Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  Lori shifted lanes to take the National Airport exit. "The good news is you won't be in any intelligence agency's computer, so you should have no trouble traveling as Burke Hill. But once you make contact with your man, I presume it's a man, all bets are off. If he should be on somebody's hot list, you'll become a target, too. That's why Dad sent along the other passport."

  He hadn't considered it from that perspective, but he remained unconvinced. He was more concerned about any throwback to his tainted past. "I got badly burned at the Bureau doing a lot of unnecessary undercover crap at Hoover's bidding. It left me with a lot of stains I had a hard time washing out. I can do without any more of that."

  "If you feel that way about it," Lori said, glancing around at him, "maybe you shouldn't be going on this trip at all."

  He detected a critical note in her voice, but he couldn't blame her for it. He had already considered the possibility of canceling out. But he'd given Cam his word. Whatever accommodations were required with his conscience, he'd have to face them when the time came. He shook his head. "No. I told Cam that I'd help him with this. I'm not backing out."

  "I admire you for that, but—"

  "Look, I used a different name when I first went to Alaska. I changed it back pretty fast. Alaska's full of guys who've taken on new identities to hide from their past. I decided to face up to mine, and it took a long time to live it down. I'm perfectly happy with being Burke Hill now. I think I can take care of myself on that basis."

  "Men." She groaned in exasperation. "That's why women make better intelligence agents. They can take the necessary precautions without compromising some macho image. If you're going through with this, please don't do anything foolish out of some sense of bravado. It simply makes good sense to take basic precautions. I had a friend from Paris who was lucky to get out of East Germany alive one time after ignoring some obvious warnings. He had convinced himself he was acting the perfect innocent, but the Stasi took a different view. We barely got him back across the border. As it was, he took a bad fall that left him with a permanent limp."

  Burke saw they were swinging around toward the terminal entrances. He didn't want to leave her on a sour note. It was time to make peace. He smiled. "Okay, Lori. No macho. Believe me, I'll be Mr. Humble Pie. And while I'm gone, you'd better go pick up those symphony tickets, because I'm holding you to that invitation."

  "You can count on it," she replied with a grin of her own. "I’ll get them as soon as I get back from my holiday junket."

  Monday was the official date for observing Memorial Day.

  "Where are you headed?"

  "Sailing with some friends down the coast around Virginia Beach. It'll be a long drive back Monday night, but it should be a fabulous day. The weather forecast sounds perfect."

  "Sailing," he mused, recalling the decor of Clipper Cruise & Travel. "I figured that must be one of your passions. I've only been sailing one time, and that was on a lake. Always thought I'd like it, but never found the time."

  “Maybe you could go with us on the next trip and see what a workout sailing can provide.”

  Lori pulled to a stop among the bustle of passengers. Brakes screeched and horns beeped around them as cars and taxis jockeyed for position like NASCAR drivers headed for the pits.

  Burke patted his stomach. “After meals like that one last night, I could probably use more workouts." He grabbed his bag and camera case from behind the seat. "Thanks for the lift, Lori. Have fun sailing."

  "I'm sure I will. Hope yours is an uneventful trip. Remember, don't take any chances."

  "I won't," he said as she drove off.

  NEW ORLEANS

  Chapter 16

  Andrei Golanov, alias Goldman, enjoyed a good night's rest at a first class hotel in New Orleans, ate a leisurely breakfast in the coffee shop, then strolled along Canal Street for a few blocks, stopping off at a drug store for a few necessities. At around noon, he headed for the mall-like complex called the New Orleans Riverwalk and began to stroll along the seemingly endless corridor flanked by shops of all descriptions. The holiday weekend crush of tourists filled the complex. By the time he reached the food area, there wasn't an empty table in sight. This didn't bother Golanov, since his sole purpose was to disappear among the throngs. There was little likelihood that anyone would be tailing him, but he lived by the principle that a successful operative never ignored his tradecraft.

  When the flow of people moved up to another level, he took advantage of the opportunity to glance back at the milling crowd below. So far he had spotted no repeat appearance of a particular face. At one point he found an exit toward the front of the building and slipped through the crowd of incoming visitors to reach the street.

  Luck was with him. When he saw a taxi nearby, he moved quickly to the open window opposite the driver and inquired, "Are you available?"

  "Climb in, buddy." A weasel-faced character with slicked-back, oily gray hair, the cabby asked, "Where to?"

  "Somewhere in the Canal Street vicinity where I can board the westbound St. Charles Avenue trolley."

  The driver nodded. "Brit, ain't you?" He whirled the cab around, barely missing an oncoming car, and dashed off toward Canal Street.

  Golanov smiled, keeping an eye on the area around the Riverwalk exit. No one appeared to show any interest in where he had gone. He stepped out of the cab a block off Canal Street and waited in a doorway out of the sun near the trolley stop. Soon a lumbering streetcar bearing the name "St. Charles" screeched to a halt. He climbed aboard, dropped his fare into the box and headed for a seat at the rear. No one else boarded with him. He began to relax.

  He had visited New Orleans before, while assigned to the Soviet mission to the United Nations. He enjoyed its unique atmosphere, part carnival, part river town, all mixed up in a potpourri of French, Spanish, white and black heritage. A native of Saint Petersburg—he preferred the old name Leningrad—Golanov had been exposed to music at an early age, but not the variety he’d found in this Mississippi Delta city. His mother was a classical violinist, his father a noted professor of Russian history at the university. Both were multi-lingual. This sophisticated background produced an unexpected result. With close relatives in England, he became quite proficient in English as a child. Members of the Komsomol were encouraged to inform on each other, as well as on their families. When a spiteful boy reported Andrei’s excellent command of English as a sign of deviant behavior, it brought him to the attention of influential men who selected him for a special kind of education. On completion of his schooling, he became a field officer in the First Chief Directorate, the foreign intelligence arm of the KGB.

  Now a borderline handsome man in his thirties, he had made friends easily at foreign posts. A well-mannered Russian who spoke excellent English was always welcome at a cocktail party. In the early days of the new regime, he watched the storm clouds build. When he discovered where the power lay, he abandoned the glamour of the international scene and arranged a transfer to the Second Chief Directorate, which was mainly concerned with internal security. Now the Directorate had been all but abandoned, its officers fired or shifted to other positions. He’d had little trouble arranging a leave of absence to allow his participation in Jabberwock, but he wasn’t sure if he would still be on the payroll when he returned.

  The St. Charles Avenue line finally came to an end at Palmer Park. Golanov spotted a familiar face as he stepped off the trolley. A blonde of medium height, she had a full figure that looked right at home in a red-striped, low-neck dress. She wore large sunglasses and carried a matching red-striped tote bag slung over one bare shoulder. She walked toward him, her face glowing with a warm smile.

  "Andy, good to see you," she greeted him with arms outstretched, coyly tilting her cheek for a kiss.

  "Margo, old girl. You look delightful." The kiss was perfunctory.

  She linked her arm in his, and they began walking toward a nearby tree-lined street that was shrouded by a canopy of green.

&nb
sp; Her eyes twinkled as she looked at him. "Have you missed your little playmate, Andrei?"

  Golanov gave a tight-lipped smile. If Margo devoted a little effort to cultivating an accent with the consistency of molasses, she could pass for the flower of a Louisiana plantation. Her real name was Captain Katerina Georgevna Makarenko, a KGB officer who traveled under cover as an Aeroflot stewardess. One of the small group who had been tapped for admission to the inner workings of Jabberwock, she was a sexy young woman who had been trying to lure him into her bedroom. A divorcee, he had resisted on practical, not moral grounds. She had also shared the bed with the colonel who was his immediate superior.

  "Best we get down to business, Katya, my dear. Tell our leader that everything is going about as well as could be expected. The only problem at the moment appears to be Overmyer."

  "Problem? What kind of problem?"

  "Hardly an insurmountable one. Overmyer, as you know, was designated as team leader. He's an intense, rather overbearing person. Thinks his combat experience in Vietnam entitles him to do things his own way. Not too different from how some of our junior officers acted after Afghanistan. We are forced to keep reminding him that he is being paid handsomely to do the job our way."

  Katya tightened her grip on his arm. "Have they done a test firing yet?"

  "No. That comes next week. The system is quite intriguing, though. Everything is calibrated precisely, to very close tolerances. The use of the computer is most interesting. Americans, as you know, are big on computers. That kind of weapon is not supposed to be very accurate, but they claim with this setup it is unerring."

  Katya beamed. "You should have some exciting information for our military analysts. This should assure you a full colonelcy when Jabberwock is finished."

  Golanov thought her reasoning transparent. With him as a full colonel, she counted on his moving in on a rival of equal rank. He wanted no part of it. "Advise the General that the Palestinian is working out fine. He will be the point man, you know, which will make it much simpler for us to compromise him in the end. He's not aware that we know his true origins. It will be the final ploy of a brilliant plan."

  "How are you getting along with the CIA man?"

  "We act like brothers in love with the same woman. We smile a lot, joke about trivialities, tolerate each other's incompatible points of view, and watch each other like falcons tracking a pheasant."

  "Have there been any changes in the plan?"

  "None. We close down operations at the island two weeks from today, then head for Arkansas where the truck will be painted by an auto theft gang. People who won't be volunteering any information to the authorities later. Then we move into Toronto."

  When they had circled back to the trolley stop, Captain Makarenko bade her compatriot a reluctant farewell. "I would love to spend a decadent night with you on the New Orleans waterfront, Comrade Golanov, but I have to catch the plane for New York. We mustn't keep Aeroflot waiting. My flight to Moscow departs this evening."

  The prospect was tempting, Andrei was forced to admit to himself. Fortunately, duty called her, so he didn't have to wrestle with the temptation. He gave her an encouraging smile. "Tell our friends in Moscow that the Jabberwock will soon be ready to strike. I should have final confirmation on everything when we meet next weekend in Atlanta."

  TEL AVIV

  Chapter 17

  The El Al flight from London shrieked down through the darkened sky, dipped a wing over the twinkling lights of the Jaffa waterfront and settled smoothly into the rhinestone glitter of runway markers at Ben-Gurion International Airport. Burke made no effort to stifle a yawn as he strolled into the Arrivals Hall carrying his bag and camera case. He had managed a few hours sleep during the abbreviated night of flying, but he'd likely still encounter some lingering effects of jet lag. It would soon be daylight, and he had a full day ahead of him.

  He checked through Customs, getting the Israelis’ typical thorough inspection of his luggage. After establishing his bona fides as a commercial photographer, he encountered no problems. He caught a shuttle in front of the terminal and soon saw the lights of Tel Aviv glowing in the distance. The sprawling suburbs gave way to rows of apartment buildings and then the cluttered downtown area with its hotel district along Ha-Yarkon Street. Lori had booked him into a hotel with moderate prices but a decent Mediterranean view. By the time he got settled into his room, the morning sun bathed the landscape outside his window with a golden glow that would soon burst into a crescendo of heat.

  After breakfast, Burke took a stroll into the nearby shopping area to locate a gadget bag for his camera equipment. With that taken care of, he hailed a taxi and headed for the colorful old port city of Jaffa, which lay along Tel Aviv's southern flank. His first stop was the Ottoman Clocktower, Jaffa’s famous landmark. The only thing that distinguished him from the camera-wielding tourists who roamed the area was the methodical way he sized up his subject, carefully checked the lighting and logged details of each shot in a pocket-sized notebook. He made a cursory check of the area and saw nothing that indicated any interest in him. Lori took after her dad, he thought, questioning every dark shadow. But he was a simple commercial photographer on a routine assignment. Nobody had any reason to think otherwise. He had never been to Israel before and saw this as an opportunity to relax and enjoy the sights.

  From the Clocktower he wandered east to the popular Flea Market, where stalls and shops crowded a warren of covered alleys. He pushed his way into the throng of babbling shoppers and merchants. A mixed array of merchandise filled the displays, ranging from jewelry to brass and copper and all manner of Middle Eastern treasures and junk. He stopped at one point to photograph an arm-waving merchant arguing with an equally-intense customer over a string of beads. After making the shot, he spun around to go back the way he had come and found himself face-to-face with a startled Arab. A slender man with a hooked nose and heavy brows, a short black beard hiding his chin, he dropped his head and quickly weaved his way off into the crowd.

  Burke watched the bobbing head disappear among the confusion. For a moment he wondered if the hasty departure was more than mere embarrassment, but he dismissed the thought and navigated a new route past the last row of stalls.

  Cam had suggested he approach the restaurant shortly before noon. He found it on a side street not far from the Flea Market. Called The Casbah, it appeared to be an eating place that catered to locals rather than tourists. The building was a dusty brown, made of stone, one of Israel’s two main building materials, the other being concrete. The sign looked faded and weatherbeaten, the windows covered mostly with lettering in Hebrew and Arabic.

  Out of deference to Lori's cautions, he made a photo of the restaurant before venturing inside, seemingly as an afterthought. Coming out of the blaring mid-day sun, he was almost blinded by the darkness of the interior. There were no more than a dozen tables, only two of them currently occupied by men jabbering in an unfamiliar language. A dark- skinned, heavyset man with a stubble of beard, his hands shoved into the pockets of his smudged apron, stood at a small counter beside a glass cabinet filled with various dishes and eyed Burke with no more animation than he would have shown for a leg of lamb. He fit the description Cam had recited.

  Burke sauntered across to him and smiled. He spoke the rehearsed words slowly. "I was told that you might direct me to someone who could locate a 1730 map of the Eastern Mediterranean."

  The dark eyes narrowed. "Are you a map collector?"

  "I'm inquiring for a friend," Burke said.

  The reply seemed almost a snarl. "Long time since I hear of your friend."

  At least he’d made contact, Burke thought. He hoped the snarl was the man's normal manner rather than an expression of displeasure with him. "Yes, he was hoping you would still remember."

  That brought a grunt. "Tell him Farouk never forgets nothing."

  "I'll only be in town a short time," Burke said, hoping to instill a bit of urgency into the conversation.
"Will it be possible to speak to this person today?"

  Farouk shrugged and lowered his voice. "If he is willing."

  Burke decided to play his hole card. He took a folded envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "Our friend sends this to compensate for your trouble."

  The bulky man took the envelope and shoved it into his pocket without opening it. "I look for no trouble. If I have trouble, this is much too little."

  He's probably right, Burke thought. If the Mossad got wind of this, he would likely find good reason to regret having ever known a guy named Cameron Quinn. On the other hand, there was no reason to anticipate any trouble. This was going to be almost a non-event, as he had originally expected.

  "Where will I find him?" Burke asked.

  "You like to make pictures?" Farouk said, nodding toward the camera slung around his neck.

  "I'm a professional photographer. I came over to make pictures of Jaffa for a travel magazine."

  "You don't find nothing to photograph here. You want to go to Old Jaffa."

  "And which way is that?"

  "Go Mifraz Schlomo Street from the Clocktower to the plaza, where you find restaurants and art galleries. I give you a map to the Blue Nile Studio. I will call, tell you what time to be there. Give me a phone number."

  Burke gave him the hotel name and his room number.

  "Be sure to have your camera like now," Farouk said. "Carry a copy of The Jerusalem Post in your left hand."

  Back at the hotel, Burke stretched out on the bed for a few moments of relaxation. The next thing he knew, the phone was ringing. His eyes popped open. For an instant, he felt disoriented. The room looked strange. Then, as the phone kept ringing, he realized this was what he had been waiting for. He reached for the bedside table and grabbed the phone.

  "Hello!"

  "Be there at four o'clock," said a voice he recognized as Farouk’s.

  "I'll be there," he replied as the line went dead.