Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  “What about more video?”

  “Yes, that will help us keep him working for us, but that motel trick of his was clever. I will have to think of a way to beat him there.”

  “You enjoy this, don’t you?” She could see it in his eyes.

  “Yes. I enjoy it very much.” He studied her carefully. He thought, Marlene, you don’t understand, do you? You still haven’t figured out why we chose you: an only child, your mother dead, your father unaware of where you are. “We take very few chances, Marlene. That is how we stay in business.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It will be over soon enough.”

  She changed the subject. “I would like the television back.”

  “It will take a few days… Be patient.”

  The briefcase phone rang. Holst said, “If it is Becker, find out where he is.”

  She looked strangely at Holst and answered the phone. “For you,” she told him.

  After he had hung up he said, “You were followed.”

  “By Kepella?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry. I looked for—”

  “No. It is good. I would have worried if he had not followed you. He wants to know who all the players are. If he has any Agency friends left, and I’m sure he does, he’ll check you out.”

  “Me? What could he possibly find out about me?”

  “By noon tomorrow he will know everything about you. Everything we want him to know.”

  “And just what is that?” she said, annoyed.

  “That you have worked for several important electronic companies. Your education, family history, the usual.”

  “And what else?”

  “That you took a trip to Iran in 1977, Libya in 1979, toured Central America last year.”

  “But that’s not true.”

  “To him it will be. That is all that is important.”

  27

  Night clouds floated over Manhattan, illuminated by billions of watts of light that poured from street lamps, marquees, apartment windows, headlights… Passengers fanned themselves with the small sightseeing pamphlets that had been distributed to each cabin when the ship had docked an hour ago.

  Sharon sat patiently in the small waiting room where the Customs official had asked her to wait. After a time the door swung open and the paunchy man who had detained her announced, “You may leave. Please sign here.”

  She signed the form and stopped to exchange her remaining deutsche marks for U.S. currency. Three phone calls and a taxi ride later, she was on her way to Washington, D.C.

  She arrived at Dulles at 11:45 on a hot and humid August night. She was picked up and driven to Langley and moved quickly through the security area. A few minutes later her first debriefing began. The debriefings lasted three full days, and finally, on the afternoon of the third day, a limousine drove her to the Senate Office Building.

  Now Sharon paced outside a room where the meeting was to take place. She was nervous. Due to logistics and politics, neither director would agree to meet in the offices of the other, and so the meeting had been moved here, onto neutral ground. The others had been inside for a little over thirty minutes when an aide summoned Sharon.

  She told them what Brian had asked her tell no one else: that a double agent existed inside the FBI and was running agents for Fritz Wilhem. “He had heard that Seattle was next. It was explained to him that Seattle’s office held files not accessible to agents here. Brian was certain they would go after someone in Archives.”

  The men mulled this over and sent their aides off. But the most important information Sharon had—the image of the mole in the FBI—was trapped inside her head. The two directors agreed that the first order of business was to try and glean the image of the mole from Sharon’s mind via the talents of a police sketch artist. The meeting broke up shortly thereafter.

  The first session had been scheduled for early evening.

  ***

  Sharon tried to relax. She had been working with the bald and quiet sketch artist for over an hour and they weren’t even close. The forehead was wrong, the chin was off, the eyes didn’t fit at all. Her problem was that she kept confusing the face in the photograph with the face of the thick-lipped man. The sketch came out more like the latter, and struggle as she might—concentrating on the image of the photograph in her head—the two faces superimposed each other. “No. I’m sorry. I think the forehead was thinner.”

  The sketch artist was accustomed to this. He could tell in the first five minutes if his subject had it or not. This one didn’t have it. She wasn’t sure. He was a professional, however, and wasn’t about to rattle her. His art was patience: he waited while people tried to remember. He knew, though, that she wasn’t going to remember. But they paid him to sit here and do his best and that’s what he was doing. He used the gum eraser to rub out the top of the man’s head. The picture now looked like one of those porcelain mugs with a man’s face on the outside and an open hole where the top of the head should be. He lowered the forehead and added the hair, spinning the pad around for Sharon to examine. “Any closer?”

  They went at it for another two hours. It was on a coffee break that Sharon was approached by the director. “I understand you’re having some difficulty,” Maxwell said.

  “I can’t separate the two faces. I’m trying, but they both blend together.” She fought back tears of frustration. The last thing she wanted to do was cry in front of him. “It’s a bit like sampling perfumes, I’m afraid,” she said, attempting a smile. “After a while you can’t smell a thing.”

  “The last thing we want to do is rush you, Sharon. You’ve been through an awful lot these past few weeks. You’re a very capable agent. I have the utmost confidence in you. When you’re ready, you’ll be able to see that face as clear as day. Take a couple of days off. Don’t think about it. Clear your mind. That’s the best route. After that we’ll try again. The worst thing for you is frustration. I can feel you’re upset about this. No need to be. This happens to us all. Don’t ever think that you’re letting the Agency down. We’re proud of you, and I mean that sincerely. When you feel well rested, we’ll give it another try. If that doesn’t work, we have a few other tricks up our sleeves. You’ll see. It will all work out.” He patted her on the shoulder, but the gesture seemed patronizing. He was simply not the kind of man to see men and women as equals. He was of another age. He would never fully understand his women agents.

  She nodded and thanked him and headed home. She did feel tired, he was right about that. And she knew he was right about her anxiety, too. If she could only relax, the face would become as clear as day. They had not put her into the file photos yet. That gooed up your mind even worse. She figured if she failed another time with the sketch artist, then it would be on to the photos. Days and days of turning pages of Agency employees, face after face, hour after hour, in hopes she might spot the mole. But she feared this would only confuse her all the more. If she was ever to help it would be with the sketch artist.

  If, if, if—the only word she said to herself anymore—a word she was beginning to hate.

  28

  Kepella slipped quietly out of bed. Rosie slept soundly beside him. He walked into the kitchen, unscrewed the cap, and downed two gulps of Papa straight from the bottle. His head throbbed and the booze would settle it down. As long as there was someone to blame for his drinking—in this case, Holst—he had no trouble with it. It was when he blamed himself that it hurt. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it would get to that—a week, a month, a year from now—but this morning he skirted that thought easily. The vodka hit bottom as he slipped into his unpressed trousers and pawed through the closet for a shirt. Unable to find a clean one, he donned another he had worn two days ago, thinking it would be cleaner than yesterday’s. Warmth crept up his spine. His fingers tingled; the headache abated. He smiled and burped foully. He was glad to be free of the deception. Pretending one is drinking when one is not is too much effort.
Swishing vodka in your mouth like mouthwash was, for an alcoholic, like getting hot for a broad who turned out to be a transvestite. No, now he could catch a glow without having to fake it.

  ***

  “You’re a crazy fool.”

  “Hold that steady, would you?”

  Jocko repositioned the police bar and held it steady while Jay marked a hole to drill. “You should stay at my place.”

  “This is my home,” Jay said seriously. “I live here. They won’t scare me away. I’ve got my plants, I’ve got Larry the Lizard; I’m not going anywhere.”

  “So you buy a police bar and think that’s that?”

  “When I’m here, and this thing is in place, nobody is going to get in. Read the box. This mother is tested.”

  “And when you aren’t here?”

  “I admit, my security system is lacking. A couple more days and this place’ll be sealed tight. No sweat.”

  “I’d still buy a gun if I were you.”

  “You already own a gun.”

  “That’s my point. You remember the time—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember. One shot into the ceiling and the guy took off.” He looked at Jocko as he set down the steel bar and reached for the electric drill. “Truth is, I don’t have the same head as you. I’d blow somebody away. I know I would. I’d panic and I’d blow the guy’s head off.”

  “How about a knife? What if I hadn’t had my knife the other day.”

  “I thought he kicked it out of your hand.”

  “He did. But it grabbed his attention. You can’t deny it grabbed his attention.”

  Jay grinned. “Listen, man you’re a different person than I am. You’re the urban survivor type. I’m plants and animals. You beat drums for a living, I write love songs. Weapons and I just don’t work.”

  “Well, I’m sticking close to you, then. You’re gonna need me.”

  “You may be right about that.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Jay started the drill and ran the bit deep into the wood. The drill wound down. He stepped back and examined the work. Jocko raised the steel bar and Jay inspected the angle. He lifted the metal fixture the bar fit into and began fixing it to the door with screws. “This thing’ll stop anyone.”

  Jocko looked at the windows and the skylights. “If whoever it is tries to come through the door.”

  “Hey, enough. You’ll make me paranoid. You’ll have me boarding up the place.”

  “Or staying with me.”

  They finished the work twenty minutes later. Jocko stepped outside and jumped against the door. It didn’t budge. Just like the box said.

  ***

  Jay had been riding hard for fifteen minutes. He crossed the Ballard Bridge, turned onto Ballard Way, and headed out to Shilshole. The Streak had fifteen gears. Jay could hold her at thirty without much problem and was expert at weaving through traffic. He kept his back arched and head low, to help his aerodynamics. He wore a helmet and peered over the low handlebars to spot any problems ahead. He could bring her to a stop in twenty-some feet. He could even dump her—if he had to. He jammed on the back brake and came to a stop for a red light. Ballard people looked different to him from Seattle people. He couldn’t figure why. The handful of pedestrians who crossed the intersection looked kind of melancholy. The light changed and a car honked at him. He hunkered down and rode on.

  ***

  Kepella arrived at Shilshole just before eleven o’clock, drove past it, and parked in Golden Garden Park. He had a pair of high-powered binoculars with him. He walked through the lovely park, past banks of bushes, and found a spot with a good view of the marina. He focused in: Marlene was polishing the rail at the rear of the ship. Sailboat? Bow? Stern? Kepella didn’t know beans about boating terms and didn’t care. He took out the pint, unscrewed the cap, and sucked down a finger or two. Damn it felt good… nice and warm on a hot, muggy summer day…

  Kepella saw a handsome man in his early thirties let himself onto the dock using a key. He hadn’t figured on a pass key. It would complicate things. He watched the dark-haired man through the binoculars as he walked hurriedly to the ship Marlene was on and she looked up. The guy looked like a young Clark Gable.

  ***

  “Hello, there,” Jay said in his most pleasant voice.

  She snapped her head around and raised her hand to her mouth. Her eyes shifted to the open hatch midships.

  “Don’t run away from me,” he said. “I knew you were in there yesterday. Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “You must leave, Jay. You must leave quickly.” She looked down the dock, tugging on her hat and scarf.

  He wanted to tell her about the goon trying to throw him out a window, but feared she would run for the hatch and lock herself inside. “Can’t we talk?”

  “No, we must not see each other.”

  The words tumbled out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying. “I’m in love with you, Marlene. You’re all I can think about.” He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to be back there.

  She fought back tears. “No, Jay. I do not love you. I do not. I am seeing Iben, Jay.” It was one of the hardest things she had ever had to say.

  “What do you mean, ‘seeing’?” His face had turned red.

  “Having relations,” she lied, turning her face away.

  “Relations?” he blurted out. His throat tightened. “What do you mean, relations?” He swallowed, backing away. She said nothing. He turned and walked briskly down the dock.

  She burst into tears. Oh, how she wanted to stop him! How she wanted to tell him the truth! How she wanted out of Holst’s operation and into Jay’s life. “Jay!” she called out.

  But he did not hear.

  ***

  Kepella ran to his car, feeling dizzy by the time he reached it. He fired up the engine and headed back for Shilshole, wanting to know all the players, and needing a key to the security gate. Perhaps this young man was his answer. But the man was riding a bicycle, a fast bicycle, and Kepella had no experience with such things. He caught up to the bicycle quickly and passed it. A few minutes later he turned into a gas station about halfway through Ballard. The rider pedaled by almost immediately. Kepella gave him a good lead and then pulled back into traffic, going at bicycle speed, just a bit slower than the rest of the traffic. Cars passed them. Together they moved across Ballard Bridge.

  Twenty minutes later, Becker glided to a stop at what appeared to be an old factory building that had been converted to apartments. He carried the bike inside. Kepella drove past and parked. He waited a minute and entered the building. There were three mailboxes, two with names—the middle box without. He heard the elevator stop. It was an old freight job with the sliding wooden gates that looked like prison bars. It had stopped on the third floor.

  Kepella checked the mailboxes. J. Becker was the only name listed for the third floor. The place had chipped plaster walls, crooked stairs, dim lighting, and no security. In any other lexicon it would have been called a tenement.

  The phone pole outside the building told him more. It bore a poster with a picture of the guy on the bike dead center in a group of freaks. The name below the photo, in bold lettering, was The Rocklts. The poster had been tacked on top of a bunch of others, for the sake of history, no doubt, with the most recent listing the engagements for August. Kepella read down the list quickly—the band played often, and at popular spots. Tonight’s show was at Charlie’s, 9:00 to 1:00. Kepella decided to return about ten o’clock and have a look around. He didn’t want to stumble in the dark, so he walked the perimeter of the building. On the far side he found a fire escape, old and rusted, which appeared to reach the third floor. No problem. The adjacent building was a retail outfit of some sort, so no one would be the wiser if Kepella used the fire escape later that night. Access was by a metal ladder mounted into the brick wall.

  He told himself he was stopping for lunch. He stopped in a sleazy strip joint on First Avenue, ordered a burger with cheddar, fr
ies, and a vodka gimlet, up. The dancer at the moment was a white girl with nice legs. Her breasts were ridiculously large; she seemed to be beating and strangling herself with them at the same time, using them as props for her individual style of dance. He drank five gimlets by two-thirty, drove to Rosie’s, and slept two hours in the car, in the driveway. Just he and his Dodge. Nice and cozy.

  ***

  Freddie the Firebug liked speed. It bothered John Chu the way this guy never stopped moving. His every joint was in constant motion, even sitting down. The guy was as white as Wonder Bread. Chu thought all white people were dumb. No history. No culture. Nothing but war. The Chinese were the most developed race on earth. “A C-note. That’s a lot of speed, Freddie.”

  “Speed, man?” The thin man’s eyes darted around. Freddie liked to pop it, shoot it, snort it, whatever was handy. He lived for his next hit. He was so thin he disappeared when he turned sideways, and he had teeth as rotten as a caveman’s. His hair, dark and constantly greasy, hung over his eyes. He couldn’t look at Chu for more than a heartbeat.

  “It has to be at three-clock in the morning. Has to be, Freddie.”

  “I’m cookin’ some pork, eh, yellow man?”

  “Could be, Freddie.”

  “What flo’ the pork on?”

  “Third floor, Freddie. Second-floor apartment is empty.”

  “You want the second floor, not the basement? Shit, man, you askin’ for trouble. They spot that as a torch in about two seconds, man.”

  “How about both?”

  “Now you thinkin’, yellow man. Now you thinkin.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Sheeit. You name it man. I drop a box in five minutes or five hours. However you like. Cost you more with pork inside.”

  “Two bills is all I got.”