Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  "Fortunately, they shouldn't have any idea who Walt is. And they don't know you were involved. They thought we came alone and left the boat anchored."

  "So that leaves you all by yourself as the target. If they manage to track you down, you can count on a visit from that Bulgarian hit team. One way or the other, I'll have to make Uncle Sydney give me those photographs."

  Burke let them off at an emergency room in Panama City and drove on to Bay County Airport. The rain had ended, but the parking lot near the fixed base operator's hangar was dotted with small lakes. He splashed around, checking the vehicles, until he found a brown Jeep with a Texas license plate. He had not managed a good look at the one on the island, but this had to be it. That would likely mean the Englishman called Andrew was here, or had been. Cautiously, he walked out past the hangar and around a parked refueling truck to the ramp, where a shiny corporate jet sat conspicuously among the prop-driven light aircraft. A search of the area turned up no blue Cherokee Lance. He walked slowly among the handful of brightly-painted small planes in the hangar, pausing at the door to the Operations Office. Looking in through the window, he saw no one he recognized.

  The man he had talked with earlier was not on duty. Instead, an attractive young blonde dressed in white shorts and a flowered pink shirt walked up and asked if she could help. Remembering the comment of Lori's newspaper friend, he decided she was just the type Jeffries might try to impress.

  "Do you know if Robert Jeffries is still here?" he asked. "Flies a blue Cherokee Lance."

  She smiled. "I know Mr. Jeffries. He left maybe twenty to thirty minutes ago. Was he supposed to wait for you?"

  "No. But I hoped I might catch him. I knew he flew in early this morning. By chance, do you know where his passengers went?"

  She shook her head. "That was too early for me. I didn't come in till eight."

  "Did he stay around here all day?"

  She shook her head and brushed an errant lock of blonde hair from across her face. "I wouldn't think so. It was around eleven when I saw him. Said he got a message when he arrived to wait for some passengers. Wanted to know if I had seen anything of them."

  "I wonder if it was—" He stopped in mid-sentence, as though dismissing the thought. "Did you see them when they left?"

  "Sure. There was a tall guy, dark hair, must have been up all night, looked like he needed a shave. The other two were dressed in suits, professional types. One must have been a doctor, carried his little black medical bag."

  He knew the first one was most likely the Englishman. The other two would have been the interrogation team. They were due for a shock when they arrived at Oyster Island. And that shock was scheduled for delivery any minute. He thanked the girl and left, a man in a hurry.

  Walt Brackin's "fall" aboard the boat, as he had explained it to the emergency room physician, was determined not to have broken any bones. The diagnosis was severe bruises of the upper right arm and a moderate dislocation of the right shoulder. The doctor worked on the shoulder, reducing it to its proper alignment. He put the right arm in a sling and prescribed a muscle relaxant and pain medication.

  "I should have realized the problem," Brackin said as they drove away. He knew the sling would prove a nuisance. "I presume you're aware that doctors are lousy diagnosticians when it comes to themselves?"

  "It's the old forest and the trees thing," Burke said. "When you get too close to something, it's difficult to see what's really going on."

  "Maybe that's our problem with Jabberwock," Lori said. "What we need to do is step back a bit and try to view it from an overall perspective."

  Burke nodded. Instead of looking at all the little bits and pieces as bits and pieces, they needed to try and fit them together into a pattern that would make some sense. The training period was over. D-Day was approaching. But where had the team gone? What did they plan to do with the weapon, whatever it was? He had to find some answers, and find them fast.

  When they came to Highway 98, Burke turned west. "I think we'd best get out of here before they start looking in earnest. Why don't we go to New Orleans and spend the night? It's a big town. We can get lost in it without too much trouble. We could look for that nice restaurant you talked about, Lori. Have a leisurely dinner and then collapse. In the morning we can try to pin the tail on the donkey."

  "Could we change the order of that?" Brackin said. "I don't know about the damned donkey, but my tail is about pinned to this seat."

  That brought a chorus of laughter, something Lori thought sorely needed.

  "We've got a few hours of driving ahead of us," Burke said. "Relax and get some rest. Lori and I'll try not to disturb you."

  Brackin yawned. "Fine with me."

  Lori reached her hand across the seat and Burke gave it a fond squeeze. "We've hardly had a chance to say 'hello,'" he said in a lowered voice.

  "I wondered if you were ever going to find time to hug me properly. I'm a tactile person, you know. Actions speak louder than words."

  He grinned. "When we get to New Orleans, I'll be Action Jackson."

  Her eyes had a faraway, thoughtful look. "I did a lot of thinking this morning, waiting alone in that boat. I wondered if you were coming back, if there was really a future out there for us."

  "I wish you'd quit worrying so much about me," he said stubbornly. "I'm a survivor. There are two kinds of people in this world, survivors and sinkers. A survivor is like one of those inflated figures they make for kids. You know, has a weighted bottom. You can punch it or kick it over, and it'll bob right back up. It's the same with a survivor. You can knock him down as many times as you want, but he'll find a way to bounce back."

  "What's a sinker?"

  "When it comes to sink or swim, they sink. I don't know if it's in your genes or something you learn. Maybe a little of both."

  "Okay, Mr. Survivor." She gave him a stern look. "If you want to maintain your status, I suggest from here on you trust no one, present company excepted, and glance over your shoulder as often as possible."

  Emergency communications channels up and down the United States and across the pole to Moscow were activated as word of Burke Hill's Oyster Island capture and subsequent escape spread through the Operation Jabberwock network. The leaders declared a Condition Red, imminent danger of compromise. All levels were ordered to exercise maximum security. A small, elite team was dispatched to the Florida coast with descriptions of Hill, since he no longer resembled the old photographs, and orders to track him down, take him at any cost. For the moment, until they determined who he had talked to, they wanted him alive.

  It was not clear what had happened early that morning on the island, but unquestionably Hill had been responsible for the deaths of two members of the Jabberwock party. One was a vital link to the American organizers, and his loss put a severe crimp in their plans, leaving them without a counter to the Russians' on-scene commander.

  In the Russian capital, General Vladimir Kostikov, head of the Second Chief Directorate, moved quickly to add the name of Lt. Col. Andrei Golanov to the list of KGB officers who were scheduled to depart for Toronto on Monday evening. Their job was to make a final check of the facilities to be used by President Petrovsky on his arrival Saturday morning. Golanov was ordered to fly immediately to Berlin, under his alternate identity, where he would be picked up by a Russian military plane and brought to Moscow in time for the flight to Canada.

  A summons was also sent out for two citizens of Bulgaria, currently in Cairo, traveling on false Swiss passports.

  NEW ORLEANS

  Chapter 40

  "We'll take a taxi to the airport," Lori said as they ate breakfast at the motel restaurant. She and Walt would leave for Washington on the first available flight. A good night's sleep had transformed them from zombies into living, breathing human beings. It had not changed the world beyond their small circle, however.

  Burke speared a sausage link and looked up. "I could take you out there, but we'd be risking a nice ambush w
hen they spotted that brown van."

  "What will you do about it when we leave?" Brackin asked.

  "I thought I'd ditch the van and buy a used car. One that runs good but may not look the best."

  Lori smiled approvingly. "Find one with a lot of ugly dents. They won't give it a second look. Do you have enough money?"

  "Should have. Won't be much left afterward, though. I'll call Mr. Luk in Hong Kong tonight and have him transfer more cash over here." He waived at the waitress and pointed into his empty coffee cup. His stomach was feeling much better this morning, though the muscles were still painful if disturbed. The minor arm wound caused no problem. "I thought I'd make some calls and find out who that truck is registered to."

  Lori pushed her cup toward the waitress, who poured, then asked, "Can I get you folks anything else?"

  Walt nodded to the sling that cradled his right arm. "Got any spare shoulders back there?"

  She shook her head, feigning a frown. "Sorry. We got spareribs, but no shoulders."

  He wrinkled his nose. "Me and my big mouth."

  "You make a great straight man, Walt," Burke said with a chuckle.

  When the girl had left, Lori turned back to Burke. "What do you think about calling your old buddy Toby Callahan, tell him Jeffries is up to something shady, see if he might help?"

  "I'm afraid it wouldn't be worth the phone call. I've already worked Toby for more than I had a right to expect. He'd probably hang up if I even mentioned Jeffries' name."

  Lori sat back and sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "We have Jeffries, an electronics expert, and Ingram, a weapons expert. Wonder what the Englishman's expertise is?"

  Recalling the conversation between Jeffries and the man in Singapore, Burke said, "Let's use the process of elimination. There were to be three on the team, three trainers, the man in charge and the cook."

  "The cook's dead," said Brackin. "The one called Ted seemed to be in charge."

  Burke frowned. "He certainly acted like it on the island, but the Englishman called the tune on moving out the team and the equipment. From the transcripts of the phone calls, the man in Singapore and the one in Hong Kong didn't sound like the same person. If the Englishman made the call from Hong Kong, that means Ted called from Singapore. He said there would be three trainers 'including me.' The other two would have been Jeffries and Ingram, which would leave the Englishman in charge of the operation."

  "You're figuring the guys who zapped us and the big ugly dude as the team members?" Brackin asked.

  "Yeah. All three of them looked capable of about any nasty deed you'd care to dream up."

  Walt Brackin pushed his chair back and tried to maneuver his arm into a more comfortable position, looking as awkward as a bird with a broken wing. "The guy that jumped you, I got an odd feeling about him, something vaguely familiar."

  "He was quick as a cat," Burke said. "And just as quiet."

  "Definitely a pro."

  Lori had been listening quietly. She leaned forward on the table. "After what happened to you guys on that island, I'm thinking it's time to tell your story to Judge Marshall."

  Burke gave a dry laugh. "Yeah. I can see it now. He'd say I'm either a looney or a liar. Then they'd stash me away in some safe house with a twenty-four-hour guard."

  "What if you took him some of those pictures? Ones showing the smoke and blast damage, and all those men and the truck."

  That might change things, Burke had to admit. It would provide something tangible to back up his words. There were still a lot of holes in his case, of course. He couldn't connect the truck with the blast, unless it had been triggered by the electronics. But he could identify the team members. Perhaps some were terrorists. He could pick them out of a photo file. Also, the CIA's analysts would be a lot more savvy than Buddy Bottelli. They might see something revealing in the photos that the former Air Force interpreter had missed. He would have to get the enlargements from Aerial Photomap. The only thing he had taken with him was the map-like picture of the whole island. It was only useful for orientation.

  "Might be worth a try,” Burke said. “I can call Kevin McKenzie first thing in the morning and see about picking up a set of prints. I'd be a bit hesitant about trying to fly out of here with them, though."

  Lori shook her head. "Not from here. If you buy a car, you could drive north, maybe to Jackson, Mississippi. Take a flight from there. But let me talk to the Judge first, feel him out. I'll tell him you can identify the people involved. I wouldn't want you to go up there unless he agrees to get you in safely, and guarantee you'll be free to leave."

  Lori looked in her date book and gave him a number where he could call her Monday morning at eleven, Washington time.

  The call, to the home number Mr. Luk had put in his letter of certification for Burke's checks, went through shortly after six that evening, seven a.m. Hong Kong time. After purchasing a 1986 Buick that ran like an Indy car but looked like something a crash dummy had been driving, Burke had less than fifteen-hundred dollars left.

  "Mr. Burke Hill," said Luk politely, "how good to hear from you. I trust everything is going well?"

  "Actually, that's a bit debatable right now," Burke said. "For one thing, I'm about out of cash. Could you transfer another twenty thousand to me today?"

  Luk's voice turned more businesslike. "I wondered when you might call. Sometimes it takes a day or so to make wire transfers internationally. But I have good news for you. The gentleman who placed the money in the account had it transferred back to the United States last Friday. He wanted to make it simpler for you to access the account."

  "Great," Burke said. "All I need is the name of the bank and the account information."

  "I'm sorry, but I don't have that. The gentleman asked that you call him. He said you would have his phone number."

  Burke remembered the number at the bottom of Cam's letter. He had written it in his book under the name Ben E. Factor. "Of course, Mr. Luk. Thanks for your help."

  As Burke thumbed through the pages for the number, he reflected on the potential size of the phone bill he was creating for Lori. He had been charging a steady stream of long distance calls halfway around the world to Clipper Travel. Locating the page where he had written the number for "Ben E. Factor," he dialed. A barely perceptible pause occurred amidst the ringing sound, recalling Cam's comment that it was a blind number from which the call would be transferred. Finally, a deep, sonorous voice came on the line.

  "Hello."

  "We've never met," Burke began, "but my name is Burke Hill. I was a friend—"

  "Yes, Mr. Hill, I've been awaiting your call. That was a terrible thing that happened to Cameron. When he told me about you, and said he would ask you to take over if anything happened, I took it for one of his melodramatic musings. I had no idea something like this might occur."

  "It was quite a shock to me, too, sir." He added the deferential title without conscious thought, considering the voice. It was refined, polite, self-assured, and bore a firmness that virtually demanded respect.

  "Yes, I can imagine. So what have you learned about Jabberwock?"

  Burke hesitated. He was surprised that Cam would have mentioned Jabberwock, the way he felt about security. Then he recalled the comment on the man's "surprising knowledge about what was going on." He was obviously a well-informed insider. It was easily possible that he had heard the name from someone higher up in the Agency.

  "I still lack a lot of the essential details, but I've seen the main people involved," Burke said. "It apparently has something to do with an explosive device, or weapon. I don't know yet what it's to be used for, or even how. But it seems to involve what I'd call a mobile television control room in some way. I'm afraid we're running out of time, though. Cam Quinn believed they intended to use it sometime during the coming week."

  "What do they think at Langley?"

  It was just what Burke had feared. If the man knew he had been shut out at the CIA, he would probably decline any further
access to the funds. But he wasn't about to lie to the man who had held Cam in such high esteem. If the money were cut off, so be it. He would have to bite the bullet and use his own. Lori would help.

  "I'll be frank, with you, sir. Hawthorne Elliott, the Chief of Counterintelligence, and I don't exactly see eye to eye. In fact, he told me in effect to get lost. But, out of respect for Cam Quinn, and his urging that I continue, I'm still doggedly pursuing the investigation."

  "By yourself?" The voice seemed incredulous. "Isn't anyone helping you?"

  He started to mention Lori and Walt, but decided against it. Strictly speaking, they played only peripheral roles. "I'm something of a loner, I guess. The problem is I don't know who'll listen to what I have to say."

  "You should have contacted me sooner, Burke. May I call you by your first name?"

  "Certainly."

  "I believe I should go straight to Kingsley. It would be much better, of course, if I had something solid to give him."

  So it was Kingsley, not Judge Marshall. He was on a first-name basis with the DCI. Then Burke thought of the photos. "Like physical evidence?"

  "Yes, of course. If you had something to offer."

  It would be even better than Lori's plan. This man—Burke's curiosity about his identity was about to get the better of him—obviously could talk to Judge Marshall as an equal.

  "I hired a photomapping outfit down here. We made aerial photographs of the island where the Jabberwock team was training. The prints give astonishing detail. I'm sure the CIA's people could ferret out a lot more information from it than I've been able to."

  "Excellent! Do you have the photographs with you?"

  "No, sir. I'll have to get them from the company that shot the pictures."

  "When can you have them?"

  "First thing in the morning." Burke smiled. He had found a man of action. He wondered why he hadn't thought of calling that number before. Cam had suggested using it if he needed help. Had he fallen prey to Walt Brackin's problem of failing to make an obvious diagnosis?