,” Highlands said, grabbing a sandwich. He brightened slightly. “Might as well make your trip worth something. This is a pretty interesting place you know.”
Charles followed Highlands out of the office, struck suddenly by the thought that Robert Owens must have felt the very same thing.
***
The interview with Arthur Mason had proved to be as fruitless as Charles expected. The tall computer scientist had worked with Owens briefly, but could add nothing more to what Charles already knew. He was sure it was Owens he’d seen in Red Square, and he’d been obviously shaken by the experience.
The news from Washington was equally disappointing. Moscow had reluctantly agreed to a confirmation of Owens identity, but reserved the right to choose the site and demanded the operation be a joint effort between the CIA and KGB. That will be the day, Charles thought.
John Trask was holding out for neutral ground but wasn’t optimistic. As expected, the Soviets were outraged over Zakharov’s arrest and were screaming frame. Until the time of his arrest, the Russian was a seemingly innocuous trade official, not a known operative and yet Moscow was apparently willing to trade for Owens, who had spent five years in one of their most sensitive installations. Charles was still puzzling over it all when he found Harry Peck leaning on the fence of his chicken ranch just north of San Francisco.
“I think the sun agrees with you, Harry,” Charles said getting out of the car.
Peck smiled and glanced at the sky, the sun beating down its late afternoon heat. “Good thing I guess, eh?” He was a tall gaunt man with a weathered face and narrow set dark eyes. “What brings you out here, Charles?”
“Can we talk inside?”
“Sure. Betty’s gone into town for some shopping.” They walked across the yard to a low frame house, past rows of chicken coups. Hundreds of chickens squalled in protest over the intrusion.
“Retirement seems profitable,” Charles said.
“Yeah, I guess so, if you like chickens. I can’t eat eggs anymore though,” Peck said.
They sat at the kitchen table while Peck poured coffee from a pot on the stove into two chipped mugs. Charles took it all in for a moment and flashed on his own retirement reflected back at him in Harry Peck’s lifeless face. Peck had been out of the bureau five years now.
“So, what’s up, Charles?” Peck drawled. “You didn’t come all the way out here to see my chickens. You still globetrotting for the competition?” The FBI and CIA had always been rival organizations, but often their areas of concern overlapped. Charles and Harry Peck went back a lot of years.
“Names, Harry, names. I need some help. A defection in 1974. Robert Owens worked at Triton Industries. Remember it?” Charles studied Peck’s lined face almost hoping he was wrong.
Peck rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin and looked out the window. “Yeah, always thought there was something strange about that one. I wasn’t working the case, but I know we were getting a file together on the guy. I was working the Russian end, keeping tabs on one of their boys who had just come over from Moscow. New kid on the block.” Peck sneered and lit a hand rolled cigarette.
“What was funny about it, Harry?”
Peck shrugged, “We just about had the Russian nailed down. He got pretty careless.”
Charles took out a photo and pushed it across the table. “Was this the man?” he asked.
Peck took the photo and studied it a moment. “Yeah, that’s him all right. Is he in trouble again?”
Charles returned the photo to his pocket. “What happened, Harry? Why didn’t the operation continue?”
Peck shrugged and sipped his coffee. “We got word from Washington to drop it, forget the whole thing. They even sent someone out here to make sure we understood.”
Charles felt a shudder go through his body. “Who was that? Do you remember?”
“C’mon, Charles,” Peck said, smiling. “It was one of your people. Said it was going out of our jurisdiction.” Charles held himself still. Moscow was certainly out of the FBI’s jurisdiction.
“Trask I think his name was,” Peck said. “Yeah, that was it. John Trask.”
Back to TOC
Here’s a sample from Trey R. Barker’s Exit Blood.
Three Weeks Ago
Church of the Bloody Souls
Valentine, Texas
Father Bob handed me the package. A delivery man at the church’s back door, Phil stitched on the left side of his yellow shirt.
“He smoked, too,” Father Bob said.
“Lots of us do.” I opened the package.
“Our body is a temple. Shouldn’t be fouled with cigarettes.”
“What about fouling it with weed? That acceptable?”
“As our newest member, you would do well to try and remember that.”
This time, I managed to keep the smart ass answer in the back of my throat. I’m new and who knows what the fuck is going on with these guys anyway. The quieter I am, the better off I’ll be.
In the box was a commemorative plate. Barefield Centennial, blared cowboy rope letters. Arranged around the sentiment were pictures of oil derricks, cattle, barbed wire, and fences.
“What the shit is this?” I asked.
Father Bob was already gone, leaving me alone in my tiny room.
There was no return address.
Ten Days Ago
“Again?” The box was open and another commemorative plate sat heavy in the middle of newspaper used as packing. “What the hell?”
With a shrug, Father Bob disappeared down the hallway. I slammed the door to my six-by-six room and stared at the plate. Barefield. This was a message. Or a bullshit reminder.
Problem was I didn’t remember much of my last night in Barefield. And what I did remember, I’d just as soon forget.
“Fuck.”
I smashed the plate—just like I’d done with the previous three—and began to pack the few belongings I had. Obviously, it was way past time to slip this bizarro church into my history.
Eight Days Ago
—Whap!—
The sound of whips against skin.
—Whap!—
Blood it out.
Blood, scalding hot at one hundred forty-five degrees, poured down my back while I kept an eye on the visitors. Had to be cops. Who else would be here looking for me?
They made my nerves twitch like a meth junkie on the haul. Straight up knew they were here for me, and that my pleas would have zero effect on them. Bullets bouncing off of Superman’s chest. They didn’t care if the murder was an accident. They didn’t care that my father had gotten me drunk, had stuffed two or three or, hell, maybe four, spliffs between my lips. Anything I might say would cut me exactly no ice.
Didn’t know them, but I damn sure knew the shock on their faces. I recognized it. It had been on mine when I arrived.
It
was the blood that was so shocking.
And that the priests did it to themselves.
Thirty men, their heads tilted back, eyes closed; supplicants at the altar of violence. Every arm stretched out like the arms of a cross. Every right arm holding a short leather whip, every mouth moving, filling the sanctuary with chants. Each man hit himself, spattered his own blood on the ceiling in hundreds of short, straight lines. Each new line of blood covered an old one which itself covered still an older one.
They’re cops.
The fact that they never looked at me was what told me. Too studied in how they avoided my gaze.
And not just cops, but friends of SuperCop’s...of Kurston’s. They were scoping me out and trying desperately to be cool about it. Probably they had already called SuperCop. He was probably already busting ass down the road to snatch me up.
’Cause there ain’t nothing better for a cop than bagging a killer.
My stomach tightened.
Would they let me call my step-father before they snapped on the cuffs? Would they let me apologize for being such a disappointment to him? Would they let me tell him how sorry I was that I’d screwed things up so fully and completely? If I could make him understand, then I could go happily.
Well...not happily. I sure as shit didn’t want to go to prison, but I was tired. I’d been running for weeks now and was exhausted. The back of my throat was coated in fear, but it was spiced with relief because this thing was just about over.
Except I never found Mama’s pendant.
Or the damned money.
And I still didn’t actually remember killing him.
—Whap!—
“Y’all hitting y’all’self pretty hard.” His name was Cope, an old black man who munched cucumbers and who’d brought me to the church. He had a big, gaudy ring on every one of his fingers. “Got some angry penance going on today.”
“That’s what happens when—”
The gun suddenly, painfully, in my ear snapped my words off. I tried to move away from the thing, but a powerful arm held me tight against the barrel. My whip, covered in my one hundred forty-five degree blood, hit the floor. “SuperCop...you came.”