valuable. Thank you.” He closed the window of his rental car and drove to the mixed neighborhood around Wallinford’s waterfront.
In the gathering dusk he bumped up the back ally to the delivery entrance of Stein’s Tool and Die. Karl Stein must have been watching for him. The gray metal bay door with matching spray-painted windows went up, and Claussen drove inside.
Stein came out of the office wearing his usual shop apron. His face was taut, as if the skin covering his bony features had shrunk. His hand felt like a leathery vice when they shook.
“Hello, Karl,” Claussen said.
“I thought it was just the mounting pin you wanted. You’re not joking about this resurgence?”
“I have been authorized by Volkov, who holds the same position in the Russian Federation he held in the Soviet Union, to advance you two hundred thousand dollars, with another two hundred thousand to follow, when you have completed your tasks. The Atlanta demonstration, as you will have guessed from the news, was a success. Does that sound like a joke?”
“I’m sick of talk. The world has changed, Walter. It’s cash, or I don’t work. That pin was the last freebie.”
Good, thought Claussen. Stein knew nothing of Volkov’s passing. Good because Stein was afraid of Volkov, always had been. This piece of luck would make dealing with him easier. “Cash or you don’t work? Is that a fact?”
“You heard me. Take the cement job here. Volkov promised me he’d pay for it. I go out, get the bids, arrange the job and what happens? The bastard sends me nothing. So here I am living on a dynamite keg I can’t leave. You know the truth, Walter? He thinks if I sit on it long enough, I’ll get scared and use my own money. I’d rather have my ass thrown into jail.”
“You’re wrong about Volkov, Karl. He has authorized the fifty thousand for the cement job and paid for it up front. The last thing he wants is for his masterpiece from the old days to be discovered. One of your assignments is to get the cementing done while I’m here.”
“The son of a bitch doesn’t trust me? He could have sent me the money last time.”
“Let’s concentrate on the here and now,” Claussen said. He opened the trunk of his car, took out a brown paper bag and passed it to Stein. “Your advance. This should cover your first payment and the cement job.”
Stein dug around in the bundles of banknotes, visibly astounded. “Okay,” he said, holding one of the bundles up to the light. “I apologize for being an Arschloch . We’ll have something to eat. The refrigerator’s full of cold cuts. There’s a Polish bakery across the street. He’s a lousy Jew but he makes good rye. When do I get the rest?”
“We should be finished in a couple of days.”
Stein permitted himself a rare smile.
***
After dinner they removed the hidden vault panels and entered the second basement, a level below the regular shop basement. The concrete bunker was as clean as Stein’s apron.
The lighting was good, the air pleasantly dry. Claussen could hear the dehumidification system humming smoothly. Along the walls were labeled bins on stout metal shelves. In appearance, it was a parts inventory like any other.
Looking at it, Claussen shook his head. One could not imagine the amount of work this room represented, productive work, smart work, his work from the time he took over the operation in the late 1970s. Good that it would be used in some small degree before the cement trucks arrived. He was human. When that first plane went down in Atlanta, he felt the satisfaction of a man whose labor has not been in vain.
On the workbench, he booted his laptop computer and inserted Wayne’s inventory CD. The disc with the current inventory of Pratt & Whitney jet engine parts would be next.
While his software searched the Boeing parts inventory for the item he had specified – a set of
In the gathering dusk he bumped up the back ally to the delivery entrance of Stein’s Tool and Die. Karl Stein must have been watching for him. The gray metal bay door with matching spray-painted windows went up, and Claussen drove inside.
Stein came out of the office wearing his usual shop apron. His face was taut, as if the skin covering his bony features had shrunk. His hand felt like a leathery vice when they shook.
“Hello, Karl,” Claussen said.
“I thought it was just the mounting pin you wanted. You’re not joking about this resurgence?”
“I have been authorized by Volkov, who holds the same position in the Russian Federation he held in the Soviet Union, to advance you two hundred thousand dollars, with another two hundred thousand to follow, when you have completed your tasks. The Atlanta demonstration, as you will have guessed from the news, was a success. Does that sound like a joke?”
“I’m sick of talk. The world has changed, Walter. It’s cash, or I don’t work. That pin was the last freebie.”
Good, thought Claussen. Stein knew nothing of Volkov’s passing. Good because Stein was afraid of Volkov, always had been. This piece of luck would make dealing with him easier. “Cash or you don’t work? Is that a fact?”
“You heard me. Take the cement job here. Volkov promised me he’d pay for it. I go out, get the bids, arrange the job and what happens? The bastard sends me nothing. So here I am living on a dynamite keg I can’t leave. You know the truth, Walter? He thinks if I sit on it long enough, I’ll get scared and use my own money. I’d rather have my ass thrown into jail.”
“You’re wrong about Volkov, Karl. He has authorized the fifty thousand for the cement job and paid for it up front. The last thing he wants is for his masterpiece from the old days to be discovered. One of your assignments is to get the cementing done while I’m here.”
“The son of a bitch doesn’t trust me? He could have sent me the money last time.”
“Let’s concentrate on the here and now,” Claussen said. He opened the trunk of his car, took out a brown paper bag and passed it to Stein. “Your advance. This should cover your first payment and the cement job.”
Stein dug around in the bundles of banknotes, visibly astounded. “Okay,” he said, holding one of the bundles up to the light. “I apologize for being an Arschloch . We’ll have something to eat. The refrigerator’s full of cold cuts. There’s a Polish bakery across the street. He’s a lousy Jew but he makes good rye. When do I get the rest?”
“We should be finished in a couple of days.”
Stein permitted himself a rare smile.
***
After dinner they removed the hidden vault panels and entered the second basement, a level below the regular shop basement. The concrete bunker was as clean as Stein’s apron.
The lighting was good, the air pleasantly dry. Claussen could hear the dehumidification system humming smoothly. Along the walls were labeled bins on stout metal shelves. In appearance, it was a parts inventory like any other.
Looking at it, Claussen shook his head. One could not imagine the amount of work this room represented, productive work, smart work, his work from the time he took over the operation in the late 1970s. Good that it would be used in some small degree before the cement trucks arrived. He was human. When that first plane went down in Atlanta, he felt the satisfaction of a man whose labor has not been in vain.
On the workbench, he booted his laptop computer and inserted Wayne’s inventory CD. The disc with the current inventory of Pratt & Whitney jet engine parts would be next.
While his software searched the Boeing parts inventory for the item he had specified – a set of
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