A Triple Thriller Fest (88 page)

“You ugly fuck,” she muttered.  “You knew every step we were taking.  How could CSAC be so stupid.”

2000 Hours: Monday, June 21, 1993: Silver Spring, Maryland

In a small, darkened one bedroom apartment in Silver Spring, Maryland, the glow from the computer screen illuminated the large round face staring intently at the screen.  The only noise in the hot stifling room was the sound of steady, heavy, raspy breathing from the person sitting in front of the screen.  The windows were closed despite the searing summer heat.  A foul smell permeated the room, a mixture of body odor, decay, and must.

The image on the video monitor was reflected on the small rimless lenses of the computer operator’s glasses.  Sweat poured from Grayson’s brow as the importance of the message dawned on him.  He took the yellowed handkerchief from his rear pants pocket and mopped his forehead repeatedly.

“Damn it.  God Damn it,” said Grayson.

The message, from the modem attached to his computer in his empty office in the E-Ring of the Pentagon, was: IN USE.

0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: Silver Spring, Maryland

“Open up!  Federal agents!” said Smith, after knocking vigorously on the door to Apartment 303 in the quiet, three-story, red brick Blue Ridge Apartments on Sixteenth Street, Silver Spring, Maryland.

There was no response.

Smith turned to the superintendent.  “Do you have a key to this apartment?”

“Yes, Just don’t break down that door,” said the superintendent.

He opened the door to Grayson’s apartment.  As the door opened, the warm rancid air inside of Grayson’s apartment poured out.  The stench of unwashed clothes was overpowering — like an unclean gymnasium.  The apartment was completely dark, the shades to the windows pulled down and the windows locked shut, even on this hot, humid day.  The superintendent, glad that his chore was done, motioned the federal agents to enter.

“She’s all yours!” he said, as he stepped to the side of the door.

Smith was the first to enter the foul smelling-apartment.  As he entered he switched on the light.  The room was a tumble of dirty laundry and trash thrown about the room.  In the kitchenette, the source of the strongest odor could be seen, an uncooked chicken, left out on the stove in an advanced putrescent state.  Maggots crawled over the rotting flesh.  Smith swallowed hard not to gag at the stench.

Smith and his assistants then conducted a search of the small apartment.  It was obvious that Grayson had left in a hurry.  His IBM PS/2 was left on and he had made no effort to erase any of the files on the hard disk.  Floppy diskettes littered the table in the living room and software manuals were strewn about the tattered sofa and easy chair.

In one corner of the sofa was a pile of Hustler magazines, their pages limp from constant use.  On one wall was the foldout from the May 1993 copy of Playboy.  Strewn about the floor and on the furniture were pulp novels in paperback with titles like Madam Dominatrix, Whipping Boy, and High School Orgy.  Copies of Soldier of Fortune, PC World, and DC Comics littered the floor, along with dirty, worn white athletic socks.

Smith wandered into the equally fetid bedroom.  Grayson’s bedroom was messy and sparsely furnished.  The bed was a mattress on a bed spring.  The mattress was covered with a sheet yellowed with sweat stains.  On the floor next to the bed were several empty drinking glasses.  The residue of chocolate milk in the glasses had curdled and dried.  An empty jar of Bosco, a chocolate mix, lay on the floor, a teaspoon next to it.  There was no other furniture save for a straight back chair on which stood a small General Electric color television set, its antenna bent.  At the foot of the bed, Grayson had tossed his dirty underwear.

Smith opened the closet door and was amazed to find no clothing on hangers and little else on the shelf or the floor of the closet.  The closet was the cleanest room in the apartment.  A single red velvet cord hung from the clothes rod, terminating in a hangman’s noose.  Smith was curious about this odd assemblage.

“Hey, Tom,” said Smith to Tom Bateson, one of Smith’s assistants in CSAC security.  “What do you make of this?”

Bateson was a relatively young CSAC security agent, working for Smith.  A graduate of Yale University, Bateson had started his career as an analyst for the Central Intelligence Agency.  Six feet tall and muscular in build, the dark-haired, handsome bachelor was a popular member of the CSAC staff, especially with the young ladies.

He preferred Giorgio Armani suits and wild floral pattern neckties.  Bateson was also an aspiring novelist, having written for some literary magazines.  His dark hair was always on the long side, which was a continuing source of consternation to the much more conservative Smith.

Bateson came over and took one quick glance at the rope and the noose.  “Seems like your boy is into autoerotic asphyxia.”

“Autoerotic what?”

“Autoerotic asphyxia.  It’s a peculiar sexually deviant practice where the practitioner ties a noose around his neck, bends his knees to restrict the intake of air, and, huh, you know.”  He made a familiar gesture with his cupped hand.   “Allegedly, the suffocation brought on by the noose heightens the erotic sensation on climax.”

“What happens if the guy slips and falls or something like that?”

“That’s one of the hazards.  If that happens, he dies.”

“Wait a minute — how come you know so much about this?”

“Oh, I read a lot,” said Bateson, rubbing his neck nervously.  “Ah, by the way, Chief. Here’s something you might find interesting.”

“It’s just a telephone bill,” said Smith, taking the slip of paper held out by Bateson.

“But look at the numbers on the bill.”

“You’re right; it’s full of those pay-per-call 900 numbers.”

“Not just 900 numbers, but one 900 number: 588-5463.”

“Grayson must have called this number two or three times a night.”

“Not just that, but for twenty to thirty minutes each time, at a dollar fifty per minute, that’s thirty to forty dollars a pop.”

“What does this number do?” said Smith rhetorically.

“It’s called Luv Lines, a singles call in number,” Bateson said.

“How do you know that?” said Smith.  “Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.  Remind me to get your telephone bugged, Tom.”

Bateson winced.

Taking one last tour of the vacated apartment, Smith was impressed with the fact that so few personal things that one finds in someone’s home were evident in this apartment.  No pictures of relatives or friends, no letters, no bills other than the telephone bill, nothing.

Smith had developed a private theory that Grayson had a contact in CSAC.  After all, how could he have tapped into the most sensitive programs of the agency?  But the question was who?  All CSAC personnel underwent rigorous clearance procedures prior to being asked to join and were subjected to constant loyalty checks.  However, there were no clues anywhere in Grayson’s apartment to suggest how he had gained access to the top secret CSAC codes, enabling him to break into the computer files.  The raid had resulted in a dead end.  In a way, Smith was secretly glad that no CSAC staffers were implicated in this most heinous of crimes.

“What a poor, sick lonesome bastard,” he said to no one in particular.

1993: Closing In

0745 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: CSAC Headquarters, Newport News, Virginia

“Wait a minute, Herb,” said Mike Liu as they walked down the corridor of CSAC headquarters in Newport News.

Admiral Robert McHugh had asked that Mike and Herb fly down to Newport News to personally brief him on the unfolding events in Washington. 

What had struck Mike’s attention was a casual look at the office directory inside the secured area.  The listing, under the Linguistic Laboratory was: Corrine Ryan, Deputy Director.

“Herb, you go ahead.  Tell the Old Man I will be there in a few minutes.  There is something I have to check out.”

“Okay, Mike,” said Herb Adams as he continued down the corridor.

Within minutes, Mike stood outside the door marked, “Deputy Director - CSAC Linguistics Laboratory.”

Mike gently opened the door. 

Inside, the office was dark, only the light of the early morning, filtered by drawn shades shone into the office.  In the corner of the office, a woman worked at a computer terminal, the bluish color of the screen bathed the office in an eerie glow.  The tinny mechanical squawks of an electronic voice synthesizer spoke out the words and punctuation marks of the text that the woman was quickly typing into her computer. 

She was completely absorbed in her work and had not heard Mike enter.  The familiar, but faint, scent of Estee` Lauder perfume wafted toward Mike provoking many beautiful and tender memories. 

The woman’s honey blond hair hung well below her shoulders.  She was dressed in a white silk blouse.  Her desk obscured the rest of her attire. 

At the corner of her credenza, a slender white cane rested.

Mike’s heart rose in his throat.  “God,” he thought.  “How many years has it been?”

Suddenly, the woman stopped typing.  She turned toward the quiet visitor.  Her beautiful emerald green eyes also turned to the noise of the visitor, but they could not see.

“Mike, is that you?”

“Hello, Corrine.”  He could not move.

“I could always sense your presence,” said Corrine Ryan quietly in her soft, Virginian drawl.

The years had not changed the beautiful face of Corrine Ryan.  Her large eyes still glowed with an emerald fire, even as they could not see.  Her complexion was as clear and smooth as the day that Mike first saw her at age nineteen, so many years ago.  She had maintained her slim, athletic build and her soft, quiet presence.

“Corrine, I was surprised to see your name in the office directory.  I had to see you.  I hope you understand.” pled a subdued Mike Liu.

Memories flooded Mike’s thoughts of the beautiful young, junior student with honey blond hair and brilliant emerald green eyes; eyes that could not see, victims of a degenerative nerve disease early in her life.  The emerald eyes could not have been more aptly put in anyone than this child of Irish heritage.  Corrine was from Annapolis, Maryland, where her father was stationed in the Coast Guard at the time.

The long hours spent reading to one another; she from Braille texts.  They had spent many tender hours listening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Tchaikovsky’s “Pathetique”, Simon & Garfunkel, and Johnny Mathis.  The long walks around the Lawn and Grounds of the University when Corrine visited Mike.

Despite their race and cultural differences, companionship turned to love and love to commitment.  Then Mike graduated, was commissioned an Ensign, and was sent to Stanford for graduate study.  Corrine had a fellowship to study linguistics at Columbia University.   In the beginning, the letters often passed one another as they flew across the air, but then the separation had its consequences.  It was hard to maintain a romance across the continent.

Then, the day came that changed Mike Liu forever.  The letter began with an apology for not writing and closed with the news that theirs was not to be.

Corrine stayed on the East Coast and eventually married.  Mike later found out that she had divorced, but time and tears had closed that door forever, or so it seemed.

“How have you been, Mike?”  The soft words jolted Mike out of his reverie.  The flood of emotions lifted.

“I’ve thought about you often,” said Mike in a low quiet tone.

“And I, you,” answered Corrine.

“Corrine, I …” 

Mike was interrupted by the two Marine guards who knocked loudly on the door to Corrine’s office.

“Commander, the Admiral wants you in his office, now!” stated the Lance Corporal forcefully.

“I have to go.  Can I call you?”

“Please,” said Corrine Ryan as she turned back to her computer terminal. 

Mike did not see the tears form in Corrine’s emerald eyes, as the two burly Marines escorted him to Admiral Robert McHugh’s office.

0800 Hours: Tuesday, June 22, 1993: CSAC Headquarters, Newport News, Virginia

Mike entered Admiral McHugh’s office.  Adams was already there.

As Mike entered, McHugh came from behind his massive desk to meet him at the door.

“Sorry, Admiral.  There was someone I had to see,” apologized Mike Liu.

Softly and with unusual tenderness, his right hand on Mike’s shoulder, McHugh replied, “I couldn’t tell you Mike, she didn’t want you to know right away.  I hope you understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

His gruff demeanor re-emerged, the cigar stub returned to its familiar resting spot in the corner of his mouth.   He walked over to his dark oak desk and leaned against its front edge, his arms folded across his chest.

“What do you have?” said McHugh.

“Well,” said Mike.  “CSAC is under attack by agents of an unknown power, possibly renegade KGB, who have been under cover in the United States, sometimes for decades.  Whoever they are; they are well equipped both in weaponry and in training.  For example, we believe that one of their group was an ex-fighter pilot.  He was able to steal a Maryland Air National Guard A-10 even though he was ostensibly only a civilian security guard at the airport.  Also, they have apparently cracked our security and seem to have an uncanny knowledge of where our agents are at any time.”

“Can we verify this information?” said McHugh.

“I had one of my agents run a check on Pentagon communications networks,” said Adams.  “My agent discovered that one of the management information specialists, Ted Grayson, is very likely a mole for some foreign power.  He had an unusual degree of access into some very sensitive CSAC computer files.  We’re attempting to track him down now.”

Mike continued the report.  “We’re pretty certain that the attacks were coordinated by undercover agents in the United States who received travel information from Grayson.  The female agent who attacked Mildred, Julie Davenport, we now believe was under the control of an agent using the name of Tim Walsh, who posed as an auto mechanic in Minneapolis.  Another member of Walsh’s group may have been William Sorenson, who managed a bicycle repair shop in Minneapolis.  The interesting thing is that Sorenson tried to turn himself in as an undercover agent and, in the process, confessed to Winslow’s murder.  However, his story was so incredible that the Minneapolis detective thought he was a kook and let him go.  To be on the safe side, the detective filed an InfoNet and a DODNet report on Sorenson’s visit.  That’s how we discovered him.”