Chasing Jenny: A Philatelic Mystery

9781483511078

Prologue

Smokey was jittery.

I don’t really like this, Butch. I sure don’t.

Butch stopped leaning over the box, turned slowly toward his work partner, took an unlit Camel from between his lips and exhaled like a broken steam pipe.

What are you talking about? Butch asked, not really wanting this kid to answer.

And before Smokey – one hand stuck in his pocket, the other scrabbling through his thick, dark hair – could answer, Butch spoke.

This ain’t nothin’, said Butch, who at 21, was the senior man on the job with nearly three years in. The boss don’t care.

Butch, tall and skin-and-bones and, like Smokey, wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt gone smudged and dirty, stuck the cigarette back in his mouth and waved his arm at no one in particular.

They don’t care, he said. Why the hell should you? Now, you deal with yours and I deal with mine. Now shut up, we only have a few minutes.

Dim light in the musty garage meant touching worked better than looking. It was quicker. Butch reached into the box, moved his fingers around and pulled something out.

Crap, just a playing card. Lookit that, the ace of Spades, Butch said. I felt something smooth, though.

Butch reached back in and pulled out a pocket watch.

Gold, I think, Butch said, holding it inches from his eye. He turned it over in his grimy hands. He could barely make out some writing, so he walked under one of the garage’s hanging light bulbs and tilted the watch to see better.

To Mr. Bailey, it read. But Butch, having only a fourth-grade education, read it as Mr. Bell.

Up ... on ... his ... re ... re ... re-tar ... ment, read Butch, squinting in the dim light. Con ... con ... I dunno. Con-something from the ... Southern Railroad.

Butch put the lid back on the box.

Come over here and help me secure this thing tight, Butch said over his shoulder.

Well, I ain’t done over here, said Smokey, as he struggled with a box. I ain’t really got this opened yet.

Well, shit, Smokey, we don’t have forever. Old man Baker don’t care, but he also don’t wanna see us doin’ it.

Butch, who would be dead three years later after a bar fight and long after he pawned the watch, reached for an overhead light attached to a long pole. He swiveled it toward Smokey.

Smokey, just 17, was medium-sized but had some muscles, which is why he was hired to load and move the boxes. He didn’t finish high school, didn’t much care about education, and was just biding time before he joined the Army in a couple of months. After a 20-year stint, including a hellish 18 months in a godforsaken place called Vietnam, he would end up working as a mechanic for the state highway department.

Smokey wasn’t smart and came from a poor family, but he was no thief, and what he and Butch were doing gave him pause. He imagined his minister – the Right Rev. Billy Ray Mathias – would blast a heavenly load of fire and brimstone his way if he saw what was happening here.

Smokey shuddered. Then he took a quick intake of breath and looked away in shame (You’re a dirty thief, he could hear his mother scolding).

Butch swung the pole holding the light a little so the viewing was better. It was still dim.

Come on, boy, Butch prompted, glancing toward the garage doors. Get moving, we don’t have a lot of time.

OK, OK, Smokey said. He couldn’t see that well into the box, which was smaller than the one Butch had looked into. He saw a couple of objects on the top, snatched them and yanked out his hand.

You set? Butch asked.

Smokey looked at his slightly shaking hand and saw a small box.

Smokey opened the box and squinted. Inside was a small envelope, the size that fancy ladies used to write invitations to garden parties and such, and a locket on a delicate chain. The light was bad but he was sure there was some red in the locket. (Maybe a ruby?)

Smokey held the envelope. He took a quick look and saw it was hand-addressed to My Dearest Love. He opened it. He couldn’t make out the writing, but there was a handwritten note on simple white paper.

You ready yet, boy? coaxed Butch with an edge in his voice.

He nervously snapped the little box shut and stuck it in a pants pocket.

Shit, you can look at it later, Butch said. I hear the boss coming.

Smokey stuffed the paper back into the envelope and tossed it back into the big box.

OK, all set, Smokey said.

Butch turned quickly and slammed the cover back on the box.

Great, let’s get these suckers locked up and ready to go, Butch said.

The two young men busied themselves with the boxes as they heard the dull rumble of the boss’s vehicle backing up to the garage door. The boss raised the door and bright morning light shone in the young men’s faces.

Hey, boys, the boss said as Butch and Smokey squinted. OK, I’m here for the big one. Help me load it.

Chapter 1 (The Frenchman Arrives)

Je suis arrive, the man said into the phone.

Right on time. I like that, said the voice on the other end.

Oui. Il n’ya pas longtemps, the man said. Je suis a l’aerport.

Bon. It certainly sounds like an airport, the other man said, acknowledging the background noise at the other end. Do you have my letter with instructions?

Oui.

Good, said the old man on the other end. Just follow those instructions. It’s all self-explanatory.

The men felt that using the old-fashioned post was safer than the instant speed of the Internet. No one’s attaching electronic cookies and bits of code to trace paper envelopes, the American argued.

Tres bien, said the Frenchman.

Check in with me after step one, the voice on the other side said.

Oui, je veux.

Oh, and one last thing, said the American. Lose the French.

Pardon? asked the Frenchman, the nasal n disappearing in the pronunciation.

The French, said Albie Conlin, the old Navy veteran. Your language. Switch to English. You won’t be able to hide the accent, but most Americans won’t be absolutely sure. They might think you are Canadian or Spanish or even something else. Go get a quick tan and we’ll call you Haitian, eh?

The Frenchman closed his eyes and kept a momentary silence to consider the directive.

OK, he said. Is that how you say it?

Well done, mon ami. Now we’re in business, Conlin said. Are you prepared? For anything?

Oui, the Frenchman responded. Oh, I mean, yes.

Conlin rolled his eyes (stupid Frog, he thought), then refocused.

Ring me when you are on the bus so I know you are on schedule. Then I can tell you how to find the right car. We’ll talk again sometime after you get here.

Why did I not just fly there? the Frenchman asked. Certainly, a city even as small as Syracuse, New York, has an airport.

Of course it does, Conlin replied. It’s just to help keep your trail a little fuzzy. It’s for your own good. You know, just in case ...

The Frenchman considered the point, realizing the man on the other end likely didn’t much care about his good, but merely was watching out for his own derriere.

Bon, ummm, pardon, I mean, OK, the Frenchman replied.

The men hung up.

It’s a go, Conlin said softly as he rubbed his cool hand across his forehead. He opened the drawer of the hotel room nightstand and stashed the cheap, prepaid cell phone. There was nothing to hide yet, so he would use it a few more times before trashing it.

The Frenchman looked once again at the neatly printed letter he carried from France. He had it memorized, but he would review it again and again before destroying it.

The letter said he would be en route to an unnamed city (though he knew it was named Syracuse, just like the Sicilian city he had once visited) by an unnamed mode of transportation (a bus) to conduct business with an associate (his contact).

The next morning, he found where to catch the bus and paid cash for his one-way ticket. He read the letter yet again as he waited.

Try not to talk too much ... don’t share any information about yourself, the letter dictated. Don’t argue with anyone about anything (in other words, don’t be uppity and French is what the letter-writer meant) ... there will be a briefcase in the car ... go to your motel ... you will get a call the next morning.

Then, the P.S, worthy of a sardonic smile.

You will be rewarded for your work. Remember, though, a simple phone call to the French authorities could be life-changing. With one touch of my old finger, a digital file can be transferred instantaneously that would make life very challenging for you.

The Frenchman wanted a cigarette – badly. But he was determined to smoke as little as possible. He was afraid of attracting attention to himself. The States, he knew, had maddeningly numerous no smoking zones. It wouldn’t be good if he lit up someplace that the natives knew was an illegal smoke spot. He’d be noticed.

He also wanted to avoid leaving any butts that might carry DNA, though he was sure he was off the law enforcement radar. He had once applied for membership in the French armed forces, hoping to join Commando Jaubert, naval special forces. He certainly was fit enough and sharp enough of brain, having been accepted to study computer engineering at a school of higher learning. He was comfortable in water, having endured many a swim in the icy mountain lake near his home, and a distant, but well-liked, older cousin linked to an unsavory crime gang had taught him about weapons and explosives.

You can take your chances on that side of the law, but I’m going to blow up stuff legitimately in the service, the younger man had told his cousin.

Not long afterward, he received an official rejection from the forces with no reason given.

The fingerprints he gave on the application were still at the recruitment office when a fire of suspicious origin destroyed the entire city block where the office was located. Since then, the Frenchman had no incidents, no investigations, no arrests that he’d been connected to; he would stay cautious and leave as little evidence of his existence as was humanly possible.

That is, if this all goes as easily as he says it will, the Frenchman thought.

The bus arrived. The Frenchman picked up his carry-on and climbed aboard. The driver offered a cheerful hello. The Frenchman smiled wanly, but said nothing. He took a window seat in the middle. As the bus pulled ahead, he tried to relax, hoping for some sleep.

His mind reviewed his instructions as they made the five-hour trip north and west.

In Syracuse, he’d store anything that might identify him – his wallet and passport – in a locker at the bus station.

He’d find the right car in the parking lot, with the key stashed atop the left rear tire. Inside, he’d find everything he needed, including a key card to a nearby motel room, cash, documents, a photo and a package he’d mailed three months earlier to his U.S. contact.

Not that I necessarily want to use it, thought the Frenchman, his brain getting heavy with sleep. But, you never know. I’ve had to before.

Chapter 2 (Frenemies)

The old man sat and looking at his old chum sleeping in bed.

Both born before the Great Depression, they wouldn’t know any of the day’s top 40 hits, or the latest spoiled young actress entering rehab.

But Theodore Ted Smith and Albie Conlin were linked by history and mysteries, errors and luck (good and bad), conniving and crime, life and death, memories buried and memories recalled. And they were most closely linked by a tiny piece of paper that was old, fragile, rare and very valuable. They had not seen each other for many years.

Ted. Teddy, can you hear me? asked the well-dressed man sitting in the chair, who, despite his age, still carried authority on his still long, still lean frame.

Ted Smith. Wake up, my old friend, persisted Conlin, as if expecting the sleeping man to rise and snap to attention. It’s been a few years."

Ted looked peaceful in bed. Unlike some residents in the senior living complex, Smith had no uncomfortable drips or tubes inserted into his old, frail body; just a gentle cuff around his wrist that monitored his temperature and heartbeat by sending readings to the nurse’s station.

A wheelchair rested nearby, though Ted Smith didn’t always need it.

Occasionally, certain systems needed a little boost – a little oxygen or a protein drip – but, by and large, Ted was doing as well for someone his age, his doctor said. He has the heart of a thoroughbred, and just needs to take his meds.

Sometimes, Ted couldn’t remember things, like what year it was, or who was president, or what city he lived in. Other times, though, Ted’s memory was clear. When visitors came by, he’d often perk up with a glint in the eye and a flash of his winning smile, especially when it was his daughter, Lizzy. Then he’d recall stories of his years as an amateur magician or times with family. Sometimes, a little more so lately, he’d be confused.

Ted’s private room was surprisingly large, thought the visitor. There was a closet, a dresser, a flat-screen television on the wall and a small bookcase. A small sofa and an easy chair took up part of one wall, and a dinette table and two chairs sat next to the big window where Ted and visitors could take a meal, play cards, or just watch the weather. There was even a mini-fridge-microwave combination and a small food cupboard.

On the table were a handful of magician and wizard statuettes – real and fictional – including Mickey Mouse as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, Houdini, Copperfield and Merlin.

The visitor picked up Merlin, who was nicely cast in silver with some embedded gems. Heavier than I expected, he thought. Nice hat and magic staff. He set the wizard back with the other magic figurines.

Children’s toys, he said softly, shaking his head.

The walls, painted a pleasant soft peach, were decorated with a handful of framed photos, including a single frame containing two old, black-and-white photos. The first showed a 12-year-old Ted Smith smiling and standing near a carnival tent next to famed 1930s mentalist Ted Annemann. Ted said it was shot just before the famous showman performed his famous bullet-catch trick, which always ended with a flush of blood from the mouth along with the bullet he had captured with his teeth during what looked like a frighteningly deadly moment.

In the second, an older Ted wore a black cape and top hat and held a cheesy bouquet of flowers that he had presumably produced out of thin air. He had an exaggerated look of surprise, while a little white rabbit sniffed at his shoe. A small sandwich board sign on the floor pronounced the magician as Xavier the Extraordinary.

In a photo in another frame, a teenage Ted Smith smiled from under a white sailor’s cap. Those were the days, eh, Teddy? Conlin whispered, looking at the image of the young seaman.

Another framed photo showed a threesome, an older Ted, clearly at least a decade older than his attractive wife, and their dark-haired, sweetly smiling daughter from about 35 years earlier. They stood by a large summer cottage, a body of water in the background.

Beside Ted’s bed, a little table held a glass of juice and a glass of water, each with tops and straws to help prevent spillage, along with a wireless phone and a clock radio and CD player.

The visitor scanned the small pile of CDs on the table. Symphonies, Dixieland, Nat King Cole ... Always with the music, thought the man in the chair as reached over and gently shook Teddy’s arm.

Teddy. Can you talk to me? he said. I’m looking for something. I think you know what it is. You don’t need it anymore.

Ted stirred. He turned on his side and faced the direction of the voice. He opened his eyes slowly.

The old Navy chief stayed quiet, letting the man in the bed gain his faculties. When Ted shut his eyes again, the visitor decided not to push for the moment. He’d let the old man (Old? The dog’s younger than me.) sleep for now.

Instead, the visitor amused himself elsewhere. He considered rifling through some drawers, but decided against that. He wanted to think, or at least pretend, he had some dignity.

He looked out Ted’s window, whose drapes were pulled back neatly. It was a typical November day in Syracuse: steel-gray sky, cold, damp air and leaf-barren trees. Leaves littered lawns, roadways and gutters.

Ted’s second-floor room in the massive senior living and late-care facility looked out on a neatly landscaped walkway and grounds. Beyond was a little service road behind a small woods. Each spring, as the leaves bloomed in May, it filled with squirrels, songbirds, deer and an occasional fox.

Right now, though, spring and summer were long gone and down below, three men grabbed the visitor’s attention, mostly because they offered the only activity taking place outdoors on this sleepy fall Monday. The three raked leaves into piles before loading them onto a trailer and into the bed of a black pickup truck.

The workmen wore well-worn jeans and boots, plaid shirts and tan and brown jackets. One of the older men sported a tattered John Deere cap; the other, a simple black knit cap. These two were in their 50s or 60s. The third was a skinny young baby-faced guy who wore a hoodie, but still showed long unkempt hair.

They’ve all done this work for a while, surmised Ted’s visitor, who also noted that all wore plastic-coated bright green badges on the fronts of their jackets. They were the same type worn by many others – janitors, aides, nurses, techs – he’d seen at the facility. He looked down at his own shirt, where the receptionist had stuck a baby-blue sticker that said Visitor, and had a name, hand-written with black marker.

It was a name, though it really wasn’t his. He had used a fake license he’d picked up years ago with the thought he might use it someday. He – Mr. A. Jeffries, according to his visitor’s tag – had made a habit since his youth of picking up paperwork and documents that he considered potentially useful. Today was one of those days.

Out on the grounds, when the trailer and pickup bed were full, the three workmen took a break, leaning against the truck.

Old enough to be out of high school, but not in college, thought Conlin checking out the youngest. Likely a tad low on the intellectual and social scale, or else he’d be in college. Maybe he’s taking a semester off or maybe involved in things he shouldn’t be.

The visitor rubbed his chin. Could be many things, I suppose, he said aloud.

What was that? came a voice from the bed. The visitor turned and saw that Ted had awakened, sat himself up and was staring at him. He smiled at Ted, who didn’t smile back.

Old friend, it’s wonderful to see you, the man with the visitor’s sticker said with a sickly sweet sincerity. Do you remember me? Do you know me? It’s been a few years.

Of course, I know you, you asshole, Ted snapped, urging strength into his old voice. It hasn’t been that long.

Ted’s memory faded now and then, but his uneasy bond with this man – Albie Conlin, the former chief of the radio room in their WWII navy days together – was clear and seemingly unbreakable.

More than 30 years, Conlin said with a smile.

And I suppose this is what, just a social call? Ted retorted, putting as much staccato as he could muster into his reed-thin voice.

Ted, I wish you wouldn’t react this way. Of course, you know there’s something I want to talk with you about. But you have to know I truly am glad to see you are in relatively good shape.

Good shape? If I were in good shape, I don’t think I’d be here.

The visitor stood silent for a moment before reflecting, Yes, I understand. I’ve been damn lucky. But I’ve seen my share. I lost Madeline a few years ago ... my brother, my sister. It won’t be that long for me.

Ted stayed silent.

But that’s really why I am here, Teddy. This is it, really. It’s really the last chance to clear this up and make a deal.

I made a deal with you once, Conlin, Ted spat. It wasn’t such a good one.

The other old man shook his head.

Come on, Teddy, Conlin said. It actually was a good deal. I kept every part of my word. I can’t help it if you didn’t take advantage of it.

Ted rolled on his back so he could avoid Conlin’s eyes. He stared at the ceiling and bit his lip for a moment, then turned his head away.

Lookit, Ted, said Conlin. Let me make life a little easier for you.

Conlin pulled a No. 10 envelope from his trench coat, which was hanging casually on the back of the chair. He placed it on the bed within Ted’s reach.

What is this?

Inside is a cashier’s check, Conlin said. It’s as good as cash. It’s made out for $3,000. You can have it.

I don’t want it.

I know you don’t need a lot of money here. But I am sure you can use it. I know you’re a giving sort of fellow. You can spend it on something nice for your friends here. A pool table might be fun. Or, it looks like they still have old-fashioned TVs out in the lounge. You could buy them all a couple of nice new big, flat screens and a bunch of individual wireless earphones. I own one; they work wonderfully. Big, beautiful pictures, and your friends would hardly have to squint during movie night or ‘Matlock,’ or whatever you people watch.

Ted closed his eyes as Conlin leaned in.

Or, there’s your daughter, the visitor whispered, offering a faux mood of intimacy. Lizzy is her name, right? I bet she’s a pistol. You could give her a nice gift. And Ted, this isn’t all. As soon as I get the stamp, I’ll give you another $7,000. You can give both your daughter and your neighbors here something nice. What do you say?

Ted opened his eyes again. He whispered.

I say you’re full of shit.

Conlin offered a disappointed sigh.

Ted, stop that. Why do you say that? I never misled you; I never did you wrong. You did a job and you got the exact deal we agreed on. I didn’t cheat you one penny.

Ted grimaced. His lips and jaw muscles went taut. For a moment, the Chief was afraid the man might be having a heart attack.

You don’t frigging get it, do you, Smith seethed. Under the sheet and thin blanket, the Conlin couldn’t see that Ted was making a fist. I told you before that you can’t have it. It’s cursed. I hate it. It’s someplace safe. Now leave, I’m tired.

Ted closed his eyes. His face muscles relaxed and Smith, who had taken some medication a couple hours earlier, appeared headed for a quick, deep sleep.

Wait a minute, Teddy, the visitor said, reaching over and gently shaking Ted’s shoulder. Don’t fade on me now. Tell me, a safe place? Like in a stamp album? Like the one I gave you?

Ted was tired. He was too tired to fight anymore; too tired to argue. Memories – many of them unpleasant – began to flood back. He opened his eyes a little.

What?

Conlin was encouraged.

You said the stamp was in a safe place. Like in a stamp album? Do you remember the one I gave you, Ted? Is that where it is? I always suggest putting stamps in an album. It makes sense.

Yes, I remember, said Ted, closing his eyes again. The album.

Right. Yes, the album. Funny, I remember giving you one, but I can’t remember which one it was. Do you remember? Do you still have THAT album?

Ted spoke, but didn’t open his eyes this time. His voice was fading.

What? What album?

Teddy, you remember. Back in ’55. We worked together and you did something special for me. That’s when I gave you the stamp album, plus 500 stamps to put in it, plus that special stamp. You remember, right? Do you have it? Do you have that album? The stamp? The Jenny?

Silence for half-a-minute. Ted finally spoke, his thin voice a whisper. The visitor leaned in to hear.

Yes ... stamps ... always safe in album, Ted said, memories blurring with the present. He kept his eyes closed and appeared to fall asleep.

Conlin frowned. He sat quietly a few minutes before getting up and searching the room.

A few books were piled on the dresser, but no sign of the album. There was a folder with some papers in it. He rifled through it. He occasionally paused to scan the paperwork. He opened Ted’s drawers and closet. No sign of the album or the Jenny.

He wasn’t surprised. Ted might still have the album, but it wasn’t here. He surely wouldn’t have been a fool enough to just toss the stamp away. He said it was in a safe place. It must be in the album. He could see it in Ted’s eyes. The old goat knew where it was. He just wasn’t saying.

Conlin knew Smith wouldn’t cooperate. And he knew this visit was just a formality.

Sorry, Ted, he whispered. My time could be as short as yours, so it’s time to get this all done.

Conlin jerked when there was a quick knock at the door and a nurse’s aide entered.

"Excuse,’’ said the short woman. She was in her 20s, and certainly Asian from her looks, thought the visitor. He lowered his head to avert his eyes, trying to prevent her from getting a good look at him.

Mr. Ted, she said. He has an appointment with physical therapy. I need to wake him in a few minutes to take him down there. He’ll only be about an hour if you want to wait.

The visitor wasn’t surprised by the aide’s invitation. He had noticed right away how open, friendly and low-key the place had presented itself. It felt more like a resort than an institution. The facility included walking trails, indoor and outdoor swimming pools and whirlpools, congregational gardens and shuffleboard courts, a game room, a residents’ kitchen and an exercise center.

Aside from signing in when he arrived, security seemed to be low level, though he was sure there were video cameras and more security than the one uniformed officer he spotted in the main lobby.

Residents, some perfectly mobile and seemingly as sharp as himself, walked, sat, read newspapers, watched the morning talk shows on the common TV sets, played cards and conversed in several big lounge areas alongside others who were frail and in wheelchairs or plopped motionless on chairs and couches.

It’s OK, the visitor said to the aide who was respectfully standing outside the door. He took the envelope from where he had set it on the bed and tucked it back into his coat. I was leaving.

He noticed the aide wore a bright green staff badge that included her name and a small photo of herself that he couldn’t swear was actually her because it was miniscule and blurry.

The visitor plucked his coat off the chair and was about to walk out, but hesitated and turned back to the aide, who was preparing the wheelchair for her patient.

Excuse me, Conlin said.

Yes, sir, the woman said.

Your name tag?

Oh, the woman said with a slight blush as she looked down and fingered the tag. I know the picture is all marred, but I can assure you that is me. The photos don’t hold up very well and start rubbing away even after just a couple of weeks.

The visitor nodded. Yes, I see. Does everyone who works here wear those green tags?

Yes. We all wear them. Well, that is the regular staff. The nurses wear a light yellow; and the doctors and administrators wear white tags.

I see, he said. And the maintenance people, and techs and secretaries and janitors and such?

Yes, they all wear the green tags, she said. It helps tell us who is who.

I suppose that’s a real pain in the morning when you walk in with your hands full, the visitor said in an empathetic tone. Then you have to pull out that tag and run it through a machine to let you in and the like.

Not so bad. We just hang it around our necks or some people clip it onto their shirts. As long as the guard sees it, we can come in. No machine.

I see, Conlin said as he exited with a smile.

Chapter 3 (Syracuse)

The Frenchman’s bus pulled into the Syracuse bus and train depot well after dark.

He found a locker, stashed some personal items and moved with the passengers into the parking lot. He walked alongside college students, old ladies who wouldn’t drive long distances, a couple folks who looked short on their luck and some enlisted men.

Methodically checking row by row, he spotted a blue sedan in the third row. It had the correct bumper sticker, one showing a yellow smiley face and the slogan, Take it easy, life is short.

Hmmmmph, the Frenchman said aloud with disdain when he saw it. Bad enough that it is blue and this American box model, he thought as he approached the car, but it looks like well-aged merde. Absolutely no style.

Despite the low illumination from the parking lot lights, he could see scratches on the passenger’s side and a couple of dents in the driver’s side doors. If he had looked closer, he would have noticed the beginnings of rust around some of the windows, at the bottom of the quarter panels, and along the bottoms of the doors.

The cheap used car had been purchased at a Syracuse lot. The purchaser paid cash, didn’t haggle on price and declined the dealer’s help getting it registered.

I just want to get it back to the farm where we can work on it, the buyer told the dealer, scooting away at dusk. The owner of the car lot just shrugged and counted the bills. He could care less what the old farmer wearing the designer shirt and driving the rented Lexus was going to do with the car; one less headache and some cash in his pocket.

Plates were obtained from a Saab parked in the Syracuse airport’s long-term lot. There was no certainty that the owner of that car wouldn’t return soon, but the new owner of the blue sedan had to chance it. He parked the sedan at the bus station lot a few hours before the Frenchman’s arrival.

The Frenchman found the blue car and felt above the left, rear tire, found the key, opened the door and got in. He tossed his carry-on in the back. On the passenger’s seat was a brushed-metal style briefcase. He opened it.

Inside, he found another computer-printed letter of instructions, a motel key card and directions to a nearby motel, two disposable cell phones, $2,000 in cash, business cards and a business ID. He looked at the business items.

So, I am Emile Richard, he said softly to himself. It will do.

He also found the item he had mailed to America three months ago, a heavy sheath with a handle sticking out. The man now known as Richard slid from the sheath an antique Damascus knife with its razor-sharp curved blade and ram’s bone handle. The Frenchman smiled. Even in the low light it gleamed.

The blade alone was seven deadly inches long and the Frenchman remembered how easily the knife, purchased years ago at an antique mart in Marseille, could slice, creating tomato slices so thin you could see through them. And it was equally powerful for other purposes, say puncturing rubber or cutting deeply into a hard meat bone.

Richard slid the knife back.

It was strange, he thought, how he could keep the sheathed blade right against his body and feel so safe. Others whom the blade had come in contact with were not safe at all, he knew.

The game is on, he thought as he turned the key and the engine roared to life. Hopefully, you will run much better than you look, he said as he patted the dash.

As he pulled out of the station, eyes watched from a nearby Lexus. Inside, a voice uttered softly into the crisp autumn air, The French have arrived. Its engine, too, came to life and slowly pulled away from the station.

The man in the Lexus had been in this godforsaken town for several days. He’d made scant progress with his quest.

The high-end rental followed the Frenchman in the battered blue car to make sure he made it safely to the designated motel. These were going to be crucial times and the American would tolerate no frivolities or changes in plan. He smiled when the Frenchman made his way with ease – there was little traffic and the directions were easy – three turns – to the cheapie airport motel.

The American watched from a distance as the Frenchman parked and made his way to his room.

Just about settled down for the night, the driver of the Lexus thought as he drove from the motel downtown and back to his four-star hotel, a block from the convention center where he’d be spending much of the week. I’ll call him tomorrow.

The Frenchman, now thinking of himself as Emile Richard, a French-Canadian, settled into the standard room. It was nothing special, but he had certainly seen – and been in – much worse. The worst part was that the room was non-smoking.

No cheating, he reminded himself.

When he checked in, the Frenchman noticed the outdoor swimming pool, now closed for the season. Nearby was a walkway leading through some well-trimmed hedges to a small pond that was neatly landscaped all around and dotted with a few benches. He’d certainly be taking a few strolls by that pond, he thought, as he fingered the pack of cigarettes.

He knew there was no way he’d be able to prevent his prints or DNA from landing somewhere, but he would be as cautious as he could.

Before his flight, he’d cut off his beard, buzz-cut his hair and shaved his body hair in hopes of leaving as few traces of himself as possible. Much of the time he’d wear his sleek leather gloves or some disposable plastic ones to accomplish his tasks. He’d wear disposable booties in the room much of the time and wipe it down with soft rags and bleach.

Satisfied that things were in order, but tired, the Frenchman crawled under the sheets.

He was awakened at 6 a.m. by the sound of a buzzy hum. Richard shook his head. He reached into his suitcase and grabbed one of the disposable cell phones, which was vibrating