The Falstaff Enigma (10 page)

Robert Austin's back ached as John Kemp shook his body lightly. The motel bed was far too soft for anyone past his teens. They had arrived in Washington shortly before midnight.

"Wake up.
It's seven and we have a lot to do today."

Kemp's words were unnecessary.
Austin was anxious to get in touch with his wife and the past forty-eight hours of travel had offered no outlet for his nervous energy. "I want you to meet with your wife today, but you have to arrange it the way we discussed earlier," continued the CIA agent.

Austin was already on his feet. “That’s fine. What are you doing today?”

"I'm going to call in some favors to gain access to the FBI's domestic files. There is a man I’ve used before who is very discreet. We need information on Clements and I think he can get it, or at least get some good leads."

"W
hat's our time frame?"

"Let's say we meet in the
lobby at two-thirty this afternoon."

"Mr. Tobin, what a
pleasure to see you again." John Kemp offered his hand to Robert Austin, who immediately stood to greet the field agent.

"You're fifteen minutes late,
Mr. Friedman," replied Austin.

"I'm sorry, I
was busy surveying the area surrounding our current project to ensure that none of the perimeter had been violated."

"I trust you found everything to your satisfaction."

"I did indeed. Now, shall we continue this upstairs?"

"Certainly."
The pair headed up to Kemp’s room.

Austin told Kemp that he had met with his wife and she
had understood the situation. The analyst was not really sure that she did. He had a feeling gnawing at his stomach that she might suspect he was having an affair.
My love, how I wish all were normal and I were with you now.
How could she really believe such a fantastic story as the life her husband now found himself living?

"
Good. I'm glad she understands. You did impress upon her the absolute necessity that she maintain complete ignorance of your whereabouts and current situation?"

"Yes, she'll be able to act the part out well.
After all, she really doesn't know anything. What about you? Any success?”

"Yes.
My man came through. I've got Don Clements' home address." Austin's face reacted to the news with muted joy, but at the same time he was scared. He was about to do something very illegal and that went strongly against his character. He could easily picture himself going to jail.

Kemp continued, "So
get ready to go. It will take about thirty minutes to get there and I want to make a complete analysis of the neighborhood before we meet with him. He could be high up enough in the DIA that his house is watched around the clock."

Slowly Austin came to a realization that he had been unconsciously fighting to repress.
Robert Austin, the intellectual analyst who lived an office existence, was excited at the prospect of embarking on a truly dangerous situation. That excitement was overtaking and beginning to dominate his fear.

"I can't see anything out of the ordinary."
Kemp's experienced eyes had scanned the neighborhood as Austin drove their rented auto randomly through the area. The CIA agent continued, "I give us the green light. Tonight we will learn from Mr. Clements. Hopefully."

The two men spent the next hour at a Burger King a few miles down the road from Don Clements' peaceful residence.
Kemp was delighted. This was the first hamburger he had eaten in months. It was his favorite dish. Austin was astonished at the calmness he perceived in the field agent. He knew that the man in front of him would turn into a cold, emotionless interrogator in a matter of minutes, but now that man was like a thrilled child discovering for the first time the joys of fast food.
Why doesn't he have the butterflies I have?
Austin credited the agent's calmness to experience. But Austin was wrong. The butterflies were there and the experience only allowed John Kemp to hide them from the outside world.

It was six minutes before five
on a Monday afternoon as Austin slowed the car to a halt a block away from Clements' home. The past few minutes of driving had been well used by Kemp to go over the interrogation. As Kemp stepped out of the car, he issued his final commands to Austin: "Park exactly in the spot I showed you and give me one minute after Clements pulls into the driveway before you start your car and come over." Kemp closed the door and stuck his head back into the open passenger side window as Austin nodded his head in acknowledgment.

"Two final things."
Kemp reached into his coat, pulled out a Walther automatic pistol and dropped it onto the seat he had just vacated. "One: If that guy gets the upper hand on me, which I doubt, then get me out of there. That means killing him if you must. Can you do that?"

Austin knew that this was no time to back out or even back off in any way.
"I'll get you out of there if I have to. One way or the other. What's number two?" Austin was stunned by his complicity in the face of Kemp's suggestion.

So was Kemp, but it made him feel good.
Many of his doubts about Austin had been dispelled in three short sentences. "Two is that we may be waiting for hours, so don't fall asleep on me. Take advantage of that radio if you get drowsy. See you soon, I hope." Kemp stood up straight, then stuck his head back in the window. "By the way, we're going to make a decent team, Mr. Austin."

The wait was an hour and a quarter, but
it passed quickly for both men. Don Clements pulled his 1982 BMW up the driveway and into the open carport, accompanied by a high pitched screech of rubber straining to grip pavement. John Kemp waited around the corner in the back yard. He quickly pulled his Swiss sidearm from his belt and released the safety. He was alarmed at Clements' haste. Could he have been forewarned? Kemp wanted nothing out of the ordinary at this point in the operation.

Time dissipated Kemp's immediate concern.
Clements was taking his time getting out of the car and it became apparent to Kemp that the DIA operative just enjoyed driving fast. Clements opened his car door and stepped out with his coat draped over his left forearm and trailing a briefcase in his right hand. He closed the car door with a short rightward thrust of his hip and stepped over to the side door of his house. After a few seconds of fumbling with the key chain in his left hand, he inserted the proper key into the door's dead-bolt lock. John Kemp heard his cue.

"Good evening, Mr. Clements," came the words as Kemp
advanced from behind the corner. The pistol was in full view and pointed at Clements' torso. The man who spent his days in an office tracking Soviet names exhaled sharply. His knees buckled.

"Please continue, Mr. Clements,
I prefer the privacy to be found indoors." Don Clements obeyed. He was not a strong-willed man. Both men walked into the kitchen of the single-story colonial. Kemp left the door open behind him. It was Austin's signal to come in once he arrived.

"Please sit down."
Kemp waved the muzzle of his gun at one of the kitchen table seats. Clements noticed the stubby suppressor attached to the Swiss pistol. It confirmed beyond doubt that he was now the hostage of a professional under the employ of one of the world's governments. But which team did he play for?

"My wife should be home at any time.
Why don't you leave before this gets too complicated," Clements stated, the waver in his voice betraying his fear. The amateur ruse by Clements was not meant to panic his professional abductor but rather to ply the man's mind for the advance knowledge it contained.

"I
didn't know you had gotten married, Mr. Clements." The FBI informant had included the fact that Don Clements was single and lived alone. "You needn't continue with such childish banter. My partner and I ..." Kemp nodded toward Austin as he stepped through the open doorway, "… are not a hit team sent from Moscow. No, nothing so simple as that or you would already be dead.

"We are on an inspection visit, Mr. Clements, and we are
from the home office." Kemp got up and walked out of the kitchen as Clements slumped in his chair. Kemp had just told him that they were from DIA counterintelligence and they were there obviously to interrogate him. Now Don Clements was very scared. Being merely a suspect on a counterintelligence list was often enough to end one's intelligence career, but when one is suspected to the point that men are sent to interrogate him in his own home then one might be lucky if he were allowed to resign.

"This can't be serious.
I'm the most loyal person in this country." Clements' pleas were directed at Austin, but Austin did not react. By agreement, he was to be the silent partner in this operation. Suddenly, music could be heard from another room and it was drawing closer to the kitchen. Seconds later Kemp walked in with a speaker in his hand. The music was intended to overwhelm any listening devices that might be present.

Kemp pulled a chair to within four feet of
Clements and went into action. "You're not carrying a weapon, are you?"

"No, of course not," Clements
replied.

John
Kemp relaxed in his chair as Robert Austin took up a position off to the side of Clements. Kemp knew, like Austin, that no civilian employee could take any weapon in or out of a DIA facility and Clements had just come from the office. Kemp continued his preliminary questioning. "Were you going anywhere tonight?"

Clements shook his head.
"No."

"Please don't lie to me."

Clements raised his voice a bit. "Look, I'm not an idiot. All I was going to do was watch a baseball game, read a magazine and go to sleep." Kemp's face was passive. "That's it. Nothing more."

"Good.
Do you know what we are here for?"

“No, I don’t. I’ve done nothing that would have brought my name into question. You
tell me what you are here for.”

"Talk to me about
Marshal Ivan Vazhnevsky."

"Vazhnevsky?
I've already gone through this with the committee." Clements did not want to talk about this subject. He felt bold. "I want authorization from Colton before we continue with this."

The sentence had not completely left the personnel tracker's mouth
before Kemp reacted to this direct challenge. Kemp knew this moment would come and knew what he wanted to do. He was determined to gain control of the situation up front. In one motion he stood up and pulled his pistol from his belt. He leaned forward and grabbed Clements by the tie with his left hand and placed the muffled barrel of the Swiss pistol on the middle of Clements' forehead.

"Forget ab
out your rules, Mr. Clements." John Kemp was staring at the prisoner in his grasp with merciless eyes that burned with anger. ''You are now playing a game where the penalty for stepping out of line is death – your death. You will answer my questions or I will kill you here and now, and I guarantee that there won't be so much as a police investigation. Do we understand each other?"

Don Clements was quivering throughout
his body, especially his hands. He tried to utter the word "yes" but could not force the word from his lips. He gave a slight upward lift of his head. Kemp recognized the action to be exactly what it was. He relaxed his grip and sat back down, returning his weapon to its resting place.

Austin was amazed at both the coldness of Kemp and the cruelty of his action. But he admitted to himself the
effectiveness of Kemp’s move.

"Now, tell me about
Marshal Vazhnevsky."

There was a minute of silence as Cl
ements regained some composure. "He disappeared a few days before May Day. He was last seen in Kiev boarding a military transport aircraft for Moscow. Since then I've had only one respectable lead. It came on May sixth and was filtered in through West German intelligence. The report was that Vazhnevsky had a heart attack on the flight to Moscow and died. I consider the reliability of this to be doubtful for two reasons. One is that I don't trust German intelligence and two is that if this were true there would be absolutely no reason whatsoever for the Soviets to cover it up. On the contrary, the Kremlin would have ordered a hero's burial.

"There's another factor which makes that explanation unlikely. I had a source high up in
Vazhnevsky's Ukrainian command. He had proven his value and reliability to me beyond question. I was eager to hear from him as soon as I learned of the general's disappearance. Late in the day Washington time on May first I found out that my source had been killed in an auto accident in Kiev. The official story was that his car was hit by a drunken driver. I think it's obvious in this situation that my source was killed as a result of some broader plan that centered on Vazhnevsky."

"Were you able to learn anything about your source's accident?"

"Nothing. All that anyone knew came from Pravda."

"Do you think Vazhnevsky was killed?"
Kemp continued.