Frank was leaning over, speaking very quietly to Karen. Her head was cocked a bit to one side, eyes on Frank’s mouth. She blinked once, then said something that looked like ‘Okay.’
Frank did an about-face and returned to his office. Karen put her thumb on her temple, fingers on her forehead and elbow on her desk. Then she saw me peeking from my doorway. She smiled and shook her head.
Mission accomplished.
Before leaving, I wanted to check on the status of Gansükh. I called my CIA contact. It hadn’t taken long for the Ukrainians to take advantage of their opportunity. Gansükh would no longer be a problem. That was good to know. One potential threat from my past had been extinguished.
Unfortunately, the CIA had no idea how Gansükh had found Sara in the first place. So that remained an open question.
Time to leave the office.
"Another day, another dollar," I announced as I strode for the door. "Please take messages. Carry on. As you were."
And… I… was… out!
CHAPTER 23
Farris had lived on the farm for a little less than a month. Time flew when he was working in the lab, and dragged endlessly when he had to interact with the others.
By this time, he had completed preliminary purification of the potash. The large lean-to now covered two sizeable piles of dry chemicals.
The pile nearest to the lab was almost pure potassium chloride. It was white, made up of small clear crystals, and sat on the clean part of the concrete slab — the part that had not been contaminated by the raw potash.
The other was the waste pile. It consisted of mixed iron powders, salt crystals and a few miscellaneous trace chemicals that Farris had extracted from the raw potash. The waste mound sat in the center of the lean-to, actually on top of an area where the potash had previously lain. But since it was all waste material anyway, the extra impurities wouldn’t matter. The waste pile resembled a huge, multi-color marbled Dairy Queen creation.
Farris summoned Urland and Brenda and informed them that it was their responsibility to clear away the waste pile. He needed the room for storing containers of finished product. This wasn’t technically true. Actually, the pure potassium would be kept safely out of the weather, inside the enclosed lab. But the waste pile project would keep the Umbers out of his hair.
Farris distributed to each of the Umbers a 3M fabric face mask. These masks would protect them from the chemical dust as they shoveled and wheel barrowed the waste to its destination. The waste material needed to be dumped in a specific area, away from the buildings, and not in a ditch where it might be washed away by gushing rain water. He couldn’t allow colorful pollutants running down the gully to the neighboring creek to draw unwanted attention to their little enterprise.
Farris selected the perfect waste disposal area, about a hundred yards from the lab, and just slightly uphill. That should keep them busy.
Brenda and Urland looked back and forth between the waste pile and its intended destination.
"Well Brenda. If it’s gotta be done, it’s gotta be done."
More standing and looking.
"The shovel is right here and the wheel barrow is in the garage," Farris offered, then headed into the relative serenity of the lab.
Tomorrow, Farris hoped to begin the truly dangerous part of this project — electrolysis of gaseous potassium chloride. He had set up the professor’s invention and it looked pretty good. If it worked as well for him as it had for the professor, he should be able to produce a sizeable amount of pure potassium — given time, fuel, and a lot of electricity.
CHAPTER 24
It was 10:30 in the evening and John had just finished watching the evening news in his recliner when the phone rang.
For John, receiving any telephone call at all was unusual. To receive one this late in the evening was unprecedented. He checked the caller ID. "Unknown Name. Unknown Number."
"Yeah?" he said, answering the call.
"John Sigler?" a man’s voice asked. The man had a Midwestern U.S. dialect.
"Who wants to know?"
"Don’t get smart. You know who I represent, and I need some answers."
John was still baffled. The caller must be from Al Qaeda. But the accent…. Who did they have in this area?
"Okay. This is John," he said. "What do you need?"
"Well first off, what the hell is going on with the truck-jackings? We knew you needed fertilizer. But two trucks?"
"The first one was a mistake by one of the dopes you assigned to help me with this thing. I can’t help it if they don’t know shit from Shinola!"
"Well for god’s sake, have you got what you need now? Or am I going to be hearing about more stolen fertilizer?"
"We’re set at this point," John said tentatively. He still couldn’t figure out the caller’s connection to the operation.
"I sure as hell hope so. Now… I’ve got something else you need to know.
"There’s been a lawyer named Becker nosing around the professor’s murder. Seems he’s a bit more than just a lawyer, though. Some sort of military background. We were able to divert him for a while. But he’s back in town and may be lookin’ to cause us trouble. So keep your head down and your eyes open. Got it?"
"Who is this exactly?"
"This is the person who’s been assigned to watch your ass and make sure everything happens like it’s s’posed to. You’ll probably be hearing from me again before we’re through."
John was confused. He had understood that he was in charge of the operation. He didn’t like being second-guessed on every move.
"So do you have things under control?" the man asked with a bark. "Or do I need to intervene?"
"Oh, I’ve got everything under control all right," John replied. "Just make sure that your ass-watching doesn’t get in our way!"
"You do your job and you won’t have problems from me. Just don’t steal any more goddamn trucks!"
"You done?" John was hot.
"Yeah, I’m done. Just keep this thing moving. We’ve got a schedule, ya know."
"Got it," John said, and hung up the phone.
What the hell was Al Qaeda up to? Could he trust them to complete the attack on the nuke? They had been pretty decent to deal with so far. But now this call? He needed to give it all some thought.
John shut off the TV and went to bed. It was a fitful night’s sleep at the Sigler residence.
CHAPTER 25
It had now been more than a month since the murder. Maybe my gut had been wrong. I’d been wrong before.
Well, not really — at least not when it came to terrorism.
When one is stumped, I have found that it sometimes helps to look at things from a new angle.
I called for Bull.
A woman answered. "Who shall I say is calling?"
"George Armstrong Custer."
"One moment, Mr. Custer."
Bull’s voice came on the line. "Ready for another whuppin’ General?"
"Not today, Chief. I still have an arrowhead in my gluteus from the last time. How about a plane ride?"
"Your plane or mine?"
Bull. Always the comedian.
"Um, since I don’t have a plane, how about yours?"
"Sounds like fun," Bull said, "or is this business?"
"A little of both."
We decided on a time to meet at the airport and hung up.
I wondered how Bull occupied his time when he wasn’t in my company. He always seemed to be available for my calls, and was willing to participate in my escapades regardless of their apparent foolishness. I’d have to ask him some day.