I figured there were two possibilities: One, Boyd was working for the enemy, or two, he was making his extra money the old fashion way… run-of-the-mill, everyday, low-level bureaucratic corruption. But the conversation that Wayne overheard pretty much ruled out the second possibility.
I grabbed a couple of slices of Wonder Bread—barely stale. I slathered on some grape jelly of questionable provenance and forced them down while standing over the sink. I washed the feast down with a gulp of rusty tap water. Such are the benefits of being a bachelor. Feeling more than a little sorry for myself, I headed for my two-tone green and white Ford pickup parked in the alley. It started on the fifth try… it was going to be a good day.
A few minutes later, I was sitting in the terminal of the Morris Municipal Airport. Terminal was a pretty fancy way of describing the small cinder block building that squatted like a toad near the grass strip runway. I sat across a catsup scabbed Formica topped table with Ken Turner. He'd been a WWII night fighter in the Pacific arena. He was probably pretty close to my age, but the years had not been kind to him. His hair was gray, and his eyebrows looked like albino caterpillars crawling across his forehead. There was so much hair sprouting from his nostrils, it was a wonder he could breathe.
I'd always liked him despite his inadequate grooming.
"I got the dogs boiling, you want one," he said. Ken served boiled hotdogs so that he could qualify for a restaurant liquor license. I had never met anyone who had ever actually eaten one, although I knew plenty of folk who had indulged in the cold beer and cheap whiskey he kept in a cooler under the table. Nothing like a few pre-flight belts to stiffen the wings.
"Thanks, no," I said. "Big breakfast."
He didn't seem upset. I imagine I was not the first person to turn down a meal there."So, let me get this straight," he said. "If you hire me to fly today, I sort of become your junior apprentice detective. And I'm sworn to secrecy about the details of what we do."
"Well, yeah," I said. It says discreet right on my office door." It didn't really — in fact I didn't even have a door — but he wouldn't know that. "You telling someone else would be like taking someone up in your airplane and then telling them you've never landed one before. There's certain expectations in any line of work."
Turner nodded. "I can sure see that," he said. "Is it legal what we'd be doin'?"
"Absolutely," I said, not quite sure if it was or not.
"You ever been up in an airplane before?"
I nodded. "We fought in the same war," I said truthfully.
I told him that I wanted keep an eye on Sheriff Boyd. He asked me why. I hemmed and hawed around a little like I was reluctant to give over the information. "I'm working for Mrs. Boyd," I lied. I put on my Jimmy Stewart sincere face. He gave me a little wink.
"Let's do 'er," he said.
The flight was uneventful for the most part. Sheriff Boyd had been easy to spot. We had only been circling for fifteen minutes when we saw the sheriff's cruiser pull out of the county lot in Wateeka, the Grove County seat. He had driven straight north on Highway 91 and pulled off the road into a little copse of trees that overlooked Dow Chemical. He sat on the hood, and even from this height I could see he was staring down at the complex of buildings with binoculars. At one point, I was pretty sure he trained those field glasses up at us. Hard to tell for sure.
"What you think he's lookin' for," Ken said. He was shouting so that I could hear him over the roar of the prop and buffeting winds.
I decided the best and easiest response was a shrug. It seemed to satisfy him. We spent another forty-five minutes looping wide circles around the sheriff. He had barely changed position, and I was paying for this flight by the hour. I tapped Ken on the shoulder and pointed down. It was time to call it quits.
He made one more pass over the sheriff. "By the way," he shouted, "I've never landed one of the babies before." He cackled manically all the way down to the tarmac.
I spent the rest of the day tracing skips for the bank. I also called Wayne with a progress report. He didn't like what I told him about his brother-in-law. Can't say it did much for my state of mind either. All the attention about Dow Chemical was making me nervous. Something was rotten in Morris, and I needed to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. Investigating a law enforcement officer was tricky business. I'd already brought two outsiders into the investigative circle, and that was two too many.
The way it usually happened was that one of the sources — in this case the bank teller or the pilot — would tell someone that they knew they could trust… problem with that is, everyone has someone they think they can trust. It doesn't take long for the shit to hit the fan. I figured I had maybe two days before Sheriff Boyd found out I was looking into his business.
I was wrong.
It was close to two in the morning when my phone rang. A call at that time of the morning never is good news. This was no exception.
"Alex?" a man said, his voice raw with anxiety.
Even in my early morning stupor, I recognized Ken Turner's voice immediately."What's up, partner?" I felt under my pillow for the .38.
"We was spotted today. They made me tell who I was up there with. I'm real sorry, Alex. There's somebody here who'd like to speak with you about that." His voice broke repeatedly with fear.
"Calm down, Ken. We'll work this out whatever it is. Put him on." I figured Sheriff Boyd would be on the other end of the telephone. I was wrong again. Batting zero was not particularly unusual for me.
"We need to meet," a man said. His voice was thick with a guttural accent straight out of the good ol' USSR.
"What's this about?" I said, but I thought I probably already knew.
"We need to meet," the man repeated, only there was an edge to his voice now.
As I mentioned earlier, low level spies during the Cold War were as common as mouse turds in a church. And Dow Chemical was a perfect target. Looks like I had rattled the enemies cage."And what if I tell you to fuck off?" There was a moment of silence and then I heard Ken scream like a woman.
"He has nine more fingers," the Russian said. Another scream. "Eight."
Ken was a good man. He didn't deserve to be tortured. "Okay," I said. "Where?"
"Good," the man said. I could hear Ken whimpering in the background. "I think the airport office would do nicely."
It took me fifteen minutes to reach the airport. I saw the sheriff's cruiser parked off to the side of the terminal building. I reached in to the glove compartment and fished out my .38. I slipped the gun into an ankle holster. It wouldn't survive a thorough search, but it might get by long enough to keep me alive. I coasted my truck up next to the sheriff's.
I climbed out of the truck and knocked on the terminal door. I didn't wait for a response but instead just walked in. The sheriff and a tall, skinny man in a bad black suit stood in one corner. Damned if I didn't recognize him. I should have known. The sheriff had his pistol aimed at Ken, but when he saw me, he stepped forward and gave me a half-assed pat down. He missed my hidden gun.
"Shit," Boyd said. "We need to know who's feeding you information from inside the plant." He sidled back over to the other man as if seeking protection.
I looked over at the tall man. "Я слышал, вы бежал, полковник Kabinov," I said… I'd heard you'd defected, Colonel Kabinov… Kabinov had come to the U.S. as a Russian diplomat a year or so before and had requested political asylum. It had been granted on the condition that he work for the CIA. "Ты трус и предатель," I said… You are a coward and a traitor… My anger at the man had caused me to slip back into my native Russian. It felt good. I spat at his feet. There's nothing worse than a man who betrays his country.