Adams ran his fingers through his hair. “Boy, this case is getting crazier and crazier. The body count is piling up.”
Adams was in the antiseptic conference room of the CSAC in Washington along with Mike, Mildred, Martha, and Smith.
“What happened in Minneapolis, Herb?” asked Mike.
“You know that crazy report from Minneapolis? The one in which a bicycle shop owner confessed to killing Winslow? Well, he’s dead, blown to pieces just like Winslow and that Clark fellow in Des Moines.”
“I’ll bet it was Tim Walsh,” said Mildred.
“Well, he did say to some detective that he knew a Tim,” said Adams.
“Sorenson was another false ID,” Martha said.
Adams sighed. “Thought he might be.”
“Have you gotten any more on the communications angle, Martha?” said Mike.
“Yes, it seems that all DOD telelink communications and computer operations get screened on a random basis by a telecommunications group at the Pentagon. This group is responsible for maintaining high quality communications, so it has the ability to randomly scan messages for quality checks.”
Mike looked up abruptly.
“That sounds scary. Are these guys cleared for such work?”
Martha nodded. “The group is cleared to top secret. Each member of the group goes through a security check once a year. Anyway, I’ve made an appointment to visit the office Monday to find out exactly how they perform their monitoring duties. They’re supposed to be my kind of people, all hackers, so it should be fun.”
Changing the subject, Mike looked to Mildred. “Shouldn’t we plan a visit to Mr. Walsh?”
“Sounds good, but how do we pull it off? He’s already seen me.”
“I don’t think he’s seen me yet,” said Mike.
“Come on, Mike. A Chinese in Minneapolis? You’ll stand out like a sore thumb,” said Smith. Minnesota, of course, was widely known for its fair skinned, blond Scandinavian population.
“Actually not,” said Adams. “The Asian population in the Twin Cities has dramatically risen in the past ten years what with the Hmong immigration and increased Asian graduate student population at the University.”
“Let’s get back to business,” said Smith. “When is your meeting with the communications group, Martha?”
“Tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.,” said Martha.
“Mike, the old man doesn’t want you or Mildred to go solo. I’m teaming you with Adams. Mildred, you’re teamed with Martha,” commanded Smith.
“Sexist!” spit out Mildred.
Smith shrugged. “That’s my call. Besides, Mike and Adams have been working together already and I want Martha to have backup.”
1993: Dimitri
“Dimitri.” The softly spoken words were chilling and mysterious. Even the cold, calculating mind of Tim Walsh, conditioned to remain calm no matter what, was moved by that voice.
“Yes, Leader.”
“The events of the last few days have changed our mission. You must prepare to leave for Amsterdam, where you will receive your next assignment. Your skills are needed elsewhere. Go with dispatch, my son.”
Mike and Adams stopped the Avis rental car in front of Walsh Auto Repair on Lake Street. Both Adams and Mike had carefully rehearsed the scene earlier that morning. They would speak to Tim Walsh and when he was off guard, Adams would pounce on him and take him prisoner. Mike was to stand watch to assure against Walsh having assistants.
The small garage appeared open for business despite it being Sunday and they could see a sole mechanic working on a Ford Granada in one of the repair bays. The blue-coveralled mechanic was completely immersed in solving some problem with the automobile. The lighting in the garage was dim and the mechanic had a lamp hanging on the hood of the Granada. He did not hear Mike and Adams enter.
The smell of gasoline, used rubber tires, and dirty crankcase oil in the typically humid, hot June Minnesota day was oppressive. Mike could just feel the airborne oil seeping into his freshly dry-cleaned summer suit.
Mike quietly reached for his Walther and took the weapon out of its holster. Adams had already done so. His Glock 22 pistol which he held behind his back was drawn and cocked. Slowly, the two agents slipped silently up to the man in the blue coveralls.
Mike was to provide cover as Adams, the FBI agent, made the actual arrest. Mike stopped short of approaching the automobile mechanic and assumed a shooter’s stance with both hands on his Walther, which was now aimed at the mechanic. He purposefully positioned himself to allow a view of the entrance as well.
Adams quietly slipped up to the mechanic. Putting his Glock 22 in the small of the mechanic’s back, Adams said, “FBI, put your hands where I can see them, now!”
“What the hell?” said the startled mechanic.
“Just do as I say. Put your hands where I can see them.”
“Okay, okay, just don’t shoot!” The mechanic’s hands stretched out in front of him over the engine of the Ford Granada.
Adams holstered his pistol, forced the mechanic to assume a search position and frisked the man for weapons. He then handcuffed the mechanic’s oil caked hands behind his back. After that, Adams roughly yanked the mechanic by his collar and forced him to stand up against the wall of the garage.
Mike then holstered his Walther and assumed a position near the mechanic, all the while maintaining a view of the open doorway.
“Tim Walsh, you’re under arrest for the murder of Richard Winslow,” said Adams, as he grabbed the mechanic’s right arm. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an …”
“Hey, you guys got the wrong person,” he said. “I’m Tim Tjorgeson not Tim Walsh.”
Adams and Mike exchanged pained expressions.
The handcuffed man certainly did not look like the description that Mildred had given. Instead of a craggy-faced blond man with pale blue eyes, Adams and Mike had arrested a dark-haired, brown-eyed, overweight man. The blue coveralls stretched over a body too big to comfortably fit into them.
“Where’s Walsh?”
“I don’t know. I work in the bakery down the street. I came in this morning to see if Tim could check out a knocking sound in my car. He said that he had to go visit his grandmother in Canada, threw his garage keys at me, and told me to do it myself. Tim and I worked together at the GM plant in Michigan.”
“We’re going to have to hold you, until we can check out your story,” said a disappointed Adams.
“Can I help you?” the gate agent said to the blond-haired, craggy-faced man in a business suit who stood before her at the counter to Gate 11 on the Gold Concourse.
“Yes, I’m on Flight 60 to Amsterdam,” said Walsh as his pale blue eyes looked deeply into the agent’s hazel eyes. Feeling uncomfortable with the unrelenting stare of the pale blue eyes, the agent looked down to the counter as if she were looking for something.
“Can I see your ticket?”
“Sure,” he said as he set his brief case on the ticket counter. Out of one of the pockets of the briefcase stuck a small fuzzy white stuffed bear.
“Nice bear you got there,” said the agent, trying to be friendly.
“It was a gift from a friend. Please, can I get a seat?”
“You bet. Window or aisle, Mr. Tjorgeson?” said the agent without looking up.
“Window.”
“May I see your passport?”
Walsh handed the agent the Canadian passport made out to Timothy Lars Tjorgeson of Windsor, Canada.