“That is weird. Say, Herb, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Can you find out how travel arrangements are made or approved for CSAC agents? I’m particularly interested in any people who had access to information on all of our travel arrangements.”
“Say, that’s a good thought. I’ll get my ace, Martha Thomas, on that right away. Oh, if she’s to be effective, I’m going to have to bring her in.”
“I’ll speak to the old man,” Mike said. “I’m sure there won’t be any trouble.”
Martha Thomas was one of the new breed of FBI special agents. In the past, agents tended to be white males with degrees in either law or accounting. As the seventies and eighties unfolded, the agency came under tremendous pressure to modify its hiring practices to include a wider cross-section of Americans. Like all institutions, its ability to change depended on its needs. During the eighties, the explosive growth of computerized information systems forced the FBI to start developing expertise in this area and with that change came people of all colors and both sexes.
Martha, a graduate of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, Massachusetts, never thought her computer science degree would lead her on this path. Twenty-six, slim, and athletic in build, Martha had been once described by her M.I.T. classmates as the most beautiful nerd in the world. The proud possessor of a tremendous mane of strawberry blond hair that hung in natural curls, she had light hazel eyes and beautiful skin. Martha wore horn rimmed glasses to give herself a business-like look.
Martha had been bitten by the computer bug as a freshman in high school in the early Eighties, where she was inspired by her teacher, the avuncular Arthur Morrison, who had made it his life’s work to bring the new technology of computer science to young school children. Morrison was particularly fond of Martha, who quickly became one of his first star pupils; an affection that was returned by Martha. She worshiped him like a father.
Martha was first in her class at Quantico and was a nationally-ranked shootist. Proficient in martial arts as well, she most enjoyed spending time in front of computer screens, catching bad guys.
“While you’re at that, why don’t you have her check out a Timothy Walsh in Minneapolis as well?” said Mike.
“No problem,” Adams said. “Oh, by the way, I need to get up to Minneapolis pretty soon to take care of some personal business.”
Mike replaced the telephone on its cradle.
“Let’s see what that turns up,” He said to Mildred, who was sitting on the sofa. “Incidentally, Mildred, did you visit Davenport’s office while you were in Des Moines?”
“Why, yes. Remember, I told you that I searched her belongings.”
“Well, the office manager, Steven Clark was killed last night. You’re not up to your old tricks, are you?” Mike arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, my stars! He was such a sweet man. Do you suppose that he might have been killed by that terrible Walsh? I’m sure that stuffed bear on his shelf looked just like the one that Julie Davenport had with her belongings. Also the paper from Reedy Securities on his desk. My heavens, that poor man.”
“I think that your Mr. Walsh needs more looking into.”
“Oh, Mr. Liu, there’s a telephone message for you,” said the young female clerk at the front desk of the Bethesda Hyatt Regency as Mike returned from a visit with Smith.
“Thank you,” said Mike as he took the message asking him to call Adams in Minneapolis.
As the elevator door slid close on the entering Mike Liu, the intense young man looked up from the newspaper that he had been reading. The angular jaw on his young face was set in a clench as he crumpled the newspaper and tossed it on the cushioned bench. Taking off his rimless glasses and wiping them with his handkerchief, the young man walked over to the elevator and pushed the up button.
When Mike got up to his room, overlooking the plaza of the Hyatt Regency and the entrance to the Washington Metro, he dialed Adams’ office in Minneapolis.
“Good morning, Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I help you?”
“Is Herb Adams in?” said Mike.
“You bet. I’ll see if he is busy.”
“Agent Adams.”
“Herb, it’s Mike. What’s up?”
“As usual, Martha has come up with some rather startling information. Davenport is an impostor. The real Julie Davenport was born in Joliet, Illinois, on January 3, 1958, but died in a traffic accident in December 18, 1960. A real tragedy. The entire family was wiped out in a head-on with an eighteen wheeler. It seems that somebody is doing a landslide business in false identifications.”
“What about Tim Walsh? Mildred and I think that he may be involved in the slaying of that office manager.”
“As far as we can tell, he immigrated to the United States from Canada about fifteen years ago, worked for awhile in the Ford assembly plant in Windsor, Canada, then in the General Motors plant in Pontiac, and finally migrated to Minneapolis about eight years ago to set up his auto shop. He claims to have been born in the Northwest Territories of Canada. We’re having the Royal Canadian Mounted Police check into that angle.”
“I’ll bet we’ll find a dead baby there, too.”
“You know, Mike, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were becoming paranoid.”
“What about John Trent?” said Mike.
“That’s a tough one, the name is too common and we have no hooks. That Bedford fellow ran a pretty loose ship, no employment records, no W-2s. Couldn’t find any social security number in Bedford’s files. Bedford insists his salesmen are contractors and not employees, so he didn’t file withholding taxes — nice scam. I’ve asked my friends in Treasury to look into that one.”
“What about the travel angle?”
“Martha is still working on that. So far, what George said at our last meeting seems to be the case. Each trip was individually arranged by separate CSAC offices. There is a modem tie-in between the various CSAC offices, but as far as we can determine that tie-in is not used for travel scheduling purposes. Seems to be a dead end.”
“Let’s stick with it for now. I just feel there has to be a connection there somewhere.”
“Don’t worry, Mike. Martha is a pit bull on things like this.”
Mike put the handset on the telephone and walked into the bathroom. As he was turning on the hot water, there was a loud knock at his door.
“What the?” muttered Mike as he picked up a towel to wipe his hand. Mike looked through the view hole and was surprised at what he saw.
“Eastwood! What are you doing here?”
“The senior on the Fairington project needed to get some cash flows to you and asked that I come down with the information,” said Eastwood holding up a manila envelope for Mike to see.
“Wait a minute, I need to get some pants on,” said a grim-faced Mike Liu. “I’ll be right with you.”
Mike quickly walked to his duffel bag and got his Walther pistol out of its holder. He carefully screwed on the DARPA designed silencer, released the safety and walked carefully to the door, holding the Walther behind his back. With this left hand Mike opened the door and gestured Eastwood to come into the room. “What do you need?”
“The senior needs your signature on this underwriting contract, Mr. Liu.”
As Eastwood walked into the room, Mike quickly aimed his Walther and squeezed the trigger. “No one knew I was here,” he said to the now lifeless body of Eastwood, Ex-Choate, Ex-Harvard, Ex-Yale, Ex-Life.