Burke frowned. "That little blip's it?"
"That's your island. We're on a parallel course about three miles to the east. When we're about a mile north, I'll drop the right wing and center the image on the mid-course line."
Burke shook his head. Technology and imagination could accomplish wonders. But that little spread of trees and sand down there? He was disappointed at the prospects. He could see the runway and what appeared to be a cluster of small buildings. A belt of green, varying in width, marked the line of trees that circled most of the island's perimeter. Other than that, nothing but scattered clumps of green dotting the sandy brown expanse. He knew that a view through the lens of his 35mm SLR would reveal little of interest. He couldn't believe that a four-by-five-inch format would make that much difference. And he'd be damned surprised if they came up with anything worthwhile. It would surely take something on the order of Kodak's incredible experiment to consider the mission a success.
Kevin McKenzie didn't seem to be having any qualms, however. "Here we go," he said a few minutes later, as the plane rolled to the right. "Camera running."
He was a demon of concentrated motion, his eyes flashing from the radar scope to the turn and bank indicator, then to the airspeed gauge, one hand manipulating the throttle, the other gripping the wheel. He had dropped their speed back to one hundred and ten knots as they approached the island. That way, increasing power as he slipped into the wind would give no appearance on the ground of any change in speed. At the same time he used the rudder to hold a straight course, fighting the plane's tendency to turn. After counting off sixty seconds, he switched off the camera and leveled the wing.
"What next?" Burke asked.
"We maintain this heading for ten minutes. Then we'll hang a left for about six miles. Make another ninety-degree turn, bringing us back the way we came. When we get back parallel to the island, we'll we shoot a strip from the east side. By then, enough time should have elapsed that they won't notice we're reconnoitering."
Gary Overmyer and Hans Richter bounded down onto the soft sandy soil from the rear compartment of the white-painted truck, still wearing the padded earphones that would double as communications devices and ear protectors. Overmyer looked across at Ingram, who held a pair of powerful binoculars to his eyes, watching a small cloud of smoke rise nearly half a mile away.
"How did we do?" Overmyer asked, jerking off the earphones.
Ingram turned with a smile. "Right on target, best I can tell."
Ted had started the Jeep and swung it around to where the group stood. He glanced up at the sight of a small plane passing far off in the distance. "Let's go take a look."
Ingram, Golanov, who would soon assume another name since "Andrew Goldman" had been compromised, and Overmyer climbed in. They bounced along through the sand, dodging clumps of palmetto, and quickly reached the area of the makeshift reviewing stand, which had been fashioned from lumber and plywood left over from some long-forgotten project. They found it in shambles, splintered two-by-fours tossed about like broken match sticks, jagged bits of charred plywood standing on edge, jammed into the sand by the force of the blast.
"I'd say we earned our merit badge," said Overmyer.
"Don't get overconfident," Golanov said. "Tomorrow we run a full dress rehearsal. Score then and we'll consider you fully qualified."
They walked around the remnants of the mock stand, kicking at bits of blackened lumber. Meanwhile, the rest of Oyster Island's temporary residents were congratulating themselves beside the truck. Old Sarge Morris added a comical touch, standing there in his white cook's hat, grease-smudged apron tied about his overstuffed middle, hands trembling with excitement. Jeffries, as usual, looked like someone headed for the first tee, lacking only the spiked shoes and a driver in his hand. The hulking Richter stood with huge paws on his hips, the earphones draped around his neck, while Naji Abdalla leaned against the side of the truck, arms folded, as if he might have been turning over in his mind some doubts about the expediency of the entire operation.
"You'll get your baptism under fire tomorrow, Naji," said Jeffries. "We'll check all the communications procedures. Everything but the microwave relay, which really isn't needed, of course. For your sake, I hope Blythe's calculations on the detonation area are correct."
Abdalla gave what was as close to a smile as he ever allowed himself. "I'm familiar with Mr. Ingram's reputation. I have no quarrel with his calculations."
"One point we haven't fully discussed is the placement of the Semtex in the truck," said Richter.
"I'll go over the firing device with you, Hans," Jeffries added," but where you put the plastic explosives is between you and Ingram and Goldman. I hate to think of all my hard work going up in smoke, but I guess it's necessary."
Abdalla was looking up at the white puff-ball clouds scattered across the horizon when he saw the small aircraft in the distance. "Is that the same airplane that flew past just after the shot?" he said, eyes narrowing.
Jeffries, an old hand at aircraft recognition, looked up. "Same type. A little hard to tell from here, but it's most likely a Cessna. He was headed south a little while ago. Somebody out looking for a boat or just joyriding over the Gulf. He's cheating a bit on the five-mile Restricted Area, though." As he watched, the small plane did an odd maneuver. It started a roll to the right, then held that position for nearly a minute. The wings came level again and it continued on out of sight to the north. He said nothing about it, though, since he saw nothing threatening in the maneuver.
Lori had decided to provide her surveillance team with a little diversification that evening. She contacted one of her frequent travel clients, the manager of a fashionable restaurant in Alexandria, and made dinner reservations for three, herself and the Brackins. The place featured a South Sea Islands theme and they entered beneath a thatched roof, strolling past lush tropical plants, the tempting aroma of barbecuing meat filling the air. An attractive Polynesian girl with long black hair and a sarong greeted them, followed quickly by the manager, who came over to provide a personal welcome to Lori and her guests. She advised him that she was expecting an important long distance call and asked if she could take it in his office.
While the waitress was bringing drinks, Chloe Brackin reached over and put her hand on Lori's. "I hope I don't come across too intrusive, doll, but we're your best friends, right?"
Lori nodded.
"We've become both fascinated and distressed by what seems to be happening to you the past few days. If I only knew a likely subject, I'd swear you were in love, lady." She smiled as she spoke, and then it faded. "On the other hand, you get terribly preoccupied at times with some knotty problem. Like when you picked us up this evening, I know you’re grieving, girl, but I’ve seen grief. This is something else."
Lori gave an embarrassed grin. "I thought you were a GYN specialist, Chlo, not a psychiatrist."
"Listen, you see patients every day like I do, you learn the psychology of personality the hard way. I don't mean to be probing, just want you to know we're concerned. Anything you'd like to get off your chest, just say it. Anything we can do to help, just ask."
Lori had been one of Dr. Chloe Brackin's first patients when she went into practice with her father, a highly respected family physician in Arlington. They had quickly developed a close personal friendship. They had similar interests, personalities that meshed nicely, and neither was reluctant to express her opinion on any given subject. But the great respect they held for each other easily smoothed over any points of disagreement along the way.
Lori squeezed her friend's hand. "I know how you feel. I really appreciate it. It's just—"
She was interrupted by the manager, informing her that her call had come through. He escorted her past a row of flaming torches to his office and pulled the door shut as he left. She sat behind his austere metal desk and answered the phone.
"Well, we got our photographs. Won't get to see 'em until in the morning." The tone of Burke's
voice relayed a clear sense of disappointment.
"You don't sound too happy about it."
"Frankly, I'm not too optimistic."
"Why?"
"From the distance we had to fly, it was like shooting a bean in a bathtub. He reminded me before we started that it was strictly an experiment, he couldn't guarantee the results. I don't think there's much doubt it'll take a probe on the ground to ferret out what's going on down there."
That was what she had been afraid of. He could be about as stubborn as anybody she had encountered. But she wanted to get to the bottom of this as much as he did, to find out who was responsible for her father's death. If he was going to investigate Oyster Island, she didn't intend to be left out. "I want you to promise me something, Burke." Her voice was insistent.
"What's that?"
"Promise me you won't try to go to that island before you talk to me tomorrow. Agreed?"
Since he had already decided he wouldn't be able to make a try before Friday night, and with those troublesome doubts leaving him unsure as to whether it should be attempted at all, this was an easy promise to accept. "Okay, I promise. I'll do nothing before we talk tomorrow. Now, did you have any luck with Pinkleton?"
"Uncle Sydney called me back shortly before I left for dinner. They found Amy Lee's body in a small inlet below a bluff, not too far from where she lived. Some kids noticed her shoes at the edge. When they looked down, they saw something tangled in the driftwood."
"When was she found?"
"The day after we left. But the pathologist put the time of death at sometime Monday night. The night of Dad's accident."
"Did they suspect foul play?"
"Uncle Sydney said they learned she had broken up with a boyfriend recently, so they listed it as probable suicide. But he talked to some of her friends. They said no way."
"Will he suggest they reopen the case?"
"No. He didn't think it would be a good idea." She hesitated a moment. "He said Dad was the last person known to have seen her alive."
"Damn." Burke groaned. "What about the lab technician?"
"Are you ready for this?" Her voice brightened. "He resigned the morning after we talked to him. Then he and his whole family, parents, grandparents, several brothers and sisters, everybody pulled up stakes and cut out."
"Left Hong Kong?"
"Didn't tell a soul where they were going. Chinese have deep roots. They're not impetuous like us. They wouldn't suddenly move off without a compelling reason. Those that have been migrating out because of the problems with Beijing have done so reluctantly. But here's the clincher. Uncle Sydney questioned the other technicians. He found one who had also been there the night of the accident. This guy said he had seen the boy talking to two men he called 'Europeans.' He picked out the Bulgarians from photographs."
"Well, well," Burke said as all of his doubts suddenly melted away. "I'd say that pretty well illegitimizes Operation Jabberwock. I'm prepared to believe a lot of shenanigans go on up there in Fantasyland by the Potomac, but I can't see Uncle Sam hiring Bulgarian communists to assassinate one of his own, plus an innocent Chinese girl."
"I agree. I asked Uncle Sydney if he was going to report his findings to the Agency."
"Is he?"
"Not to Sam Allen. He said he would be in Washington next week at a meeting that included Hawk Elliott. I suggested he go right to Judge Marshall. He weaseled a bit, said there was protocol involved. You know the British. But he indicated he would work something out."
"These Bulgarians," Burke said, toying with an ominous prospect, "do you think they might show up over here?"
"The same thought occurred to me," she said. "Whoever is running this, if he thinks we're onto something, wouldn't you call in the trusted troops?"
"Right. Which means we've not only got the CIA on our backs, but maybe these other characters as well."
"I mentioned that to Uncle Sydney, asked if he would send me copies of the pictures they showed the lab man."
"Smart move. What did he say?"
"He's terribly straight-laced about rules and regulations. They're classified, of course. I pointed out that I could be in personal danger. He agreed it was a possibility, said he would give it serious thought and call me when he gets to town next Tuesday."
She had not been overtly involved in anything except a few discreet inquiries in Washington.
"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Burke said. "Just be careful. Maybe something will show up in these photos in the morning." His tone, however, didn't convey much hope.
"I'll be in Fantasyland, as you called it, most of the day tomorrow. I'm making client calls. I also have a dinner date with the man who heads a major association I'm trying to land as a client.
"I'm jealous," Burke said.
She laughed. "You'd better be. Incidentally, you can call me tomorrow night at our branch office on Pennsylvania Avenue. That's one place I'm sure Hawk Elliott hasn't tampered with." Then her voice sobered. "You'd also better remember your promise."
When Lori returned to the table, Walt Brackin arched an eyebrow. "Good news or bad?"
She gave him a pained smile. "I'm finding it increasingly difficult to distinguish between the two."
Chloe was an attractive woman with a natural wit and charm that sometimes hid her quick mind. "Come on, Doll," she said, "level with us. What's going on?"
Lori was well aware of the depth of her friend's understanding. She looked from Chloe to Walt, their troubled expressions evidence of the anxiety they felt for her. Burke probably would have counseled against it; maybe it wasn't right, and maybe it wasn't fair to them, but she couldn't keep sweeping things under the table. "You may hate me in the morning," she said with a slight grin, "but when we get back to your place, I'm going to unload on you."
NEW ORLEANS
Chapter 35
Kevin McKenzie had told Burke to come over around nine. When he arrived, the secretary said her boss had been in the building since seven o'clock and was now in his office, as excited as a new father. A grinning McKenzie motioned him over to the outsized desk, which was now covered with a photomontage of greatly enlarged prints.
Burke stared in awe. The detail was unbelievable. There was the outline of the whole island, distorted a bit because of the camera angle. But the buildings showed up in significant detail, beyond the broad sweep of the landing strip. Jeffries' Cherokee appeared to be tied down at one end of the paved ribbon. Anchored at the beach back of the buildings was the hollowed out hulk of the landing craft. Near the runway sat a truck and a smaller vehicle, with several figures clustered around. He counted seven people. A formidable force for a lone invader, he realized. Across the island from them, a small cloud hovered above the sand. He guessed it was smoke. There seemed to be something scattered around the area beneath it.
"What do you think?" McKenzie asked.
"Fantastic!" Burke said. "If we could just figure out what's going on down there."
McKenzie lifted the phone and pressed a button. "Tell Buddy to come in here," he said. Turning back, he added, "These were made going down. He's still working on the shots from the other side."
Burke stared. "Look, you can make out those people plain as day. Too bad we can't blow up their faces."
"That would probably be asking a little too much. But he says he can still enlarge these more."
Just then Buddy Bottelli walked in. He carried a magnifying viewer in his hand.
"What can you tell us about this?" McKenzie asked.
Bottelli bent his short body over the desk. With his large head and the magnifying glass, he looked like a wizened owl contemplating dinner on the landscape below. "You saw the eight men, I guess."
"Eight?" Burke said with a frown. "I only counted seven."
"Did you count the one in the Jeep?"
Burke grinned. "I didn't even know it was a Jeep."
"Yeah, that's definite. The truck is interesting. I haven't figured it out yet. There's a round o
pening in the roof toward the back. The rear has a bed like a pickup, with some sort of mechanism, like a hydraulic jack."
"Maybe it's a place to hook a large trailer," Burke said.
"Possibly."
"What's over here?" He pointed to the cloud.
"That's smoke." Buddy placed the viewer over the photo. "I'd say there was an explosion. Looks like blown apart pieces of wood lying around. A nice big hole in the sand."
"What can you tell us about the buildings?" McKenzie asked.
"Well, I'd say this one was living quarters."
"Why?"
"Looks like laundry hanging out, for one thing. There's also some lounge chairs at one side."
"Lounge chairs?" Burke said.
"Yeah. Those rectangular things there. You can tell a little better through the viewer."
Burke took a look. Sure enough, they had the shape of lounge chairs. "What are the other buildings?"
"This one must be an office, or communications center. Has a radio antenna, lots of wires running into it. This here's the mess hall. That's a stovepipe for a cook stove. Over here we have some kind of workshop."
"Machine shop, maybe?" Burke asked.
"I believe you're right. Has the profile of a machine shop. Back behind it, keeping the noise away from the living area, is the power generator. Looks like a big diesel-powered job. That would supply plenty of machinery, in addition to the lights. And here's something interesting. They have a chain of solar panels, spaced probably a hundred yards apart all the way around, just back of the tree line near the shore. They're mounted on small structures that probably house storage batteries."
Burke looked around at him. "You mean they're charging the batteries with solar power?"
"Exactly. With all the sun they get, it would create enough power to run a circuit around the perimeter of the island. Could be used at night for a lighting system."
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 23
