The Falstaff Enigma (6 page)

The sirens began as a distant echo and slowly built to a crescendo. A police car and an antiquated fire engine passed by Austin on their way to the ruins that had been an embassy only minutes before.

Austin was trying to get control of his own thoughts.
He had to set his immediate priorities. He decided that he did not need medical attention, at least not right now. What he needed was a safe haven, first and foremost. Secondly, he needed to get back to normalcy, and that meant getting back to the States. But he had a gut feeling that told him not to trust the Turkish police. He had decided long ago never to buck his instincts and a red flag kept waving in his mind. Then he remembered. The assassin with the rifle was dark haired, probably a Turk. Where was he now? Austin contented himself with the idea that the sniper and his colleagues most certainly would be on the run by now.

Austin had little time.
In a few minutes the entire area would be cordoned off and he would then have to place his faith in a police force with which he preferred to have no contact. He got back on his feet and peered into the street. He walked to the corner and looked back at the Embassy. The Turkish authorities were in a state of disarray as they frantically battled a small fire that had broken out. In the distance Austin could hear the sound of an army of reinforcements who would soon block all avenues of escape. The timing was right. He turned and walked quickly away from the chaotic scene. The pain in his leg grew with each step, but the blood was clotting and he was grateful for that much. As each police vehicle passed by, Austin simply ducked into the nearest doorway.

After six blocks
, the pain in Austin's leg was intense. He felt that he was far enough away to look for a phone. He had to get in touch with the man who would now be his savior. Finding a phone was easy; he simply walked into the nearest apartment building. On the ground floor was a phone that would have been the communal phone in any lesser neighborhood. It was perfect; the building appeared deserted. Austin pulled out his wallet and found the business card that had suddenly taken on a profound importance. He had memorized the number on the flight over but was now having a hard time even remembering his social security number. He took a pen from his breast pocket and wrote his number above the phone number printed on the card. He added the two sets of figures together. It took him three tries to get it right. As he lifted the phone to his ear he realized that his hand was quivering.

The relative calm he had enjoyed only moments before was giving
way to a nervousness he had not felt since his first date in high school. There was only one ring before the call became a two-way communication. Austin waited for a response.

“Hello?” The voice was Austin’
s. Again, he waited. “Hello? This is … this is …”
I can’t remember.
The simple code word had completely left his memory.

"Harbinger
,” came a reply. The voice was deep, American and in control. But Austin could pick up a touch of excitement in the voice. The single word was a little too rushed.

"Yes,
" Austin replied. He felt like a fool, but there was no time to explain away his mistake. "Do you know what's happened?"

"Yes.
Now please listen closely. I am going to ask you a series of questions and I want you to reply in as concise a manner as possible. By no means should you reveal anything beyond what I ask you. Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Can you walk?"

"Yes, but I ..."

“A simple yes or no is sufficient.” The man’s voice had an authority that Austin rarely heard outside of the centers of power. “Were you present for the fireworks?”

“Yes.”

"Are you in the same condition as Crusoe?"

"Excuse me?"

"Think! I'm asking you a definite question. Are you in Crusoe's condition?"

Austin thought
.
Of course – Robinson Crusoe
. The field agent was asking if Austin was alone. "Yes, I am."

"Good."
There was a brief pause. "Okay, I know where you are. Now when we are through I want you to go out of the building to the nearest corner away from where you just came from. Then turn and walk in the same direction you would if you were at Water Tower Place and wanted to go to O’Hare. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Now take the number of times the U. of C. football team has won the Orange Bowl and add four. Do you have the number in your mind?"

"Yes."

“Walk that number of blocks and find a place to hide yourself. I will be there as soon as possible. When I arrive I will get out and yell the name of a famous economist. Don’t show yourself until you hear that name. Is everything clear?”

“Yes, quite clear.”

“Now hang up and go.” Both men hung up the phone.

Austin turned to head out the door.
He walked to the nearest street corner, turned west, walked four blocks and descended into a stairwell leading to an underground apartment.

In just fifteen minutes
, the field agent pulled up to the opposite corner and got out of his car. "Mr. Tobin, are you ready?" came the call at a volume above conversation, yet less than a shout.

Austin had no trouble recognizing the name of the Yale economist who had been his teacher for a course in advanced macroeconomic theory.
He peered above the stairwell, finding it amusing to have an ant's eye view. The field agent was not looking around; he appeared to be waiting for a friend. Austin guessed that the man was a little more than six feet tall. He was young, in his early thirties, and in good physical shape. But Austin judged the man's age by his body, not his face. The face seemed to belong to a man in his forties. It revealed years of stress and years of experience. Austin felt his first sense of security since the explosion that had altered his life beyond anything he could imagine. He walked out of the stairwell and approached the agent's car as if meeting an old friend. In the street, dozens of people were walking with purpose and intent – some heading toward the destroyed embassy and some desperate to get as far away as possible. Looking skyward, Austin could see that a large smoke plume billowed upward and beyond his line of sight, turning the blue sky into a powdery grey.

The agent turned to Austin.
He was impressed and quite surprised to see the proud stride of a man he half expected to see crawling on his hands and knees. The agent took Austin's cue. He walked around to the passenger side and offered his hand. "Mr. Tobin, what a pleasure to see you again." The man's grasp was firm.

Austin smiled
. It was not out of any joy but was a suppressed laugh. He could picture himself walking into a large lecture hall full of eager freshmen waiting to gain the wisdom of a Nobel laureate. But instead of the real James Tobin, comes one Robert Austin wearing a tattered suit inundated with dirt and speckled with dried blood. All rise to salute the great pretender.

"Let's get out of here.
Please." They were the only words Austin could bring to an audible level.

They drove for five minutes b
efore any words were exchanged. The agent spoke first. "My name is John Kemp. As you know, I am a field officer for the Company. My job right now is to get you back home in one piece. Are you hurt?"

“I need to get cleaned up. I might need some stitches. But nothing broken.”

“I will get you medical care.” Kemp did not try to force a conversation.

After a minute Austin spoke.
"How much do you know about what just happened?"

"Not very
much. You were the victim of a terrorist attack. As far as I know, you are the only survivor." There was a brief pause as Kemp turned a corner and then added as an afterthought, "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Austin turned his head and looked at the agent for the first time up close.
His initial impression was right. Kemp was young, but his face simply did not belong with the body. The face was taut, yet dominated by creases. They weren't the creases that came from temporary stress; they were permanent; they were ingrained. His hair was dark brown. It would have been a youthful color if not for the streaks of gray that peppered the sides. Above all, the face was that of a confident man. Austin recalled Bob Oberheim's words at Langley: "The man you will be talking to is a top CIA field officer." Austin realized that the deputy director's words had been true and now Austin made an important decision. He was going to trust this Mr. Kemp because he had a hundred questions and nowhere to start. "Be sure to go to some place that is not bugged." The sentence came as a command. "We have much to discuss and far more to learn." Austin instantly gained the respect of one John Kemp.

A few minutes later Kemp turned the automobile i
nto a small underground garage. The building was an old apartment dwelling. In an American city it would be a target for revitalization. In Ankara it was simply middle class. Kemp parked the car, walked around to the trunk and pulled out two suitcases as Austin stepped out. Kemp spoke as he closed the trunk, "Please lock your door.” Austin complied without words. The sight of the suitcases reminded him that he was without possessions except for the wallet in his back pocket and the filthy clothes on his back. Austin instinctively reached back and patted his rear. He was relieved to find his wallet firmly in place. It was a much needed touch of normalcy.

Kemp pushed the door open.
The apartment was on the third floor of this four-story building. Austin found it difficult to breathe as he walked in. Obviously the apartment had been closed to the outside world for some time. Kemp flipped a switch and a single light bulb came on in the middle of the room. The light seemed far weaker than its intended output.

The room was rather small and very
Spartan. It appeared that it was designed as a dining room/kitchen. The kitchen consisted of a sink, a gas stove and a small refrigerator stuck in one corner. The dining room comprised the remainder of the room. It held a wooden table – antique in terms of age but not in terms of beauty – and several metal chairs. In one corner was a folded cot with a sleeping bag under it. The room had a single window which looked out on a back alley only eight feet wide. Austin was struck by the ugliness of the building across the way. In the back was a bedroom just big enough to fit the single bed and dresser it contained. One part of the bedroom was actually the bathroom. In the corner was a miniature shower stall. The opposite corner had a toilet and the void in between was filled with a sink. Austin thought that this could be a place where captured enemy agents were interrogated.

Kemp left one suitcase in the first room and took the other into the bedroom.
"This place is definitely a dump but it's clean. It's not kept by the Company; in fact, they don't even know about it. I keep it for just such an occasion as this. I'm sure the KGB has no knowledge of it." Austin suddenly realized that when Kemp said "clean" he was not referring to the lack of dirt, for indeed the apartment was filthy; he was referring to the degree of confidentiality they now enjoyed. Austin hoped Kemp was right in his convictions. "Please take your clothes off and have a seat.” Kemp pulled out one of the cheap metal frame chairs from underneath the dining table. Austin began removing what was left of his suit, which he had purchased while on a weekend trip to New York only a month earlier. Kemp walked over to the kitchen cabinets and found a medical kit the size of a small suitcase that he brought over to the table. Austin, now in his underwear, sat down.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”
asked the now anxious analyst.

“I have done this
more times than I can remember. The Company provides these medical cases. They are really quite good.” Kemp spent the next ten minutes cleaning wounds on Austin’s body. Only the laceration on his thigh needed stitches. Kemp had the analyst lie on his stomach on the wooden table. After cleaning the wound, he made two injections of lidocaine above and below the cut. After only a few minutes, the area was numb and John Kemp placed four stitches that closed the wound. They were not pretty and Austin would have a life-long scar to remind him, but the wound was properly closed. Very few words were exchanged between the men.

“
Now you need a shower. Then try the bed. It's the single greatest asset in this place," Kemp said.

"Yes, I think I need to lie down for a while."
Austin stood and walked to the kitchen sink. He washed his face using his cupped hands. He then turned and walked straight to the bed. Sleep came easily. The emotional exhaustion was complete.

Kemp
put the medical case away. He made a mental list of what was needed, grabbed his car keys and left. He would spend the next two hours buying clothing and food. He decided to stay incommunicado with his handlers until he had fully debriefed Robert Austin. He knew that teams of men would be headed to Ankara. All was in disarray. The man he usually reported to was almost certainly dead in the ruins of the U.S. Embassy building.

The door's lock clicked open.
The sound penetrated the veils of sleep that clouded Austin's mind. Consciousness came quickly and panic followed on its heels. Austin bolted from the bed and found himself searching for a weapon. Desperation grew as his hands felt their way quickly around the darkened room. He could find nothing with which to strike out. Worse yet, he could not find a reason for his actions, they simply came involuntarily.