Burke got out of the taxi near the Franciscan Monastery of St. Peter, which stood above the blue waters of the Mediterranean, commanding a magnificent view of Israel's largest city. Modern hotels rose above a sprawling hodgepodge of architecture as diverse as the origins of its people, all accented by the curving Mediterranean coastline. He looked up from paying the fare just as a slow-moving car crept past. He had only a quick glimpse of a face on the passenger side, but it gave him a jolt. Hooked nose and heavy brows, short black beard. The man from the flea market.
The realization that he was being followed hit him like a slap in the face. Lori had been right after all. He should have been more attentive. In the market, the man had followed too close for good surveillance procedure, though the character of the crowd likely made that seem necessary. Except for that sudden turn, Burke would never have noticed him.
How could anyone know who he was, what he was doing here? Even the vaunted Mossad could not be so careful that they checked out every visiting stranger. Somehow somebody, or something, had tipped them to him. But who, and how?
Chapter 18
With his senses sharpened, he became alert for anything the least bit out of its normal pattern. He crossed the broad plaza covered with pale brown paving stones, ringed by restaurants, entertainment places, night spots, and an art gallery. He took out Farouk’s map, checked his directions, and headed down the steps to the reconstructed ruins of Turkish palaces that housed artists’ studios, galleries, gift shops, and small cafes. Narrow streets of stone and similar flights of steps leading to lower levels wandered past restored structures with colorful wooden doors and artistic grillwork.
As he edged his way past a small group of American tourists, Burke smiled, looking unhurried and unconcerned. It was all a ruse. His mind raced through the possibilities of what could have gone wrong. He soon came up with a plausible scenario, though it didn't fit well with Cam's insistence that the Israelis weren’t involved.
Quite to the contrary, Burke’s analysis took the view that the Mossad had instigated Jabberwock. Since they knew Cam Quinn would be the most likely person in the Agency to be concerned about any potential problem, they would keep an eye on him. Even a loose surveillance would have picked up his relationship with Burke. As Lori had pointed out, his name wouldn’t appear as an intelligence agent on anybody's list. But should the Mossad have run Burke Hill through their computers, which undoubtedly had access to El Al's reservation bank, they would have turned up his name in the passenger list for the flight to Tel Aviv. It was all hypothetical, of course, but it provided the only explanation he could devise that fit.
He soon found the The Blue Nile sign beside an arched entrance. At four o’clock, he walked in carrying the newspaper in his left hand. A tinkling bell at the door announced his entrance. He found himself in a modest-sized room with paintings hanging around the walls. A large Oriental rug covered the floor. Spotting a painting of a Bedouin beside his kneeling camel, he stepped across to get a better look. Moments later he felt rather than heard the presence of someone at his side.
"Perhaps you would like to see a new work by this artist," said an attractive girl in a flowery print dress. Her moccasin-like shoes made no sound. "Please follow me."
She led him into a hallway that took them to the rear of the building. She opened a door at one side and waved him into a small cubicle where a large painting rested on an easel. A stool sat in front of the easel, a chair beside a small table.
"Please wait here," she said.
He stepped inside and the door closed without a sound. The room, with a window facing the sea, was lighted by an overhead fluorescent fixture. He sat on the stool and stared at the painting. It was a portrait of a beautiful young Arab girl. He concentrated so intently on the way the artist had captured her half smile that he failed to hear the door open. It took considerable control to keep from flinching at the sudden sound of a voice behind him.
"I understand you come from my friend Cameron Quinn."
Burke turned to find a handsome, black-haired young man, probably late thirties, his mouth turned up at the edges with an inquisitive smile. He stood with arms folded, his body tilted forward to put his weight on the balls of his feet. He looked like a man ready to make a move in any direction.
Burke stood and reached out his hand. "I'm Burke Hill. You must be Ben Shallit."
Shallit seized it with a firm squeeze. "A pleasure, Mr. Hill. How is our old friend Quinn? Was he unable to come himself?"
"He's fine. He said if he came, they would know he was here, and he didn't want to endanger you."
Shallit cocked his head. "And why should I be in any danger?"
"Cam wants you to find out something for him. He wants to know if the Mossad's files contain any reference to an Operation Jabberwock."
Shallit glanced out the window, then back at Burke. "He does want to put me at risk, doesn't he? Going through operational files. We had an agreement that I would not compromise certain types—"
"You don't understand. He doesn't want anything from the files. All he wants to know is if Operation Jabberwock means anything to the Mossad."
"That's all? Just if the name is in there?"
"Right. Can you do it?"
Shallit half-turned away from him, rubbing one fist into the other palm. "Obviously he doesn't wish to come right out and ask us if we know of such an operation. Which means there is a problem, or he is afraid there might be a problem."
Burke neither spoke nor altered his expression.
"This is important to him, eh?"
"Right. Very important."
"Getting access to the information would be no problem," Shallit said. "Since leaving the Institute, I've been in the computer business."
Burke recalled that Mossad officers referred to their organization as the Institute, since its full name was the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. They never used the term Mossad. Publicly it was an organization that did not exist. "Can you get access to the Mossad computers?"
Shallit smiled. "My company wrote most of the software currently in use. I installed it personally." His smile faded. "Therein lies the problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"We designed the system to leave a trail that would identify anyone who uses it, along with what subjects they were accessing. I could log in as a sysop, as you Americans call it, and gain access to just about anything in the system, but it would keep a record of my inquiries."
Shallit shifted from one foot to the other. He looked like a foxhound that had just caught a scent and was ready to move. "Did Cameron say just how important this was to him?"
Burke noted it was the second time he had asked the question. "Frankly, he's had some difficulties. I think his career's hanging in the balance."
"Sorry to hear that. All right, I'll see what I can do. It will take some time to find a way around the problem. I have your phone number. I'll call you tomorrow afternoon. Please go back out front and look around a bit at the paintings before you leave."
Burke was impressed. He was really going to a lot of trouble to get what Cam wanted. Then he found the answer. As Shallit turned to leave, he looked back over his shoulder. "Give Cameron my regards. Without him, I wouldn't be here."
Cam was calling in all his markers on this one, Burke realized. He felt sure Shallit would come up with the answer. If the Mossad knew, as he half-expected, then it was most likely their operation. But if they didn't know, what then?
He considered telling Shallit about the man who had followed him, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to risk saying something that might cause the Israeli to abandon his effort to find the answer Quinn desperately needed.
He walked up the hallway to the front and found a short, heavyset man with dark skin browsing the paintings. A black beret was pulled down above his plump face. Burke turned to the girl in the flowery dress. "It was beautiful, but I'm afraid it's a bit out of my price range."
S
he shrugged. "I understand. Look around some more if you'd like. You'll find a number that are less expensive."
He looked around for a few minutes, then thanked the girl for her trouble and left. He decided to wander about the area a short time longer before taking a taxi back to the hotel. It would soon be time to call Cam in Hong Kong. After reaching the plaza, he looked around and spotted the short man in the black beret walking off in the opposite direction. Was this another bad sign, or was he falling victim to paranoia?
It was after five by the time he got through to Quinn's hotel. He had scoured his room for listening devices, finding none. He didn't want to alert his trackers that he was onto them, however, so he avoided taking the phone apart to check it. Nevertheless, he had to assume it was bugged. He used a public phone in the hotel lobby to place the call to Hong Kong. When the Pearl Hotel operator answered, Burke asked for Logan Charles, the name Quinn was using. The phone rang several times, and he had begun to worry that something might have happened when a tired voice came on the line.
"Yes?"
"Hey, wake up! It's just after five o'clock in Tel Aviv. You been sleeping on the job?"
"Oh, hello, Burke. I must have dozed off. I've been attempting to keep my eyes open until you called. How's it going there?"
"So far, so good. I'm supposed to get a call tomorrow afternoon with the answer, if it's available."
"You'll get it. You can count on that."
"He's got a computer problem to work out, but he said he would do what he could. What have you come up with?"
There was a slight pause. "I've got good news and bad news."
Burke frowned. "Oh, oh. Let's have the good first. Then maybe I can stomach the bad."
"Well, it seems our salesman came here from Singapore."
"Bingo."
"There's more. He talked about making another call, to someone in Lahaina."
"Lahaina...Maui...Hawaii?" Burke's heart quickened a beat. Robert Jeffries, the Rush Communications man, was in Hawaii on business at the time of the first call. Was he still there three days later?
"You've got it. I was going to call your old colleague and look into it, but the time difference made it too early there." He paused as if checking the clock. "It's eleven here. That would be ten in the morning. I'll give him a call after I hang up. But it sounds like we may have a real break."
"Great. Now, what about the bad news?"
Quinn's voice turned cold. "I'm being followed."
"What? Who would—"
"They're good. Two guys. I didn't pick them up at first. When I did, I decided to see if I could find out something about them."
"Did you?"
"Fortunately, an old friend from another organization called to warn me. They're Bulgarian."
"Bulgarian?" That was a shocker.
"Right. Used to work for the Bulgarian Intelligence Service."
"What would a couple of—you said 'used to'?"
"He thinks it unlikely they still do, with the way things have changed over there. Anyway, I haven't been involved in anything in their neck of the woods for a good while."
"Then why would they be tailing you?"
"Beats the hell out of me, but I don't like it at all. Just remember what I told you to do."
"Hey, you'll be okay." Cam could take care of those kinds of problems. He could disappear as quickly as a girl in a magician's box. At least he could have in the old days. “I hate to mention it,” Burke added, “but I may have picked up a tail, too.”
He told Cam about the bushy-browed, hook-nosed Arab he had spotted twice.
“There’s no way anyone should know you’re there except on a photographic assignment,” Cam said.
“Unless the people involved are who you don’t think they are.” He avoided using the term Mossad, in case the call was being intercepted. Cam would know what he meant.
“I still can’t believe that.”
"I should have an answer a little earlier tomorrow,” Burke said. “I'll call soon as I get the word."
He hung up the phone and stroked his heard, deep in thought. Why would a couple of former communist agents be tailing Cam Quinn in Hong Kong? Did it tie in somehow with the Mossad's interest in himself? If it were the Mossad, it must have something to do with Jabberwock. But what? What connection could there be between former East Block agents and the man from Rush Communications in Kansas City? None of it made sense. As he realized jet lag had begun to get a grip on him, the only thing that seemed to make sense now was to satisfy that gnawing in his stomach and crawl into bed. Maybe tomorrow things would be clearer.
Oyster Island
Chapter 19
The noon-day sun blistered the island with its merciless glow. The Jabberwock team and its overseers had Sundays off, but Gary Overmyer could find little to get excited about on this bleak little patch of sand. He was almost sorry he had agreed to be confined to the training site for three weeks. But, considering the money...
He wore his usual jungle fatigues. Dark stains of sweat circled his armpits. Ever the soldier, a gun belt and holstered pistol hung from his waist as he wandered down to the end of the island away from the buildings. There he found what appeared to be the remnants of a firing range. A rotting wooden post with a crossbar stood in front of a ten-foot high mound of deteriorating sandbags near the beach. He figured it had held a silhouette target, but whatever had once been there was long since obliterated by years of weather, wind, and salt water spray.
As Overmyer stood at the edge of the beach, with the noise of the breakers rolling in behind him, the crude cross conjured up memories of his boyhood in South Carolina. He remembered being dressed up in his Sunday best and sent scampering off to the little white church down the road, where the cross for a steeple was always the first thing he saw. That had been back in the fifties, an innocent time and a much simpler life.
He had lost his innocence and been initiated into the brutality of the real world when he went to Vietnam with the Army's Green Berets in the late sixties. He had survived more missions behind enemy lines than he cared to count, harrowing night sorties that required the employment of every ruse in the book, plus many an abuse that no one dared put on paper. Silent treks beneath a jungle canopy, constantly straining to hear the least telltale sound that could mean an ambush. Sometimes even more threatening were the villages where a kid at play or a woman with her wash might suddenly become an armed enemy.
He had stayed in the Army for a while after the war, but the built-up stresses eventually imploded in his head, landing him in a psychiatric ward. After his release, he returned to civilian life, tried but failed to stick it out with a succession of jobs until he turned to writing. It seemed at last he had found his niche. He wrote Vietnam War stories for adventure magazines and took on occasional freelance nonfiction assignments. But he always hung onto his Special Forces roots. He was invited to lecture on a few occasions at the Special Forces School at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. His biggest thrill, however, came when he took to the woods to practice his stealth on animals or any wayward humans with the misfortune to happen along. He stayed proficient with rifle and handgun, and though he never really harmed any of his quarry, he had scared the living bejesus out of many an unsuspecting camper or hiker. The sudden appearance of a combat soldier in full camouflage dress, his features darkened with face paint, automatic weapon at the ready, was enough to terrify the most blasé trekker. He likely would have ended up in jail except that no one had ever managed to catch him. He pulled his maverick maneuvers on a random basis, and never twice in the same location.
Now, eying the cross-shaped wooden stand at the old firing range, he decided a little target practice might be productive amusement for the moment. He picked up a handful of small shells from the beach, walked over to the stand and placed them at intervals along the crossbar. He moved back a distance of about twenty-five yards and unholstered his weapon, a Sig Sauer P220 .45 semiautomatic. The German-made, Swiss-design pistol was
an older version of the P226, recently chosen as the official weapon of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police's Specialty Team, a SWAT-type organization. He had ordered a special sight that improved accuracy at longer distances.
Overmyer popped in a magazine and raised the gun, holding it with both hands. He squeezed off round after round until eight staccato explosions had crackled through the humid air. Eight seashells lay in fragments around the revetment.
"Most impressive," said a deep, German-accented voice behind him.
He turned to find the towering frame of Hans Richter leaning against a pine tree on the edge of the beach. Overmyer grinned. "Just trying to keep from getting rusty, Hans. Eight out of eight ain't bad." Then a sudden thought hit him. "Hey, you'd better watch it. You'll have sirens wailing all over this damned island."
Richter smiled, looking something like a good-natured gargoyle. "It's Sunday, remember? The security is turned off. Today they allow us the luxury of walking on the beach." Then his face returned to its more normal context, that of a chiseled frown. "Tell me truthfully, Gary, do you think this operation will be successful?" They had now been given the full details.
Overmyer raised an eyebrow. "I'd say the jury was still out on that. I've seen mortars fired lots of times. They're an area weapon. You normally use a forward observer and adjust your fire to zero in on the target. Pinpoint fire like this, I've got to see. They sure talk a good game. If the equipment works the way they say it will, who knows?"
Hans spread his large hands. "Why not use one or two high-powered rifles? I would guess you are better with a rifle than with that pistol."
Overmyer nodded. "With a scope, I could knock a fly off a cow's ass at a hundred yards. But you couldn't get a rifle anywhere near these guys. The windows don't open in those high-rise buildings where they'll be. You'd have to break a hole in the glass, and as soon as you did that, they'd have a sharpshooter cracking down on you. You wouldn't believe the security they'll have. Snipers on roof tops, cops all over the streets, everybody tied in with walkie talkies."
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 10
