The Fugitive's Trail (24 page)

Springfield, MO

“You don’t remember him?” Kruger said sarcastically. “Really?”

“No, I don’t remember him,” Joseph’s irritation grew as Kruger continued his rant.

“How can you not remember someone you described as, and I quote, ‘Narcissistic and dangerous’? Please explain.”

“It’s simple, I don’t remember him. Do you remember everyone you dealt with thirty or more years ago?”

Kruger shook his head. “No.”

“I didn’t think so. I was the managing case officer for every sleeper agent we turned during those years. There were a dozen of us on the team. We were trying to locate them and turn them. A lot of them were under so much stress it caused them to flip out when we confronted them. I only remember the ones we had to institutionalize, or the ones we had to retire.”

JR sat on a kitchen barstool as Kruger and Joseph argued. He frowned and said loudly, “
Enough
, he’s here now. What’s our next step?”

They both looked at JR. Joseph blinked several times. “You’re right, arguing won’t help.”

“By the way, how did Mary get her hands on his file?” said Kruger.

Joseph shrugged. “Mary can be very resourceful.”

“She may be, but those files are top secret. How would she know where to find them?”

Joseph was quiet as he stared at a point on the kitchen floor. After a few moments, he smiled. “That’s about the time I met Mary. She—uh—she and I worked together for awhile during those years.”

JR and Kruger watched Joseph as he remained quiet, still staring at a spot on the floor. Joseph sighed. “They were all alike. Arrogant, self-absorbed, well trained, intelligent, and most of all adaptive. They might have looked different, but the Soviets picked only the ones with similar personalities.” He raised his head. His eyes focused. “All of this is the past. We have to deal with Kozlov in the present. The fact is all of the individuals the Soviets sent over were highly resourceful and capable of brutal behavior. He will be dangerous.”

Kruger remained silent. Finally he said, “I agree. I’m going to assume he’s contacted Weber with Crigler’s cell phone. If he has, they’ve either teamed up or Plymel’s extracted the information he needed and killed him.”

“Regardless, we have to assume he knows about JR. Mia’s safe at the hospital. Sandy will need to pull a couple of guys to monitor this apartment.”

JR slapped the kitchen table. He shook his head and said loudly, “
No
! Dammit, this is my fight. I’m responsible for Mia being in the hospital. I’m responsible for Kozlov being here, and I need to take care of this myself. I’m not helpless.”

Kruger smiled. “Nobody said you were helpless. This guy’s dangerous. I don’t want to take any chances.”

JR stood. “I don’t want to take chances either. But, his training was over thirty years ago. He may still be dangerous, but at one time so was I.”

***

The black Ford Explorer exited Highway 65 at the Sunshine Street exit. The light at the intersection was green, so Weber drove under the highway without having to stop. His plan to get out of the SUV without getting shot would need perfect timing. Now moving west into the central section of town, the street he was looking for would be on his right.

“I’m going to show you where he lives and then I’m going to park and walk away.” They passed a large hospital at the intersection of National Avenue and Sunshine. Weber’s destination was two blocks west. Turning right onto Hampton Ave, he accelerated. The first street to the north was University and on the northwest corner of the intersection was a utility pole with a large tree ten feet behind it.

Weber kept his foot on the accelerator as they approached the intersection. From the back seat, Kozlov said, “Slow down, you idiot.”

As the Ford entered the intersection, Weber turned the steering wheel hard to the left and hit the brakes. The result was a high-speed skid into the utility pole with the impact on the passenger-side rear door, exactly where Kozlov was sitting. The resulting crash jarred the Ruger out of Kozlov’s hand, and his head impacted the C pillar of the SUV. Weber quickly unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and ran southeast into the neighborhood.

Kozlov recovered quickly, determined he wasn’t hurt, searched for and found the pistol. He secured it in his belt and exited the vehicle on the undamaged side. Residents of the neighborhood were now looking out their windows and doors to see what all the noise was about.

Kozlov glanced around searching for Weber, but he had disappeared into the densely populated neighborhood. Attention to the crashed SUV from surrounding neighbors was increasing. Without thinking, Kozlov ran north on Hampton Street away from the accident.

Weber ran east and then north, cutting through the yard of a house with a for-sale sign in front. He stopped in the back yard, peered into a window, and saw the house was empty. The back yard was heavily landscaped, and the view from the house behind was obscured by dense bushes and trees. Sitting down on the back porch, he pulled Mia’s cell phone from his pocket and turned it on. Checking the recent call listings, he selected a number and hit the send button.

***

JR’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. “Got a call coming in from Weber.” Both Kruger and Joseph stopped their conversation as JR accepted the call. “Yes.”

“Congratulations. You outsmarted me in the woods. Well played.”

“What do you want, Weber?”

“Tell your FBI friend I have some information for him.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s right here.”

JR handed the phone to Kruger. “This is Agent Kruger.” Kruger pointed to JR’s laptop and mouthed, “Find him” as he listened.

“Agent, you might be interested in a car accident that just occurred on the corner of Hampton and University. A person of interest was in the rear passenger seat. He may be injured.”

“Who’s the person…” But the call had ended. He looked at JR. “Any luck?”

JR shook his head. “Didn’t have time. What did he say?”

Kruger walked toward the door. “He told me there was a car accident and someone was injured. I assume he meant Kozlov. I’ll call you when I know more. How do I get to Hampton and University?”

As soon as the Mustang was out of the parking lot, Kruger flipped the switch that activated the car’s siren and flashing headlights. Eight minutes later, he turned left off of Kimbrough Street onto University. Four blocks ahead, he saw flashing lights from two fire trucks, three police cars, and an ambulance.

He pulled in behind one of the police cars, got out, and clipped his badge to his belt. Opening the Mustang’s trunk, he retrieved his FBI windbreaker, slipped it on, and walked toward a police officer talking to several elderly women. Over the police officer’s right shoulder, he saw a black Ford Explorer smashed against a leaning utility pole.

As he walked closer, the police officer looked up and said to the women, “Excuse me ladies.” To Kruger he said, “Who are you?”

Kruger showed his ID and noticed the officer’s name badge. “Officer Bradford. I’m Agent Sean Kruger, FBI. Where are the passengers?”

“FBI? Why’s the FBI interested in a car accident?”

“Officer Bradford, just answer my question. Where are the passengers?”

“Not until you tell me why the FBI is interested.”

“I have information that a fugitive may have been in the SUV. Now once again, where are the passengers?” Kruger stared intently into the young officer’s eyes.

The policeman stared back at Kruger and shook his head. “No one saw the driver leave the scene. But several witnesses saw a man get out of the back seat, look around, and start running in that direction.” Bradford pointed north. “They describe him as being somewhere between five foot six and five foot ten, bald, clean shaven, and wearing a dark suit with no tie. One lady said she saw blood on his forehead, and we have a few drops on the back seat. Do you know who this guy is?”

Kruger nodded. “Yes, his name is Alexei Kozlov. He’s wanted for a double murder in New York City. He’s armed and extremely dangerous. My suggestion would be to lock this neighborhood down and get the word out immediately. If someone tries to stop him without backup, you’ll lose a fellow officer.”

Officer Bradford stared at Kruger without saying a word. He blinked several times then stepped away and started talking into his shoulder microphone. Kruger walked closer to the wrecked vehicle and peered inside. He noticed a smear of blood on the damaged side of the vehicle and drops extending across the seat. He turned to Officer Bradford, who had finished talking to his dispatcher. “Do you have a crime lab here in town?”

Bradford nodded.

“Seal the vehicle and get someone to get samples of the blood. I have access to information that will help you confirm his identity.”

Nodding again, Bradford said, “Are you taking over the scene, agent?”

Kruger smiled. “No officer, this is your crime scene. I’m just here to offer assistance, if needed.”

The policeman gave Kruger a slight grin. “My chief will appreciate that. Excuse me while I get the lab headed this way.”

Kruger walked back to his car, retrieved his cell phone, and called Alvarez to get the information sent to the local lab.

After the call, Kruger stared at the Ford Explorer and then glanced up and down the neighborhood. It would be dark in less than an hour. Kozlov would be looking for somewhere to hide for the night. He shook his head. Someone was going to get hurt.

***

The large spruce was located on the southwest corner of the house where Alexei Kozlov now stood. The home was two houses west of the accident site. After running north, he had doubled back to determine who might be in Springfield looking for him. His efforts were rewarded as he watched FBI agent Sean Kruger talk on a cell phone. Smiling, he pulled the Ruger out of his waistband, leaned against the corner of the house, and aimed at the FBI agent. He judged the distance to his target at two hundred feet or more. The little Ruger would be completely ineffective at this range. He lowered the gun, put it back in his waistband, and relaxed. There would be another time and place for putting a bullet into Kruger.

The sun was low on the western horizon, and due to all the mature trees in the neighborhood, light was fading quickly. Kozlov checked the time on Crigler’s cell phone; he only had a few more minutes before it would be dark enough to leave his hiding place. He needed to find a house to stay in for the night. Locating the hacker would be tomorrow’s business.

As twilight descended on the neighborhood, he turned back to the north and started walking. Five blocks later, the sound of sirens could be heard in all directions. Kozlov stood, still listening. The search for him would only intensify as it got darker. Soon, they would be going house by house. After checking several homes, he picked a small bungalow, two houses west of the intersection of Kings Avenue and Kingsbury Street. Curtains were drawn across the front room picture window, but Kozlov could see the glow of a lamp behind the curtain. He walked to the door and pushed the doorbell. The door was opened twenty seconds later by an elderly woman. Her eyes grew wide as he pushed the door open wider and pointed the Ruger directly at her head.

“Don’t say a word and you won’t get hurt.”

She backed into the room as Kozlov followed. The woman opened her mouth to scream just as he shot her in the forehead, point-blank. She collapsed onto the living room floor, which made more noise than the sound of the suppressed Ruger.

A voice from further back in the house said, “Who is it, Cindy?”

Kozlov followed the sound of the voice and found a wheelchair-bound man watching television in a back bedroom. As Kozlov walked through the bedroom door, the man turned to say something and was shot in the temple. His now limp body slumped forward and tumbled to the floor out of the wheelchair.

Kozlov walked over to the television and turned it off. The house was quiet. In the distance, more sirens could be heard converging on the neighborhood.

Springfield, MO

The restaurant was located at the corner of National and Bennett, less than a mile from the accident site. Four police cars, their light bars flashing, were in the parking lot. Each of the restaurant’s two exits had a uniformed officer standing watch, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. Kruger was escorted into the building through the front door. As he entered, he saw Adam Weber sitting in a corner booth drinking a glass of ice tea. The place smelled of onions and cumin. A tall police officer with sergeant’s stripes stood five feet away. Kruger walked over to the booth and sat down. Weber said, “Want some ice tea? It’s really good.”

Kruger stared at Weber. “Where’s Plymel?”

Weber shrugged. “No idea. I slid the Explorer into the pole and bailed out. I didn’t even look to see if he was hurt. I just ran.” A crooked grin appeared. “You might want to know he’s going by the name Alexei Kozlov now.”

Kruger nodded. “Yes, we already knew that.” He paused for a few moments, then leaned slightly forward. “You almost killed the girl.”

Again Weber shrugged. “If I’d known Crigler was dead, I might have played it different. But I didn’t know. My job was to kill Diminski.” He sat back in the seat and smiled. “The only way I could get him away from his babysitters was the girl. You understand, Agent Kruger, don’t you? I couldn’t have witnesses.”

Kruger was silent for a few moments. “You told the police you had information for me. What is it?”

“When I heard all the sirens, I figured they’d find me eventually, so I walked in here, ordered an ice tea, and a couple of tacos. Then I just waited. After a while, I thought I was home free until a couple of cops came in and asked what car I was driving. I told them to call you.” He smiled. “I had information you need.”

Kruger started to stand. “I don’t have time for this.” He glanced toward the uniformed policeman. “Sergeant, get this man out of here.”

Weber’s eyes grew wide. He looked at the police officer and then back at Kruger. “Wait.”

Kruger turned back toward Weber. “What?”

“My information is critical. Let’s deal.”

Kruger chuckled, “I don’t think you understand the situation, Weber. We have evidence you killed Sharon Crawford. DNA evidence—fairly ironclad, in my opinion. That’s enough to put you away for life. Then we have the attempted murder of Mia Ling. You really don’t have a lot of bargaining chips.”

Weber stared at Kruger. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, but he kept his expression blank. Finally he shrugged. “He’s got a suppressed Ruger .22 with subsonic hollow points. He also has a serious chip on his shoulder for Diminski.” He nodded in Kruger’s direction. “And for you. Lucky for me he babbled all way from Branson. It gave me time to figure out my escape plan. If you ask me, the guy’s over the top. He’s crazy.”

“Where did he get the twenty-two?”

“He said he paid a guy two-thousand dollars for it. Some pawnshop here in Springfield.”

Kruger looked up at the officer, who frowned and walked out of the building. Another officer came in immediately and took his place.

“Okay, so he’s got a gun?

“He knows where Diminski lives.”

Kruger was silent and just stared at Weber.

“I needed a bargaining chip to keep him from shooting me. He’s going to outwait this manhunt, show up at Diminski’s and shoot him. He doesn’t care about the money anymore. It’s all about revenge. I told you he’s crazy.”

Kruger stood up and turned toward the door but stopped and turned back around. “You don’t know how crazy.” He walked through the exit door, turned to several of the cops getting ready to go in. “Throw his ass into the dirtiest cell you have.” They all smiled as they entered the building.

***

Kozlov dragged the bodies of the elderly couple to the garage of the small home and placed them in a ten-year-old Honda Accord. To his dismay, the couple only had one car. But he needed them out of the house and sealed away. He now had an extra day or so before the stench of decomposition forced him to abandon the house. Searching the bedroom where he’d shot the old man, he found what he had expected. Two shotguns, an AR-15 and two S&W 1911s. One was a forty-five caliber and the other a nine-millimeter. Kozlov smiled, the NRA decal on the front door had not lied; the old man liked his guns.

The refrigerator was neat and full of juices, vegetables, fruits, and beer. The freezer was half full and there were plenty of canned goods in the pantry. If no one tried to contact the couple in the next few days, he would be able to stay here, eat, and hide while the door-to-door search was conducted. A black leather recliner was in the front bedroom. He moved it so he could see out, but no one looking in could see him. He turned out the lights, held the Ruger in his left hand, and waited.              

The first visit came at 11:00 p.m. Two police officers were going door to door, with two other officers in a patrol car on the street backing them up. The doorbell rang three times and they knocked twice. After several minutes, one of the officers wrote something in a notebook and both walked to the next house. A half-hour later, a patrol car drove by slowly with its search light moving across the houses in the neighborhood. As it shined on the window he was behind, it paused briefly but then moved on. At 3:15 a.m., he heard voices and watched four men dressed in desert combat uniforms walk down the street. Each was armed with an M-16, held at ready.

Kozlov frowned. The National Guard complicated his situation. Somewhere around five in the morning, fatigue took him and he dosed in the recliner. The sound of a key in the front door and it opening woke him from his restless sleep. Slightly confused, he quickly regained awareness of his situation when he heard a female voice call out, “Cindy, it’s Brenda. Are you two okay? Lot’s happening in your neighborhood this morning.”

He glanced at the digital clock next to the bed and saw it was five minutes after eight. Standing, he quietly walked to the bedroom door as the woman walked past. She was dressed in blue scrubs and headed toward the back bedroom. She opened the bedroom door. “Hey guys, where are you?”

Kozlov walked up behind her, pointed the Ruger at the back of her head, and pulled the trigger.

***

Kruger parked the Mustang behind an unmarked police car and got out. Joseph exited the vehicle on the other side, both of their faces grim. They ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and showed their IDs. Joseph produced an ID from the CIA, which Kruger frowned at but didn’t question. They were escorted into the residence as crime-scene investigators scurried from one room to the other. A plainclothes detective walked up to them, offered his hand, and introduced himself. “I’m Lieutenant Dick Childress. I was told you two were coming.”

“Sean Kruger, FBI,” he said, shaking his hand. “This is Charlie Rose, CIA.”

Detective Childress stared at Joseph. “I didn’t think the CIA could operate inside the US.”

Before Joseph could comment, Kruger said, “Mr. Rose is here as an advisor. He’s dealt with the suspect before and has certain insights.” Joseph smiled and Kruger continued, “Can you tell us what happened?”

Childress nodded and started walking toward hall. He said, “Early this morning the Brewers’ nurse arrived for her weekly visit.” He pointed to a body lying in the doorway of a bedroom in the back of the house. “My guess is she never knew what happened. She was shot from behind with what looks like a twenty-two.”

Walking back up the hall toward the front of the house, Childress opened the door to another bedroom and pointed at a recliner next to the window. “We think he sat in the chair and watched the police go door to door last night. If the nurse went straight to the back bedroom, she probably didn’t realize he was here.”

Kruger nodded. “Where are the Brewers?”

Childress frowned and motioned for them to follow him. He opened the door to the garage and pointed at the car. Several men dressed in white lab suits were preparing to extract two bodies. Kruger breathed through his mouth; the stench of death overpowering in the small garage. He looked at Joseph, who just stood there, breathing normally.

Childress said, “Cindy Brewer was shot in the forehead from close range, powder burns next to the bullet’s entrance. We found stains on the front room carpet; she was probably shot as she opened the front door. Her husband was shot in the back bedroom. We think he was turning toward the door when he was shot by the intruder.”

Joseph said, “How long was Kozlov here?”

“The ME puts the time of death at about an hour to an hour and a half after the accident on University. He was here overnight. The nurse wasn’t scheduled to be here until eight this morning. Her car’s missing.”

Kruger turned and walked back to the living room. He looked around the room, took a deep breath, and said to Childress, “Please tell me Mr. Brewer didn’t own any guns.”

Childress’s lips pressed together and he looked toward the bedroom. “Wish I could. Mr. Brewer registered two shotguns: two AR fifteens and two nineteen elevens. We found the shotguns. The others are missing and we have no idea how much ammunition was taken.”

Kruger nodded. “Walk with us, lieutenant.” They walked out of the house and into the tree-shaded yard. Kruger turned to Childress. “Do you want me to bring in the bureau on this?”

Childress stared at Kruger, nodded. “The chief of police called me just before you arrived. He would prefer a joint task force, if possible.”

Kruger smiled. “The SAC in Kansas City is an old friend of mine. He’s a good man and won’t step on anybody’s toes. Tell your chief you’ll get help.”

The radio attached to Childress’s belt came to life as a female voice said, “Multiple shots fired at five one six south Jefferson. Code three. SWAT has been alerted.”

Childress grabbed his radio. “Repeat address.” The dispatcher repeated it. “Damn, this town’s going crazy. I’ll talk to you two later.” He walked off and started pulling officers aside and sending them to their patrol cars.

Joseph grabbed Kruger by the arm and pulled him toward the Mustang. As they walked, he said, “Five one six south Jefferson is JR’s address.”

Kruger looked at Joseph, his eyebrows raised in understanding. They both started running toward the Mustang.

***

Kozlov stood behind a multicar garage thirty yards southeast of the parking-lot entrance to JR’s apartment. He was dressed in scuffed work boots, baggy khaki Dockers, an old plaid shirt, a faded brown boonie hat, and large sunglasses from the old man’s closet. The boots were a little big, but that didn’t matter. He wore the shirt outside the pants, which hid the S&W 1911 tucked inside his pants next to his back. The suppressed Ruger was in his right front pocket.

A large man with tightly cropped hair stood by the door to the apartment building making no pretense he was anything but a guard. His camouflaged desert BDU dress was devoid of rank and unit insignias, but the holstered Beretta M9 on his right hip told the story.

Kozlov emerged from behind the garage and started shuffling slowly through the parking lot. His head was down and he was muttering.

Sandy Knoll stood in JR’s apartment watching the parking lot. When he saw the man emerge from behind the garage, instinct told him something wasn’t right. The clothes were too baggy and looked recently laundered. Plus, the man’s stride had purpose, not the aimless easy shuffle of a man with nowhere to go. He decided to go downstairs and watch closer from the door leading to the parking lot.

He hurried down the stairs two at a time until he was on the ground floor. When he got to the door, the man was just passing Mike. Suddenly the old man straightened, pulled a small pistol from his pocket, and fired in Mike’s direction. Knoll pulled his Beretta as he charged out the door.