Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  "So, maybe we just have to wait, eh? When the weapon is fired this week, we see how good we shall do."

  "Hans, we're gonna blow those bastards out of this world, or I'll kiss your cotton-picking German ass."

  Richter gave him a lopsided grin. Then his eyes turned cold. "It's obvious why I'm here. The Russians ruined everything for me. I am an outcast. I can't go home."

  The East German secret police had begun to burn their records as soon as it became obvious that the forces of change had become irresistible. Overmyer was familiar with the story of how the people had reacted, battling to halt the destruction. No doubt Hans Richter's Stasi file had remained intact. His doom sealed.

  "But why,” he continued, “are you here, Gary Overmyer?"

  With a swift, practiced move, Overmyer ejected the empty magazine from his P220 and inserted a full one into the base of the pistol grip. He shoved the weapon back into its holster. There was bitter hatred in his eyes as he spoke.

  "I want the bastards who were responsible for the death of the only girl who ever really meant anything to me."

  It had been two years ago when he first spotted Natasha Alexandrovna Grinev. He saw her across a hotel lobby in Chicago, a petite girl with bright, sensitive eyes and the open, innocent smile of a child. She seemed almost swallowed up in the big Russian coat, a diminutive figure no larger than the cello case beside her. For a moment, she appeared to be a lost soul awaiting a rescuer, and Overmyer had been at the point of rushing to her aide when a large woman with a dour look reached over to tug at her arm. She was ushered toward a waiting elevator. In the bat of an eye, she was gone.

  He saw other musicians milling about the lobby with their instruments. Inquiring at the desk, he was told they were the touring Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra. Though his tastes tended more to country than classics, he rushed out immediately and bought a ticket to the evening's performance, finding a single seat close to the stage.

  The next day, using his writer's credentials, he had bluffed his way through the protective cordon of Soviet functionaries and wangled an interview with what he learned was one of the orchestra's budding stars. The unhappy looking Amazon he had seen in the hotel lobby chaperoned the interview, but it had gone well. Natasha spoke passable English, and she was obviously impressed by the brash American writer.

  He had followed the tour across the country and managed on occasion to sneak her out of her hotel after slipping a sleeping pill into her massive roommate's tea. It rapidly bloomed into a full-fledged romance.

  After her return home, he had managed an assignment for an article on cultural exchanges and headed for Moscow. Caught up in the fervor of perestroika and glasnost, he had thought it would be a simple arrangement to marry Natasha and bring her back to the States. But he soon found the Soviets jealously guarded their art treasures, including virtuoso cellists. Attempts to get her an exit visa were rebuffed at every turn.

  Overmyer traveled to Washington and sought help from a friendly senator, who put him in touch with the White House staff. With the President being courted by the Soviet leader, his hopes were raised. Phone calls and letters assured him the President had taken a personal interest in the case. But the answer was always the same maddening phrase: "be patient, these things take time."

  He had tried going directly to the Soviets, contacting the Embassy in Washington and even writing a poignant letter to the Soviet president. The answer was virtually identical. "This is something it may be possible to work out, but it will take time."

  Then disaster struck. On a trip back to Moscow to visit Natasha, he arrived to the shock of hideous news. She had been killed in the collapse of a poorly constructed concrete apartment building only hours before his arrival. He went completely berserk. He had tried to storm the Kremlin, pounding the impenetrable stone walls until his hands were bloody. They whisked him away and forcibly placed him on the next flight toward the United States.

  A completely rational person would have realized that the accident was entirely unrelated to the delay in getting an exit visa for Natasha. But that description did not fit Gary Overmyer. Although he gave every appearance of being perfectly normal most of the time, he had not been completely rational for twenty years. As a result, he blamed Natasha's death squarely on the American and Russian leaders. He had been placed on the Secret Service list of people to look for in any area where the President planned to travel. The FBI had been asked to check on his whereabouts within the past week, only to be told that he had just left on a conducted tour of the Far East. The tour would not return until after June twentieth. The report was correct. However, what they did not learn was that, at the first stop in Hawaii, Overmyer had told the group leader he had been called home because of a family illness, but that he would catch up with the tour later. He had flown to New Orleans, where he was picked up by Ted and joined the caravan to Florida.

  "Is her death what causes the dreams?" Richter asked when he had finished the story.

  Overmyer frowned. "You've heard me at night?"

  He nodded. "Crying, 'get out!'"

  Overmyer dropped his head and kicked at the sand. "For years I had nightmares about Nam. AK's firing. Grenades exploding. People screaming. I'd wake up soaking wet. They finally tapered off. Then, after what happened to Natasha, they started again. I'd dream I saw that damned building ready to fall. I'd yell at her to get out, but it was too late. The concrete broke all apart and crushed her. I've gotten where I sleep real light. I try to wake up before the dream starts. You may have heard me going outside at ungodly hours. I just roam around and try to tire myself out till the dream won't come back."

  HONG KONG

  Chapter 20

  The Pearl Hotel stood near the foot of Nathan Road in the midst of Kowloon's bustling commercial district, Tsim Sha Tsui. Looking down from his fifteenth floor window on Monday morning, Cameron Quinn could see the domed Space Museum to the left and beyond it ships from over the world crowding into Victoria Harbor. Shifting his gaze to the right brought one of those views that, had it been an instant photo, would have captured the essence of the place. He saw hundreds of workers spilling onto the sidewalks from the nearby MTR subway station like ants swarming from their nest. Crowds, he thought, was what Hong Kong was all about.

  Somewhere down in that mass of humanity, he had no doubt, were two Bulgarians awaiting his next move. Well, let them wait. He wanted to have another chat with Miss Amy Lee, the pretty Chinese woman who served as receptionist-secretary at the Causeway Bay Business Centre. He had identified himself as an investigator from the United States Department of Defense. After first refusing to see him, she had wound up being totally cooperative. It turned out that Sam Allen, the pompous ass who served as Hong Kong Chief of Station, had badgered her with a heavy hand after receiving Quinn's request to check out the phone number of the intercept. Well, he would not dignify the idiot on Garden Road with so much as a courtesy call. He would report nothing to the Agency until he returned to Washington tomorrow. But he needed to chart a trail for Burke Hill in case anything should go wrong today. He ordered breakfast from room service and sat down at the table beside the window to write. As Burke would probably have admonished, this will likely be a total waste of time, he thought. But only the supremely confident could afford to forgo such an exercise in futility.

  It was around ten by the time he had finished the lengthy letter, sealed it in an envelope and placed the document in the inside pocket of his seersucker jacket. He took the elevator down to the lobby and headed straight for the street, where a doorman hailed a taxi for him. He noted a small dusty blue Accord pulling in behind the cab as they sped out Mody Road and across to the Tsimshatsui Centre. Spotting a man scurrying out of the Honda as he entered the big shop-filled structure, Quinn promptly crossed over the elevated walkway to the Royal Garden Hotel. Striding quickly across the atrium lobby, lined with trees and greenery, he left via the entrance on the next street and took another taxi. After a succession of cab
switches, he saw no further sign of the blue Honda. He instructed the driver to take the Cross-Harbour Tunnel to the Hong Kong side and deposit him at the entrance to the East Asia Bank on Queen's Road Central.

  Banks are designed to project an image of strength and permanence. The East Asia's lobby achieved this through generous use of lustrous teak wood in walls, columns, tables, desks, you name it. Quinn took the teak-faced elevator to the fourth floor, where a receptionist sat beside a "Trustee Department" sign. He asked for Mr. Luk.

  Moments later, a bespectacled Chinese stepped out of a nearby doorway and greeted him with a broad smile.

  "Mr. Quinn, how good to see you again in Hong Kong. Please come in."

  Before leaving the bank, Quinn stopped at a row of pay telephones and called the Causeway Bay Business Centre. Miss Lee answered.

  "This is Mr. Logan Charles. I spoke with you yesterday about Emerson Dinwiddie, the salesman from London. You were most helpful, and I really appreciate it. I was wondering if I might drop by this afternoon and pose a few more questions?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Charles, but I have to leave for an appointment shortly. I won't be back this afternoon. Could you make it in the morning?"

  Quinn's voice mirrored his disappointment. "I'm afraid I'll be flying back to the States later tonight."

  "Oh, I see. Well, if it's really important to you, you could come by my apartment this evening after seven."

  "I hate to bother you at home," he said, "but if it isn't too much of an inconvenience, I would certainly appreciate it. Where do you live?"

  "Shau Kei Wan, at the eastern end of the island."

  "I could rent a car and drop by your place," he said, thinking aloud. "Then I could drive to Kai Tak in time for my flight." Traveling by rental car was not the best way to get around Hong Kong, if you valued your sanity. Traffic could only be described as atrocious, the drivers lethal. But he didn't want to miss his flight, and he feared there could be a problem finding a taxi in the area where Miss Lee lived. “Could you give me some directions?”

  “It is back toward the hills,” she said, “away from the Typhoon Shelter. You must go up a curving road to get there. I could leave a map if you would like to come by my office this afternoon.”

  “That would be fine, thanks.”

  Though a bustling area along the island’s shoreline now, Shau Kei Wan was one of Hong Kong’s oldest settlements and had once boasted a sizeable fishing fleet. The protected harbor on Aldrich Bay called the Typhoon Shelter still served as home port for a number of deep-sea trawlers.

  Next Quinn dialed the number for an innocuous governmental office that was in reality the local station for the British SIS. After a brief delay, Sydney Pinkleton came on the line.

  "Cameron, you old walrus. You left them with nothing but a bit of air this time, what?"

  Quinn smiled. "I thought your people would be watching. What did they do after I gave them the slip?"

  "Wandered around rather lost at first. Then one of our young chaps managed a stupid move and they got onto him. Next thing you know, they've vanished on us. By the way, can you tell me yet why they should be watching you?"

  "Unfortunately, no. I'll let you know if I can sort it out, though. I'm headed back for Washington tonight, Sydney. I really appreciate your covering my backside."

  "Happy to oblige, old boy. Do take care."

  ISRAEL

  Chapter 21

  The morning sun bore down relentlessly as Burke paid the taxi fare and stepped out into the square in Old Jaffa. He did not expect to hear from Ben Shallit until after noon. For the present, however, it was necessary to keep up the charade of his photo assignment. In the cab he had watched carefully for anyone following, but his escort was evidently being a bit more discreet today. No one had strayed close, and he saw nothing of the car that had trailed him yesterday.

  He checked out the remnants of a third century B.C. catacomb in an excavation area opposite the Franciscan Monastery. Then he crossed the main square and followed the steps down into the shady alleyways. He found Shimon Haburski Street and strolled toward No 8, the traditional location of Simon the Tanner's House at the bottom of a stone stairway. He had read the previous evening the passage in Acts 10 about St. Peter's visit to the house in "Joppa." It appeared as nondescript as the rest of the neighborhood.

  On leaving Simon the Tanner's, he casually swept the area with his camera as though searching for a good scenic shot. But with the 300mm lens mounted, it was like holding a telescope. Mingling with a group of tourists up the street appeared the slim figure with the familiar face, hooked nose, and heavy brows. He quickly punched the shutter and then moved on.

  As he wandered about, shooting randomly with the Nikon, he toyed with the theory he had come up with yesterday, trying to refine it further. What if the Mossad had a source inside the Agency and knew positively that Cam was investigating Jabberwock? The trail would have led directly to Burke. And it could account for the surveillance of Cam in Hong Kong. But Bulgarians? Surely not the Mossad.

  Burke lounged back in the upholstered chair, his feet propped on the side of the bed, reading a paperback mystery he had bought in the hotel gift shop. He glanced at his watch when the phone rang. It was three forty-five.

  He grabbed the phone off the table.

  "This is Mr. Benjamin," said the caller, obviously the voice of Ben Shallit, "am I speaking to Mr. Burke Hill?"

  "That's correct."

  "Mr. Hill," Shallit said in a bored, sing-song voice, "I have been checking on the name you inquired about, the man in Jaffa. I am sorry, but it appears that you must have been misinformed. I cannot find such a name listed."

  Jabberwock was not in the Mossad's filing system. It wasn't the answer he had expected to hear. "Are you positive?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes, quite positive. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."

  "That's okay," Burke said, hoping the note of bewilderment in his voice might be taken by anyone listening in for disappointment. "Thanks anyway."

  Now he really needed to consult with Cam about his surveillance. If it were not the Mossad, then who? He grabbed his small black notebook with its phone numbers and hurried out to the elevator. Evidently Cam had been right. The Israeli angle must have been intended only to divert them from the real answer to Jabberwock. Had the perpetrators of the operation sacrificed the Palestinian merely to hammer home the point? They were still no closer to any real answers unless Cam had come up with something new.

  After a day of heat and humidity designed to produce soggy shirt collars, a steady rainfall added to the nightime gloom as the rented Nissan Sentra cruised into Shau Kei Wan. Like the rest of Hong Kong, its main streets were lined with shops and hotels and restaurants featuring gaudy signs and colorful banners. Outside the primary business area, including the uphill location of Miss Lee’s apartment, wet, darkened pavement made travel treacherous for the unfamiliar driver. The Sentra approached slowly, the broadening cones of its headlights sweeping the road ahead, then parked beside a few other cars in front of the apartment. Cameron Quinn sat for a few minutes, his eyes scouring the street in both directions. There was no traffic. He finally climbed out of the car and strode up to the building.

  After Quinn had gone inside, two men dressed in black got out of a car parked in front of the building next door. One of them laid a pair of night-vision binoculars on the seat before closing the door. They hurried across to the Sentra. Maneuvering his tools expertly—cars were his specialty—the shorter man had the door open in seconds. He switched off the dome light and pressed the hood release. Turning to the passenger side, he took out a flashlight and a screwdriver and bent over the fender. He adjusted the idle screw and closed the hood. It was best done with the motor running, but that would have caused too much noise. Next they poured most of a bottle of whiskey over the front seat, then dropped the bottle on the floorboard.

  Twenty minutes later, Quinn appeared at the front door with Amy Lee. They chatted for a few
moments and he headed for the car, his eyes moving back and forth. He shoved the key into the lock and pulled the door open. It left him slightly off balance. At that moment a pair of large hands reached around him. His arms were pinned to his body in an unyielding grip.

  “What the hell—!”

  A piece of tape was slapped across his mouth as he struggled against his captor. It was no contest. The large man held him as though he’d been caught in the jaws of a rigid mechanical clamp. He shifted his eyes just in time to see the smaller man reach out with a syringe. He tried to twist away but felt the needle prick his upper arm. As he quickly became disoriented, his muscles relaxed and they placed him on the seat behind the steering wheel.

  Quinn had parked facing downhill, a position that would allow for a quick getaway. The smaller man picked up the keys where they had fallen and started the car. The engine began to race. He straightened the wheels in line with the street. With one foot on the ground, he pressed the other on the brake, leaned across Quinn and pushed the gear shift into drive. The Sentra bucked, throwing him backwards. The door slammed as the car sped off down the hill.

  Burke finally got through to the Pearl Hotel operator. "I'm calling from overseas," he said. "I would like to speak with Mr. Logan Charles in room fifteen-fifteen, please."

  There was a long wait, and then a Chinese-accented voice came on the line. "Who is speaking, please?"

  "This is Burke Hill in Tel Aviv. I want to speak with Logan Charles."

  "Are you relative of Mr. Charles?"

  Burke was becoming a bit exasperated. "No, I'm not a relative. I'm a business partner. Where is Logan Charles?"

  "Sorry to tell you, Mr. Hill. Has been accident. Automobile accident. Police call us to see if family here. Mr. Charles in Ruttonjee Hospital. Very bad."

  For a moment, Burke was shocked into silence. Then he asked hesitantly, "When did it happen?"