“Yeah, Andy you’re probably right, but the only one still alive is Lyle Ramsey. It’s very clear after finding out that Ramsey contacted the department about Kelshaw’s body, that this whole chain of events is tied together. And the only two threads we have at the moment that tie Ramsey to any of this are the phone number in Monte’s pocket and his call to headquarters about the body. We need more!” Jim was ponderous as he tapped the steering wheel. “Andy, who is Neil Klein?”
“He is the Assistant Director of the Office of Intelligence and Research for the U.S. State Department, Jim,” Andrew responded in a matter of fact tone. “Remember, he is also Evan Scott.”
“I knew this was big, Andrew, but I’m beginning to think that this may be much bigger than…,” Jim sounded doubtful. “On the other hand if Lyle Ramsey is a player and if he had something to do with Monte’s death—I’d like to get him. Not because Monte was such an up-standing citizen, but because he was one of ours.”
“You said you needed more, I think we’re about to get it. Jim, don’t let Neil Klein’s official title affect your thinking on this. He’s working on things from his end and he trusts and respects you to pull things together at this end. He knows you’re a good cop. Just think of him as Evan Scott.”
“Okay, maybe I was getting cold feet there for a minute. Go on, get out of the car, I’ve got work to do…, I’m going to look for an old beat-up Toyota Land Cruiser.”
Phoenix, Arizona
Thursday, October 2, 1980
It was hot in Phoenix and it was even warm in the airport terminal when Fred Wellman and Neil Klein deplaned. They hurried to a car rental agency and were soon on their way to the desert home of now retired Saigon CIA ex-station Chief, T. R. Perkins.
Not as large as would be denoted ‘grandiose’, still the Spanish hacienda style home was elegant. It boasted an oval swimming pool in a garden setting complete with a patio bar clearly designed for entertaining.
A gardener was carefully arranging a plethora of fragrant and colorful potted shrubs in obvious preparation for a party. Upon entering the courtyard and looking around, Fred observed, “Some things never change.”
They were greeted at the front door by a middle aged Hispanic housekeeper named Rosa who showed the men into a gracious Southwestern living room. T. R. Perkins was seated on a soft leather sofa and rose to greet them saying, “To what do I owe this questionable pleasure? Come in and sit down,” T. R. looked at the drink in his hand and offered, “Would either of you care for a libation?”
Fred nodded as he said, “Yes, thanks, but make it something soft, iced tea would be good.”
“I’ll have iced tea as well,” Neil echoed.
Fred and Neil had taken chairs opposite T. R. and Fred began, “Thank you for seeing us, T. R., it’s been a long time.”
“Rosa, please bring these gentlemen some iced tea. Yes,” T. R. said, responding to Wellman, “A very long time.” T. R. was eyeing Wellman and Klein doubtfully, wondering what brought them here.
“T. R. I want to ask you one or two questions about Phillip Durkan,” Fred continued.
Rosa returned with two frosty glasses of tea and served Fred and then Neil.
“Now you were asking about Durkan? What do you want to know?”
In his mind Fred was reviewing the conversation with Neil that took place on the plane. He had shown Klein the photograph and the information on Yanov Zemenek suggesting that there was another possible candidate for Big Bad Wolf.
He cleared his throat and looked at T. R., “How long had you known him and how much did you know about Phillip Durkan when you hired him T. R.?”
“How long? I don’t remember for sure… maybe two or three years. He did a lot of favors for us and for me in ‘Nam’. When we couldn’t get reliable intel across borders, Durkan ran the gauntlet for us. He knew the territory and was able to come and go without problems, so we used him. I never asked what color underwear he wore if that’s what you want to know,” he said sarcastically.
“So you trusted him ‘implicitly’ like you trusted Lia Duprè for example, without any background check because you were such a good judge of character, is that right, T. R.?” Neil asked, pointedly sarcastic.
Perkins gave Neil a scathing look, “We took what we could get, Klein. It wasn’t a goddamned garden party we were operating,” he swore at Neil angrily.
“Oh?” Neil retorted, “I thought that was exactly what you were running, T. R., just one big dissolute garden party…, with all your ‘trusted’ friends,” he added.
The hostility level was becoming unmanageable between T. R. and Klein. Neil had set his glass of tea on the table and was on his feet staring down at Perkins. Wellman had not seen Klein so close to losing control.
Intervening, he stopped the verbal battle quietly stating, “T. R., you employed and allowed this Phillip Durkan to have access to Agency information and intelligence without checking with Headquarters and without even acquiring a dossier on him. Is that what you’re telling us?”
“Listen, Wellman,” T. R. was angry now and defensive, “Durkan proved himself to me in key areas and he got the information for us that we otherwise would not have had. I think I’m a pretty good judge of character…,” his voice dropped as he met Neil Klein’s eyes.
Wellman opened his briefcase and withdrew a file, “T. R., I want you to look at this picture and tell me who it is,” he said passing a photo to Perkins.
“That’s Phillip Durkan,” T. R. declared.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely! What kind of a game is this, Wellman?” T. R. was edgy now.
“Well, I’ll tell you, T. R., it’s no game; that photo you identified as Phillip Durkan is a photo of a Soviet KGB agent whose name is Yanov Zemenek. There is no Phillip Durkan—never was—not Australian, not a Brit or American. No Phillip Durkan.”
T. R.’s face went blank—he didn’t understand, “What the hell are you talking about, Wellman? He worked for me; I should know!” he raged. “What are you trying to pull?”
Fred handed him the photo with the accompanying information provided by Interpol, saying, “No, T. R., you don’t know. He is Yanov Zemenek, T. R., and he is KGB and a double agent.”
Perkins looked at Neil and Fred insisting, “Bu..but you both knew him. You met him several times, Wellman; hell, we offered him my desk when I was leaving, if he was a spy why didn’t he take it?”
“I guess that he had something he considered more important to do, T. R., like arranging the betrayal and assassination of some of our people and one of his own country’s national heroes,” Neil said without emotion.
Wellman looking intently at a disbelieving Perkins and nodded his head soberly, “You’ve answered my questions, T. R., we’ll be going now, don’t bother to see us to the door. We’ll find our way out.”
Neil paused and looked at T. R. with disgust, “You’re very fortunate that the Agency let you retire, Perkins. Personally, I wish they had tied a can to you and put you on the street; and that’s far better than you deserve.”
Wellman and Klein walked briskly to their car leaving an old crestfallen T. R. Perkins with a stale unfinished drink in his hand.
On the drive back to the Phoenix airport Neil inquired irritably, “Fred, why doesn’t the Agency pull that guy’s retirement and put him on the street?”
Fred drawled, “Well you know, Neil, it’s a small price to pay. T. R. won’t live forever and if we kicked him he’d just contact some tabloid and tell some sorry-ass story about how bad the CIA treated a ‘true-blue’ American ‘son’. This way we know where he lives.”