Dying Embers by Robert E. Bailey Page B

over. “Your flight is already loading.”
    I departed, and the low buzz of conversation returned to the counter. I could feel the heavy weight of eyes on my back.
    A man stood at the side of the check-in counter, watching the crowd instead of the attendant at the desk. He looked to be in his early forties, decked out in a white cable-knit sweater over a blue broadcloth shirt, gray slacks, and a pair of those black loafers with little tassels like attorneys wear.
    â€œAre you Mr. Dunphy?” I asked as I approached. I switched my briefcase to my left hand and offered him my right.
    â€œYes,” he said as he took my hand and gave it a limp shake. “You must be Mr. Hardin. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”
    I took my hand back and gave my ticket to the check-in clerk. “Had to wrap up a few things at the office,” I said.
    â€œI was expecting someone in western attire,” he said. A smirk washed over his face.
    â€œThey wouldn’t let me bring my hoss,” I said.
    â€œI need to see some identification,” he said as he reached through the neck of his sweater to the pocket of his shirt. I showed him my detective license, and he handed me a “Platinum” credit card with my name embossed across the bottom. “Whatever this is must be very important,” he said. “That’s our corporate account.” His face flushed.
    â€œI don’t have to worry about some sales clerk cutting this in half?”
    â€œBuy the store and fire them.”
    â€œA dream come true.”
    â€œWhat exactly is it that you are doing for us?” he asked.
    â€œI’m sorry if this is awkward,” I said, “but I’m to report to Mr. Lambert.”
    The attendant tore a page out of my ticket, put the rest back in the folder and walked over to the jetway door. “Mr. Hardin, you have to board now,” he said and held out my papers.
    â€œThank you for coming down,” I said.
    â€œYeah,” said Dunphy, grim-faced. He added, “Good luck,” and strolled off with his hands in his pants pockets.
    The door shut behind me as soon as I was in the jetway. I had an aisle seat in the first class cabin. Since no one had the window, the stewardess let me switch. I watched Kent County disappear below the clouds without seeing Wendy’s car.
    I opened my briefcase and started through photocopies of the missing operative’s daily reports. Jacob Anderson, a.k.a. Jack Anders, filed his dailies via e-mail. All were written in the third person. The first report— falsely labeled day fifty-one—began, “A new employee by the name of Jack Anders was observed working as a janitor and company messenger,” so that if some absent-minded executive left a report lying about, the operative wouldn’t be toasted.
    â€œJack” had been under for five and a half weeks when his reports stopped. He began roping, gathering information, in the traditional fashion, bowling and drinking after hours with employees. His beginning reports detailed matters of time clock violations, petty thefts, and questions of employee morale. His assigned target was the research and development department and the leak of proprietary information to BuzzBee Batteries, which was challenging Lambert’s patents.
    Anders had gravitated to an engineer he identified with a cryptonym,A4PR, by volunteering to help with a roofing job on the engineer’s cottage. While doing the weekend chore he learned of the engineer’s hobby, collecting old movie posters. Jack hit the library for a little background study and he and the engineer were soon spending off hours scrounging old movie houses in small-town Wisconsin.
    Jack’s last report revealed that the engineer had been asking if security searched the trash that he carried out at night. Jack characterized the conversation as “cheap talk” over beer and reported that Jack Anders was among the persons