A Triple Thriller Fest (70 page)

Adams paused for a moment.  “What I can do is search InfoNet for possible leads such as hospitals, morgues, or other places where missing people show up.  We can also put out a missing persons report on Richard Winslow on InfoNet.”

“Great.  Say hi to Beth for me,” said Smith.  He returned the telephone to its cradle and looked up at Joyce, who had been waiting patiently.  “If anyone can find out what happened to Winslow, Herb Adams can.”

On the other end of the line, Adams sat quietly taking in what had just happened.  He then dialed for his assistant.

1630 Hours: Friday, June 11, 1993: Newport News Naval Station, Virginia

The Navy UH-1N Huey hovered in the air about ten feet above the landing zone.  In an instant, the helicopter touched down with a jolt.  A tall, thin, erect, white-haired gentleman in dress whites stood waiting for Mike next to a light gray sedan.  Next to him stood a Marine lance corporal at parade rest.  On the right front fender of the sedan was a small blue flag with two white stars.  Even with sunglasses, the familiar features of Rear Admiral Robert McHugh were easily discernible.  Mike was glad to see his old friend.

As the rotors of the helicopter glided to a gentle idle, Mike jumped out and, with his head held low, hurried toward Rear Admiral McHugh.

McHugh grinned broadly as he shook the hand of his old friend.  “Welcome, Mike.  It’s not every day the U. S. Navy gets to welcome a Wall Street bigwig.  Sorry about the rather unruly reception you had at NAVFAC.”

He then returned a salute from Chief Petty Officer Margaret Marston.  “I see you got your man, Chief.”

“Admiral, it’s always a pleasure to see you,” said Mike.  “It’s been almost five years.  How’s Gladys?  Why the formal greeting?”  Mike knew how much McHugh hated the pomp and circumstance that went with his position.

“Had to, hate this stuff, you know.  But the base commander’s wife wanted a party.”  McHugh shrugged.  “That’s the reason for the get-up, Gladys and I have to go over there for a cocktail reception at 7:00 p.m.  She wondered if you can come over later for coffee, after you’ve checked in at the BOQ.”

“I’d love to.”

McHugh and Mike got into the gray sedan.  Mike was grateful that the sedan was nicely cool, given the oppressive heat of the afternoon Virginia sun.

After the two friends had settled down, Mike said, “What do you make of this, Bob?  Things are getting out of hand; you can’t even go for a ride down a country road without being hassled.”

McHugh nodded.  “One of our couriers, Mildred Swensen, was also attacked — we’re not sure if it was related to this current mission or if somebody made her from previous assignments.  Another courier hasn’t checked-in, we’re trying to get a fix on his whereabouts.  The courier from Watch Station One was only able to fly military, bumming a ride on an Orion which flew him to Andrews Air Force Base, where his wife picked him up and took him to headquarters.  His cylinder was extracted and sent to Laurel for decoding.”

“Is Mildred okay?”

“She’s a tough old bird.  It seems some thirtyish female decided to add to her trophy collection.  Luckily, all those silver bangles Mildred wears got tangled in the garrote and saved her life.  Mildred was able to jab her knitting needle into the assailant and that’s all it took.  Gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘keep to your own knitting,’ doesn’t it?” McHugh chuckled at his attempt at black humor.

Mike smiled appreciatively.  “Does this mean that we have a leak?  Someone sure does seem to know when and where our agents are showing up.”

0530 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Bethesda, Maryland

Awakened, Smith picked up the ringing telephone.  It was Adams.

“I’ve got some bad news for you.  It appears that your Richard Winslow kept some pretty rough company.  He’s dead.”

“What happened?”

“The Minnesota State Police headquarters in Mankato, Minnesota, responded to our InfoNet missing person’s bulletin on Winslow.  It seems that there was a rather spectacular house fire at a farm south of Mankato last night.  It required volunteer fire companies from several communities to put it out.  When the fire was finally put out, the firemen found a grisly scene.  In the kitchen, they found a corpse burned so badly that they couldn’t even tell at first whether it was male or female.

“The firemen secured the area and called in the State Police to conduct arson and homicide investigations.  The homicide investigator was able to find a portion of a Washington State driver’s license that had a partial name ‘…inslow’ that somehow survived the intense fire.  The State Police homicide investigator checked the InfoNet missing persons list and thought that we should be notified.”

“Where’s the body?”

“Mankato still has a county coroner system.  The body was taken to a funeral home in Mankato, Tuchman Brothers.”

“Herb, what I’m now going to tell you is so sensitive that I can probably be sent to jail for the rest of my life — do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Winslow was a special courier, carrying information of great national consequence.  Can you secure the farmhouse until we can get up there?  Also, I need to get access to Winslow’s body.  Can you arrange that?”

“I’ll get right on it.  Great national consequence, huh?”

“Thanks, sorry I can’t say any more.  What I’ve told you already could fry me — no joke.”

This time, Adams knew that Smith was not being disingenuous.

1930 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport

“Air Force C-130 Heavy, you are cleared for landing Runway 11 Left.”

“Minneapolis Tower, Runway 11 Left, Roger.”

The Lockheed C-130H-30 Hercules touched down and lumbered down Runway 11 Left coming to a stop about three fourths of the way down the runway.

“Air Force C-130 Heavy, this is Minneapolis Ground Control, you are cleared to taxi on Taxi way AA-5, turn right D5 to Minnesota Air Force Reserve terminal.  Good day.”

“Good day, Minneapolis Ground Control.”

As the huge Lockheed Hercules rolled to a stop in the Minnesota Air Force Reserve terminal, connected to the Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport, engines were started in the three Suburbans.  Two of the three vehicles carried a complement of five. The middle vehicle had only a driver and a guard.  The third seat in that vehicle had been removed and the second seat was folded down.  A stainless steel casket and gurney lay on the floor of the Suburban.   Joining the Marines this time were two others, Twoomey and Smith.

All of the occupants of the Suburbans were dressed in dark blue uniform shirts and trousers.  None of the uniforms bore military insignia or indication of rank.

As soon as the ramp of the Lockheed Hercules hit the tarmac with a metallic clang, the first Suburban started down the ramp, stopping at the solitary figure standing on the tarmac.  Smith jumped out of the Suburban, walked up to the man, and shook his hand.

About this time, the other two Suburbans drove down the ramp, stopping directly behind the first vehicle.  From the third Suburban, Twoomey emerged.  As Twoomey joined the two men on the tarmac, Smith said, “Herb, this is Albert Twoomey.  Albert, Herb.”

“How are you doing, Herb?  It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you as well.  Welcome to Minnesota.”

Pleasantries having been dispensed with, Adams joined Smith in the lead vehicle, and Twoomey returned to the third Suburban.  The three-vehicle caravan immediately started out for Mankato with Adams leading the way.

“I had the State Police put extra security around the farmhouse.  The Mankato coroner is going to be a problem.  He insists that since it’s a local homicide investigation, he has sole jurisdiction in the matter.”

“Do you have anyone working on that problem?”

“No, you said that this was dark.  Only I’m aware of this in the office.  As far as the office knows, I’m taking a few days off for personal business.”

“Thanks, Herb.  I owe you one.”

“George, this is some operation.  Can you tell me anything about it at all?”

“All I can say is that the matter deals with national security and that your assistance is deemed essential but that it’s better that you don’t know the organization or the mission.  All of these men are specially trained to do what Twoomey and I tell them without question.  As you can see, these Suburbans are specially equipped for any situation.  Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“Are there going to be any consequences from the Director’s office?”

“Already cleared.  The old man called Judge Alexander this morning himself.”

“I guess I’m yours.  One thing, who’s the old man?”

“Rear Admiral Robert McHugh, Chief of Operations, CSAC.”

“What’s CSAC?”

“I’ll tell you more later.”

The caravan rolled out of the service road on to Route 62, turned right on to Route 5 and headed for I-494.  After a short period of time it turned west onto Route 169 toward Mankato.

Adams sat watching the occasional farmhouse in the distant countryside slip past him, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

Smith silently hoped that Winslow’s cylinder remained unharmed so that he would not have died in vain.  His orders were explicit: Bring Winslow, or whatever remained of Winslow, home in the hermetically sealed, temperature-controlled, stainless steel casket.  If the cylinder had survived the fire, it might still carry the encoded message.

“Did you or your investigators sweep the fire scene?”

“The site had been completely gone over by both Minnesota and county officials.  I walked the site myself earlier this morning.  There was nothing except for the fragment of Winslow’s driver’s license that the State Police investigator found.  The farmhouse was pretty badly burned.  Obviously arson, started with gasoline.  The perpetrators didn’t even try to hide that fact.  The gas can, or what remained of it, was still laying in what was the kitchen — that’s where the volunteer fireman found the body.  Young kid, pretty shook up by it all.”

“Any clues?”

“In addition to the fragment of the driver’s license, the laboratory guys found one spent .357 Magnum slug.  It’s probably the slug that caved in your guy’s head, but it was fragmented and disfigured by the heat.  Doubt we’ll be able to get any useful information from it.  If there were any more clues, the fire did a good job destroying them.”

“What about the farmhouse?  Did you check ownership?”

“Abandoned, for some time.  It was supposed to be auctioned off soon in a tax sale.”

“We probably don’t need to go to the farmhouse, then.  Keep a lid on the site though.”

“Sure.”

By now the caravan had reached the sleepy Minnesota town of Mankato.  It didn’t take very long for the three Suburbans to reach Tuchman Brothers Funeral Home located on Main Street, down from the courthouse and municipal center.  At the funeral parlor, Adams and Smith got out of the lead Suburban and went to the locked front door of the building.

Ringing the bell, Adams commented that he wished it would cool down.  Southern Minnesota was undergoing one of its sweltering hot, two-week bouts of summer.  The humidity and heat persisted long after dusk.  It was the kind of weather that often spawned thunderstorms and their deadly progeny, tornadoes.  The two-plus hour ride from Minneapolis had been mercifully spent in the relative air conditioned comfort of the Suburbans.

It was shortly after nine in the evening when the caravan pulled up in front of the funeral parlor.  Waiting for what seemed an eternity, especially with increasingly annoying mosquitoes buzzing loudly around the front door light, Adams and Smith became pretty irritated.  After all, Adams had called the Mankato coroner to specially set up this visit.  Just then, the door handle turned and the front door was cracked open.  Peering out at the two men from inside was a stooped over, white-haired old man.

“Hello, I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the FBI.  Is Phillip Tuchman here?”

“I’m Tuchman.  Here, let me let you in, Mr. Adams.”

Phillip Tuchman, sole surviving brother of the Tuchman Brothers, was a seventy-year-old, slightly built man.  The years had been difficult and he had a stooped over gait.  He walked with the help of an oak cane.  For years, Tuchman doubled as the Mankato coroner, which fit well with his family’s funeral business.

As Adams and Smith entered the funeral home, several of the other passengers in the caravan got out of their vehicles.  They quietly faded into the shadows of the deepening night.  Two of the men strolled behind the funeral house and positioned themselves in the shadows of the backyard facing the house, cradling their weapons.  Each of the men carried either a Colt AR-15 or a Striker 12, equipped with a laser sight.  The driver and one passenger remained in each Suburban, the engines running.

2120 Hours: Saturday, June 12, 1993: Sheriff’s Office, Mankato, Minnesota

Mankato County Sheriff Joe Johnson reached for the ringing telephone.  Putting the telephone to his ear he growled, “Sheriff’s Office.”

“Sheriff, this is Annie Lewis. I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are a bunch of strange-looking men in front of Tuchman’s Funeral Home.  They’re acting mighty weird.”

“Thanks, Annie.  I’ll take a look,” said Johnson as he got up from his chair and placed the telephone back on its hook.

Forty-eight and paunchy, his jowly face reddened by a spidery network of surface blood capillaries nurtured by a combination of sun and alcohol, Johnson looked more like a sugar beet farmer than the sheriff of Mankato County.  Johnson strapped on his brown leather gun belt with the holstered .38 caliber Police Special and speed loaders, carefully tucked another plug of Red Man behind his lower lip, straightened his collar, hitched up his trousers, and reached for his Smokey Bear hat.

Walking out the door, he shouted to his night clerk that he was headed down to Tuchman’s.  He got into the tan Chevrolet Caprice with special suspension and a 5.7 liter V8 engine and started toward the funeral parlor.  As Johnson approached Tuchman’s, he noticed the three Suburbans parked in front of the funeral home without lights but definitely running.