Mary Dear - Redux Read online

  ‘What things got started?’

  ‘Well it so happened that the DEA’s office in New York had asked the CIA if they had anything on Blanco, and it transpired that the Agency had been keeping an eye on him because of a recent trip he’d made to Moscow to meet some Russian mafia involved in drugs and prostitution so, when in 2006 Blanco came to New York on one of his usual trips, the CIA went to interview him and Garrett asked Bland to tag along and this is where it gets interesting.’

  Milton told Dwayne about how Blanco received them in his suite. It was routine, they’d told him, and he had been able to satisfy them by answering all their questions in an assured manner and backing his answers with cast iron alibis.

  ‘Now I’m guessing but here’s what I figure happened. Bland’s not a rich guy but I’ve since found out he likes fine things; things he can’t afford. Blanco was staying at his usual hotel, the Carlyle...you been there? No...? Well it’s really something, you know, swanky...it would not escape Blanco if Bland was impressed with his lavish surroundings and I bet he figured he’d be mighty useful if he could put him on the payroll. They probably gave him their cards; it’s normal procedure in case he remembered something and felt he could not live without getting it off his chest, know what I mean? It’s only my guess, but I’d bet a year’s pay that he called Bland, had a meeting and recruited him. Well, what do you think?’

  Dwayne was taking all this in and wondering where it might be leading and how, or if, it might fit in with the new Presidential candidate when Milton said:

  ‘Anyway, I decided to stick with Bland and, just yesterday I followed him when he took a walk in Central Park. He met a guy I didn’t recognize but who looked strangely familiar; I could not swear to it but I would not mind betting if was Blanco in some sort of disguise. They spoke for a minute and Bland handed him an envelope. The following day I staked out the Carlyle and at around eleven Blanco came out. I tailed him; his driver took him to Sotheby’s.’

  Dwayne thought this over. ‘Okay... so he goes to Sotheby’s. So what? He’s got business there; he buys, he sells… still, I don’t know...stick with it, Mil; let’s see where this leads.’

  Esteban Blanco met with Bland and it was clear to him that his new employee was eager to cooperate and show he was worth what he was paying him. Bland had been right on the money on the information about Renfrew; now Blanco wondered what the hell else he had come up with that was making him so excited; he just wasn’t expecting him to come up with something this fantastical.

  ‘Esteban’ he began ‘I think I know of a way to make you a lot of money’ he paused to see how this was going down but Esteban looked short on patience so he went on ‘I have a nephew who’s a scientist working with Tim Mitchell on the SDI programme, you know...?’

  ‘Hold on’ Esteban cut in ‘who’s this Mitchell guy and what’s this SDI bullshit?’

  Bland looked almost affronted ‘Tim Mitchell? He’s one of the top five scientists in his field in the world today. He was the former NASA chief engineer and the Bush administration’s choice that replaced acting director Fred Gregory. He’s in charge of the Strategic Defence Initiative Organization today.’

  Blanco appeared none the wiser so Bland explained some recent history to him. All about how back in ‘83 President Ronald Reagan had proposed SDI, or the so-called ‘Star Wars’. The system focused on strategic defence rather than the prior strategic offence doctrine of mutual assured destruction that went by the aptly named acronym MAD.

  Blanco nodded to go on, he’d not known any of this before but listening a bit more wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘I know you have contacts in the Russian mafia,’ Bland went on ‘and they have their contacts in the KGB.’

  Bland pointed out how they could use American and Russian paranoia to make some serious money. He pointed out that since the fall of the Soviet Union the Kremlin had remained as focused as ever on their old enemy the U.S.A., and on building their own Star Wars defence system—and this required first class intelligence. Bland told Blanco that the Americans and the Russians each wanted as much information as possible on each other’s version of SDI and the Soviets were prepared to pay big bucks for it.

  ‘I figure I can get the inside track on how far they’ve got on the SDI research and do a deal with your friends in Moscow.’

  ‘Just how do you propose to get your nephew, what’s his name, to cooperate? I mean he’s hardly going to hand over top-secret information just because you’re his uncle.’

  ‘Hell no, I know Ian. He’s got a trophy wife with expensive tastes; she’s a bit of a bimbo. He’s bellyached about it to me in the past often enough, he’s always saying, “who the hell does she think I am? Donald-fucking-Trump?”.’

  Blanco thought it over. What the fuck have I done? Employed a nutcase that’s what, but he said: ‘Okay, talk to your nephew, see if he’ll bite.’

  Bland decided it was time to put his proposition to his nephew but he had to do it somewhere away from Ian’s home. There was no point letting Ian’s wife, Laura, know what he was up to. He called Ian at his home. Laura answered the phone.

  ‘Hi Laura, it’s Richard, how are you?’

  Laura took a second to place the voice. She had not seen or heard from her husband’s uncle since the last Thanksgiving when Richard had put in an unexpected appearance.

  ‘Hi Richard,’ she said, ‘it’s been a long time...’

  ‘Yeah I know. I’m bad at keeping in touch but I thought I’d take that husband of yours out for a change. Got some tickets to a Yankees game and I know he’d like to go if he’s free. Is he in?’

  ‘For a Yankees game he’d cancel his funeral’ she laughed. ‘Hold on, I’ll get him.’

  Bland heard Laura calling her husband and, soon after, Ian was on the line.

  ‘Uncle Richard, this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘Didn’t Laura tell you?’

  ‘No, she said she’d leave you to tell me. Said something about not wanting to ruin the surprise. What surprise?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that I have two tickets for the Yankees-Red Sox game and...’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘No. It’s next Saturday if you’re not too busy?’

  ‘No, I’m not busy, and yes I’d love to go. Thank you. Where do we meet?’

  ‘Come to my place and leave your car. I’ll drive us to the Bronx, we’ll grab a quick bite to eat before the game and have dinner afterwards. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Like Christmas come early. Thanks Uncle Richard, I owe you.’ They chatted a few more minutes and then said good bye.

  The game was scheduled to start at 7.05 and Ian arrived at his uncle’s apartment on Riverside Drive, in plenty of time. It was only five minutes to the stadium by car on a good day. Ian walked into the apartment block and spoke to the man in reception who called up to Bland’s apartment and announced him.

  ‘It’s on the fifteenth floor, apartment 151. The elevators are just there,’ he said pointing to a bank of six elevators off the main lobby.

  ‘Hi Ian, come in,’ Bland said when he answered the knock on his door.

  Ian walked into the smart apartment. He admired his uncle. He knew a little of what he did, but in reality, that was exactly what Bland wanted him to know.

  ‘Drink?’ Bland said.

  ‘Bourbon please.’

  ‘Jack Daniels okay?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  Bland got busy with the drinks and Ian went over to the massive plate-glass window to admire the panoramic view over the Hudson.

  ‘Great place you have here, Uncle Richard. Laura would kill for a place like this.’

  ‘Yeah well, you have a great place too.’

  ‘Try telling that to Laura.’

  Bland was already familiar with tales of Laura but he was not going to spring the news he had for him just yet.

  After the game, which was a resounding win for the Yankees, they left Richard’s box and wen
t to have dinner in Bland’s favourite restaurant whenever he went to see a game and didn’t fancy hot dogs or nachos in the Yankee Stadium concession stands.

  Bland was driving and heading south.

  ‘Where are we eating?’ Ian said.

  ‘You like chicken?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Charles’ Southern Style Kitchen. It’s a great place and it’s near here, which is good, because I’m starving,’ Bland said turning right at towards the 145th Street Bridge.

  After a few more twists and turns they arrived at 2841 Frederick Douglass Boulevard. The place was crowded and the smell of food was delicious. They found a table and after a quick look at the menu they ordered their food.

  When it arrived, the chicken was moist and tasty; they accompanied it with French fries and a side dish of salad that they shared. They were drinking beer.

  ‘Good Ian?’

  ‘Delicious, this is a great place,’ he said, tucking into a piece of chicken.

  ‘Well it’s not fancy but the chicken is the best I’ve found in New York.’

  The evening had gone the way Bland had expected and now he decided he could broach the subject he’d been dying to talk about.

  ‘So Ian, how’s life?’

  Ian knew what his uncle was asking. The last time he’d seen him had been at Thanksgiving. Ian had had a blazing row with his wife before leaving home to go to their parent’s house, and by the time they got there, their mood had not improved. Bland had taken his nephew aside and Ian had told him all his troubles at home.

  ‘Life is pretty much the same as when we last spoke. Laura...well, you know Laura.’

  Bland could see that a cloud had descended over Ian. One moment he’d been a happy guy out for a relaxing evening and now he’d been reminded about the reality of his life. So Bland pressed him.

  ‘I know Laura. What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, Uncle Richard, I think I just can’t afford her and she’s so unreasonable. I mean, she knows what I earn and I’m punching well over my limit.’

  ‘How much trouble are you in, Ian?’

  Ian paused for a second, looking at his plate. He wondered why his uncle was asking these questions but he knew that, if anyone could help him, his uncle was that man.

  ‘A lot. Credit cards are maxed to the limit and I’m borrowed out. Tell you the truth I’m not sure what I’m going to do.’

  Bland paused for a moment. This had to be said just right.

  ‘You tried talking to your boss? Maybe get a raise?’

  ‘No. There have been a few cuts in the department and to tell you the truth I’m lucky to still have a job. The market’s pretty bad right now, if I lost my job that would be it.’ Ian seemed to shudder at the prospect.

  ‘There’s a way you could make enough money to clear all your debts and have enough to keep Laura happy for the rest of your life.’

  Ian could not believe what he’d just heard and was wondering what his uncle could mean.

  ‘That would be a miracle. What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ll have coffee in my place and then I’ll tell you.’

  All the way back to Bland’s place Ian had tried to get his uncle to tell him what he meant but all he’d say was he’d tell him when they got home. Ian was beginning to believe that salvation might be around the corner and that was exactly what his uncle wanted him to think.

  They were in Bland’s apartment and he had poured a brandy each before settling into his armchair. Ian was looking at the glass in his hand and wondering what was coming.

  ‘How far would you go to get out of the shit, Ian?’

  The question took him by surprise. It sounded as if something extraordinary would be required but there was a hint that it might also not be entirely on the level.

  ‘How far? Pretty far. The fact is I love Laura despite her demands and the fights. It’s only the money. If I had enough we’d be happy; so I guess I would be prepared to go pretty far. What do you mean though? You’re not suggesting I rob a bank?’ he joked.

  ‘No Ian, that will not be necessary but, what I’m going to suggest is not without risk.’

  Bland explained what Ian would have to do and what the rewards would be. In a nutshell he was to give away his country’s secrets and would get a small fortune in return. That was treason or high treason or fucking madness but he was desperate and this was a once in a lifetime opportunity or an opportunity that he might live to regret for a lifetime.

  ‘Okay, Uncle Richard, what do I have to do?’

  Bland breathed a sigh of relief and realized he had not been at all certain what his nephew’s reaction would be despite all his bold talk with Blanco.

  The plan was risky but straightforward. When Bland and his nephew needed to communicate it was easy, after all there’s still no law saying that family members cannot talk to each other. Blanco and Bland would then have a meeting in some out of the way place where they could discuss the nature of the information on offer. In order to get it to the buyer a simple plan was implemented. When there was valuable information to be sold, Bland would convert it into a microdot and he would give it to Blanco who would then fix it to one of the icons that he had bought. Blanco would then put the icon with the microdot up for sale where it would be bought by one of his colleague’s contacts in Moscow acting as a middleman and posing as a collector of Russian art. From there the information was sold to the KGB. A certain element of trust was needed—after all, he would get paid after they had got what they wanted, but he felt that no sensible buyer would double-cross him and cut off an invaluable supply line.

  The very next sale at Sotheby’s was soon to take place in New York and Esteban Blanco was in town for it. Milton’s information meant that whatever was going on was connected to the icons. That meant he had to get his hands on them somehow so he decided to enlist the cooperation of the Art Crime Team. This small team of a dozen agents was set up in 2004 and is based at FBI Headquarters in Washington, D.C.. Milton called Andy Schwartz, one of the agents, and told him he needed his services. He told him that he was part of an ongoing investigation and could not go near the icons because it could tip off the people he was after. He needed to know what was special about these icons and Andy was the best man for the job. The director in charge of the Sotheby’s sale was delighted to cooperate to get the matter resolved as soon as possible—and without anything leaking to the press, spoiling what was likely to be one of the best auctions on the calendar.

  Andy borrowed the icons for the next sale and sent them to a specialist department who had no difficulty in finding the microdot. On this occasion it named an agent in Budapest, a link in a chain feeding information to the CIA on the progress that the Russians were making on their own Star Wars project. They knew the KGB would make sure that the chain was broken.

  It was decided not to tamper with the microdot but to pull the agent in question before the KGB could get their hands on him.

  The Russian Embassy’s reception in Baiza Street, Budapest, had been a lavish affair. At just after nine thirty Robert Waynard thanked his host for a delightful evening and set off to walk the short distance to his apartment in Révay Street.

  Waynard’s housekeeper, Mrs Day, answered the doorbell to find a gentleman with a white stick and sunglasses standing outside the front door.

  ‘Can I help you sir?’

  ‘Is this the home of Robert Waynard?’ The gentleman asked.

  ‘Yes sir, but I am afraid that he’s not in. Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Not exactly, he and I are old school friends. I saw him three years ago before the accident...’ he said pointing to his glasses...‘I’m here for a special lecture at the university and got his address from the British Embassy.’

  ‘I’m so sorry sir. Do please forgive my manners; would you care to come in and wait for him, I’m expecting him soon.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ replied the blind man.

 
The visitor swept the cane left to right, tapping the doorframe on both sides to get his bearings, and stepped into the hall.

  ‘Most kind, I hope I’m not inconveniencing you, if you have anyone with you I’ll be happy to wait for him until he arrives and let you get on.’

  ‘Don’t you worry sir, I’m quite alone I’ll just close the door and take you into the sitting room.’

  Mrs Day turned and closed the door. She died before getting a chance to say another word, her neck broken. He held her with one arm to stop her falling to the floor while he looked around for a suitable place to deposit her body. There was a broom cupboard next to the cloakroom that he opened with his free hand. He lifted her into it—her small frame fit perfectly—and he shut the door.

  Grigori went around the apartment quickly opening the doors to all the rooms on the ground floor. He soon found Waynard’s study. It was a comfortable narrow room; as you entered, the walls on either side housed an impressive collection of books that were shelved from floor to ceiling. There were library steps on the left and two comfortable armchairs either side of a small coffee table, in front of the fireplace that had been lit by the housekeeper in preparation for her master’s arrival. At the end of the study, directly opposite the door, there was a beautiful Queen Anne desk with a leather blotter and an old cigar box on top. The reading lamp on the desk was switched off; the only light was the one flickering from the cheery flames as they crackled and popped on the hearth.

  Behind the desk there was a green leather button-back library chair that looked like a modern reproduction and was at odds with the rest of the décor. The room was welcoming and smelled of leather and expensive cigars. Alexei noted the heavy floor to ceiling curtains that, when drawn, formed an alcove with the bay window. He stepped behind the curtains, drew them tightly shut and settled down to await Waynard’s arrival.

  He did not have long to wait, fifteen minutes or so before he heard the sound of the front door opening and a voice calling for Mrs Day as Rupert Waynard took his coat off and hung it on the coat stand followed by his white silk scarf.