Jocko Kunst ambled down Pier L with his permanent comical grin pasted above his thin goatee and a pink paper bag in hand. His gait signaled his confidence, his smile belied a peculiar insecurity. One couldn’t tell if Jocko was happy or afraid. But as he approached his friend of ten years—eleven next month—Jocko Kunst appeared carefree, a man unaware of schedules and calendars, even though one could set a watch by his arrivals at Shilshole Marina. Jocko was a people person. That’s why Becker knew what was in the paper bag: one of the coffees would have cream, one of the doughnuts would be whole-wheat, glazed.
“What’s zis?” Jay insisted every day on appearing surprised by his friend’s visits. Never take anyone for granted: that was Jay Becker’s rule.
“Emergency relief,” Jocko said with his distinct lisp, a lisp that was not in the least bit effeminate, but more like that of a cartoon character. “What else have I got to do?” He shrugged. “Moral support can do wonders for a blown bank account.” His voice jumped from high to low, high to low, and often cracked mid-word. Jocko was a cartoon character, a human Wiley Coyote who had given up on ever catching the Road Runner. The breeze ruffled Jocko’s kinky hair; Jay’s lifted off his head and settled back down.
Becker had piercing blue eyes, a round face with pink cheeks, and a crisp jaw line. Friends teased that he looked like Clark Gable. He pumped the mop into the pail and rinsed it, watching the water change color like steeping tea. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Me? I never pass up the chance to watch a friend do hard labor. It does wonders for the trust-fund side of my personality.”
“You should feel guilty.”
“You should accept a loan when it’s offered.”
“Money now; money then: it’s all money. We’ve been over that.” Jay jumped down onto the cement pier.
Jocko handed him the coffee with the cream. Jay spotted Shilshole’s dockmaster and waved to indicate he was taking his ten-thirty coffee break. The dockmaster waved back and tapped his wrist. Jay and Jocko had a way of stretching the breaks.
“You should be riding.”
“Tell me about it.”
“How are we going to get you ready for the race if you keep this workaholic thing up?”
“We?”
“I’m your trainer.”
“My trainer?”
“You’re past your prime. You need a trainer.”
“I turned thirty-one last week and now I’m past my prime?”
“Now you’re catching on.” Jocko sat down on the edge of the cement pier, as did Jay. A film of rainbowed colors, caused by floating gasoline, moved below their feet. Jocko admired its beauty.
“Aren’t we forgetting something?” inquired Jay.
“What’s that?”
“We’re the same age.”
Jocko shrugged. “Trainers only get better with age. Experience, you know.”
Jay laughed. “I bet you’ve never ridden a bicycle in your life.”
Jocko flashed his friend a disappointed look. He handed Becker the glazed-wheat. They both bit into their doughnuts at the same time. Jelly spilled from Jocko’s and fell into the water, disturbing the surface and disrupting the colors. A glob of jelly clung to the whiskers below his lip. He lapped it away with his tongue.
Jay was tempted to tell Jocko that he ate like a slob, but he’d told him many times before, so what was the point? “So what’s my routine, Coach?”
Jocko reviewed his plan. It was rigorous. He finished by saying, “If I didn’t think you wanted this badly, I wouldn’t bother. But knowing you, you’ll win the damn race, and I like being associated with winners.” He paused for a sip of coffee. “I do this for you for free,” he said, imitating his Jewish father.
Jay laughed. He always laughed when Jocko imitated his father. Doughnut crumbs bombarded the water and disintegrated.
“You eat like a slob,” Jocko scolded.
Jay sipped his coffee and then asked, “Any luck on Labor Day?”
“No. Everyone’s booked. I even called the Met Café. Booked.”
“Sully should have honored our agreement. We were booked first. It’s his fault. We shouldn’t be the ones screwed. He should at least pay us a percentage.”
“No contract.”
“We never sign contracts with Sully.”
“Exactly.” Jocko finished his jelly-filled and licked his chops. “So we get our first Labor Day weekend free in ten years. Who’s complaining?”
“I am. It’s the principle of the thing. Besides, I need the money.”
“You need a rich uncle to die.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Don’t fight a successful formula. It worked for me, didn’t it? You never know what lies ahead. That’s what makes life so damned exciting. So I got lucky. It could happen to you, too.”
“Speaking of what lies ahead.”
Jocko followed Jay’s gaze. A woman with blond hair, nice legs, and an intoxicating rhythm to her hips was headed toward them, down the pier. “Meaning?”
“She’s taking sailing lessons, starting tomorrow.” Becker lifted his eyebrows. “This job has its benefits, you know.” She drew closer to them. Jay said, “Hi.”
“Hello,” she said in passing, her accent German.
Jocko was ogling her. He whispered, “Introduce me.”
They both watched her from behind as she headed down the pier. She didn’t have a contrived, hip-heaving prance. She didn’t need it. Everything on her was well connected and working in unison, like a finely tuned engine. From the back she had long legs and firm buttocks; she appeared to be strong, her shoulder blades clearly visible beneath tanned skin as her arms rocked at her side. Her bathing suit was light blue and gossamer.
“What about Linda?”
“What about Linda? I’m going to give the woman sailing lessons, Jocko. I’m not marrying her.” Becker shook his head.
“Try telling that to Linda,” Jocko said, adding, “If she ever sees that one, you’re in deep trouble.”
“Linda’s history.”
“Meaning?”
“Is there something unclear about that?”
“Is there something I don’t know? You’ve said that about a hundred times over the past few years.”
“Yeah. Well, this time I mean it.”
“You’ve said that, too.”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is: you have yet to do anything about it.”
“So I should tell Linda to get lost?” Jay shook his head, pained. “I’ve tried that”
“‘Under my thumb…’,” Jocko sang out of key.
“Lay off.”
“Just making a point.”
Jay jumped to his feet. “I gotta get back to work.”
“Sorry,” Jocko said.
Jay turned and paused before saying, “It’s complicated, Rocks. I feel one way but I act another. I hate the idea of hurting her.”
“Hurting her? You’ve taken it on the chin so many times you’re numb. I like Linda. You know I do. But she treats you like shit. Sorry.” He rose. “None of my business.”
Jay looked stunned. “Guilty,” he said quietly.
“Be back around five. Wind sprints at five-fifteen at Golden Garden.” He started to walk away.
Becker called out, “Thanks for the coffee.”
Jocko raised a hand to acknowledge, paused, and then continued on as if reconsidering.
Jay reached the pail, bent down, and picked up the handle to the mop. He slapped the deck forcefully. Then he looked up. The woman was reading a paperback on the bow of a boat several slips down the pier. The horseshoe-shaped flotation device attached to the boat’s railing read The Lady Fine.
Jay studied her without her knowing and thought, No kidding.
3
The Seatbelt and No Smoking signs glowed yellow, the aisles clear for the descent into Washington, D.C.’s Dulles airport. Roy Kepella watched the tiny overhead spotlights blink on and o
ff randomly, according to use, a private art form. Below the jet, suburban lights shone like holiday ornaments, their twinkling mirroring the stare. He missed seeing the stars—stars were a rare sight in Seattle. He chuckled once to himself, thinking, The sun is a rare sight in Seattle.
Memories of Washington, D.C., still occupied a corner of Kepella’s mind. He could recall the exact day when he had first stepped off a train in the nation’s capital. August 25, 1950: two months behind the North Korean invasion and capture of Seoul. The heat and humidity had almost gagged him that day. His native Oklahoma had its share of hot days, but that boilerplate humidity belonged to D.C. alone.
Stepping off the plane, he realized things didn’t change, gasping as the oppressive heat closed in around him. Once inside the terminal Kepella did not have to wait for his luggage. He carried all he would need in a soft-shell flight bag: a change of clothes and a dog-eared address book.
The taxi ride took him past new sights. Even in the dark he could discern that what once had been farm-and-horse country was now condominium-and-Mustang-convertible country. Six- and eight-lane highways carried him to his destination, a Holiday Inn in Arlington. The driver, a black man named John, never stopped talking—shouting actually—above the grating sounds of gospel rock from the radio.
Kepella knocked twice on the door to room 210, and it opened. The man had a Marine brush haircut, a trimmed mustache, and a clear, deeply tanned complexion. He signaled Kepella to take a chair across an oval Formica table bearing orderly stacks of papers and file folders.
“Good to see you, Walter. Thank you for coming.” The uppers always called him Walter. His personnel folder had him as Walter. “Kevin Brandenburg,” his host stated, as if Kepella didn’t know who had summoned him three thousand miles to a secret meeting. “It seemed a waste of time to meet at the Agency, what with your traveling so far. This matter is rated highly enough that I prefer not to draw attention to it, and you know how the Agency is, as regards outsiders….” No, Kepella didn’t know. He was accustomed to the Seattle regional office, not Washington. Brandenburg continued, “The room is secure. We may talk freely.”
Kepella nodded. The room was standard Holiday Inn: king-size bed, lamps, end tables, telephone, television, an oval table lit by a green-shaded hanging lamp. The curtains were drawn, hiding a sliding glass door leading to a balcony. Kepella shifted uneasily in his chair. Brandenburg studied a folder, his brow furrowed. It was a typical gesture of the uppers, an intimidating pause meant to reestablish the pecking order. Kepella wondered how often one had to get a haircut like Brandenburg’s in order to keep it so perfectly uniform.
“You’re a hard worker,” Brandenburg said, as if reading from Kepella’s file, but Kepella knew better; his file was much thicker than that. He grunted, shifting again in his chair. Brandenburg would get to the point when he saw fit.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with all the technology we’ve been losing lately.”
Kepella nodded.
Brandenburg saw the nod and looked back at his folder. “The CIA was running an agent outside of Regensburg, West Germany. He may have penetrated Wilhelm’s network. Due to the security rating of the operation the data are slim at the moment. But, a few days ago he requested a mule—something he was not supposed to do unless standard courier lines could not be trusted. So, we have to assume he had something of value. He’s dead, Walter. No word from the woman at all.”
“Woman?” Kepella interjected.
“The mule.”
Kepella nodded again.
Brandenburg looked up. His forehead was creased, eyebrows cinched toward the bridge of his nose. “We know that your area is next, Walter. Seattle is next. We have reason to believe that they will follow the same pattern as Los Angeles—”
“Go after an agent.”
“Exactly.” Brandenburg shut the file, stacked it, and opened another. His fingers were thin, with manicured nails. “Tell me about your family life.”
“Nonexistent,” Kepella replied quickly, uncomfortable with the question.
Brandenburg waited.
“What can I tell you that you don’t already know?” He pointed to the file folders. “I live alone, I work, I eat, I shit, I sleep.”
“There’s no need for cynicism.” Brandenburg studied Kepella. “Your son paid you a visit, did he not?”
How the hell did he know that? Kepella remembered mentioning it to Mark Galpin, the Seattle Director of Operations and a close personal friend, but he had a hard time believing Mark would have routed the information to Personnel. “Last year,” Kepella admitted.
“And?”
“I don’t see how it pertains to Agency business,” reluctantly adding, “sir.”
“I don’t know you, Walter. I need to know you. I have little time to get to know you. What good does this crap do me,” he asked, tapping the file, “if I can’t get word one out of you?” Brandenburg knew people. If informal was what Kepella wanted, then informal he would have. “Tell me about your son’s visit.”
Kepella sighed. “I don’t know what you have in that file. I threw the kid out when I lived in Oklahoma City. He was a drunk at eighteen—”
“But you used to drink rather heavily yourself, Walter. Did you not?” Intimidating.
“Do you want me to tell you or would you rather tell me?”
“Continue.”
“I threw him out.” Kepella ran his hand through his thick black hair, his pain apparent. “Didn’t see him for years—”
“How many?”
Kepella closed his eyes. When he opened them he said, “Ten. A little over ten years.” He hooked his fingers on the edge of the table, as if the table might hold him up. “He showed up sometime last year. February, I think. We went out together. He married some Irish woman, knocked her up. He didn’t want the baby coming into nothing. He wanted cash. Ten years, and all he really wanted was some money. I gave him five grand. I didn’t have much more than that saved. I’m not particularly good with money.” A weak smile. “The next day he was gone. Haven’t heard from him since.”
“Tell me about your early days.”
Kepella gave in. “I was raised on football, beer, and the back seat of a Chrysler New Yorker. Oklahoma was okay, I guess. I never liked it much. My dad drove trucks. Mom cleaned houses. I suppose I wanted more than eighteen wheels and dust mops. I enlisted, signed up for a tour of duty in Korea. Did okay.
“After the war they moved me to Washington. The Bureau recruited me, ran me through college, and stationed me back in good old Oklahoma. I married a gal who was too young for me. Stupid move. We had Tommy. Things went to shit, it all fell apart on me. Tommy grew up real quick. He was drinking heavily by the time he was eighteen. I threw him out. The wife never forgave me. She fooled around. I found out about it and raised hell. Next thing I knew her lawyers had won my house—my house, can you believe that?—and had left me nothing. I transferred to Seattle.
“I don’t really like Seattle.” He pointed to the folder. “But if you know anything, you know that much. One cloudy day after another. I got into the booze pretty heavily myself. Nights first. Then lunch. You know how it goes. No, maybe you don’t. I did my job okay. I got wise about a year ago. I told Mark… Galpin, the director… about the drinking problem. I dried out. Here I am.” He looked up. Sadness creased his face.
“What about your love life there?”
Kepella’s life had moved like the moon over water, its reflection more beautiful than the real thing. Sure, he had learned how to avoid the booze; but besides work, what else was there? Love was not a word in his vocabulary anymore. “Nothing going.”
It was Brandenburg’s turn to nod. “We think they may come after you, Walter. You fit what they’re looking for.”
Kepella knew that was no compliment. He didn’t like Brandenburg. “Why do you say that?”
“You had a problem a few months back with a co-worker.”
“What if I did?”
“You were suspended for two weeks.”
“That was political. Ask anybody. I went right back to the job. Full responsibility.”
“I know. You’re right, of course. But it wouldn’t look that way to someone outside the Agency. You were suspended. You are a man in a position of extreme national security, Walter. Many of the latest domestic military technologies pass across your desk. And you have access to others. You have no family to speak of—a loner. They seem to like that. As you said, you’re not great with money. You see, Walter, I think you’re perfect for them.”
“You don’t have to worry.” He could see twenty years going down the tube to some young assistant deputy director, some baby-boomer who, having nothing better to do, had decided to do a little Agency weeding. Culling. “It’s not my style. If I was going over to the other side, Brandenburg, I would have done it long ago. I’ve held this post for some time, you know.”
Blood of the Albatross Page 2
