I looked sheepish. “We’ve been looking, believe me, and just haven’t found him. We didn’t even know he was missing until we got to Staunton and stopped for gas. He must have got out of the back of the camper at one of our stops.”
“He got a name?”
“Mikhail Goncharov.” We had to give his real name. He might have given it to someone, although if the sheriff knew it when he sent in the prints for an ID, it seemed to me he would have said so.
“That sounds Russian.”
I nodded. “He’s a refugee. Russian is the only language he speaks. He’s here visiting Kelly.” I introduced her to the sheriff.
“You both look like Americans to me,” the sheriff said dubiously. “Either of you speak Russian?”
Kelly reeled off a sentence or two. It sounded Russian as hell to me, and it must have to the sheriff, too, because he relaxed and smiled.
“We may have found him. Something wrong with him?”
“Alzheimer’s,” I said, nodding.
“Well, he’s staying with a couple up in the northern end of the county at a fishing camp along the river, fellow named Jarrett. Go to Durbin and take the river road south about six miles. His name is on the mailbox.”
“Thanks,” I said enthusiastically. “We’ve been so damned worried, let me tell you.” I pulled out a hankie and mopped my brow. “I feel like such a fool.”
“Glad to be of service. But the person you should thank is Linda Fiocchi, Jarrett’s girlfriend. She took him in, wanted him to remain as their guest while we tried to identify him. Aren’t many people that kind in this world.”
We talked about that for a bit. The sheriff really admired Jarrett’s girlfriend. “Fiocchi’s a class act. I think she thought he might be an illegal,” the sheriff said, watching my face.
Kelly laid her hand on my arm. “Let’s go get him now,” she said to me, and smiled warmly at the sheriff. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Wish you had put in a missing persons report,” the sheriff said.
“He’s scared to death of the police,” I explained. “Living in Russia.. perhaps you can understand. We were afraid that if he saw a policeman..”
“Seemed fine to me when I saw him,” the sheriff said gruffly, giving me the eye. If he wanted to think Goncharov was an illegal, that was okay with me. In the abstract everyone wants the immigration laws enforced, but when the problem is reduced to real people, few people are ready to send them back to whatever they fled to get here. This county sheriff in the heart of the Alleghenies had not called the INS, and I doubted that he would.
We thanked him profusely and made a hasty departure.
I stopped at a filling station to call Jake Grafton. As I was using the pay phone, Kelly went to the ladies’.
“The sheriff says he’s staying at a fishing camp on the river, near the facility,” I told the admiral when he answered. “Sounds to me as if he’s no more than five or six miles from it.”
The admiral grunted. “Dell Royston has been busy today. He’s made over a half dozen calls in the last two hours, a couple of them to numbers that you gave me. Something’s up. Don’t know what.”
“Okay.” Better find Goncharov and get him out of there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Be careful, Tommy.”
“I will,” I said, and hung up. Kelly was still in the ladies’ when I went into the men’s.
It seemed to me that there was no time to lose. Whatever Royston might be up to, it couldn’t be good. And the sheriff might just decide to drive up for a visit with Goncharov and his niece; I wanted to be gone before he arrived.
I waited in the car for Kelly. Why do women always take so long in the John?
At least now we had a name for Mr. Big. That was an accomplishment in itself. I remember reading about Royston these last few years. He had become a public personality while on the White House staff. I seemed to recall that he had spent most of his career as a political consultant, one of those professional cynics who creates an image for whatever politician signs up to foot the bill. The president was Royston’s horse.
How in the world had Royston gotten into the KGB’s files, if indeed he had? Did he analyze American politics for them or write op-ed pieces for Pravda} Perhaps the KGB paid him to write op-ed pieces for the New Yorf^ Times and Washington Post. The second possibility seemed more likely, but I was just guessing. Or had the Russians paid him to kill Goncharov before he could talk?
Kelly came out of the restroom and plopped herself into the passenger seat of the rental car, and I fed gas.
“You did good in the sheriff’s office,” I said as we rolled out of town.
“Hope he bought it,” she muttered, and half turned in her seat to look behind us. I glanced in the rearview mirror. No cruiser yet.
Durbin was almost forty miles from the county seat along curvy two-lane roads. The state highway department was busy, and that delayed us, and we got stuck behind several logging trucks that we had to follow for miles before we found places to pass. The drive took over an hour.
The river road out of Durbin was well marked. After I had gone a couple of miles along it, I began slowing at every mailbox, reading the names. It’s been my experience that most folks aren’t very good with distance estimations. Four-point-two miles south of Durbin, there it was. Basil Jarrett. I drove up the driveway, turned the car, and parked it pointing toward the exit.
“Same story?” Kelly asked.
“More or less. Let me do the talking.”
A woman opened the door before I had a chance to knock. “I heard you drive up,” she said.
“We’re looking for my girlfriend’s Russian uncle. The sheriff said he might be here.”
“Oh, my God! I’m so glad you came! I’m Linda Fiocchi. Please come in, please! I think he’s here.” She held out a hand to Kelly, who took it. “You must have been so worried!”
“We’ve been frantic. He walked away from our camper on Tuesday, and we didn’t know where he left us.”
“We haven’t been able to talk to him.”
“He speaks only Russian.”
“He’s only spoken once, just a few words that we didn’t understand. He seems… ill.”
Kelly nodded knowingly, released Fiocchi’s hand and used a finger to swab a tear.
I was surprised. Kelly Erlanger was an excellent actress. It was something to think about.
This sob scene would go on for quite a while if I didn’t move things along, so I gestured toward the overhead loft and asked, “Is Unc taking a nap?”
“Oh, no. He and Basil are fishing.”
“Ahh …”
“He loves to fish. He took a rod and went out at first light.”
“He always loved it,” Kelly said, nodding.
‘We came downriver from Durbin and didn’t see them,” I said. ‘Are they farther down the river?”
I don’t know which way they went.”
I’ll go look for them,” I said. Kelly took a step toward the door, but Fiocchi wanted to talk about her houseguest. “He’s such a nice man, but he’s having severe nightmares. I thought he might have amnesia.”
I left Kelly to keep Fiocchi occupied and took the car. The road ran right along the river, so the car should be quicker than walking. For some reason that I couldn’t put my finger on, I had this nagging suspicion that time was running out.
I found the two men several miles down the river. They were wearing hip boots and working the shallows with fly rods. From Erlanger’s description of Goncharov, I recognized him immediately. The other man, Basil Jarrett, was about forty, and he, too, knew how to fish. I watched them from the bank for several minutes before Jarrett looked in my direction. I waved for him to come over to the bank. He continued to cast while he worked his way toward me.
When he was twenty feet or so away, I said, loudly enough to be heard over the gurgle of the river, “Having
