A Triple Thriller Fest (64 page)

0730 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: In a Small Coffee Shop along Cambridge Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

The two men sat in the booth in the back of the small coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  Each had a mug of steaming coffee in front of him; purchased at the counter.

There was a steady flow of customers looking for morning coffee and pastries.  The dingy shop was busy.

An unlikely couple.  The older of the two had a professorial air.  Busy tamping tobacco into his burlwood pipe, he would stop every so often to sip steaming hot, black coffee from his porcelain mug.

The younger man had a large round face upon which sat a curiously small pair of round, rimless glasses.  He looked very uncomfortable; his small beady eyes constantly surveyed the patrons and other goings-on of the busy shop.  His coffee was heavily laden with cream and sugar.  He bolted down his Cherry Danish.

Occasionally, the younger man would look up at this companion as if he were looking for a sign of recognition, familiarity.  None came.

“When did you come up?”

“L-Late last night.”

“When are you going back?”

“Immediately.”  The younger man fidgeted nervously.

“Why did you call - you know that you aren’t supposed to ever call me,” said the older man impatiently.

“Yes, I know, but…”

“We shouldn’t be meeting in person.  Why the rush?”

“Y-you need to see these,” stammered the younger man as he took out a manila envelope and surreptitiously handed it to his booth mate.  “Something big is happening.”

The older man took the envelope and put it into his soft leather attaché, without as much as a glance.

The younger man ventured, “How are things?”

He received no response.  The older person did not meet his gaze and busied himself with his burlwood pipe.

With that, the younger man got out of the booth and with a sweep of his eyes, shuffled out of the coffee house, and disappeared into the bustling crowd of people heading to work.  With luck he could catch the 11:20 AM flight at Logan for his trip south.

The older man quietly watched his companion depart, and, after waiting a few more minutes, causally gathered his belongings, walked up to the cash register and paid the bill.  Exiting the coffee shop, the older man calmly glanced up and down Cambridge Street and walked to his parked car.

1993: Mildred

1000 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: Gate 26 Red Concourse, Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport

“May I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am.  I’m on Flight 504 to New York’s La Guardia Airport.  Can I get an aisle seat?” said the tall blond boy dressed in Levi jeans, a white sweat shirt with the St. Olaf College crest in royal blue on the front, and Puma running shoes.  “Do we get lunch on this flight?”

“You bet.  How about Seat 16C?  We’ll be boarding in about ten minutes.”

Behind Eric Johanson, a line of people was waiting patiently for their turn to get seats on Flight 504.  About three people back from Eric stood a thin woman dressed in a navy blue business suit with a white silk blouse and red bow tie.

The black-haired woman was attractive, looked as if she were in her early thirties, and seemed bored by the routine of boarding the Northwest Airlines flight.  She had the most beautiful blue eyes, something that Eric had noted earlier while waiting for the gate agents to open up shop.  He also remembered the scent of lavender when she walked past.  It was the same scent that his favorite aunt used.

Boy, he thought, if the older women in New York look that good, I wonder how girls my age will look?

A loud metallic voice rumbled through the din at the gate.  “Attention, Northwest Flight 504 to New York’s La Guardia Airport will be ready for general boarding in a few minutes.  We would like to ….  As usual, we invite our first-class passengers and our Gold and Preferred Card Worldperks members to board at their leisure.”

“Flight 504 is now available for general boarding.”

Handing his boarding pass to the gate agent, Eric started down the metal passageway to the Boeing 727-200 jetliner and was met at the doorway by a pert blond flight attendant who looked at his boarding card and waved him toward the rear of the aircraft with a smile.

Waiting for the crowd before him to find their seats, Eric soaked in the ambiance of the first class cabin.  The familiar noise and smell of coffee percolating in the galley were intoxicating to the haggard passengers lining up to take their seats.  The mostly middle-aged, white male passengers sitting in the spacious first-class seats were already absorbed in their reading material and pre-flight beverages.

Eric looked forward to being an analyst at Franklin Smedley & Associates.  He was sure they flew everywhere first-class.

Finally, the logjam freed up as the passengers before him found their seats and Eric was able to reach seat 16C.  As he approached his seat, he noted that the attractive black haired woman with the startlingly beautiful blue eyes was seated in 12D; she was already busy reading a magazine and didn’t look up as other passengers passed by.

Eric looked over his row and smiled at his row mate.  In 16A sat a spinsterish older woman who had already started her knitting project.  Her white hair was pulled tightly in a bun.  Mildred Swensen was traveling to New York on her way to Oslo, Norway, to shop for her Scandinavian craft shop in Crookston, Minnesota.

She was dressed like every Norwegian aunt or grandmother Eric had ever known.  Mildred wore a pale yellow silk print dress with a high collar and a light blue summer blazer.  She carried the unmistakable scent of lilac.  A cameo pin adorned her blazer.  Large silver bangles hung from her left wrist. She carried her purse but also carried a large straw bag from which knitting needles of various sizes and yarn protruded.  She was working on a project, quite absorbed in her task.  From the looks of it, the project was going to be a sweater, probably a Christmas gift for a grandchild.

Eric knew how efficient these Scandinavian grandmothers could be, for example, knitting Christmas sweaters in June.  If the visit was at Christmas time, the menu was always the same: fruit soup, boiled potatoes, lutefisk, Swedish meatballs, lefse, and, if you’re lucky, Johnson’s temptation, a mixture of scalloped potatoes, onions, and anchovies.  The smell of freshly baked cookies, evergreen branches, the smoky fire, Yule kaka, sprits, and thumbprint cookies made up for the annual ordeal of lutefisk.

Lutefisk starts life swimming in the North Atlantic as cod.  When caught, the cod is dried and salted.  To prepare lutefisk, the dried and pungent cod is soaked in caustic soda for several months.  The soaking revivifies the flesh of the dried fish.  When boiled or baked and served with white sauce, lutefisk becomes a tender, flaky seafood delicacy.  Norwegian aficionados of lutefisk compare it to lobster.

Detractors compare it to death.

Comedians have said that the best recipe for lutefisk is to soak the fish, then drain it for two hours on a wood cutting board, and, when drained, throw away the fish and eat the cutting board.

Eric stopped himself.  Why am I thinking about Christmas in June he thought, and then he realized how much the lady sitting in Seat 16A looked like his grandmother.

Eric had been hoping that he would get a chance to sit next to the cute young woman with her pale hazel eyes and blond hair pulled in a ponytail.  The one who he thought was trading glances with him in the gate area.  He wasn’t sure, but the coed had looked awfully familiar.  Maybe he had seen her around Northfield.  Maybe she was an Ole, as St. Olaf students are called, or, heavens forbid, a student at Carleton College, St. Olaf’s arch-rival in the small college town of Northfield, Minnesota.

Damn! Here I’m about to become a big gun on Wall Street and I still can’t get the nerve to chat up some girl.  I’ve got to get over this hang-up, thought Eric.

At least he wasn’t going to have to sit with the greasy hippie with long smelly hair who immediately preceded him down the aisle.

Sliding into his seat, Eric turned to the older woman and said, “Hi, I’m Eric Johanson.”

“Hello, I’m Mildred Swensen.  I see from your sweatshirt that you’re an Ole.  How is Northfield these days?  I graduated from St. Olaf College in the fifties.”

“I graduated just last month.  I’m going to New York to join Franklin Smedley & Associates as an analyst.”

“How nice.  What does an analyst at Franklin Smedley & Associates do?”

“I’ll be working in the project finance group for a guy named Mike Liu, probably the best project finance banker on Wall Street.  As an analyst, I get to examine the financial credibility of many different types of industrial projects.  Franklin Smedley & Associates has one of the biggest domestic and international project financing practices around, so I hope I get to go overseas as well.  I’m really excited; it’s the chance of a lifetime.”

“Sounds like such an adventure for a boy so young.  Liu?  What kind of name is that — oriental?”

“I think so, Chinese.”

“Johanson, that’s Norwegian.  Are you from Minnesota?”

“Yes, ma’am, I grew up in Ely.”

“Ely?  What a nice town.”

Eric and Mildred settled in for a leisurely conversation.  The flight to New York was made that much more enjoyable.  After a while the conversation, as it always does with Minnesotans the world over, turned to weather.  The soon-to-be Wall Street mogul and the grandmother from Crookston tried to top each other with the worst winter storm story they could think of.  Finally, Mildred regaled the youngster with Olav and Lena anecdotes, keeping alive the traditional Norwegian culture.

When the flight attendants brought lunch, Mildred offered her carrot cake to Eric.

“Airlines just don’t serve enough food for growing boys.”

Eric accepted the dessert, as he always had accepted extra helpings of dessert from his grandmother.

“We are now making our final approach to New York’s La Guardia Airport.  Please return your seat backs and tray tables to their original upright position.”

Eric’s thoughts were now focused on getting into Manhattan and contacting another Ole who had preceded him by one year and was working as a paralegal at a Wall Street law firm.  They were planning to share an apartment in New York.

“Good-bye, Eric, best of luck to you in your new venture,” Mildred said as she and Eric gathered their belongings.

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Swensen.”

After deplaning, Eric hurried to the baggage area to collect his suitcase, duffel bag and sport bag.

Despite her comments to the young Eric about going on to Oslo, Mrs. Swensen proceeded to the inter-terminal shuttle bus for the short trip to the Washington shuttle.  She was trying to get the 2:00 p.m. shuttle to Washington, D.C., even though the connection was very close, due to the late arrival of the Minneapolis flight.  Settling down in the shuttle bus, Mildred did not pay any attention to others from the Minneapolis flight who also got on the bus, including the blue-eyed, black-haired woman from seat 12D.

After deplaning from the shuttle in Washington, Mildred took the escalator up from the shuttle gate and turned left toward the rental car stands and the door to the taxi stand.  As she turned, she noticed the restroom to her right.  Mildred went in.

Almost immediately after she entered, the heavy door slammed shut.  Simultaneously, a wire garrote was thrown around her neck.  Instinctively, Mildred grabbed the thin wire with her left hand and, in the process, got her silver bangles jammed between her hand and neck, but the grip of her unseen assailant was strong and the wire cut into the flesh of her left hand.  Gagging, choking, Mildred tried to think.  Stay cool.  Try to think.  Don’t act hastily.  God, that hurts.  The rush of the kill.  Uncontrollable ecstasy.

The unseen foe tightened the garrote.  Mildred drew upon strength she had forgotten she had to combat her attacker.  Frantically kicking backward with her high heels, Mildred tried to find a vulnerable spot.  Her efforts to break free of the death grip were ineffective and her strength started to wane.  Mildred’s attacker was too well positioned to be pushed off.  The attacker exerted maximum power, tightening the garrote while avoiding Mildred’s flailing legs.

Mildred was dragged into one of the toilet stalls, powerless to resist the backward pull of her assailant.  Desperately, Mildred’s right hand raced through her straw bag, searching, hoping, struggling to find the knitting needle.  As Mildred’s mind started to cloud from pain and the lack of oxygen, she found and gripped the special knitting needle, a number 10.

With one desperate swing, Mildred’s right hand jammed the needle into the soft area under her attacker’s sternum.

As soon as the tip of the knitting needle, which had been modified by DARPA, the think tank research agency of the Department of Defense, penetrated the attacker’s abdominal cavity, the chemical pellet stored in the tip was released.  Immediately reacting to the warm, moist environment of the human body, the pellet exploded, releasing gases into the attacker’s abdominal cavity.  The expanding gases and the shock wave of the explosion pushed the attacker’s diaphragm upward into the chest cavity.  This had the effect of immediately collapsing the attacker’s lungs, deflating them much as a swift blow to the chest might do.

The swift upward pressure of the expanding gas was also a death kick to the attacker’s heart, causing instantaneous cardiac arrest.  With cardiac arrest, the attacker’s body convulsed uncontrollably.  The attacker never knew what had happened.  The death grip on the garrote encircling Mildred’s neck loosened as the attacker’s lifeless body slumped toward the wall of the toilet and slid into a sitting position on the stool.

The lifeless but still penetratingly beautiful blue eyes of Mildred’s attacker stared upward into nothing.  Shaking, Mildred turned to examine the lifeless body of the attractive, black-haired, blue-eyed woman, recognizing her as a fellow passenger from New York.