Though endowed with a strong sense of will, she was thoroughly feminine, and she knew how to flaunt it to her best advantage. Both in the line of duty and in pursuit of her personal goals. Virtually every move she made appeared sensual to Golanov. He had to remind himself that this occasion involved his duty to report to her, for relay back to Moscow, on the results of the week's preparation for Jabberwock.
"We had a miserable time the first half of the week," he said. "Storms drenched the island. The men were forced to sit around in their quarters, getting on each others' nerves. But when the sun finally came out again, we rolled out the truck and parked it in precise relation to a simulated reviewing stand."
"And the test? How did it go?"
"Whatever you think of the Americans, you have to admire their ingenuity. The shell performed perfectly. It detonated just above the reviewing stand. There wouldn't have been a single survivor. I'm almost certain of it."
Katya looked thoughtful. She had no qualms about the aims of Operation Jabberwock. Petrovsky had to be stopped at any cost. His policies were making a shambles of the country, of the Party. Another six months and her beloved Motherland could well be reduced to a hobbled derelict, an emaciated skeleton. Petrovsky deserved his fate. Perhaps the American president, too. His own people had decided his guilt. But how many others would be taken with them? She didn't condone indiscriminate slaughter, something she knew had been practiced by the KGB's predecessor, the NKVD, under Lavrenti Beria.
"Who will be in the reviewing stand besides the two presidents?" she asked.
"I don't have access to the list. I'm sure General Kostikov has it. From the dimensions they gave us, it will be a small group. Probably a few aides to each of the leaders. Some Canadian government officials, probably the Prime Minister, the mayor of Toronto."
"Is it necessary to kill so many innocent people?"
Golanov's face broke into a thin smile. "Ah, my little Katya has a conscience, does she?"
She cocked her head, the frown firming her jawline. "It's not a bad thing to have on occasion, Andrei. The lack of it has caused some of our older comrades a great deal of grief. Even the people who say they would like Stalin back, to bring order out of the chaos, shudder when they talk of the mass murders."
He nodded sympathetically. "I agree. Killing thousands of innocent peasants is not the way to establish order. But at times, even some of our most loyal comrades must be sacrificed for the higher goals of the state. In this case, removing a few more high officials who don't likely share our view of the world will be necessary, though regrettable."
She shrugged in resignation. What he said made sense. "Then we should just be thankful we won't be among them. I gather from this that you're completely satisfied with the operation?"
"Eminently so," he said with conviction. "Jeffries and Ingram handled the firing this morning. Next week the team members will demonstrate their abilities. We'll discuss the plans for getting into Canada, what they are to do once in Toronto, and the plans for extraction."
"Would you make a request for me to be sent to Toronto to assist you?" she asked. "I could help maintain contact with the team. Maybe I could pose as a reporter."
He leaned back, his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin resting in one hand. "News people are clannish," he said. "They would probably sense you weren't one of them. Still, we might use you in some other role. Let me give it some thought."
They arrived back at the motel about nine. As Golanov was unlocking the door to 307, he heard a disturbing ring from the telephone inside.
"Who knows we're here?" he asked, pushing the door open.
"Only our contact at Aeroflot."
He picked up the phone and answered guardedly.
"Mr. Goldman?" It was the voice of someone in a hurry.
"This is Goldman."
"I've been trying to reach you for an hour," said the agitated male voice.
"I've been out to dinner." He said it as a fact, not a defense.
"I have a message from your Uncle Harry. He says the job in Atlanta didn't come through. You might as well go back home."
He flinched at the words, as though they were a slap in the face. It couldn't be. But there was no mistaking the message. It was a dire warning, received one hour late. "Thank you," said Golanov, reigning in his emotions. "Tell Uncle Harry I'll do as he suggests."
"Very well. Have a nice rest of the evening."
Golanov grimaced. That abominable American aphoristic leave-taking. Surely the comrades could do better. He hung up the phone and swung around toward Katya, eyes blazing.
"Uncle Harry?" she said, shocked. It was the code for blown cover.
"Right. I don't know where or when. Probably at the airport. Somebody I failed to see has recognized me. They warned me to get out of Atlanta right away. The island is still safe."
He moved quickly to return everything to his suitcase. Katya did the same.
"I don't know how far they've tracked me," Golanov said with disgust. "They may even know about the rental car."
"Shouldn't we get it away from here, then abandon it?" Katya asked.
"Right. I'll need transportation to get out of Atlanta, though."
"Why don't I rent a car," she suggested. "I could drive while you lie back with your face covered, as if sleeping. There would be no chance for anyone else to recognize you."
He considered that for a moment. "Where would we go?"
She tried to picture a map of the U.S., then remembered a sign she had seen on the interstate highway near the airport. "Birmingham," she said. "I don't have to be back in New York until tomorrow evening. I could fly out of Birmingham, I'm sure."
He could think of no better suggestion at the moment. "All right. Let's get out of here. Do we have to check out of the motel? I don't want any unhappy innkeepers chasing us also."
"I paid in advance."
He broke into a slow smile. "You are a jewel, Katya. Let's go."
BALTIMORE
Chapter 28
Since he had no idea of the time of the funeral, Burke called Lori early Saturday morning from a phone booth on the outskirts of Baltimore.
"Miss Quinn?" he asked, pitching his voice rather high.
"Yes, this is Miss Quinn."
"My name is Herbert Kennedy. I'm an old friend of your father's from Boston." It was his best impression of a Boston Irish accent. He hoped it sounded convincing.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Kennedy. I've heard my father speak of you very fondly."
"I just heard about his untimely demise. Most unfortunate. You have my deepest sympathy."
"Thank you. You're most kind."
"We were schoolmates at one time, you know. When is the funeral scheduled?"
"This afternoon. Two p.m. It will be a small, private service."
"I see. Yes. Well, I wish I could be there, but I won't be in Washington until later. It's quite possible I might drop by to see you, however. If that is all right?”
"Whatever would please you, Mr. Kennedy. But be careful. It could be rather treacherous around here"—she paused for a single beat—"if it rains."
"Thank you, young lady. I shall remember that."
He hung up the phone. Obviously her house was being watched or she felt there was an excellent possibility of it. He stopped at a men's hair salon to have his hair trimmed and styled in a more youthful look. He also had a rinse applied that hid the advancing gray by bringing back its original dark brown color. He didn't wear glasses, but he bought a pair with clear lenses to help modify the new look. And he visited a men's clothing store to purchase a few specialty items.
When Ted called his boss Saturday morning to report on the week's successful activities, the "old man" delivered the shocking news. The FBI had contacted Langley in search of current information on Lt. Col. Andrei Petrovich Golanov. He had been sighted at the Atlanta airport, but promptly disappeared. When the Agency reported that Golanov was now with the KGB's Second Chief Directorate in Moscow, t
he Bureau stirred up a flurry of activity. A taxi driver was located who had driven a man meeting Golanov's description to a nearby hotel. There they learned he had rented a Toyota Corolla in the name of Andrew Goldman. The car was found later, abandoned off I-285 a few miles from the hotel. At this point, the trail ended. They back-tracked at the airport, however, and discovered that a passenger named Andrew Goldman had arrived in Atlanta on a flight from Tallahassee. He had a return reservation for early Monday.
"Have you heard from him?" Ted’s boss asked in an unpleasant tone.
"No, sir. He isn't due back until Monday morning. There's no way I can get in touch with him." The FBI would have the airport staked out Monday morning. This could be disastrous. Then something the "old man" had said struck him as odd. "I wonder why he abandoned the car?"
"We got word to the proper party in New York. I presume they warned him to get the hell out of Atlanta."
"Good!" Ted sighed with relief. "He'll probably call us then, call to get in contact with Jeffries. They were supposed to meet in Tallahassee. Obviously, that's out."
When Lori had told "Mr. Kennedy" to be careful if it rained, she was merely using a natural reference to the dark, gloomy morning outside. But by two p.m., the leaden sky had begun to fulfill her prophecy. Rain splattered noisily against the roof of the small chapel at the cemetery, casting a pall over an already somber affair.
Those who filled the pews inside were mostly CIA colleagues of Cameron Quinn. A few key employees of Clipper Cruise & Travel joined them, along with three of Lori's closest friends and two relatives whose aloof manner indicated their presence was a mandatory exercise in attempted civility. One was an officious cousin who held some sort of international trade position with the Department of Commerce, the son of Quinn's younger brother who had died a few years before. The other was a stooped octogenarian great uncle from Boston. Due to family financial shenanigans that Cameron had purposely left clouded, providing Lori with no real understanding, the Washington (and various other points) Quinns had effectively cut themselves off from their Boston kin following the death of Cam's father. The surprise appearance of the aging uncle was evidently the family's token acknowledgment that Cam had indeed departed the scene. CIA officaldom was represented by CI Chief Hawthorne Elliott, DDO General Frederick Palmer and the DCI himself, Judge Kingsley Marshall.
Several cars bearing neatly dressed, athletic looking young men were parked about the area. A few unlucky ones stood watch outside the chapel, holding black unbrellas to ward off the shower. Lori noted that Hawk Elliott exhibited the bored look of someone who had rather have been elsewhere. Judge Marshall, on the other hand, appeared the very essence of concern. In fact, he delivered the eulogy.
The Judge was a tall, slender man with the savvy look of a skilled politician. It was political connections, of course, that had brought him to the federal bench and, ultimately, to the rarefied atmosphere of Langley's seventh floor. Standing before the small group, he held his gray head high, though his shoulders seemed to droop perceptibly with the weight of the occasion.
"Cameron Quinn was a dedicated public servant," he said in a judicious tone, "one of those all too rare among us who seeks no self-aggrandizement. Power, wealth, position, reputation were all sacrificed to the anonymity of his calling. The nation's unparalleled security, and its highly regarded ability to counter potential enemies, are due in no small part to the unsung achievements of men such as Cameron Quinn.
"He was a complete person...a loving husband, a devoted father, a loyal servant of his fellow man. Few people are aware of the countless hazardous assignments that he readily accepted on behalf of his country. And in a field where only one's mistakes are trumpeted publicly, even fewer are aware of the significant successes that he achieved. We, lovers of liberty who share in his legacy, owe to him our gratitude for a job well done."
The shower had hardly diminished by the time the burly, graying priest completed his final prayer beneath a green canvas enclosure that surrounded the grave. The flag that had covered the coffin was folded and handed to Lori. The priest gave her a fatherly pat on the arm and departed.
Her friends, a tall black couple with whom she had been sailing on Memorial Day, and a short, plump woman who had once been her college roommate, gathered around like cheerleaders after a disheartening loss.
"Would you like me to come stay with you tonight?" asked Sara Lawson, the former schoolmate.
"Thanks, but I'll be okay. I imagine I'll get to bed early tonight. I'm afraid I haven't shaken off the jet lag yet."
"Why don't you have dinner with us, doll," said Chloe Brackin, squeezing one of her hands. She was an attractive, statuesque black woman with a controlled intensity in her voice.
"Yeah, I'll pick you up and get you back early," added her husband, Walt. They were both physicians, he specializing in neurology, Chloe a gynecologist.
Lori smiled at them. "I love all of you, and I really appreciate what you're trying to do. But, honestly, I'm fine. I think I need some time to myself, a chance to gather my thoughts and try to put things into a little better perspective. I'll take a rain check on that offer, though."
They frowned unhappily but knew that when she had decided upon a course, further argument was useless. They exchanged farewell kisses and left. Lori looked around to find Judge Marshall patiently waiting. Without comment, he held out his arm and she took it. As they walked out into the rain, he raised a large black umbrella to shield them from the continuing downpour.
She looked up with a fragile smile. "Thank you for those remarks, Judge. It was beautifully said."
"It was said from the heart, Lori. Your father had his problems, but he never wavered from what he saw as his duty."
"That's how he died," she said with a nod, her eyes taking on a troubled look. "He wasn't drinking the night of that accident. He was pursuing his assignment."
Judge Marshall regarded her indulgently. "I guess we'll never know for certain what happened, Lori. But don't compound the tragedy. Don't torment yourself in an attempt to unearth some hidden cause and effect. By the way, have you heard anything from Mr. Burke Hill?"
She shook her head silently.
"We can't have people going off on a tangent, possibly jeopardizing Agency operations. He could easily endanger our people, as well as himself."
Lori fought to contain her temper. "Mr. Hill was a very close friend of Dad's," she said. "He was quite disturbed by what happened in Hong Kong. He thought Sam Allen should have done a thorough follow-up, checked to make certain no foul play was involved."
The Judge's tone was implacable. "Sam Allen contacted the proper authorities. He reviewed their reports, found the evidence overwhelming."
She gave a shrug of clear disgust. You couldn't fight city hall. She wished now that she hadn't destroyed that letter her father had written to Burke. It might have helped convince Judge Marshall. As it was, he would believe his chief of station over what he considered vague suppositions by uninformed outsiders. Nevertheless, she said, "Burke Hill and I were hardly convinced."
"Lori, my dear," he began in a fatherly tone, "please believe me when I say this, if I had the slightest inkling, any idea that there was something more here than meets the eye, I would insist on pursuing it to the bitter end." Then his voice changed to that of the tough jurist who brooked no interference with his decisions. "Also please believe that I am quite serious about protecting the sanctity of CIA operations. If you hear anything from Mr. Hill, I suggest that you contact me immediately. I would like to continue the cooperative relationship that we have enjoyed in the past."
That stung. They had reached her car, and the Judge opened the door for her. She slipped into the seat and looked up at him soberly. She spoke slowly, deliberately, in a voice coated with frost. "I'll do what I can, sir."
Lori switched on the stereo and put in some of her favorite compact discs, symphonies by Beethoven and Brahms, Rimsky-Korsakov suites and, to liven things up, Tchaikovsky's 1
812 Overture. She wasn't hungry, but she forced herself to eat a salad and a bowl of beef stew.
With the rain, darkness came early. Standing in front of the kitchen window with its bright, flowered curtains, washing the few dishes she had used, she wondered why she had felt so edgy ever since returning home in the late afternoon. Then, slowly, it came to her. She had been subconsciously worrying about Burke Hill. After hearing Judge Marshall's remark on protecting the sanctity of CIA operations, she knew the effort to apprehend Burke extended all the way to the top. She was certain the Judge would be abhorred by even the thought of such an assassination scheme as Sydney Pinkleton had described, but if he gave the order to put Burke under wraps until Jabberwock had been flushed out, there was no way to predict where it might lead.
She had managed to see Burke for only a few minutes after he had shaved off the beard, but it was enough to significantly alter her perception of him. He no longer seemed just an old crony of her father's. She realized that she had been attracted to him from the start. She couldn't put a finger on the exact reasons why. He had flattered her, of course, been effusive in his compliments. He had a sort of boyish charm about him and a hint of some inner vulnerability. Was she experiencing the mother hen syndrome, seeking someone to gather into her nest? He had certainly looked younger without the beard, but not that young.
She had sensed the affection that he felt toward her, but she was not certain whether it was aimed at Lori Quinn or Cam Quinn's daughter. Was he just being paternalistic, she wondered, or did it go much deeper? And if it did, was she ready for it? Her Dad had called her a "confirmed bachelor girl," but that had been partly a defensive posture after the divorce. A divorce was one of life's most painful experiences, to her way of thinking, and she had no desire to hurt like that ever again. As a result, she had dated sparingly, careful to keep her emotions hidden away like secrets in a locked diary.
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 18
