A Triple Thriller Fest (85 page)

“Nikolayevich, you have failed me one too many times.”

Sorenson saw the glint of the pistol and the silencer in Walsh’s hand.  He turned to escape.  Walsh calmly squeezed the trigger of his Colt Commander auto pistol.  The silent bullet found its mark.  It entered through Sorenson’s upper right arm, coursing through his chest cavity, tearing muscle, exploding lung tissue, breaking bones, and tearing membrane along its way.  The exit wound was big enough to put a fist through.  As the bullet exited, it tore a gushing, gaping wound.  Sorenson’s blood flowed out in waves, splattering crimson on every surface.

The force of the bullet threw Sorenson against the aquamarine Diamond Back trail bike, which fell to the floor in a metallic clatter.  The wheels of the bike caught other bikes that were in storage and caused a chain reaction with bikes of all colors and makes falling and jumbling into a heap of rubber and metal.

Sorenson lay in this wreckage, still conscious.  His brown eyes met the pale blue eyes of his executioner.  “Why, Dimitri?” said Sorenson, as blood gurgled out of his mouth.  “Why?”

Walsh walked over to the mortally wounded Nikolai Sakurov and calmly squeezed the trigger of his silenced pistol two more times.

The pale blue eyes of Dimitri surveyed the carnage before him.  In a soft, dispassionate voice, Dimitri said to the earthly remains of his former comrade, “Nikolayevich, you have betrayed us.”

He calmly placed the pistol in his trouser belt and walked quietly out to his Jeep, parked in front of Sorenson’s shop.

0800 Hours: Thursday, June 17, 1993: Federal Bureau of Investigation, Washington, D.C.

“Wow!” exclaimed Martha.  “I’m flabbergasted.”

Adams had just finished explaining all the details of the CSAC assignment and how they suspected that there had to be some connection between the attacks on its agents and how CSAC functioned.  Martha had been cleared for temporary duty with CSAC through the FBI director’s office and McHugh’s.

“What we need you to do, Martha, is use your best hacking skills to find if there is a connection and what it is.  Be careful.  These people have killed.  They are professional killers.”

“I’ll get right on it,” she said, a big grin on her young face.  “I have a theory that somehow the bad guys have gotten access to the communications network and are exploiting that for their purposes.”

Sitting down at her computer terminal, Martha was able to access the Department of Defense telecommunications network with relative ease.  After experimenting with a few random access codes, Martha was able to gain access into the DODNet, an informational network of sensitive, but not classified, Department of Defense communications.

Puzzled by the relative ease with which she was able to access the Department of Defense telecommunications, Martha decided to determine how travel arrangements were either made, arranged, or documented.  That had to be the key to the puzzle.

Martha decided to call George Smith, whom she understood from Adams to be the security officer for CSAC.

“Hello, Mr. Smith?” said Martha.

“Yes?”

“I’m Special Agent Martha Thomas with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  Could I set up a meeting with you for this afternoon?”

“Herb has told me all about you.  I’d be very pleased to see you. About 3 p.m. O.K.?”

“See you then.”

1300 Hours: Thursday, June 17, 1993: CSAC Offices, Washington, D.C.

“That is really some security system,” Martha said, impressed.

She was sitting in Smith’s office.  Also crammed into the small office were Mike, Adams, and Mildred.

“Well, it’s something you have to get used to,” said Smith.

“Tell me about how CSAC travel arrangements are made,” she said.

“Each center is responsible for making its own arrangements.  The tickets are secured by the center without prior approval by Washington.  Therefore, the agent is not subject to any scrutiny at a central point.”

“Then how do you know when the courier is supposed to arrive?”

“We’re notified by telephone as to their arrival and the itinerary is noted in our computers.”

“How secure are the computer programs?” said Martha.

“Very secure.  No one outside of a control group at CSAC knows of the program’s existence.”

“How do you coordinate the travel?”

“Through scrambled telephonic transmissions.  Shit, that’s got to be it,” he said suddenly.  “Someone has tapped into our secured telephone system.”

“Wait a minute, George.  That doesn’t account for the fact that the courier from Watch Station One arrived unscathed.  There has to be another connection.  Was the secured line used for his message?”

“Let’s plot this out,” said Smith as he went to the green chalkboard in his office.  “First, Mildred took commercial scheduled service from Minneapolis to New York and from there to National.  She was stalked at least from New York by Davenport, who lived in Des Moines.”

Smith drew a line and a box on the chalkboard.  “Winslow flies scheduled airline service from Seattle to Minneapolis, disappears and turns up dead in a farmhouse fire in Mankato, Minnesota.”

“Excuse me,” said Mike.  “The attacks on me didn’t coincide with any scheduled air service.”

“But both of your trips used CSAC personnel and equipment,” said Adams.  “In addition, on the second trip you were coming from Newport News, Virginia, the logical point for encoding messages from Watch Station One.”

“That’s right,” said Smith.  “The real courier was a seaman rotating off Watch Station One.  He hitched a ride from Newport News on an Orion flying to Andrews Air Force Base.  There, his wife picked him up and dropped him off at CSAC-Washington.  Now the mystery is why our friends would think that you, Mike, were the courier, instead.”

“Because I flew down to Newport News with a lot of security and then turned right around and flew back with even more security,” remembered Mike aloud.

“Yes, that would have attracted a lot of attention,” said Martha.

“But Mike didn’t fly commercial, so how did the bad guys point him out?” said Smith.

“Where is the connection in all of this?” said an exasperated Mildred.  “The only point I can see is that the bad guys knew who we were or suspected we were couriers.”

“Given the quickness with which the attacks occurred, this has to be an inside job,” said Mike.

“Want to hear some more?” said Adams.  “Over this morning’s InfoNet and DODNet was a crazy report that a bicycle repair man turned himself in for the murder of Richard Winslow.  Believing the man was hallucinating, the Minneapolis police turned him away.”

“Didn’t we squelch the InfoNet report on Winslow?” said Mike.

“That’s right,” said Adams.  “We need to get to that officer as soon as possible.  I can get there by this evening.”

“Has anyone got anything on Eastwood?” said Mike nonchalantly.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Liu,” said Martha.  “Selby Eastwood was a true orphan.  Seems his parents came to the United States from Canada.  They were killed in an automobile crash when Eastwood was a child.  They left a trust fund for Eastwood.  It was that trust fund that financed his education through Choate, Harvard, and Yale.”

Mike winced ever so slightly.  “My hunch is that he may be part of this network of people who seem to be after us.  There is no way that anyone at Smedleys could have known I was at the Hyatt.”

“Just can’t admit to yourself that maybe you popped off a collateral, can you,” said Mildred, without looking up from her knitting, with a trace of a smile.

“Can you dig further, Martha?” said Mike ignoring the jibe.

“Yes, sir,” said Martha, jotting a reminder in her brown leather notepad.

0900 Hours: Friday, June 18, 1993: Tenth Precinct House, Minneapolis, Minnesota

“Pete, there’s an FBI agent out here to see you.”

“Send him right back,” said Wilkinson.

Adams walked back to the Detective Squad Room and let himself through the door.

“How can I help you?” said Wilkinson.

“I saw your report on InfoNet about that alleged Russian spy and wanted to follow up,” said Adams, showing his FBI identification and gold badge to Wilkinson.

“You mean that poor schmuck, Bill Sorenson?” said Wilkinson.

“Why do you say that?” said Adams.

“Sorenson was found shot to death in his bicycle repair shop Wednesday evening by two customers.  It may have been a robbery attempt that went sour, we don’t know.  Large caliber wounds, however.  Whatever we could find was sent to forensics.”

“Do you believe his story?” said Adams, as he kept his emotions in close rein.

Wilkinson shrugged.  “Just too screwy.  When we couldn’t find any mention of a guy named Winslow losing it in Mankato — well, you know, you get them all the time, mostly when the moon is full.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Adams.  “Just to be on the safe side, can I read Sorenson’s file?”

“You bet.  I’ve got her right here.  Copy whatever you want.  Like some java?”

“Sure, black.”

Adams picked up the Sorenson file, found an empty desk, and sat down with the rather thin manila folder.  Inside the folder were the usual police workup sheets, a fresh Polaroid snapshot of the crime scene showing the grotesquely contorted body of a youngish, white male lying amid a jumble of bicycle parts and wheels.  The body was soaked in blood.  Whoever committed the crime had used ammunition large enough to have blown Bill Sorenson apart.

To Adams, who had seen many crime scenes, this did not look like a bungled robbery attempt.  Robbers will kill and run.  Whoever did this stayed to finish the job.  In addition, none of Sorenson’s fellow shopkeepers reported hearing gunfire.  Bullets big enough to cause this much carnage had to make a lot of noise.  Unless, of course, the killer had a professionally manufactured silencer.

Whoever killed Sorenson wanted him dead.  Adams saw that Sorenson had been married and made a note to visit his widow.

Wilkinson returned with the coffee in two Styrofoam cups.  He sat down across the desk from Adams.  The coffee was a little bitter, like it was the dregs of the pot, but the warm fluid felt good to the parched FBI agent.

“Any chance I can see the crime scene?” said Adams.

“No problem, we can go in my car if you want.”

“Thanks, but I have to go on from there.  Why don’t you lead the way?”

“Okay, let me get my coat.”

Adams followed Wilkinson up Hennepin Avenue to Franklin Street to the Lake of the Isle Bicycle Repair Shop.  The shop had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene plastic tape.  The forensic people had already come and gone and a lone police officer leaned against the door to the shop.

As Wilkinson came to a stop in front of the store, the police guard stood upright and straightened his uniform.  Adams brought his car to a stop immediately behind the detective’s unmarked Chevrolet Caprice.  Wilkinson walked up to the police officer, with Adams right behind him.

“Hi.  This is Special Agent Herb Adams of the FBI.  He’d like to take a look in Mr. Sorenson’s shop,” said Wilkinson to the officer standing at the door.

“Hello, Officer,” said Adams as he shook the policeman’s hand.

Inside the shop, Adams found pretty much what he expected to see, a typical homicide scene.  He wondered why he thought he would have found anything different.  In real life, however, the extent of the carnage was far more extensive than the small Polaroid could ever hope to depict.  The heavy, distinct smell of blood permeated throughout the small shop, along with the smell of metal and oil.  The hot humid Minnesota summer afternoon did little to stave off the smell of death in this store.

After walking through the shop and noting the position of the chalked outline of a body on the floor, a grim faced Adams walked out into the sunlight.

“Did Sorenson indicate that he had any enemies?” said Adams.

“No one except maybe that Tim fellow that I mentioned in my InfoNet report,” said Pete.

“Do you have anything more on this Tim?”

“Nope.”

“Thanks a lot.  I’d consider this matter closed.”

1130 Hours: Friday, June 18, 1993: James Arms Apartments, Minneapolis, Minnesota

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Special Agent Herbert Adams of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” said Adams, as he displayed his identification and gold badge through the narrow opening in the door.  “I’d like to ask Mrs. Sorenson some questions.”

“Look, my sister has answered all the questions the Minneapolis police have asked her, can’t you leave her alone at a time like this?”

“Believe me; I would not intrude unless I had to.  I really need to talk to Mrs. Sorenson.”

“What the hell do you feds want anyway?”

From the other room, a woman said, “Let him in.”

With that, the young man unlatched the safety chain and opened the door for Adams.  A young, pretty, but hard-looking woman with bleached blond hair, probably no older than twenty-one, came into the living room of the one-bedroom apartment.  She wore a sweatshirt much too large for her small frame and stone washed-dungarees.  Her blue eyes were rimmed with red and her mascara had run from crying.  She held a tissue in one hand.

“I’m LuEllen Sorenson,” said the woman between sniffles.  “This is my older brother, Jon, please excuse him.  He was just trying to help.”

“No problem, Mrs. Sorenson.  I’m really sorry to intrude at a time like this.  But we have to follow up on a report that your husband made yesterday to the Minneapolis police.”

“That detective, Mr. Wilkinson, asked me about the report yesterday,” said LuEllen.  “I just don’t know anything about that.  It isn’t like Bill at all.”

“Was he upset about anything recently?”

“Yes, something he wouldn’t talk about.  But he seemed to have snapped out of it in the afternoon.”

“Do you know a Tim?”

“Detective Wilkinson asked me that too.  I don’t know any Tim.  Do you know if he had any friends named Tim, Jon?” LuEllen asked her brother.

“No.”

“How long were you married to Bill Sorenson?” Adams said.