Authors: Thomas Kirkwood
He picked up on the fifth ring. “Yes, what do you want?”
“Have you seen the tapes, Wayne? They’re rather explicit.” The man’s voice was pleasant and formally polite. He spoke English well though it was not his mother tongue.
“Look, if I ever get my hands on you, I’ll – ”
“You won’t, Wayne, so let’s not deal in hypotheticals. We want you to come to work for us. The work is neither dangerous nor demanding, and the compensation is excellent. If you look over on the table where Ingrid has placed your package, you’ll see $50,000 in unmarked bills.”
He glanced at the stack of banknotes and recoiled. This would not look good if it was being filmed. He surveyed the room for cameras but saw nothing. “Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’m not interested. If you keep this up, I’ll go to the police.”
“I can understand your impulse, Wayne, but that would be most foolish of you. We hold all of the cards, as I think you’ll agree if you take the time to reflect intelligently. The police in this city are rather a joke, certainly no match for us. Let me finish presenting our offer. Then you will have ten minutes to make your decision, Yes or No. May I?”
“I don’t know. Okay, Jesus, go ahead.”
“Thank you, Wayne. In addition to the $50,000 in this room, we have opened a numbered account accessible only to you in Liechtenstein. As soon as we have your Yes, we will deposit a quarter of a million dollars in that account. Or, if you prefer, you can have the rest of the money in cash.”
“Look, whoever you are, I’m not interested in drug deals or federal prison. I – ”
“It’s a little late to think of that, Wayne. You’ve already done the drug deals, as several people are prepared to testify the moment I turn my material over to the D.A. In any case, my field is not drugs, as yours would seem to be, but information.”
“What are you talking about?”
“In exchange for monetary compensation and our pledge to you of silence regarding your transgressions, you agree to supply us from time to time with records of Boeing’s current commercial aircraft parts inventory. That’s it, Wayne. No traps, no hidden agendas. If it’s any consolation, you now have forty colleagues at Boeing who are helping us in one way or another. Not a single one of them was foolish enough to turn down our money or face the ugly personal consequences of not cooperating.
“Of course, Wayne, we do not pick our candidates at random. We research them well. We don’t consider irrational types or wild-eyed patriots. We make our selections from healthy, balanced men and women who have a lot to lose and who are likely to make decisions in their own self-interest. I would like you to talk with Ingrid, please. I’ll call for your decision in ten minutes.”
Wayne slammed the phone down and walked over to her, shaking with rage. “You mean it was all faked?”
“Of course not, Wayne. I enjoyed every second of it, as I’m sure you did. We are both winners. A win-win situation, as you Americans call it. And it will only improve. I hope we can make love tonight after your decision. I think you’ll find you enjoy it even more now that you know I am not going to upset your life. You can have your wife and child, you can have me, and you can have the money. You can have it all.”
“Yeah, right. Things don’t usually work that way. Who the hell are you? Who do you work for?”
“I work for Mr. Hecht, Wayne, just as you will.”
***
He turned off Sixth Avenue into the Hilton underground garage, still sick with fear, still overwhelmed by memories. He had gone to work for them, hadn’t seen a way out. He had taken their money and lived in unrelenting terror that he would be caught.
Then a miracle happened: after years of agony, Ingrid disappeared and Hecht’s demands for information ceased. That was when he believed his descent into hell was over. He straightened out his life, got promoted several times, rescued his marriage and grew to love his son. Ten years later he was still making progress.
Now the man he knew only as a voice on the telephone was back. Wayne wondered if Ingrid would be present, and whether he could resist her if she was. He felt aroused, which made him furious.
When he entered Room 2715, he was relieved but also a little disappointed to find it empty. He took two airline-size bottles of scotch from the bar, emptied them into a glass and drank. He could feel the ring of the telephone in his bone marrow seconds before it came. “Yes, hello.”
“We’ll make this quick, Wayne, so you can return to your dinner party. Thanks for coming.”
He had never heard Hecht sound so understanding. He tried not to feel relief, but he did.
“Thanks, Mr. Hecht. It’s an important night for me. What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing original. I need the inventory again. Bring the CDs home with you Monday night. I’ll send someone over to pick them up. Don’t do anything stupid. It’s the last request I shall make. It’s almost over, Wayne. I realize it’s nerve-wracking for you.”
“Well, not that bad, not really. There’s no security on the inventory records. Sometimes I take them home myself to look them over. By the way, where is – ”
“I’m sorry, Wayne, she’s dead. A lot has changed in the last decade.”
“Yes . . . well, I’ll do as you say on Monday. Can I go now, Mr. Hecht?”
“Of course, Wayne.”
Chapter Twelve
Claussen gave a kid on his way home from little league ten bucks to go up to the Jenkins’ door, ask for the package for Mr. Hecht, put it in his gym bag and walk with it to the corner of 26th and West Fulton. He had his observation points carefully staked out, and knew long before the kid arrived that he was not being followed.
“Baseball cards,” Claussen said, as he took the small package from his kid courier. “Very valuable. Thank you.” He closed the window of his rental car and drove to the mixed neighborhood around Wallinford’s waterfront.
In the gathering dusk he bumped up the back ally to the delivery entrance of Stein’s Tool and Die. Karl Stein must have been watching for him. The gray metal bay door with matching spray-painted windows went up, and Claussen drove inside.
Stein came out of the office wearing his usual shop apron. His face was taut, as if the skin covering his bony features had shrunk. His hand felt like a leathery vice when they shook.
“Hello, Karl,” Claussen said.
“I thought it was just the mounting pin you wanted. You’re not joking about this resurgence?”
“I have been authorized by Volkov, who holds the same position in the Russian Federation he held in the Soviet Union, to advance you two hundred thousand dollars, with another two hundred thousand to follow, when you have completed your tasks. The Atlanta demonstration, as you will have guessed from the news, was a success. Does that sound like a joke?”
“I’m sick of talk. The world has changed, Walter. It’s cash, or I don’t work. That pin was the last freebie.”
Good, thought Claussen. Stein knew nothing of Volkov’s passing. Good because Stein was afraid of Volkov, always had been. This piece of luck would make dealing with him easier. “Cash or you don’t work? Is that a fact?”
“You heard me. Take the cement job here. Volkov promised me he’d pay for it. I go out, get the bids, arrange the job and what happens? The bastard sends me nothing. So here I am living on a dynamite keg I can’t leave. You know the truth, Walter? He thinks if I sit on it long enough, I’ll get scared and use my own money. I’d rather have my ass thrown into jail.”
“You’re wrong about Volkov, Karl. He has authorized the fifty thousand for the cement job and paid for it up front. The last thing he wants is for his masterpiece from the old days to be discovered. One of your assignments is to get the cementing done while I’m here.”
“The son of a bitch doesn’t trust me? He could have sent me the money last time.”
“Let’s concentrate on the here and now,” Claussen said. He opened the trunk of his car, took out a brown paper bag and passed it to Stein. “Your advance. This should cover your first payment and the cement job.”
Stein dug around in the bundles of banknotes, visibly astounded. “Okay,” he said, holding one of the bundles up to the light. “I apologize for being an
Arschloch
. We’ll have something to eat. The refrigerator’s full of cold cuts. There’s a Polish bakery across the street. He’s a lousy Jew but he makes good rye. When do I get the rest?”
“We should be finished in a couple of days.”
Stein permitted himself a rare smile.
***
After dinner they removed the hidden vault panels and entered the second basement, a level below the regular shop basement. The concrete bunker was as clean as Stein’s apron.
The lighting was good, the air pleasantly dry. Claussen could hear the dehumidification system humming smoothly. Along the walls were labeled bins on stout metal shelves. In appearance, it was a parts inventory like any other.
Looking at it, Claussen shook his head. One could not imagine the amount of work this room represented, productive work, smart work, his work from the time he took over the operation in the late 1970s. Good that it would be used in some small degree before the cement trucks arrived. He was human. When that first plane went down in Atlanta, he felt the satisfaction of a man whose labor has not been in vain.
On the workbench, he booted his laptop computer and inserted Wayne’s inventory CD. The disc with the current inventory of Pratt & Whitney jet engine parts would be next.
While his software searched the Boeing parts inventory for the item he had specified – a set of 767-300 ER engine mounting bolts – he instructed Stein to get the counterfeiter ready.
The somber gray press was a hybrid industrial stamper with multiple dials and settings, a masterpiece of German precision tool making from the pre-computer days. It could flawlessly reproduce the manufacturer’s serial number on any of the 322 modified parts his operation had assembled over its 30-year life span.
The counterfeiter had been built in the early 1960s, but it was designed to accommodate new print faces, characters and number-letter combinations so that it would not become obsolete with the introduction of new aircraft models.
Volkov had sent Dr. Stahlwetter, the man who conceived the device, to Seattle every year until 1990. Working with Stein, he had checked and serviced the machine, then used the tool and die shop to make any new plates needed to keep up with changes in the industry.
Since Stahlwetter’s last visit, there had been no changes in Boeing’s numbering practices. The counterfeiter was thus able to deal with parts for all of the company’s commercial aircraft now in service except the 777, introduced after the collapse of the USSR. Volkov had never activated the sabotage capabilities of Operation Litvyak, so the stamper, while maintained in perfect condition, had not been used until the Atlanta demonstration. Nor would it ever be used again after tonight. What they were doing right now had historical significance. It showed conclusively what might have been if the United States and Soviet Union had ever fought a land war in Europe. For Claussen, this made it an experience worth savoring.
“Ready,” Stein said. “Give me the serial number, then the date code, in that order. We’ll triple check before we imprint.”
Claussen read from the computer screen, jotting down the long numbers as he spoke. He passed the paper to Stein and stood up briskly. “I’ll find the corresponding part.”
The bolts were on the shelf where they had been stored undisturbed for the past 12 years, packaged in groups of four. Claussen carried one package to the workbench. He watched Stein finish up with the settings, check the numbers against those he had jotted down on his sheet of paper and place the first bolt onto the stamping platform. The muscles in his forearms rippled with effort, his veins stood out, the skin over his cheeks drew taut as drum leather.