Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  "Police say eight o'clock."

  He did some quick computations. It would have been about two hours ago. "Can you tell me his condition, anything else about the accident?"

  "So sorry. I know nothing more."

  "Well, thanks for the information," he said. "I'll try to get in touch with his family."

  Would Lori know yet, he wondered? This was terrible. "Very bad," the man had said. He was alive, at least. Burke looked back in his book and called the number for Clipper Cruise & Travel in Rosslyn. After several rings, he heard a recording.

  "Clipper Cruise & Travel is closed for the Memorial Day holiday. Thank you for calling—"

  He slammed down the phone. Damn it, he should have remembered the holiday. It was just ten a.m. in Washington, and Lori had gone sailing off Virginia Beach. She wouldn't be home until late that evening. He checked his watch. It was now a little after four in the afternoon in Tel Aviv. He put in a call to the U.S. Consulate General in Hong Kong, the State Department’s largest such mission in the world. He asked if they had any information on American Logan Charles who had been injured in an automobile accident.

  “We were notified by the police,” a pleasant-voiced woman replied. “We’ve sent a representative to the hospital, but I haven’t heard anything back from him.”

  Burke thought it likely the representative was a CIA man. He thanked her and hung up. According to Cam’s itinerary, he should have been boarding his flight home by now. Was it a taxicab accident on the way to the airport, or something more sinister? He called El Al and asked about flights to Hong Kong. There would be nothing with the right connections for several hours. He checked his notes for Hawthorne Elliott’s private number and punched it in. A message said Mr. Elliott was not available.

  After a brief deliberation, Burke decided his best course was to return to Washington and provide support for Lori in getting to her father’s beside. He talked again to a woman at El Al.

  "We have a flight through London to New York that would make connections to Washington,” she said. “It departs Tel Aviv at six-fifteen."

  "Can you get me on it?"

  "There is space available, sir, but with the early baggage check-in requirement, there is barely enough time."

  "I only have two small bags," he replied.

  "Where are you, sir?"

  "At a hotel on Ha Yarkon."

  "My advice would be to get over to the El Al bus terminal as quickly as possible and check your bags, then hurry on out to the airport."

  Burke raced back to his room and threw his clothes in the bag, then grabbed the camera case and rushed back down to check out. He hailed the first taxi in sight and told the driver to see how fast he could get to the airline bus terminal.

  Thirty minutes later he was running into the terminal at Ben Gurion, looking for the El Al ticket counter. He sweated out the line until he could give the agent his ticket and passport and explain that his return flight had been moved up. Only when he finally received his boarding pass did he begin to relax a bit.

  He detoured by a restroom before heading for the security check-in point. As he came out, a tall, wiry man wearing a light brown jacket with an open-collared shirt approached him. It was typical Israeli informal business dress.

  "Pardon me," said the swarthy man in a clipped voice, "are you Mr. Burke Hill?"

  Burke's eyes narrowed. Could it be something to do with Cam Quinn? "I sure am," he said.

  "Let me your see passport." The tone was rough, demanding.

  Burke automatically reached for the pocket where he carried his passport, then balked. Something didn't seem right. He wasn't sure what at first. For one thing, there was a universal characteristic about authorities, be they policemen, immigration officers, various kinds of inspectors. He knew, for he had lived among them for nearly a dozen years. They were almost universally polite in approaching ordinary citizens. They used words like "sir" and "please." This one was brusque to the point of rudeness. "Who are you?" he asked, frowning.

  The man drew a black plastic folder from his jacket, popped it open for just an instant and then snapped it closed. "Security Police," he said, jamming the identification back into his pocket.

  "Hold on, brother," Burke said, raising his hands in a halting gesture. He shifted his feet into a defensive stance. "Let me see that once more, please. Slowly."

  The man scowled. "We have some questions for you, Mr. Hill. Your passport. Now!"

  "I'm not parting with this passport until I see that ID, and I'm convinced you're entitled to ask for it."

  The man had put his right hand into his coat pocket and seemed to be gripping something, undoubtedly a pistol. Looking past him, Burke saw a uniformed airport policeman walking in their direction. He made a calculated decision. He had never known a police officer reluctant to identify himself properly. That only left the Mossad, and if they were not involved in Jabberwock, they should have no interest in him. The odds were overwhelming that this guy was not legitimate.

  The man reached out his left hand as if to seize Burke's arm. "You will come with—"

  Burke drew back, his eyes like stones. "Friend, unless your orders are to shoot me and risk certain capture by that policeman coming this way, I suggest you get the hell out of here." With that, he turned toward the policeman, who was now only about twenty feet away, raised his arm and called out, "Officer!"

  The policeman was suddenly alert, his hand moving to the belt next to his sidearm. The thin man shifted his eyes in alarm as Burke started toward the waiting officer. Holding his breath, careful to give the policeman a clear line of sight to the intruder, Burke strode forward. He pulled his boarding pass from his pocket. He held it out, glancing back quickly at the imposter, who had ducked his head and was hurrying away.

  Burke smiled, to put the officer at ease. "I'm on the El Al flight to London and New York. Which security check point do I need to go through?"

  The policeman looked quickly at the boarding pass then toward the back of the tall, thin man. "Was that fellow causing any problem, sir?"

  Burke shrugged. "He was acting a bit peculiar."

  "Go through that area over there," the officer said, pointing, then hurried off in the direction of the retreating brown jacket.

  Burke moved quickly to the sanctuary of the security area, where he found a seat and waited for the boarding call, worrying and wondering about Cam Quinn. Somebody was definitely trying to throw up roadblocks. Could Cam's wreck have been something other than an accident?

  ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  Chapter 22

  It was eleven p.m. when Burke's flight arrived at Washington National. He’d had plenty of time to get his thoughts in order and decided the best source to learn about Quinn was Hawthorne Elliott. He located a pay phone and dialed the CI chief’s private number.

  "Yes?" Hawk Elliott's curt voice snapped over the wire.

  "This is Burke Hill, Mr. Elliott. What have you heard about Cam Quinn?"

  "You know about the accident?"

  "Yes, sir. Only the barest of details. That it happened about eight p.m. Hong Kong time, eight this morning your time."

  "They brought him in unconscious. Don't give him much chance to live." The voice was barren of feeling, hollow as a rotten log. But it was the shock of what he said, not the manner of delivery, that struck Burke.

  "Oh, God! What happened?"

  "What the hell would you expect? Mix booze with the man's driving habits. He's a maniac behind the wheel. You have a perfect prescription for disaster."

  "But...but," Burke stammered, "he's been off the booze."

  "You mean he was supposed to have been off the booze. I've talked with our station chief. A blood test at the hospital showed a heavy concentration of alcohol."

  Burke's jaw dropped as he stared at the telephone. He couldn't believe it. Cam had seemed perfectly sober when they talked. As for his suicidal driving habits, there was no contesting that. He had to admit that he’d only been around C
am for a few days. He couldn't vouch for how strong his friend's will might have been if a bottle of Scotch were placed before him. But he had carefully avoided it while Burke was around.

  "We won't be needing your services any further," Elliott added.

  Burke wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "I've just gotten back from Tel Aviv where—"

  "I know where you've been." The voice had gone from cool to cold.

  "But what about Cam? What did he report from Hong Kong?"

  "Mr. Quinn has reported absolutely nothing. As far as I'm concerned, he's drawn a complete blank. I'm assigning the case to a new man who will have to start over from scratch."

  "But I've received information—"

  "Hill, I caution you to remember your security oath. Whatever information you have received regarding this case or any other agency operation is highly classified. You will not divulge it to anyone under any circumstance. Incidentally, I found the part of your FBI file that Quinn hid from me. For your own good, I suggest you get back to your mountain hideaway. Forget you ever heard of Cameron Quinn, or Hawthorne Elliott, and, especially, Jabberwock. It would be unhealthy to do otherwise. Do I make myself clear?"

  Burke's face became flushed and his breathing quickened. "Are you threatening me?"

  Elliott’s voice was calm and deliberate. "I do not make threats, Mr. Hill. Only promises."

  It suddenly hit Burke that this was deja vu...J. Edgar Hoover and the Bureau all over again. You're fired! Get the hell out of here and don't come back! It left him momentarily speechless.

  Before he could utter another word, Elliott's voice came back with a final, sharp, "Good-bye." The line went dead.

  Burke was not a person easily provoked. He normally showed minimal emotion. It had once led his ex-wife, during the heat of a one-sided argument, to call him a "cold fish." But, on rare occasions, he had been known to lash out with sudden fury at the source of his anger. And right now he was on the verge of developing a full-fledged rage. He jammed another coin into the slot and reached toward the number pad to re-dial Elliott. But when he glanced down at his notebook, he saw Lori's name and number instead. His hand froze. She should be home by now. Had she heard?

  He punched in her number, forgetting Hawk Elliott.

  "Hello?" The voice seemed small and faraway.

  "Lori, this is Burke. Are you all right?"

  "Burke, did you hear?" She seemed to be sobbing softly.

  "I heard. Look, I'm at National. I just got back. I'll grab a cab and get over there as fast as I can. Is anyone with you?"

  "No, I haven't...please come over."

  Burke claimed his bag, grabbed the camera case and rushed out to the taxi stand. He gave the driver Lori's address and sat back in the darkness. With Washington cabbies mentioning rush wasn’t necessary. They only operated at one speed, breakneck. He watched the lights flash by as they sped up the George Washington Parkway. Everything was changed now from the way it had been two days ago when he had driven along this same route, going in the opposite direction with Lori. Maybe Elliott was wrong. Cam might still live. He had to.

  By the time Burke arrived at the fashionable condominium complex, he found a completely different person from the voice on the phone. There were no more tears. She was calm, efficient, organized. He would have been shocked except that he recalled Cam's description of how she had stood by him like a trouper after her mother's death.

  "Thanks for coming, Burke," she said. "I'm afraid I had just been rather overwhelmed by the news when you called."

  "Did you talk to Hawk Elliott?"

  "No. I had an urgent-sounding message from Kingsley Marshall on my answering machine. When I returned his call, he told me what had happened. He said Dad was in critical condition. I've already called for reservations. We can get a flight out at six in the morning." She looked up at him through troubled eyes. "You did want to go?"

  “Absolutely.” He had been told to forget Jabberwock, which was fine with him. But Cam Quinn was in a hospital in critical condition. He felt that both Cam and Lori needed his moral support. "I've been worried sick about Cam all the way from Tel Aviv. I started to head to Hong Kong from there, but they had no flights for several hours.”

  "You've already been traveling a full night. You must be exhausted. I have a spare bedroom you can use. It won't be too long, though, before we'll have to head back to National Airport."

  ABOVE THE PACIFIC

  Chapter 23

  Burke and Lori enjoyed the privacy of their own two-seat row on the left aisle of the crowded 747. They had caught a direct flight out of San Francisco, and as the big jet streaked westward, Lori questioned him about his FBI career, a subject he had barely mentioned at dinner the previous Friday. After weighing his options, Burke decided to tell her the full story. He related all the details, distressing as well as favorable, as he had done for Cam earlier. The Goon Squad episode, how it had sabotaged his marriage, the abortive effort to infiltrate the mob and its agonizing aftermath. He also recounted his adventures, and sometimes hilarious misadventures, in concert with Cameron Quinn.

  "Now you know all about my checkered past," he said finally. "It's your turn for show and tell. I'd like to know what you did during those years with the Agency. Cam said you had used your work as a writer and a travel agent as cover. That meant you were out in the cold, didn't it? No diplomatic immunity."

  "That's true. But I wasn't in all that much danger most of the time."

  "I'm a little surprised Cam didn't try to talk you out of following in his footsteps," Burke said.

  "He did when he found out," she said with a grin. "It was a little late by then, though."

  "You signed on without his knowledge?"

  She nodded. "One of his old colleagues, a close friend from over the years, was chief of the Soviet/East Europe Division when I was at Wisconsin. He was in the Madison area on business and came by to see me. That was in January of my senior year. In those days, when somebody invited you out to lunch at a nice restaurant, you didn't hesitate. Anything to get away from campus for awhile. Anyway, he asked what my plans were after graduation, if I was interested in working for a newspaper. Of course, I said I was. He knew I was fluent in French, and he asked if I would like to work in Paris. That hooked me. It didn't matter that I would have a few non-journalistic duties now and then, or that I'd have to go through a CIA training program first. I was primed for adventure."

  "Did he get you the job?"

  "He set it up. He knew the right people."

  A smiling flight attendant stopped with a drink cart. Burke chose coffee and Lori took a Coke. When she moved on, Burke looked back at his seatmate.

  "When did Cam find out?"

  "At graduation. By then they had already done my background investigation, and I had a reporting date for processing."

  "What did he say?"

  She laughed. "What could he say? I knew he worked for the Agency, but I didn't know what he did. He told me intelligence work wasn't the glamour thing the movies tried to make of it. He said much of the time it could be as boring as any other job. But on occasion it could become as dangerous as anything you could think of. He just wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into."

  "Did you find it that way?"

  "What way?"

  "Boring."

  She shrugged. "Oh, sure. A lot of the time. A lot of what I did at first was like an extension of my newspaper work. I just dug a little deeper into the facts than normally."

  "I got the impression from some things you said before that it wasn't all that boring."

  Lori sat in the window seat and gazed out at the billowing clouds that floated below like piles of foamy white suds on an invisible sea. How right he was. There had been many times when she wondered what had led her to choose a job like that, one where at any moment you might find yourself caught out on a limb with one of the bad guys wielding a saw. She was convinced that only her thorough training, the support of her Agency colleagu
es, and her Dad's timely advice had brought her through.

  "That's why I cautioned you about being prepared for anything," she said. "I guess the hairiest operation I got involved in was my last one. I was working for the travel agency then. I had taken a tour group to Czechoslovakia and Hungary when I received instructions from my Agency contact to get an important Soviet scientist out of Budapest. Seems he wanted to defect, but Langley strongly suspected that most of the local station's assets had been compromised. They thought I could get him out with my tour group."

  Burke frowned. "Did something go wrong?"

  "Everything went wrong." She gave him a pained look. "He was to slip away in the midst of a conference he was attending. I had a French passport for him. I bought a couple of suitcases and filled them with men's clothing to serve as his luggage. I put his new name on the tags and added them to the group's baggage on the morning we were to leave."

  "You were going to pass him as one of the tourists?"

  "That was the plan. But when I took a taxi to the agreed upon meeting spot near the conference hotel, he didn't show. I waited as long as I could, then rushed back to my hotel. I found him there, hiding behind a large potted plant in the lobby."

  Burke grinned. "What was his problem?"

  She smiled, too. "It sounds amusing now, but believe me, it wasn't then. When he was leaving the meeting, he bumped into his KGB escort. He was resourceful, though. Told the guy he was looking for a place to buy some pain medicine. Claimed he had a terrible headache and was going to his room to lie down. The escort obligingly gave him a couple of pills. He took the elevator to his floor, then walked down the stairs and out the back way. It was past our rendezvous time, and he was afraid I wouldn't wait for him, so he had taken another cab to my hotel."

  "What else went wrong?"

  "The worst was yet to come. When you travel as a tour guide, you get to know the people in your groups pretty well. Some of them like to talk a lot, some hardly say a word. And you usually find one or two who can be counted on to cause problems. I had taken aside the ones I thought needed to be told. I explained that we had a French gentleman who wanted to join us for the remainder of the tour, which was going back through Vienna. I told them he was a retiring sort who didn't like to be fussed over. I said we shouldn't bother him with any comments or questions about his being new on the tour."