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Sunday, December 30th, 2012 | Uncategorized

A”Chris Johnson, Anglican Investigator” blast from the past

Part One

Part Two – The following takes place between 1:00 AM and 7:00 AM

1:00 AM – I turned down Marshall Avenue and drove Nicky’s Escalade toward Kirkwood. Amy researched the NSA files on her laptop. “Anything?” I asked her.

“Nothing useful,” she replied. “The names, the Social Security numbers and the lives of the guys who worked in that warehouse are all fake.”

“Does Stilton check out?” asked Dale.

“Perfectly. Found his place of birth, the names of his parents and a JPEG of his birth certificate. And I cross-checked everything. But he’s the only one who’s legit.”

We got to the Kirkwood waterfront and I parked the car. “What are we looking for?” Amy asked me.

“That,” I said, pointing to a boat.

The recently-launched ForNow II laid at anchor, gleaming under the lights. The original ForNow, that legendary Meramecker and the victor over the Daniel Muller in the most celebrated Mississippi Valley boat race since the Natchez versus the Robert E. Lee, had gone down a little over a year ago under mysterious circumstances.

When the news broke, people on both sides of the Mississippi were devastated, official periods of mourning were proclaimed in both Missouri and Illinois and schools and many businesses on both sides of the river closed. U2, Bob Dylan and Gordon Lightfoot all wrote songs about it; Lightfoot’s “The Wreck of the ForNow” was far and away the most popular of the three.

“So,” said Amy, pointing to the Jolly Roger flying from the ForNow II’s mast. “That pirate flag is some kind of joke, right?”

“No, not really,” said Dale.

We walked into a waterfront dive. Thick smoke obscured almost everybody. There was a good deal of talking but like every seedy bar I’d ever spent time in, most of the regulars drank like it was their job. The hard-bitten, defeated men in the bar eyed Amy a lot more intently than she was comfortable with so she grabbed Price’s arm and held on hard.

Dale and I ordered bourbons, Amy ordered a beer and the three of us made our way to a corner booth where Captain Edward Romanowski regarded us with his usual bemused suspicion.

“Ed the Roman!” Dale called out with a grin. “The Caymans agree with you, Captain.” Ed had spent the building of the ForNow II at his estate in the Cayman Islands.

“Mr. Price. This is a pleasant surprise. And Mr. Johnson. This must be important.” Then the Captain noticed Welborn and stood up. “Particularly if you bring someone that stunning into this disgusting establishment. Captain Edward Romanowski, at your service, madam,” Ed said, extending his hand.

“Amy Welborn,” she replied evenly, extending hers. Ed the Roman gently kissed the back of her hand and sat back down. “Now then, terrifyingly ugly gentlemen and overpoweringly beautiful lady,” Ed asked. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“We’d like to know if you’ve done a particular bit of business lately,” said Dale.

“Who’s we?”

2:00 AM – “The three of us sitting here. And Dr. Franklin’s also keenly interested,” I said, taking out a $100 bill and placing it on the table in front of me. I took out the pictures of the three warehouse workers, placed them in front of the Captain and slid the $100 bill across the table. “Did you ship anything for these three gentlemen?”

“As a matter of fact I did, a week or so ago. A very large shipment it was, too.”

“What was it?”

“Don’t know. One hundred 55-gallon drums of something.”

“You didn’t ask?” demanded Welborn.

“Nobody ever asks questions on the Meramec River,” Dale told her, sipping his bourbon. “Did you get their names?”

“Of course,” said the Captain. “But they were fraudulent.”

“Where’d you take it?” I asked.

“Valley Park. One of them had a letter saying to deliver it to a man named Thomas Ilchester.”

Dale and I glanced at each other. “Did you see this Ilchester?” Price asked.

“Briefly.”

“It wouldn’t by any chance be him, would it?” I asked, taking out a photo of William Stilton and sliding it across the table.

“Don’t know. It was a bit dark.” I slid across another hundred. “Now that you mention it, I do recall getting a look at him under a light and that would definitely be the man.”

“Thanks, Captain,” I told him. “We’ve got all we need.”

“Mind if I ask you a question?” Ed asked as an underling brought over a fresh martini. “Is this another Episcopal case?”

“Partially,” I told him. “We think there’s another group involved.”

“Who?”

“The Jesuits.”

It was as if a cold wind suddenly blew through the bar. All talking stopped, all eyes were on us and every single one of these tough, hard men suddenly looked very, very frightened. I thought I heard one of them whisper, “Momma?”

But Ed the Roman didn’t get where he was by being easily thrown. His face expressionless, he made a “calm down” motion to the rest of the bar, sipped his drink, stared into it for several seconds, looked up at me and quietly asked, “How can I help?”

“Have your people keep their eyes open,” I said as Dale and I gave him our cards. “If you see or hear of anything funny, let me or Dale know.”

“Will do. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Captain,” said Dale. “You too.”

3:00 AM – We walked out to the parking lot and got into the car. “You actually trust that guy?!” Amy asked me, dumbfounded.

“With my son’s life,” I said. “Ed the Roman is a lot of things, some of them not as above-board as I might prefer, but Ed the Roman is an orthodox Roman Catholic and a sworn enemy of all forms of liberal Christianity. And Ed the Roman means what he says.”

As we drove back up Marshall Avenue, Amy opened up her laptop. “I’m running those pictures through LARD. I’ll check back in an hour or so.”

“LARD?” asked Price.

“The Liberals Affiliated with Religion Database,” Welborn replied, mildly irritated. “Try to stay current, will you? That gumshoe crap is so last century.”

Dale looked out the window. “Ilchester. Do you think we’re being played?”

“Doubtful,” I responded. “They had that letter a week ago before they could possibly have known we were on this case. Maybe it’s a signal for them.”

“So,” said Welborn. “They moved the stuff to another warehouse up river and waited until the heat was off?”

“That’s how I read it,” I said.

“Any point in chasing down this second warehouse?”

“No. The stuff’s probably in place already.”

I had just turned east on Big Bend Boulevard. “Chris?” Dale casually asked. “You do see that F-3 fitty with its headlights turned off bearing down on us at REALLY high speed, don’t you?”

“Uh huh,” I just as casually replied. “Hang on. And damn, do I wish you were driving.”

As the truck was almost on us, I turned the steering wheel sharply to the left, praying that I didn’t roll the Escalade. Frantically steering, I got us turned completely around so that we were now motorvatin’ west on Big Bend. I floored it until we got to the Interstate 44 on-ramp.

We sped east on I-44. “Anybody?” I asked Dale.

“We’re clear,” he said. “But we’ve got to get off the road.”

“Any ideas? They’re probably watching my old office.”

“Since the Jesuits are involved in this, a hotel would be a huge risk,” said Amy. “How about a park or something until we figure things out?”

“Excellent idea,” I said.

4:00 AM – I got off the highway at Elm and we drove through Webster Groves until we got to Blackburn Park. “Lots of woods and irregular ground,” I told Welborn and Price.

“Perfect,” said Dale.

I parked the car, picked up my bag and the three of us started walking toward the woods on the east end. My senses were heightened. “How do you suppose they found us?” wondered Amy.

“I don’t know. I don’t like to think that there might be a…” We had just walked out on to a softball field when I saw something in the trees off in the distance. A tiny red light. “Dale? Amy?” I said in a low voice. “Run.”

The moment I finished saying that word, a shot tore into my left shoulder, knocking me to the ground. Price and Welborn started toward me until I hissed at them, “SCATTER!!” jumped up and bolted toward the west.

My objective was a bathroom about thirty yards away. Zigging and zagging as I ran, three shots just missed me and a fourth grazed my left arm. I didn’t know if Dale or Amy could hear me or not but I screamed back over my shoulder, “I THINK THEY’VE GOT NIGHT SCOPES!!”

I made it to the bathroom, hid on its western side, took out my Heckler-Koch and leaned against the wall. My shoulder and arm throbbing, I looked up Park Road just west of Blackburn.

And saw another tiny red light.

I dove to the right just as a second shot hit the wall where I had been standing. I fired several rounds in the general direction of the Park Road light. I didn’t expect to hit anything, I just wanted them to know I was armed.

Using the trees as cover as much as I could, I ran toward East Jackson Road, the park’s northern border. Sidney Place looked clear so I sprinted across East Jackson, ran up Sidney, hung a left on Virginia Avenue and ran toward Edgar Road. Just before I got there, I ducked down between two parked cars to reload and catch my breath.

Almost immediately, I felt a gun barrel on the back of my neck.

A hand reached for my Heckler-Koch and I heard a voice say into a walkie-talkie, “I’ve got him. Head back right now. We’ll be there in thirty seconds.” Shielding my bag from my friend as best I could, I very slowly reached in my right hand.

“Stand up!” my friend snarled, violently jamming the barrel of his rifle into my wounded shoulder, bringing tears to my eyes. In tremendous pain, I got to my feet. “Turn around and put your hands in the air.”

With one motion, I turned around, lifted my left arm as much as I could while simultaneously spraying my friend in the face with the knockout agent in my right hand.

He immediately dropped to the ground. I took back my Heckler-Koch, put on my friend’s night-vision goggles, appropriated his Kalashnikov and downloaded the contents of his laptop’s hard drive on to my NICOLE-3000 handheld. Then I cut pieces from his jacket with my knife and bandaged my wounds as best I could.

“Lesson number one, kid,” I said, looking down at him. “Never EVER stand that close.”

I took a quick look around. Nobody was following me so I walked down to Edgar Road, headed south and took an immediate right at East Jackson.

I walked a block west to Selma Avenue where a walkway crossed Interstate 44. Exhausted, I struggled up the stairs and found a spot with highway signs on both sides. Then I put down the Kalashnikov, slowly sat down on the cement, leaned gingerly against a chain-link fence, took out my phone and called Greg.

5:00 AM – “Hello?” Griffith warily answered.

“Greg? Chris.”

For reasons I couldn’t immediately figure out, Greg was stunned. “Merciful Lord Jesus…,” he murmured. Then he loudly called out, “Dale! Amy! Get in here!”

I heard a door close. “What the hell’s going on?!” I demanded. I heard Amy exclaim, “Thank God!”

“We didn’t expect to hear from you any time soon, big man,” Dale said quietly. “What with you being dead and all.”

“WHAT?!!”

“Just came over the wire. Nothing much in the way of details yet but there’s a picture and everything. You were shot to death in Webster Groves.”

“Son of a…listen, let me get back to you.” I immediately hung up and speed-dialed a special number. I set it up in case my wife ever needed to know for sure that it was me.

“Please be asleep, please be asleep, please be asleep,” I whispered until Nicky picked up.

“Hello?” she said groggily. “Chris?”

My relief was overwhelming. “Yeah. Sweetie, listen, I’m sorry to wake you so early but I had to get through right away.

“You’re going to hear some news about me that isn’t true but for the time being, I’m going to need for you to pretend that it is.”

“What news?”

“That I’m dead.”

At that very moment, I could hear Nicky’s sister Anne pound on her door and tearfully tell her, “Nicky, wake up! There’s hundreds of reporters on the front lawn. It’s about Chris, Nicky. He’s been shot. He’s…he’s…dead.”

“Oh God, Chris, what do I do?!!” Nicole whispered.

“Stall. You already know but you don’t want to talk to anybody right now.”

“Annie, I already know! And I don’t want to talk to anybody, okay?! Just leave me alone!!” Nicky’s voice dropped back down to a whisper. “Now what? Chris, what’s going on?”

“A case. Do you have access to the company server?”

“Of course.”

“I need you to run a simulation for me. See if you can figure out the best locations in the United States to put one hundred 55-gallon drums of griswoldium to achieve maximum worldwide coverage. Figure a time frame of up to 9:00 PM tonight.”

“Gr…griswoldium? My God, one hundred drums of griswoldium is the end of the world!”

“I’m also going to need you to stay cool. Keep Paulie out of sight if you can. I don’t want anyone telling him things. If you can’t avoid telling your family, make sure you impress how important it is that they not tell anyone.” I sighed and leaned back against the chain-link fence again.

“You sound horrible. What happened?”

“I took some lead in the shoulder.”

“Oh no! Baby, are you okay?!”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been shot before (”The Case of the Panicked Presbyterian”). Get the simulation to the server as soon as you can.”

“Will do. I love you. And Paul loves you.”

“I love both of you way more. Hug the big guy for me, okay?” I said, my voice wavering. I hung up and called Greg back. “Two questions. Is this a secure line and are you guys alone?”

“Yes and yes,” Griffith replied. “Where the hell are you?”

6:00 AM – “At Selma Avenue and I-44 in Webster Groves, there’s a walkway over the highway. I’m up there. Have you got a doctor around?”

“Yeah.”

“Has he ever done any surgery?”

“I think so.”

“Tell him to get ready to do some more.”

“Why?”

“I caught one in the shoulder. If you can’t get away, send the doctor along with somebody that reports only to you and tell them not to tell anyone what they’re doing or why. Amy, what did LARD tell you?”

“Two Jesuits, one EPFer,” Welborn told me. “The Jesuits are Tom Clayton and Mike O’Reilly. The Piskie’s a guy named Jake Williams. Nobody knows where he is.

“But CETU picked up Clayton and O’Reilly at a house in Webster Groves and are bringing them in right now. We found two Kalashnikovs and two laptops.”

“Was that house on Virginia Avenue?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. See what you can get off the laptops. And shoot whatever you find up to my server. Dale can tell you the way in.”

“How should I approach the interrogation?” Dale asked.

“Remember your shogi, Dale-san.”

“When life gives you lemons…”

“Roger that. Greg, where are you…never mind, I don’t want to know yet. Who’s there?”

“CETU and the NSA people assigned to this case.” Griffith said.

“Do you trust your people?”

“Of course. I personally ran their background checks.”

“Please tell me you have access to the personnel records of the NSA guys there.”

“Yeah. What am I looking for?”

“I need to know if anyone who came on board with Stilton is there with you now.”

“Give me a minute.” After a few keystrokes, Griffith said, “Just one. The guy’s name is Tim Sinclair. Kay Lewis’s aide.”

“Damn. Amy, make sure that nobody knows that you’re doing this but run Sinclair through LARD too, will you?”

Welborn was alarmed. “Why?!” she demanded. “What am I looking for?”

“We were set up,” I said. “Someone at NSA is working for the other side.”

Next week – Part Three

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