CHAPTER 12
Back at Becker Law Office, I was finishing up some legal work that my wayward adventures had delayed. It was about four p.m. when my intercom beeped.
My receptionist’s voice announced, "Mr. Becker, it’s Mrs. Becker on Line 1 for you."
"Thank you, Debbie," I said, as I answered the call.
"Hi, Beth. What’s up?"
"Thank God you were there to answer!"
There was panic in her voice.
"What’s the matter?"
"Sara just sent me a text. She thinks someone’s following her around campus. I tried to reach her on the video-conferencing setup, but no answer."
Our daughter, Sara, was attending college out of state.
"Beth. Relax. Breathe. It’s probably nothing. I’ll be home in a few minutes. Try to calm down. We’ll figure everything out when I get there.
"Love you. Bye."
I would have stayed on the line with Beth on my way home from the office, but frankly, I was just as likely to cause more distress as I was to alleviate any. Thankfully, there was no such thing as congested traffic in Red Wing and I would be home shortly.
During the brief drive, my mind vacillated. Was this a real threat? Or just a young adult’s active imagination. There certainly were those who might seek revenge against me for some of my prior intelligence activities. That is precisely why pains had been taken to hide my true identity while I was on Agency business. It is also why our daughters had received training from the Agency on how to identify potential threats, and what to do if they perceived danger.
Both girls were smart, strong, active, athletic, and trained in self-defense. I had seen to the last part. But there was no way to be sure about the current situation with the little information I had at present.
As I approached Jefferson Avenue, I tried to relax. Clear my mind. Be calm. Help Beth be calm. Panic never helps anything.
The Pilot rapidly decelerated to a stop. I jumped out, raced up our sidewalk and steps, and continued through the front door. Beth was sitting in the living room on the red leather couch with her head in her hands. She looked up at me. I could tell she’d been crying, but she had made herself stop. She knew the same things about clearheadedness and calm that I knew. She was controlling her emotions.
"Thank God, you’re home!"
She stood as I entered, ran over, and flung her arms around my shoulders. We held each other for a moment.
"Okay. Let’s sit and catch our breath," I said, as calmly as I could muster. My heart was beating in my throat.
We sat together on the edge of the couch, facing each other.
"This is probably nothing," I said. "But obviously, we have to treat it seriously. I need you to tell me everything you know, everything Sara said in her text, and what, if anything, has changed since we spoke on the phone."
Beth took a deep breath, holding back more tears that fought for release. Marshaling her resources, she gave me her report.
"First of all… what has changed since we last spoke….
"I returned a text message to Sara telling her to be extra careful and that you and I would discuss things and get back to her as soon as possible. I didn’t want to cause any panic."
"Good. She knows we’re in the loop. That knowledge alone should make her feel better."
"I’m afraid I have nothing else new. But here’s Sara’s text," she said, handing me her SmartPhone. I accepted the phone from Beth, holding it in my right hand, with my left arm around her shoulders.
As I manipulated the phone with my thumb, the digital screen displayed the following message:
M&D,
Please don’t freak out or worry or anything. But I was told to contact you if I felt uncomfortable about any situation. So that’s what I’m doing. I’m texting because I’m in the library and can’t use the video link. At least I can still use my laptop. If I had to use my thumbs, you would need to decode this message twice. Ha.
Good. She still had a sense of humor.
I’m texting you because I think a man may have been following me around campus for the last couple days. Maybe I’m being paranoid or something. But I have seen him in the caf, at the library and in the fitness center. Whenever I look his way, he pretends to be reading a book, or listening to music, or whatever.
Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But the guy doesn’t look like a college kid, you know? He has too many rough edges, if that makes any sense. And I can’t find his picture in the college snoop book either.
He has a sort of oriental look. But not like my Chinese or Japanese friends. More prominent cheek bones maybe. He could almost be Native American; but I still think probably oriental, because of his eyes. He’s maybe five foot ten and pretty muscular, about 190 pounds. Black hair, jeans, usually white shirts, running shoes. Sorry I can’t describe him better.
I thought she had given a very detailed description. That would help a lot.
Oh yeah… he has a large tattoo on his right forearm. We were both working out and he was wearing a T-shirt. I saw it clearly, even from twenty feet away. Not that some guys here don’t have tattoos, because they do. But this looked different. Not typical college guy stuff. Or even fake gangster ink. It contained three letters that looked to me like: capital "O," number "6" and small "r." But they didn’t look exactly right — like some sort of archaic script or something.
Below the lettering was an image of a sword with a snake wrapped around it. And it looked as though he had had the tat for awhile. It had bled and faded some. Sorry I can’t do better.
It’s probably nothing. But just to be safe, until I hear back from you, I’ll try to stay with at least one friend all the time when I’m not in a very public place. And I’ll be totally careful. So don’t worry.
Lots of love,
Sara
I looked up from the screen.
When Beth saw I had finished reading, she asked, "Does this message mean anything to you?" There was a hint of quaver in her voice. "I can’t make any connections with the tattoo or the oriental look."
I paused a few seconds, assessing Beth’s emotional capacity at the moment. She could handle what I was about to tell her.
"I’m afraid it does mean something to me," I said.
"What Sara interpreted as ‘O-6-r’ on the tattoo, is likely ‘O-B-G’ in Russian, or Cyrillic, lettering. Mongolians have the sort of facial features Sara describes."
"So you recognize those initials?" Beth asked. "Or a Mongolian connection?"
I looked directly into Beth’s eyes, holding her hands in mine.
"The letters stand for Ovog Borjigin Gansükh. The English translation would be something like ‘Gansükh of the Borjigin Clan.’
"Gansükh used to be a prominent Mongolian gun dealer. At one time, Gansükh headed perhaps the largest private arms brokerage in the world. He had hundreds, maybe thousands, of minions. All of them wore that tattoo. I played a substantial role in putting him out of business. In the process, I probably also made his life a bit… uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable? How exactly?" Her expression betrayed her concern.
"My Team commandeered a freighter in the Indian Ocean near the horn of Africa. The cargo consisted of 30,000 crates of small arms, mostly Russian-made Kalashnikov assault rifles and grenade launchers, together with a lot of ammunition. The shipment was en route from the Ukraine, via the Black Sea and Suez Canal, to a ruthless rebel group in Kenya. The Kenyan rebels and Ukrainians were well-established trading partners at the time.
"With regard to this particular shipment, the Kenyans had paid half in advance, with the rest due on arrival. When the ship disappeared at sea, each trading partner suspected Gansükh of making off with the goods. Since my Team had blown up the ship with no witnesses, Gansükh was screwed. He couldn’t recover the arms, and he couldn’t afford to repay the Kenyans or the Ukrainians. Given the reputations of his two trading partners, I would have assumed that Gansükh would be long dead by now."