Mildred was encoded after checking into the CSAC office at the air base. Data encoding did not require intrusive surgery. A digital transmitter was placed next to the site of the cylinder and after a brief moment, the message was recorded. Mildred was then handed tickets to Minneapolis and New York and from there to Washington. The circuitous route was to minimize any interference with the courier, who, as far as the world was concerned, was merely on a shopping trip for her Scandinavian hobby shop.
After the superficial wounds on her left hand and neck were treated and Mildred had dressed, she went down to the security office where George Smith had been attempting to identify Mildred’s attacker.
George Smith, an ex-FBI special agent, was the civilian chief of security at CSAC. His law enforcement demeanor and ten years experience as a special agent of the FBI was especially useful in his present job. Under cover as a security consultant to the State Department, Smith was known to all federal agencies and to many state criminology departments as well.
Smith was a thin, dapper man. He wore navy blue suits year round, starched white shirts, red and black striped ties, and heavy, black, plain-toed shoes. Smith was fond of wearing the black-rimmed glasses made famous by Barry Goldwater, the Republican candidate for President of the United States in 1964. His dark hair was always cut in a short but presentable fashion. In a way he looked like a younger version of the singer Roy Orbison, a comparison he secretly enjoyed. Despite that small vanity, Smith was a serious person not given to humor or idle gossip.
Smith’s office was strictly utilitarian, middle management, federal agency issue. The tan metal desk was complemented by russet leatherette and metal chairs. Smith kept few personal items in his office, preferring to maintain a respectful distance between his office and home lives. His office had a green chalkboard, upon which Smith did some of his best thinking. The security files in his office were armed with electronic locks, set to signal security if any unauthorized attempt were made to open them. You got the combination right the first time or large silent men dressed in black suits, with no sense of humor, immediately showed up at your door.
A half dead plant sat forlornly on the top of the security cabinet. Try as he might, Smith was no gardener. Smith was on the telephone when Mildred entered his office.
“Well, okay. If you find out anything, please let me know.” He returned the handset to its cradle and turned to Mildred.
“That was a friend of mine in the Federal Aviation Agency’s airport security office. Boy, do they hate stiffs turning up in airports. Hurts the image that airports are antiseptic, user friendly places. I call him every so often to kibitz. Used that today, pretending that I hadn’t heard a thing.”
“Any idea who the attacker might be?” Mildred said.
“So far, the only thing we have is the body of an unnamed, thirtyish, black-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian female. The National Airport Police think she may have been the victim of an attempted rape and robbery. The corpse had no identification or money. When the airport police showed her photograph around, some shuttle flight attendant remembered seeing her on a flight from La Guardia.
“Even so, there were no boarding passes, purses, or other identifying items. This is why the police think that robbery may have been the motive. The labels on her clothes were all general brand names. We will have little to go on. We can’t get directly involved without revealing that one of our agents was the killer. Consequently, we’re going to have to rely on normal channels.
“At least you had the good sense to neutralize her on FAA regulated property. The FBI will eventually get some information. Between them and my friend at the FAA, we should be able to get something. In addition, our DIA agents will be able to get something and may already have. The gases in the pellet are designed to disintegrate completely and be absorbed in the dying body so that any residual concentration is minimal.
“Any autopsy they perform on your friend will conclude that she died of a puncture wound to her abdomen area, followed by cardiac arrest. The medical examiner will likely conclude the deflated lungs were due to the physical attack. Luckily, the explosion was so fast that the tissue damage can be just as easily interpreted as being externally caused. There will be no suspicion that your friend’s death was caused by internal trauma. I guess it’s another scalp for your belt, Mildred.”
“I’m getting too old for scalps. That’s why I downgraded to Level Two. This was supposed to be a milk run. Do we have any idea what this person was up to?”
“Can’t be sure until we get some form of positive identification. I understand that the Arlington County medical examiner sent your friend’s prints to the national crime center in Atlanta, Georgia. At least we’ll be able to see if we’ve met her before. I have a feeling that the prints will come up negative. The garrote was homemade. No sophistication whatsoever.”
“Could it be I was made?” said Mildred.
“The boys don’t think so, given the speed in which the courier assignment was made. On the other hand, if this person made you at the airport and decided to bag a big one on the spur of the moment, that would explain the homemade garrote.”
“Hate to disagree, George. There’s no way she could have had access to wires and wood at the airport.”
“We’ll find out in due course, Mildred. Meanwhile, go get some rest. Do you want some backup on your trip home?”
“No, George. Even retired Level Ones like to travel alone. I’m going down to the laboratory, my knitting needle needs a refill,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, by the way. Can I have the garrote back?”
“Sure,” said Smith, hesitantly. He didn’t have to ask why because he knew and he understood. It was painful to think that his old friend Mildred still needed to keep such things.
1993: Somewhere in Minnesota
“Tell us where the message is and you can go,” said Tim Walsh, his voice calm and even.
“I keep telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the disheveled man tied to a metal chair in the kitchen, his hands cinched tightly behind his back, his eyes blindfolded. “I don’t know what you want.”
“Don’t lie to us,” said Walsh. His pale blue eyes stared impassively at the blindfolded and bound prisoner. His voice remained flat. “We know you’re a special courier and we want the message. It is vital to my leaders.”
“Look, I really don’t know who you are or what you want. What are you talking about? I’m just a distributor for a Seattle, Washington, automotive specialty parts manufacturer. What do you want from me? What? What in God’s name have I ever done to you?”
Ignoring the pleas of the blindfolded man, Walsh turned to the third man in the room. “Did you find anything in his papers or briefcase?”
“No, his identification cards all say his name is Richard Winslow, a resident of Seattle, Washington.”
“Mr. Winslow, it seems we aren’t getting anywhere quick. We know who you are and what you are carrying. You claim that you’re an auto parts dealer — that is a lie. All we want from you is the truth.” Walsh bent over the captive, speaking ever so softly.
The blindfolded man did not reply.
“We don’t seem to be coming to agreement, do we?” said Walsh rhetorically, his unblinking pale blue eyes focused on his blindfolded captive. “Why won’t you talk? We take the information and you go on your way. We don’t want to hurt you. All we want is the information that you are carrying.”