November 17: A Greek Terrorist’S Story

By Robert S. Miller

Following World War II, a bitter civil war ravaged Greece for five years as Washington and Moscow vied for control of Europes soft-underbelly. The Marshall Plan and NATO eventually thwarted Moscows plans, but not before the countrys social and political fabric was greviously torn asunder, permanently conflicting future generations of Greeks against one another.

In 1967, the Greek military overthrew the monarchy with the support of the CIA, once again pitting brother against brother as the new Junta assembled voluminous secret dossiers on its opposition. When the Junta collapsed in 1976, November 17s terrorist agenda surfaced: remove American installations from Greece, those too of NATO, and withdrawal Greece from the European Union. Decades later the Greek government requested the CIA provide its secret Greek dossiers to Athens. Washington indicated the files had been destroyed. In 2002, Athens announced it had captured the masterminds behind November 17. Four were sentenced to life in prison. Two years later the alleged mastermind walked out of prison, disappeared, and is still at large today. Over twenty-five new terrorist attacks have occurred in Athens since that time.

The following story begins today with the murder of a U.S. government employee near Washington and the disappearance of classified documents. The FBI investigates, leading it to November 17, and one of the most enduring Greek terrorist organizations in Europe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503542310

Robert S. Miller

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Copyright © 2015 by Robert S. Miller.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 05/28/2015

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Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PROLOGUE

CEMETERY NUMBER ONE, ATHENS, GREECE

CHAPTER ONE

I-95 EXIT 141: NORTH CAROLINA

ROANOKE, VIRGINIA

SEYMOUR JOHNSON AIR FORCE BASE, NORTH CAROLINA

CHAPTER TWO

CLEARWATER, FLORIDA

TAMPA, FLORIDA

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT, WASHINGTON DC

CHAPTER THREE

TAOS, NEW MEXICO

CIA HEADQUARTERS

BELLEVUE, NEBRASKA

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY

CIA BUILDING, MCLEAN

CHAPTER FOUR

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

SPRUCE CREEK, FLORIDA

CHAPTER FIVE

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

BEAN STATION, TENNESSEE

NATIONAL ART GALLERY, WASHINGTON

VILVOORDE, BELGIUM

CHAPTER SIX

JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

DIAPORI ISLAND, GREECE

THE GREEK PENTAGON, ATHENS

KOLONAKI SQUARE, ATHENS

TAMEON BUILDING, ATHENS

POLYTECHNIC UNIVERSITY, ATHENS

CAPE SOUNION, GREECE

CHAPTER SEVEN

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

ATLANTA REGIONAL HOSPITAL

CHAPTER EIGHT

RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

BEIRUT’S PORT, LEBANON

KOKKINA VILLAGE, NORTH CYPRUS

CHAPTER NINE

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

WASHINGTON DC

CROPLEY FALLS, MARYLAND

ROSSLYN, VIRGINIA

KEY WEST, FLORIDA

CHAPTER TEN

ATLANTA, GEORGIA

TAORMINA, SICILY

CATANIA, SICILY

DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ATHENS, GREECE

GLYFADA, GREECE

ATHENS, GREECE

ANGHISTRI ISLAND, GREECE

CHAPTER TWELVE

ATHENS, GREECE

ATHENS, GREECE

ATHENS, GREECE

NICOSIA, CYPRUS

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ATHENS, GREECE

WASHINGTON DC

ATHENS, GREECE

WASHINGTON DC

ATHENS, GREECE

ATHENS, GREECE

CEMETERY NUMBER ONE, ATHENS

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PARIS, FRANCE

ATHENS, GREECE

PARIS, FRANCE

WASHINGTON DC

ATHENS, GREECE

PRIME MINISTER’S RESIDENCE, ATHENS

PARIS, FRANCE

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MARATHON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, ATHENS

HILTON HOTEL, ATHENS

EDL OFFICES, ATHENS

PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, ATHENS

AIRPORT BOULEVARD, ATHENS

EPILOGUE

CEMETERY NUMBER ONE ATHENS, GREECE

RUE DE CORSAI PARIS, FRANCE

PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE PLOT

PROJECT NAMES IN THE STORY

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to America’s silent warriors who lost their lives to terrorism not only in Greece, but in Europe, the Mideast, and throughout the Cold War.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special note of thanks to Leila Metti, a consumate reviewer, incredible editor and dear friend. My heartfelt appreciation to Mike Badzioch, who provided invaluable advice and guidance concerning the interplay of events in a complex international saga.

ALSO BY BOB MILLER

BOOKS

THE Z-5 INCIDENT

AMERICA’S ABANDONED SONS

AMERICA’S DISPOSABLE SOLDIERS

CONFERENCE PAPERS AND MONOGRAPHS

• The Legal Dynamics of Women in Iran’s Judicial System

• The Ultimate Cyprus Solution

• Iran’s IRGC, Nuclear Weapons and Caspian Security

• The Long Term Impact of Chemical Weapons on Iraq’s Kurds

• WMD Impact on Iraq’s People

• Abu Ghraib: An American Scandal

• Iraq’s Urgent Need for an International Mandate

• The Case for Iraq’s WMD and Gulf War Syndrome

• Collateral Damage: Depleted Uranium Munitions in Iraq

• An Oil Trust Fund: The Key to a Democratic Iraq

• Pakistan’s 1982 Air Superiority Fighter Decision

• Turkey’s F-16 Program Decision

• Guns versus Missiles in Air to Air Combat in Crowded Skies

REVIEWS OF NOVEMBER 17.

Bob Miller follows in the footsteps of Eric Ambler, Len Deighton and John Le Carre in exposing the shadow world of international intrigue, espionage and global terrorism. An essential read, shedding needed light on a dark world few know or have seen, and moral ambiguities facing those engaged in the game.

Jacques Paul Klein. Under-Secretary-General, United Nations. (Ret) and MajGen, USAF, (Ret).

Too real to be fiction – and too intriguing to put down. Miller has lived the experience and seen the deceptions!"

John Zimmerlee, Georgia.

A tour de force of the shadow world - fast paced, sometimes raw and hard hitting – intrigue and uncertainty that makes it feel real.

Norman Abramson, Colonel, USAF, (Ret) Florida

One thing comes across loud and clear – Miller knows what he writes about. He knows the offbeat and exotic places, how real people react in unusual circumstances. His dialogue fits like a glove, be it Beltway jargon, Greek patois or sub rosa messaging. You never know where the action will take you,…from Washington’s black-tie dinners to slogging through the sands of the Negev. I’m convinced he writes totally from ‘been there and done that’ experience. Michael Badzioch, Texas.

"Miller gives the reader the feeling he’s right there, where murder, treason, duplicity and perfidy play out. Cold shudders, bottomless wrath, and surging pleasure alternate as the surprising turns of these cliff hanging plots and counter-plots twist on to the very last page. This story is a midnight oil burner difficult to put down, his work is for lovers of hard action."

George Rossbach, Bremen, Germany.

THE PLAYERS

THE HUNTERS

Greece’s Central Intelligence Organization

U.S. Central Intelligence Agency

Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service

THE GREEK SYNDICATE

17N   Revolutionary Organization 17 November

Epanastakis Organosi 17 Novemvri

ELA   Revolutionary Popular Struggle

Epanaskikos Laikos Agonas

SPF     Conspiracy of Fire Nuclei,

Also knows as: Conspiracy of Cells of Fire

Synomosia Pyrinon Tis Fotias

SE      Sect of Revolutionaries

Sechtaton Epanastaton

EA     Revolutionary Struggle

Epanastatikos Agonas

THE SYNDICATE

M UCH OF GREECE’S 20 th and 21 st century terrorist problems emanate from her WWI and WWII experiences. European betrayal in WWI ended Greece’s post-war imperial Asian dreams with the 1922 Smyrna catastrophe. Following the horrors of German WWII occupation, Greece’s already deeply psychotic and bankrupt society initiated a bitter five year civil war. The involvement of Russia and the United States insured no quarter was asked or given, insuring a decade of unimaginable barbarity.

A temporary stand-down in the 1950s and 1960s, brought about by the American Marshall Plan, the introduction of NATO, and the CIA’s control of Greece, ended with the overthrow of the Greek monarchy by a military Junta in 1967.

Seven years later the Junta collapsed following a failed effort to unify Cyprus with Greece. The terrorist organization known as November 17 then immediately emerged, and in the decades that followed, its offshoots: the Revolutionary Struggle (EA), the Sect of Revolutionaries (SE), and the Conspiracy of Fire Nuclei (SPF), demanded Greece’s exit from NATO, the elimination of American bases, and withdrawal from the European Union. In a society deeply riddled with class insecurity, hatred of government, and no faith in political systems, these terrorist organizations have pursued their agenda by openly challenging any and all authority.

Today the syndicate’s graffiti of hatred is visible everywhere across Greece, encouraging a chaotic social order, the murder of foreign imperial interests, and eliminating the rich.

THE

NOVEMBER 17 STORY

T HIS NOVEL BEGINS today with the murder of a U.S. Government employee near Washington. The FBI investigates, leading to Greece and November 17 , one of its most insidious terrorist organizations still plaguing Europe.

Following World War II, a bitter civil war ravaged Greece for five years as Washington and Moscow vied for control of Europe’s soft underbelly. The Marshall Plan and NATO thwarted Moscow’s plans, but not before the country’s social and political fabric was destroyed. In 1967, the monarchy was overthrown with Washington’s support, and replaced with a military Junta. When it collapsed in 1974, November 17 emerged, demanding not only the removal of American installations from Greece, along with the CIA and NATO, and finally Greece’s withdrawal from the European Union. In 2002, Athens announced the capture of the alleged mastermind behind November 17. Sentenced to life in prison that man walked out of prison two years later and disappeared. He is still at large.

Today, as the world watches, incompetent Greek leaders demand WWII reparations, return of wartime assets, payment for war crimes and free lunch for everyone in Greece, while in the background malcontents prepare for revolution.

PROLOGUE

CEMETERY NUMBER ONE,

ATHENS, GREECE

M AY I HELP you? the black-robed elderly priest inquired of the lone man wandering aimlessly among the tombstones, examining each as he went. You are searching for someone?

The stranger hadn’t seen him approach and seemed surprised, even confused for a second, but he quickly regained his composure. Excuse me, he replied in English, But I do not understand Greek. Do you speak English?

Aaaah … The priest then said in broken English, I see. May I help you?

No, thanks. I’m just contemplating a personal problem, and I find such places peaceful for such reflection.

I understand. The priest smiled as he moved away toward the entrance to the cemetery. He hadn’t understood the man’s reply but had caught the no thanks portion, which was sufficient.

The stranger watched him as he left and headed deeper into the cemetery. He couldn’t believe he’d been lied to. LeBlanc had left a meeting two nights ago and spent the ensuing two hours shaking off the first surveillance he’d detected since he’d arrived in Athens. Who could he trust?

A quarter mile away, a black Mercedes limousine threaded its way through the narrow streets of the Pangrati section of central Athens. The chauffeur had just commented to his client that the traffic today was lighter than usual, but to the old woman in the rear, each time she made this trip, it seemed that the streets and byways of Athens became more insane as the undisciplined Greek motorist competed for an ever smaller amount of road space. But to the chauffeur, it was normal. He smiled to himself as it was a pleasure to drive in Athens on weekends, even more so today, as this day was already unusually warm, and most of the city’s residents were heading for the nearby beaches to enjoy the sun and sea after the long winter. As the Acropolis came into view, the limousine turned right into a side street and made its way up the hill to a square. He pulled over beneath a row of beech trees bordering the perimeter walls of Athens Cemetery Number One. The old woman glanced out the window at a whitewashed wall smeared with political slogans. They never learn … Her voice trailed off almost inaudibly as the elderly man next to her inquired if she were all right.

Of course. I am! She reassured him, her voice now stronger and nodding toward the political graffiti again calling for massive anti-European demonstrations for the fortieth anniversary of the Greek students’ 1973 uprising at the Athens Polytechnic University. So few people want to work in Greece anymore. Everyone wants to write dirty filth and slogans on the walls she muttered. As if … anyone cares!

The chauffeur opened the rear door and offered his hand.

Kyrie, he intoned respectfully, Let me help you.

From a portico gate just up the street, a black-robed Greek Orthodox priest emerged with an assistant who was clad in the traditional dark blue robe of the novitiate training for the priesthood. The old man bent over and raised the iron throw bolt from its bolt hole in the pavement and swung the heavy wrought-iron door open.

It was a good time for a memorial service, Father Kinaros reflected. Spring was in the air again, and it would remind his flock of the renewal of the soul by their Savior who had recently re-arisen for the paschal feast. The Easter celebration two weeks earlier had rejuvenated Kinaros, and now there was a more pronounced bounce in his step, and he looked forward to getting up each morning to enjoy the cool quiet of his garden, which was now a profusion of flowers in bloom.

As the old priest began moving toward the limousine, he absentmindedly tweaked some hairs from his luxurious white beard, which had been irritating his throat. The beard and hair locks were a pain in the ass but came with the job, and all older Orthodox priests were expected to sport huge bushy beards; the larger, the more auspicious, and the whiter, the better and more knowledgeable its owner was perceived to be by his coreligionists. Kinaros’s beard was superb, clearly indicative of his competence and obvious qualifications as the next Orthodox leader of Saint Peter’s seat in Constantinople. His braided long pigtail added to his aura of command and was also the envy of his peers; he was an imposing barrel-chested man but had no aspirations to greatness. And over the years, had shied away from the centers of church power and decided he would now serve out his remaining years as a simple parish priest.

Father Constantine Kinaros was seventy-eight years old and still worked eight to ten hours a day in the ministrations of his office. Orthodox priests, unlike their Catholic coreligionists, were seldom afforded the luxury of retiring to the cloistered life in their old age. Greeks demanded too much of their apostolic community and wanted too many churches and shrines which no one ever visited; so priests had to work into their old age for as long as their health allowed. He supposed it also had its advantages as the church owned 18 percent of all arable lands in Greece and 7 percent of all multistory buildings, an investment conservatively valued at $3.2 trillion, or a third of Greece’s gross national product last year. Many asked, even demanded, to know if the church had become only a financial investment house in pursuit of earthly possessions, or was it still interested in the salvation of the human spirit and the soul of man? Kinaros had to admit he didn’t know what purpose the huge wealth served. Certainly, it did not add to the opulence of his own frugal lifestyle, nor did it add much to the improvement of the lot of Greece’s poor and destitute.

But while the church was wealthy, it was no thanks to the tithing of his flock; the church’s wealth had been amassed assiduously over centuries from those who had died intestate. Greeks, as a whole, were among the most sacrilegious people, and Kinaros, being a Greek from the islands, fully understood his people’s schizophrenic conflict between logic and fantasy. Greeks basically believed in God only thrice in their lives: when they were born, when they were married, and when it was time to die. Fortunately for the church, it was virtually impossible for Greeks to accomplish the latter two without the church’s cooperation, as church law over the centuries had become synonymous with the civil law, and today they were inextricably intertwined.

It had always amused Kinaros that Orthodoxy’s bitterest enemy—his Holiness, the pope of Rome, considered by Catholics as God’s only vicar on earth—demanded that all Christians pay homage to Rome. But it was to the Greeks and the Ethiopians, and not the Romans, that Christ and his apostles had turned to for the preservation, documentation, and spread of his preachings for the first three hundred years of the church’s existence. And in the tradition of Catholic states, they had church Law and civil law, and in most instances, the two were dissimilar. Catholics were a stiff-necked group with a regimented religious tradition that Greeks rejected long ago. Greeks’ skepticism and perennial search for the truth on the other hand, unlike the Italians, whose emotional acceptance of reality and the unseen made it impossible for Greeks to owe allegiance to anyone.

As he moved along the sidewalk toward the stationary limousine, he could see the frail old woman as she emerged. Had it been a year already since he’d last seen her?This old woman in many ways reminded him of his own mother who had passed away years earlier. Both had been the stalwart bearers of the Orthodox faith to their families and instilled it in their children: fervent daily worship, raising families and honor to their menfolk. Greek men on the other hand were devoid of such attributes. As he ambled along, he stopped for a moment to rub at his right thigh, which was paining him again this morning. Arthritis, his doctor had told him. It was worst during the cold damp winter months, but now with the approach of summer, it would pass. Most men his age were already dead or mumbling into their kleftico or drooling into their beards.

Reflecting on the grief of the old woman who was about to emerge from the car before him, he supposed it was for the best that he had also taken the course he had in life. As a young man, he had tried women a few times just to see and find out what it was all about. He found the experience pleasurable, but of such short duration, he wondered how his friends put up with the institution’s downside, the problems of a lifetime of marriage. Once in a cynical mood, he’d calculated that the average Greek male spent a cumulative seven and a half days having intercourse over a period of fifty years. Not much to show for eighteen thousand days with a woman. Prostitutes were easier, but how to raise children and perpetuate the faith? In this regard, he supposed there was no acceptable alternative. Kinaros preferred the celibate life. He’d been ordained at twenty-two. A decision he’d never regretted.

From the opposite door of the limousine as he approached, an elderly man emerged, followed by a younger one. He’d seen the elderly man last year and recalled a confession he’d heard once from the old woman in the sanctity of the confessional. Both men moved around the rear of the car and stood next to the chauffeur. The younger also extended his hand to Kinaros and inquired, "Kyrie, eisay kala. Thelies na katsisyia tria lepta. Are you all right?"

"Ne, yios mou. I am all right. What must be done must be done. Kinaros replied. I will have plenty of time to sleep when the end comes, and my watch no longer has hands to mark the passage of eternal time."

Don’t speak of these things. It is not proper to tempt fate.

The priest stopped and waited for the vehicle’s occupants to arrange themselves. He could see that the elderly woman was fading quickly with the passing years and doubted he would officiate at many more of her annual memorial services. This was his tenth for the old woman in the last couple of decades, and she was aging quicker now. Greek women usually outlived their men—life expectancy was seventy-two years for men and eighty-six years for women—and now into her late ’90s, this woman was heavily wrinkled and had noticeably shrunk several inches in the last few years, probably as a result of an inadequate calcium diet during the war years, he suspected. Once she’d arranged her veil and straightened her dress, she took several steps forward and then stopped when she saw Kinaros and the monk next to him. She squinted to clarify her vision.

"Herete Pappa Kinaros," she said, her voice sounding stronger than her appearance.

Kinaros inclined his head slightly, and the monk beside him also nodded as he waited obediently for Father Kinaros to proceed. Kinaros approached her and extended his gnarled, sunburned hand and looked down as she placed hers into his. Her skin was pasty white and her veins visible through her translucent skin, like those in fine old marble. He wondered where the years had fled. This once beautiful woman, a statuesque icon to the beauty of all that Hellenistic idols once represented, was now a frail, wrinkled, and shrunken shell. He nodded kindly with a twinkle at the corners of his eyes. He turned and indicated the way with his outstretched hand.

"Kiriye, prepi na pame mesa? If you will follow me."

The small party moved slowly through the wrought-iron gates where they traversed a vaulted chamber to the cemetery behind.

May was among the most beautiful times in Athens, with the land greened from the winter rains and millions of yellow daisies in bloom from the first warm days as summer approached. The spear-point cypress pines lining the pathways threw long shadows across the white marble graves adorned with Orthodox crosses. The old woman liked this cemetery and found it a place of solace where one could speak of long departed loved ones and of how things were and might have been. She also found it pleasing to the eye, which was more than she could say for Muslim cemeteries she’d seen. For millennia, Turks had been the bane of Greek Hellenism, and even now they occupied her husband’s village and desecrated his remains.

She extended her hand to Kinaros and tugged at it for a moment. "Ena lepto, she said as he stopped and turned to meet her gaze. You know, Kinaros, she whispered, barely audibly even to him, It’s been so many years."

You are correct, he replied, taking her hand again and reassuring her with a broad smile. The years have flown like a beautiful play, which is almost over for me too. I have enjoyed it but am sad that yours has not been so rich.

We each have our cross to bear. A mother’s is more difficult sometimes, she whispered.

Kinaros had first met her before she was married. Then she was Daphni Agrinion, the second daughter of Costa and Antonia Agrinion from the Western Greek city of the same name. The Agrinions were wealthy and well to do among the Athenian constellation of royal courtiers in the 1930s. Daphni had met her betrothed during a visit to Athens just before World War II, and the following year, she’d traveled to the British crown colony of Cyprus for her wedding. In those days, the island did not have enough priests, and the patriarch in Constantinople had arranged for several priests from the mainland to attend to the needs of his flock there. Kinaros had been one of these and remembered counseling the two lovers on the responsibilities of marriage and raising children. In those days, she’d been a beatific vision of youth and perfection, an angelic vision with a lithe body, a feisty spirit, and a face that could have launched a thousand ships to Troy. The spirit was still there as he looked at her, but all else had abandoned her long ago. Time and the weight of her problems in life had diminished her once magnificent temple.

This way, Kiriye. Kinaros knew the old woman could find her son’s grave by herself, but he liked to defer to her in her hour of mourning and also to the possibility that her mind was elsewhere. Fifty meters along the narrow pathway stood five more people—three elderly women and two men. In the far distance through her rheumy eyes, Daphni could trace the outline of island peaks in the distance where, as a little girl, she’d gone for summer vacations with her parents so long ago. The blue-clad monk walked ahead and made certain that the small chair for her was placed at the most advantageous position so she would be comfortable while the service was conducted.

"Poli efharisto, Constantinos, she intoned lovingly to the old priest as she was seated. She nodded to Constantinos. Please begin."

The old man raised his arms toward the heavens and in a booming voice cried out "Christeeeyyyye Ellleiyson." Those around him repeatedly began crossing themselves in the Greek tradition.

CHAPTER ONE

I-95 EXIT 141: NORTH CAROLINA

A PPROACHING THE WASHINGTON Beltway, the eighteen-wheeler was easy to follow through the thickening evening traffic. The lone driver in the Alamo rental car trailing the rig continued to shadow it as it threaded its way around the beltway and then headed south into Virginia on Interstate 95. Just north of Richmond, the rental car driver was able to positively identify one of the official government chase cars, which he knew accompanied such high-value shipments. He supposed there might be a second one around somewhere and decided to continue dogging the rig for another hour to make sure. He had to be certain of what he was up against or his mission might fail—and he was not accustomed to failure. By the time they were fifty miles from the North Carolina state line, he was certain there was only one chase car—a late-model Chevrolet sedan with U.S. government plates and a single occupant.

His short-wave radio, which was tuned to the truck’s radio frequency, suddenly crackled with the voice of the eighteen-wheeler driver. The driver had contacted the chase car several times already with status reports of its progress, and this transmission was the one he’d been waiting for. Got to pull in at the next scales ahead, Victoria. I’ll be back on the road in two minutes.

Acknowledged, Elberon, Victoria replied. I’ll keep you in view.

Elberon was the eighteen-wheeler and Victoria the chase car. A half mile ahead, the chase car’s blinker lights came on as it pulled off on to the shoulder, stopping short of the off-ramp into the Department of Transportation weigh station. As he passed the sedan, he could see the white eighteen-wheeler approach the scales where it stopped momentarily and then began moving forward.

The code names Elberon and Victoria were so typically American, he thought. Despite his normally serious demeanor, he allowed himself to smile, revealing straight white teeth and crow’s feet at the corners of his tanned face. Just like the old days and the Hollywood movies, he thought. In his rearview mirror, he watched as the distant headlights of the truck reemerged on to the highway behind him and slowly overtook him in the passing lane. Then the chase car did also.

Shortly before midnight, Elberon came on to the radio again and advised Victoria that he was going to pull off again for a two-minute wee-wee break at the I-95 rest area at mile marker 141 near the Red Oak Exit. There was no acknowledgement from Victoria. The rig driver called again for acknowledgement, but again, there was no response.

The rig moved into the rest area packed with trucks with their parking lights on as their drivers caught a couple of hours’ sleep. Elberon called again, this time to inform Victoria he would be out of the cab for a few minutes and then back on the highway. Hold the fort, and I’ll be back in two shakes, the rig driver quipped.

The driver climbed down and walked to the back of the rig to relieve himself on a small tree. He heard a popping sound behind him and glanced over his shoulder for a moment but noticed nothing unusual as he squeezed out the remaining drops of fluid. He looked at the snakelike penis in his hand and hoped he’d make it to Tampa by noon tomorrow and get in some rack time with one of his old girlfriends who was waiting for him. He’d told her where the key to his condo was and to make herself comfortable until he arrived.

A woman in every port, he muttered as he repacked his pants and zippered the fly. Some rumpy pumpy for you, sport, to keep up your morale. Just be patient. He liked girls, always had, and knew it was one of his greatest weaknesses. He found difficulty in maintaining permanent relationships which always seemed to break down, but the intermittent ones with the same woman over a long period of time, they were his specialty. His complicated youth and early work years had made it difficult for him to make lasting commitments, and now he was just too old for one. Cindy was special, but he’d held her off too. Even though she loved to please him and liked to do the same things he did, particularly in bed, it still was not enough for him to marry. Best of all, Cindy had seriously pressed him a few years back to marry her, and when he’d refused, she’d settled down to seeing him periodically. Tomorrow afternoon, my snake friend, you’ll drown in pussy until you think you’ve died and gone to heaven, he mused to himself.

Turning, he moved back along the side of the truck checking the tires as he went. It was his natural instinct to check and recheck the running gear and equipment of rigs for small signs of trouble. One could never check the heavy rigs enough, especially if one wanted to reach retirement age. Too many things went wrong, and it was always the little ones with the hundred-ton rigs hurtling along at sixty miles an hour that instantly became critical.

As he was about to climb back into the cab, a man appeared around the front of the rig grasping a large caliber pistol, which he pointed at the driver’s face. Don’t be stupid, the man threatened. It would be a mistake, so drop it slowly. Veeerrrry sloooooowly.

Drop what? the driver asked.

The sidearm, asshole! The sidearm … Drop it carefully, or the next round will push your eyes through the back of your skull.

What the hell was going on? he thought. Where had this idiot appeared from? The driver also thought he recognized something about the voice, or was it the accent from somewhere? But he couldn’t see the man’s face behind the ski mask. The driver could not believe this was happening to him, not after almost ten years on the road and decades in special security work. He’d never been robbed.

Open your mouth, asshole, his assailant shouted.

The driver remained motionless, staring into the gun barrel a mere foot from his face. He decided this was not the time for heroics and opened his mouth and waited as his assailant stuck the end of the Colt .45 pistol into it.

Don’t try to be funny, asshole. Your weapon, drop it!

The driver cautiously lowered his right hand and with two fingers gingerly unhitched the safety from the .357 Magnum and with his thumb and forefinger removed it by the grip and held it out away from his side.

That’s right. Good boy. Now drop it.

He’d never been held up or robbed before in his life. He’d done it to a shitpot full of others in his career with the government, but it was a decade since he’d left the agency. This guy sounded like the type that would do something stupid and blow him away just for the hell of it. It was the gunman’s voice too! He’d heard it somewhere before. Especially the tonal inflections. He decided the best course at this point was to cooperate until his codriver, who was still in the locked cab above him, realized what was happening and came to his rescue. His .357 Magnum made a thump sound as it hit the soft ground. Who the hell are you? he demanded, trying to form his words clearly without chipping his new dentures on the gun barrel in his mouth.

Aaaarrrgghhhhh, he exclaimed in agony as the gunman forced the gun barrel forward, pushing his head back against the side of the truck. His tonsils felt like they were being rammed into his esophagus. He collapsed as his knees buckled. As he hit the ground, he reached out his hand toward the .357, which he suspected lay somewhere nearby in the darkness, but he could see nothing. Stars flashed brightly in his eyes as he felt his assailant’s gun barrel smash against the side of his face.

Who the hell are you? he demanded as he stared upward in the darkness. He had to keep his assailant occupied and their conversation hopefully loud enough so his partner in the closed cab would hear them and end this encounter before he got seriously hurt.

His assailant stood back two paces looking at him through the ski mask. Always a study in stupidity, Alba. You always were a thick son of a bitch, but this time, it’s my game. You’ve got a debt to repay, and I’m here to collect it. On your stomach, Alba. Put your face in the dirt and your hands behind your back. Do it now, and don’t give me an excuse to end it here. Moments later, handcuffs were secured to his wrists.

He searched his memory frantically for matchups with the timbre and tonal qualities of his assailant’s voice. Who was this guy? His pronunciation of the word asshole and stupidity had triggered something. Alba had heard this voice somewhere before. But where? The hand expertly frisking his body stopped abruptly, followed by intense pain just below his left armpit. He knew the kick had broken one or two ribs, maybe more.

You bastard, Alba! his assailant muttered as he yanked Alba’s jacket up so hard that the front zipper broke. He felt the hand roughly probing around until his snub-nosed .38 was yanked out. Your insurance policy, Alba, nothing changes, and everything stays the same, eh, Mr. Alba?

He felt hands sliding down his trouser legs. And your high-value policy … still where you always had it? Ah! The same old .25 caliber job in the ankle holster too. Now get up!

He had to roll onto his side and use his right arm to get up. The two ribs were now sending lighting flashes through his nervous system. As he stood leaning against the rig’s front wheel, his assailant pulled off his stocking mask. Good to see you again, Alba, he said sarcastically.

Jesus Christ, Alba muttered audibly. Where did you come from?

Maybe you should ask how I found you.

He noticed Alba’s glance upward to the cab door.

Don’t worry, Alba. He can’t help you either.

Alba didn’t inquire further. Now he knew his assailant was among the best in the business.

A minute later, the rig jerked forward and gathered speed as it pulled back on to the Interstate.

ROANOKE, VIRGINIA

Sheriff McNowlton had just finished a hectic night’s work and was about to call it quits when his phone buzzed for the umpteenth time. The First Atlantic Bank of Tarboro had been hit yesterday afternoon just after closing, and two of the three men involved in the heist had gotten clean away. The sheriff cornered the third robber—a thick local boy from a town called Williamston, just up the road from Tarboro.

The kid was about as stupid as they came and had been repeatedly arrested as a juvenile and had a rap sheet that read like a who’s who of petty crime, but the Atlantic Bank job had now placed him in the big leagues. He’d get twenty years in the state pen for his part in the heist. But the dumb bastard was also too thick to figure out the advantages of cutting a deal with the law and refused to turn state’s evidence for a reduced sentence. McNowlton realized the Williamston kid preferred jail to betraying his friends. It made McNowlton madder than hell because he had hoped to close the case this morning and without the kid’s confession. Then the asshole demanded legal counsel, and now some attorney would take months to get the case ready for trial.

McNowlton here.

His face turned to a scowl as he spat tobacco juice into the wastebasket. Be right there. Slamming the phone down and checking his pockets for his car keys, he stormed out into the predawn darkness. The last few days had been his worst in twelve years of law enforcement around Tarboro—three murders, a bank robbery, and now another killing along a creek just outside a nearby backwater town called Speed.

The sheriff’s area of responsibility covered the eastern half of Edgecombe County. Edgecombe was a quiet place of hicks and hill folks who were a little strange but basically law-abiding and honest folks. They minded their own business and expected others to do the same. People in Edgecombe looked after themselves and usually didn’t call him unless they were unable to handle a problem, or already had, and needed him to document the results. Murders in Edgecombe County were usually from breaking and entering, during which most intruders were shot and some killed. The county’s biggest problem was Interstate 95 just to the West, which ran through the county like one huge north–south sewer, carrying all the cockroaches and vermin from the northeast. Every once in a while, someone would stop, and then McNowlton had problems. There were only two major roads through Edgecombe, and McNowlton made a mental note to instruct his deputies to begin harassing vagrants; outsiders were also not welcome in Edgecombe County.

Twenty minutes later, turning off a back road into a muddy track and at a clearing a quarter mile in, he found another police cruiser with its lights flickering in the darkness. Further along was a fire truck from the Speed volunteer fire department and beside it a large white eighteen-wheel tractor-trailer rig.

Watcha got, Lennie! he demanded as he strode up to his deputy.

One dead and another probable, sheriff! But there ain’t no second body around, not that I can find leastwise.

Whaddaya mean?

Well, this guy on the ground over there was shot through the throat … real messy. Also shot through the kneecaps.

Mafia?

Could be, but I don’t think so.

McNowlton shone his light on the corpse sprawled in the shrubs. Jesus H. Keerist! What a friggin’ mess. Poor bastard.

Where’s the tractor? McNowlton demanded as he shone the flashlight beam on the front of the trailer, which had obviously been disconnected from the tractor that was driven away by whomever did the killing.

Beats the shit out of me, sheriff.

Put an immediate alert for everyone in the area to look for a lone tractor.

That stiff over there, Lennie. You think he was the driver of the rig?

Most probably, sheriff. Someone obviously drove the tractor away this morning, that’s for sure. If you look up the road where the pavement begins, you can see its tracks heading back toward the Interstate.

Think it was robbery, Lennie!

No way, sheriff.

Why’s that, Lennie?

This dude over there still had his wallet on him, with 650 in bills, plus all his credit cards. If it was robbery, they would have cleaned it out.

Who’s the stiff?

Name on the license and other shit in his billfold indicates he’s David Armstrong Alba, a male Caucasian aged fifty-five, and a resident of Clearwater, Florida.

Another goddamned transient!

Yep!

Who called this in?

An old man who lives through the woods over there. Name’s Jefferson. You can just barely make out the house. It’s about a quarter mile over there. He called us at three thirty and reported hearing some noise and then gunshots and seeing a fire along this road here. Since it was a fire, we referred it to the local volunteer fire department. They arrived a half hour later and called us when they found the stiff over there. By the time I arrived, they’d put the fire out, and I asked them to wait until you got here, in case you wanted to ask some questions.

You already spoke with them?

Yeah. All they know is there was a fire here, and they put it out.

No questions. He turned to the fire truck crew who were standing around. Thanks for the help. You boys go on home now. McNowlton looked at the eighteen-wheeler. What’s inside, Lennie?

His deputy spit tobacco juice into a small cup he carried and wiped away the dribble with the back of his hand. This here eighteen-wheeler is the goddamnedest thing you ever saw, sheriff. We’ll have to call the Feds in on this one for sure!

McNowlton’s head whipped sideways, his face beginning to darken as Lennie started raising his hands defensively. Bullshit! the sheriff exploded. No fucking Feds!

Sheriff, you want to hold your horses for a damn minute and let me finish?

You ain’t called them fuckers already, have you, Lennie?

Course not, sheriff! You know I always follow procedures, but this here stuff is serious. Real serious!

So what is this shit?

You better take a look for yourself.

The two officers walked over to one of the broken cardboard boxes strewn around the truck. The deputy picked up a fistful of paper from one of the ripped open boxes and shone his light on it. All this is marked Secret, Top Secret, Umbra, Gumbra, and words and crap like that, sheriff. From the dates on some of these papers, it looks as though they’re old. Here, look at this one.

McNowlton began reading a letter dated March 25, 1972, from some outfit called Project Group Three, which explained why the Department of the Army had to follow existing procedures regarding the execution of Project ANLACE, and any deviations would require prior coordination and approval of the Central Intelligence Agency. The next sheet was a biography of some Vietnamese village chief called Ten Shou. Ten Shou was no longer considered reliable and had to be terminated with prejudice, per Project Phoenix directives.

McNowlton pushed another box over and shone his flashlight on it. This one was labeled Project 201 files in bold black print. Other boxes nearby bore the label Project 202, and their files were blue in color. McNowlton pulled out an orange file. Dated October 1969, the file bore the Greek name Phillip Veoldakis, son of an Egyptian Greek, born in Alexandria in 1942. McNowlton whistled. Jesus. I wonder what happened to this guy. Says this guy should be turned over to the Greek junta and executed for disloyalty. Says here he was shot. Case closed. McNowlton dropped the file and moved on through the debris field.

His assistant followed him to another box from which McNowlton withdrew another sheet of paper. This one was dated June 19, 1972, from some outfit with a European APO. It reported that their agent in Libya had disappeared. McNowlton stared at the paper for a moment and then at the scene of commotion around him. His frown turned to consternation.

Is all of it like this, Lennie?

Yep. Most of the ones that are busted open got papers in ’em with these Secret and Top Secret stamps all over them. Don’t know about the others though, sheriff.

What a pain in the ass.

You see, sheriff, I think this here truck was hauling this stuff somewhere, and I don’t think it was here to this little creek down there.

It’s been a long night, Lennie. Cut out the crap!

And I’ll bet the military still doesn’t know this stuff is here either, sheriff.

The military, Lennie?

Yeah, sheriff. Look at the trailer!

Dawn was breaking through the trees, and he no longer needed a flashlight. Both sides of the front of the rig clearly displayed the large stars-and-bars emblem of the United States Air Force and just below it USA Truck. The trailer’s plates indicated it was from Fort Smith, Arizona.

Jesus, Lennie. This rig is a long way from home. McNowlton returned to his cruiser and picked up the mic. Hello, dispatcher. Get on to the folks down at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, and tell them I want to talk to their chief investigator. The dispatcher called back five minutes later saying no one was available, as it was Saturday morning and could they call back around noon. Fine, then get me someone at Roanoke Rapids Air Force Station up on I-95, and tell them we have a partially burned air force trailer here. Number 2817, and the goddamned thing is full of boxes of highly classified information. Tell them the driver is dead, and there is classified stuff laying everywhere around the rig, and what do they want us to do with it.

He paced back and forth past the truck chewing at the cuticles around his nails. After borrowing another chaw of chewing tobacco from his deputy, McNowlton packed his lower lip and tried to figure out if he had done the right thing calling the Feds so quickly.

Lennie, I’m going back to the station. I’ll send you some backup. I want everything fingerprinted, photographed, and get statements from the fire volunteers and also the old man who called this in this morning. Don’t leave this rig until you hear from me.

You got it, sheriff!

SEYMOUR JOHNSON AIR FORCE BASE,

NORTH CAROLINA

Special Agent Merrill Calhoun’s entry in the restricted aircraft parking area of the Sixty-Eighth Air Refueling Group didn’t arouse much curiosity. Over half the employees at Seymour Johnson, these days were contract civilians who had gradually replaced the air force Blue Suitors who at one time had exclusively maintained America’s airpower. The area around the Sixty-Eighth ARG was a beehive of activity since long before sunup, as the local fighter squadrons were being launched on their daily training missions. A pair of F-16s screamed along the runway behind some parked KC-135 tankers and then disappeared into the heat haze. Inside the large hangar, Special Agent Calhoun turned through a side door and displayed his pass to a sentry in camouflage fatigues.

Once through, his olfactory nerves were assaulted by the now familiar smell of wet, burned paper, and he saw the white air force tractor-trailer along the far wall of the hangar. Before, they were rows of folding tables stacked with boxes from the truck. The cargo manifest, which had arrived that morning, indicated there should be 3,578 boxes aboard the vehicle, and an inventory would now reveal what was here and what was not. Calhoun had been told over the weekend that he would be in charge of the investigation. Headquarters for the air force’s Office of Special Investigations was in Washington, and they’d ordered him to stay on top of the problem and guard the cargo until air force higher-ups decided what to do with it. The inventory could have been completed by now, but the local base commander had adamantly stood his ground that he was not about to call out his troops, on a Sunday, to sit around and count wet boxes!

In retrospect, the delay had worked to Calhoun’s advantage, as Sheriff McNowlton had located the other corpse yesterday at a rest area on Interstate 95. The poor bastard had also been shot through the neck. A New Yorker en route to Hilton Head for a two-week vacation had pulled into the truck stop so his dog could relieve himself. The dog had taken off into the woods and had begun barking and refused to come out. When the man went to check, he discovered the corpse. The backup driver had also been shot through the neck at close range. And from blood across the grass in the woods, he too had been shot inside the cab. Calhoun had also been struck by the similarity of the attacks. It was unusual for an assailant to shoot his victims in the neck. The neck was a small target, and if the aim were off even slightly, there was the chance that the victim could strike back. Most assailants shot their victims in the chest, which was the physical center of a human target. Alba had also been shot through the kneecaps, which was the usual signal the Mafia used when they wanted to show displeasure with someone. Maybe that was the connection! Maybe there was more to this than merely murder.

The chase car was also found a few hours later nearby, parked in the woods near an overpass. The car had a note on its antenna stating that the driver had mechanical problems and had gone for help and would be back Monday morning. The state police found the driver in the trunk of the sedan.

It was a mystery to Calhoun and the sheriff how anyone had been able to get close enough to either the tractor-trailer or the chase car, get them to stop, get the drivers out, and then get close enough to shoot them without resistance. The chase car driver was an experienced lawman with twenty years in the FBI and after retiring had worked for the company that provided protection for government trucks. So much for experience, Calhoun thought.

An air force captain approached and inquired who he was. Special Agent Calhoun. Calhoun flashed his badge. How long will the inventory take to complete, Captain?

The captain guessed a minimum of five hours. With an hour for lunch and a few breaks, we should have the report ready by three this afternoon, Mr. Calhoun.

Fine. Calhoun watched while they unloaded more of the boxes, which he’d found opened at the accident scene and closed before replacing them on the truck. These boxes were put aside in a separate area along the wall and notations made about their condition and inventory control numbers. Still others were placed on the table until their inventory numbers were noted and then stacked along the far wall.

The investigation would provide Calhoun with some needed visibility. He had been in the air force for almost ten years, and his promotion to major was approaching. This sort of investigation was the kind of grist that would look good on his records. Something unusual had obviously happened here, and it wasn’t every day that an OSI agent was handed a high-visibility case like this. It was only a quirk of luck; he’d been the man called to the scene by McNowlton. The sheriff should have called the FBI, as this appeared to be a case of interstate commerce, and FBI had the resources to pursue it. But Calhoun would stay on top of the investigation for as long as he could. His instructions from Washington were also to keep it low key and keep the incident away from the press.

The Virginia autopsy results on the chase car showed what Calhoun already suspected: Both victims had died from massive hemorrhage. One look at the bodies would have told anyone that death resulted from suffocation and hemorrhage.

At three thirty, Calhoun was handed the inventory results. All 3,578 boxes were accounted for, but box number KB-20361-TL was so badly damaged from the fire that it was difficult to tell if anything was missing. Calhoun recalled that this was the box whose contents had been strewn around haphazardly on the ground. Another twelve cartons had also been broken into and from a brief inspection of the contents did not appear to be as tightly packed as they should have been. However, as there were no individual inventory lists available for the contents of the boxes, the investigator’s observations were speculative at best. The thirteen boxes that had been opened all contained the KB prefix. There were 122 boxes that had been partially burned, but the contents of each, or what was left, appeared not to have been tampered with before the fire. As Calhoun watched the progress of the inventory, it had become clear to him that whoever was involved seemed to know what they were looking for. The murders were methodical and professional. There had been no tire tracks or footprints left at the scene other than those of the rig. The paved road a fifth of a mile from the accident site revealed no noticeable traces of tire or footprints belonging to the assailant, only the rig. Fingerprinting of the cab’s interior indicated it too had been wiped clean except for a few prints in places that made it almost certain they were the driver’s. Then there were the spent Colt .45 cartridges they’d found. As for rifled boxes, they seemed to be only two that were close in number sequence: 20364 and 20365.

He’d coordinated the investigation with OSI new headquarters at Quantico, Virginia. They in turn had contacted the Office of Special Projects at Anacostia in Maryland, who’d approved OSI leading the initial investigation, as Calhoun was already on the scene and was an experienced criminal investigative officer. Calhoun had already arranged to have to have the cargo removed Tuesday morning by military aircraft to MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa, Florida. A C-5 of the Military Airlift Command would arrive the next morning and deliver the shipment to MacDill tomorrow.

As Calhoun was supervising the securing of the storage area and the hangar for the night, a staff car belonging to the local OSI commander at Seymour Johnson drove up. Calhoun had met Lieutenant Colonel Trencher several times during the past two days and was grateful for the assistance he had provided.

Calhoun, I just had a call from your OSI superiors at Bolling Air Force Base. General Kulbes asked me to tell you to call him as soon as possible. Seems the OSI has decided to turn the investigation over to the FBI effective right now!

You’re kidding.

Nope! Seems you can go home and forget about this incident.

Why didn’t we have some OSI or NCIS agents accompany this shipment like we normally do for high-value shipments like this cross-country?

The general told me both organizations dropped funding for these with recent budget cuts. All we monitor now are nuclear shipments.

But they had two ‘rent a cops’ assigned?

Guess it depends on who gets the funding.

Calhoun knew it was true. In recent years, the OSI had begun to refocus on its original core areas of specialization, espionage and counterespionage in and around the military services and department of defense. OSI’s once formidable manpower during the Cold War had been relentlessly whittled down to its current strength of three thousand personnel, of whom less than 1,800 were special agents conducting investigations. And the majority of those were inconsequential bread and butter type stuff related to fraud.

What about McNowlton?

I guess the investigation legally is still his responsibility, but from the way General Kulbes was talking, the FBI is going to pick up the investigation. They’re assigning some guy named John LeBlanc to the case. My guess is that he’s on his way here right now.

CHAPTER TWO

CLEARWATER, FLORIDA

H ELLO. I’M INSP. John LeBlanc. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, ma’am.

Yes, sir. I can see that from your badge. Her hair was wet, and her bikini had soaked through the floral design of her body wrap. What do you want?

Mr. Alba lives here?

Yes. Why?

I believe this apartment also belongs to Mr. Alba?

That’s correct.

May I ask whom I am speaking to, ma’am?

Cindy Kaehler’s my name.

You also live here?

No. I’m just a friend.

I see. Do you know where Mr. Alba is right now?

He was supposed to be here two days ago, she said with an expression of resignation, But being in the trucking business, he’s never on time.

You been here long?

Three days so far. Why?

He asked you to meet him here?

May I ask what you want? Inspector … LeBlanc, was it? Has Dave done something? Or me?

The FBI agent ignored the question. You are not related to him?

No. I told you that already. I’m only a close friend of many years. She was obviously beginning to get annoyed. I do not want to be rude, but do you have a search warrant or something?

Mr. Alba was killed two nights ago in South Carolina. Were you aware of this, ma’am?

The woman’s reaction left little doubt that she was surprised. Oh my god! How?

My regrets. I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this. It was almost certainly murder.

The young woman stepped back and opened the screen door. Maybe you had better come in for a few minutes.

Thank you.

The Clearwater area was dotted with luxurious apartment blocks surrounded by swimming pools and tennis courts. The Bonita Complex, where Alba resided, consisted of forty-eight apartments and was located just off Gulf Boulevard on Sand Key. Alba clearly had excellent taste in both where he lived and the women he kept, especially for a truck driver. Clearwater was Pinellas County’s wealthiest community. Pinellas was also one of the smallest of Florida’s sixty-seven counties, but its population spelled money; it had the highest per capita in schools, automobile registrations, commercial banks, and not surprisingly individual income.

As he followed her into the living room, he noticed her wipe some tears from her face. LeBlanc was never certain how people would react to the news of someone’s death, even when it was close relatives or friends. Most sobbed, some began screaming and wailing, and then there were the few who showed little anguish or emotion. Hopefully, his luck would hold, and this woman would bear up until he got the information he needed. She sat on one of the wicker chairs and asked him to have a seat.

What happened, Mr. LeBlanc?

We’re not exactly certain yet. Alba was driving a heavy rig south from Washington when it disappeared off Interstate 95, just below the North Carolina state line. We found him and the rig the next morning along a side road a few miles from the Interstate. We also found his codriver close by. LeBlanc would tell her only what she needed to know. May I ask what your exact relationship to the deceased was, Ms. Kaehler?

An old girlfriend. I guess that would be the best explanation. I live up north and came down two weeks ago to visit my parents. I’ve known Dave for five … maybe six years. We used to be serious, but he didn’t want a permanent relationship, so … now we were seeing each other once in a while. He called me three days ago and told me he’d be arriving here yesterday or the day before and to come over and spend a couple of days with him. I got the key from the property manager.

Does he have any relatives around here, Ms. Kaehler?

Not that I know of.

What about parents or immediate family?

Only a father and a sister that I know of. His father is up north somewhere.

North Florida?

No, up east.

Do you know where I might be able to contact him?

Somewhere around Washington DC, I think, but I don’t have an address.

And the sister?

No idea! He only mentioned her once, and I don’t even know if she’s alive or dead.

What about enemies?

Don’t know really. He was always getting into trouble wherever he spent too much time, that much I can tell you. You know, Dave liked women. He also seemed to have problems from time to time with other men’s wives and girlfriends too. Women were just naturally drawn to him, a wonderful personality, thoughtful, kind, really knows how to make a girl feel special, if you know what I mean. But enemies? I don’t know about any enemies.

May I ask if you know of any specific details that you referred to where he got into trouble?

You mean the type that might have been bad enough where someone might want to kill him?

If you could. Please.

Two come to mind that Dave told me about a few months back. But he laughed about them when he told me and didn’t seem to think they were important. Certainly not important enough that someone would want to kill him.

Any details would be helpful, Ms. Kaehler. Anything, even the smallest details. LeBlanc hoped that he wouldn’t have to spend several hours probing for the bits and pieces he needed. From experience, he knew that most people were usually the most talkative during an initial interview, after which they usually began having reservations about getting too deeply embroiled in murder proceedings. Which were the two instances you recall?

One was some guy in New Mexico a few months ago who Dave said threatened to kill him.

Actually threatened to kill him? Do you know why?

She smiled