Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  The band was into a smooth rendition of Buddy Holly’s “Well All Right” when Marlene entered with Holst. Jay noticed her immediately and tried to catch her eye. After a few moments she turned to look at him and returned his smile. Seeing her paired with Holst hurt Jay. He was the sensitive type, and he had already come to think of her as his. Seeing her with the strong, confident, blue-eyed Holst made him realize just how tentative his position was. How would it look to Jocko for Christ’s sake? Hey, that’s my girl—my woman—on the arm of that boot-camp type over there. Damn.

  Holst noticed her interest in Jay and placed his hand on the small of her back as they were led to a table. The gesture signaled ownership, like a dog pissing at the edge of his territory. Jay and Holst exchanged stares and both knew what the other was thinking. Male games.

  Holst tried to seat her, but she switched seats on him so that he sat with his back to the bandstand, Marlene smiling over his shoulder. His face flushed with anger. Although he had not slept with her, had not even kissed her, he nevertheless considered her his property. She was part of this job, under his supervision, and therefore his.

  He studied her across the table. She used restraint and taste with makeup. Never too much. Her lips were red, her eyes faintly shadowed; two gold studs in her ears matched the thin gold chain around her neck. Her hair was wavy and blond, except when the light caught it just so, and then beautiful reddish highlights showed. Her body was athletic and firm. He wondered what the rest of her looked like.

  She ordered a rum sunrise and he a vodka gimlet. To her, dining with Holst was tedious. Like dining with your prison guard. She wondered if this was like a marriage that had gone stale. Tedious. She hated Holst. If only her father had not tried so hard. If only Holst didn’t have it on tape. The thought stole her appetite. She hated Iben Holst.

  She ordered the Dungeness crab with broccoli and a salad with house dressing. Holst ordered another drink.

  Marlene looked at his empty gimlet. That was fast.”

  He shrugged. “Lost my appetite.”

  “But not your thirst.”

  He shrugged again.

  She fiddled with her silverware and patted her hair absentmindedly, looking away.

  Holst looked up from the table slowly. “You think of me as a monster. I can feel it.”

  She toyed with the spoon, not answering. On stage Jay counted off the next song.

  “Soon, it is over,” Holst tried.

  A short waitress with a cranberry top delivered the vodka. Holst grunted at her. The music stopped. Marlene and others applauded.

  Jay Becker’s voice boomed through the speakers. Thank you, dancers. We’ll be back after a short intermission. Don’t forget tonight is Seattle Slew night at the Blue Sands. See ya in twenty—after a short pause for the cause.” Jay made it seem fresh every night. That was his job: do the same thing every night and make it seem fresh.

  Marlene said to Holst, “Are you going to ask him over?”

  Holst nodded. “Yes, of course. You know I am.” He turned to signal Jay, who was already looking at Marlene. Holst raised his index finger like a person signaling a cab. Jay noticed the gesture and raised his own index finger, indicating he would be a minute. Holst was annoyed. Male games. When Jay arrived at the table, Holst remained seated.

  “Sit down, please,” Marlene offered, angered by Holst’s rudeness.

  Jay dragged a chair up, still catching his breath. Holst and Marlene had fresh drinks. Jay drank from a glass of beer with a lemon floating in it.

  “Jay Becker.” He and Holst shook hands.

  “Iben Holst. You have met Marlene,” he said, reasserting his ownership.

  Jay nodded.

  “We would like to hire you, Mr. Becker, full-time. Marlene is enjoying her sailing lessons and there is much to do to ready The Lady Fine for passage at the end of the month. I will pay you three dollars an hour more than the marina is currently paying you, and one hundred dollars a day when you travel north with Marlene. Are you interested?” Holst made it sound demeaning but attractive.

  Jay looked at the smooth German features; no hard lines creased his face or eyes. Even so, the man exuded evil—what some called “bad vibes.” There was no mistaking it. His nose had a thin little scar most people would have missed. A knife wound perhaps, Jay told himself, an extremely sharp knife to leave so thin a scar. Maybe not a knife, but a razor blade. Yes. He noticed a similar scar just inside the man’s shirt collar. A neck scar curved like a frown. “I’ll have to clear it with John. He’s the dockmaster. I don’t want to jeopardize my job at Shilshole.”

  “And if John agrees?” Holst asked.

  “It’s very tempting,” Jay said, glancing at Marlene over the rim of the beer glass.

  She smiled rather formally. Jay understood: this was business. Holst was obviously a jealous type. Like Jay.

  “When will you have a definite decision?”

  “Tomorrow noon.”

  “Fine. Marlene, you’ll let me know?”

  She nodded at Holst.

  “Excellent. Now perhaps we can continue with dinner. Thank you, Mr. Becker. That will be all for now.”

  You didn’t have to say that, Jay thought. He rose, pushed the chair in, and walked away, refusing to look back at Marlene.

  When he reached the stage, Jocko said, “She is a fox.”

  “Shut up, Jocko. Just shut up.” Jay slammed his hip into the panic bar on the exit door and stepped out into the chilly Seattle night.

  15

  It was eight-forty-five, just past sunset and at the edge of darkness, when clear images gradually lose their sharp edges. Seattle residents are accustomed to such light, for the city is often overcast with low, ominous clouds—with or without rain—dark, charcoal clouds that blow in relentlessly off the Pacific, blow in from Siberia, from the Aleutians, or from the vast swelling ocean. A few brave seagulls still swept through the twilight gloom, sounding their hollow, eerie cries, their white bodies like kites in the wind.

  Pedestrians jammed Alaska Way near Pike’s Market, mostly tourists after that one small item that was easy to carry, that one simple reminder of a vacation that could be tucked beneath the socks for little Ben, Dodge, Ted, or Blair. Not aware of exactly what they were after, they were lured into this, that, or the other store.

  Roy Kepella steered his way through the crowded sidewalks. He had decided on a three-stage shake. The first phase was to wander the market until dusk. He poked his way through stores he had not visited for years and found himself enjoying them. He could feel the energy in the market, and it reminded him of the stockyard on the outskirts of Oklahoma City he had visited with his father as a kid. All those cows—as Roy called any four-legged beef animal—and all the people wandering around talking about heifers and milkers and calves and culling and bids and veal and flanks and rounds. He remained alert for anyone following him. It had been years since he had done anything like this. He had read enough files, had been involved in enough cases, to know that this was where many agents screwed up. Kepella had no intention of screwing up.

  He entered a men’s store by one of the market’s three entrances, going first to a glass display case, where he inspected an assortment of cuff links. A large mirror behind the display allowed him a view of most of the store behind him. He paid special attention to the doorway he had entered, keeping an eye out for anyone keeping an eye out, although he didn’t think he had been followed. But just in case Holst or some stranger was keeping him under surveillance, he continued to check the large mirror. Then he quickly left the store through a different exit. He walked briskly, but not so fast as to attract attention. He made his way out of the complex, crossed the street, and climbed into his old beater of a Dodge. He drove away.

  He spent as much time looking in the rearview mirror as he did watching the road in front of him. He drove due west, one, two, three blocks, and parked near the Nordstrom department store, near 5th and Pine. Phase two. He bought a ticket for th
e monorail and boarded at the last possible second, pleased with himself because no one had had time to enter behind him.

  Phase three. The cab, requested an hour earlier, was waiting for him with its engine running. The advantage of a cab was that it left Kepella free to fix his attention on the traffic behind them. He instructed the driver to take a certain route, running down one-way streets and making a series of four right-hand turns onto other one-way streets. It was a technique designed to expose any surveillance, even the most professional.

  No one was following. He told the driver the address, a residential area just over the hill.

  The house, a blue two-story Cape, overlooked Lake Washington. The variety of plant life out here still amazed Kepella. It wasn’t as apparent in the heart of the city—where Kepella had spent over eight years—but here, five, ten minutes out of town, every variety of shrub, tree, flower, fern, and bulb thrived, all neatly tended, property after property, like one might expect to find in Japan.

  He unlatched the white picket gate and closed it quietly. A flagstone path led past tall, trimmed hedges. He followed the path around back as he had been instructed. He knocked on the back door twice, rang the doorbell, and knocked once more, all according to instructions. He let himself in, as he had been told.

  The kitchen smelled of turkey and mashed potatoes. Water boiled on the stove. A Thai maid appeared through the inside door and nodded to Kepella. She swept an arm toward the door and nodded again. Kepella smiled graciously and pushed through the door. Brandenburg was sitting at the head of a long table. He stood. His haircut looked the same, as did his boyish face, his smooth skin, and penetrating look. “Good of you to come, Roy,” he said, sounding somewhat British. The two shook hands. Kepella removed his trench coat, brushed off his sport jacket, and sat down. Silence. Kepella sipped his water and waited for Brandenburg to say something. The furnishings were Colonial, antiques and a simple flowered wallpaper. The polished dining table reflected the plain white ceiling. The candles were lit and the overhead light was dimmed. A not unpleasant room, Kepella thought.

  “I thought you might be hungry.” Brandenburg hesitated. “Pahn has cooked a bit of bird, turnips and the like. I do hope you like bird.”

  “Fine.”

  “Oh good.” Brandenburg buttered a roll and, stabbing the air with his knife, said, “Help yourself.”

  Kepella withdrew a steaming roll from the basket and had to place it down quickly.

  “How’s it going?” Brandenburg looked up and waited for Kepella to answer, his butter knife resting on the hot bun.

  “They’ve made contact. I’m certain. I’m into them for five thousand. Got the loan today.”

  “Who?”

  “The man’s name is Iben Holst.”

  Brandenburg smiled. “Holst is it?” He buttered the bun carefully. “He’s the right-hand man, you know?”

  “Of course I don’t know. I don’t know a thing about this.”

  “You needn’t be cross.” Brandenburg took a bite of the bun and chewed vigorously. “I know this is difficult for you, Roy. But it sounds like you’ve hit pay dirt. It shouldn’t be long now. Did you get the files clear?” He looked over again, jaw muscles flexing.

  “Yes.”

  “SOSUS?”

  “Yes. Everything you asked for.”

  “Wonderful job, Roy.”

  Kepella wanted to hit the man. There sat Kevin Brandenburg, a couple of years older than his son, chewing on a steaming roll and telling him that everything was wonderful. Bullshit. Everything was not wonderful. He had been acting out a role. His nerves were frayed, the seams were ripping, the foundation rattling.

  “The drinking?”

  “I have an arrangement with the bartender. He pours water for me.”

  “Excellent.” Brandenburg blinked, chewing on the edge of his lip, and examined Kepella more closely. “Are you up to this, Roy? It shouldn’t be much longer.”

  Kepella wiped his mouth. Pahn entered, burdened by the platter of turkey. She made several trips back and forth: mashed potatoes, peas, turnips, gravy, cranberry, oysters, a tall glass of whole milk for Kepella, and white wine for Brandenburg. “Looks like Thanksgiving.”

  Brandenburg said, “It’s your favorite, isn’t it, Roy?”

  They ate for a few minutes without discussion. When Brandenburg was finished with his glass of wine he asked, “What’s your plan?”

  Kepella felt better. The food had helped. “I’ll default on the note. I’ll get in nice and deep. I’ll ask Holst to arrange refinancing. I already checked with him. He said he wanted to see how this went first. He’ll bear down and I’ll become desperate, just like you said.”

  “Nothing important at first, you understand. You can’t pass along bullshit, but you want to watch how sensitive it is. You must make it look like you’re trying to get away with something. They sucker in better that way.”

  Kepella nodded. He had studied similar routines.

  “We’ll try and meet once more. Same signal: three rings, I ask for Eddie, we hang up. A day later, here again.”

  Pahn cleared the table. She brought dessert. Cherry pie.

  Kepella asked, “What about Washington?”

  Brandenburg seemed confused. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My job.”

  “Oh, yes. All cleared, I should think, by now.”

  “But what sort of post?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “Sure you have. What’s your preference, Roy? I’ll see what’s available.”

  “After all this… well, I have kind of changed priorities. I think I might like something in Operations.”

  “You know there’s not much there anymore. We’re after a few federal judges at the moment, there’s a few things down in Florida, though most of the money laundering is handled by the Secret Service and you know how tightly knit they are. There’s some political stuff going on out in California, but that’s not passing through Washington. It’s being handled regionally. I’m not sure Operations is worth the effort; might be something more exciting at another desk. I’ll make some phone calls.”

  “Will you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But Washington is on?”

  “You bet. For you, Roy? Jeez, you’re top dog at the moment.” Brandenburg tasted the pie and smiled. “Good pie, isn’t it?”

  Kepella asked, “What if I need to contact you? How can I do that?”

  “I’m afraid that’s out. Security, you know. If anything should go wrong—if you were to be interrogated—we couldn’t very well have you lead them back to me, could we?”

  “But I’ve already got your name.”

  Brandenburg shook his head. “No, Roy. You have a name. Isn’t that what you meant? A name.” Brandenburg smiled. “Precautions, Roy. In this day and age, one just can’t take too many precautions.”

  Kepella had never heard of an upper using a cover to run an operation. “That’s a little unusual isn’t it?”

  “This whole operation is unusual, Roy. We’re taking a huge risk here, all to catch a man who should have been hauled in in Montreal, eighteen months ago. To be frank, the Bureau is trying to save face.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to trust you?”

  “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it, Roy? You’re suspended, you have no law enforcement status whatsoever, you’ve lifted God-only-knows how many state secrets and furrowed them away somewhere, you’re into loan sharks for five thousand. You’re sleeping with a twenty-five-year-old Chinese.” Brandenburg looked at Kepella contemptuously. “I’d say it’s a little late to have doubts about the people running this operation. We’re the only ones who can save your ass, Kepella. Don’t forget that.”

  16

  Running with the wind, Jay pointed her as high as she would take it. The breeze was perfect, the sea an iridescent green, and Jay had to remind himself he was being paid to do this. />
  “Fantastic!” he shouted to Marlene, as she clicked the winch another two notches and the jib tightened in the wind. The Lady Fine heeled toward the chop and Jay stood up to peer over the bow. She took the wind like a racer, a real go-getter and eager for the strong blow.

  Marlene, holding firmly onto a teak runner, edged back toward Jay. “This is the best yet.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. To port, Mount Rainier dominated the afternoon sky, a monolith filling the horizon, a ring of clouds circling its peak. Spray slapped them both in the face as The Lady Fine gathered speed and sliced through the sea. “She’s a honey. My God, she’s a honey.” He looked up to the telltails attached to the stays and said, “Ready?”

  Marlene inched forward again. She was wrapped in a yellow robe for warmth against the wind. “Ready,” she confirmed, one hand prepared to loosen the line from the cleat, the other holding the winch handle.

  “Ready about!” Jay barked, snapping the main sheet loose from the cleat and ducking as the boom swung violently overhead, spinning the wheel with one hand while fishing for a hold on the starboard winch and securing the line on an adjacent cleat. Marlene winched in the jib and tied it off. They were now headed straight for Mount Rainier. It seemed more a fantasy destination than a real mountain only miles away, a place that promised peace and forgiveness and no worldly worries, a Shangri-La, mysterious, floating above the horizon in a sea of indigo sky.

  Marlene sat down next to him. The boat cut a foaming white wake through the Sound. “Where did you learn how to sail?”

  Jay looked over at her. They both wore sunglasses, so he couldn’t see her eyes. “I’ve sailed all my life. Most every day of every summer as a kid. I started out on Dyer dinghies, moved up to Blue Jays, then Lightnings, then my parents’ thirty-two-foot ketch. When I was fourteen, my father and I started competing in regattas on weekends. We have a bookcase full of trophies at home. We were very lucky.”