There was a lengthy feature article that detailed some of Overmyer's exploits as leader of a Mike (Mobile Strike) Force. He had won two Silver Stars for these operations. Then came the most interesting item, dated about a year-and-a-half ago, which told of his raging assault upon the Kremlin following the death of cellist Natasha Alexandrovna Grinev. He had made threats against Nikolai Petrovsky while being deported to the U.S. He told reporters that both Petrovsky and President Giles were responsible for the musician's death. The story confirmed Walt's rumors about a period of confinement in a psychiatric hospital around the time of his separation from military service.
Burke returned the microfilm and thanked the librarian.
"You're quite welcome," she said. "I hope you found what you were looking for."
He smiled. "I did indeed."
He had a much clearer picture of ex-Captain Gary Overmyer as a crack guerrilla fighter, a man with a history of mental problems, a man with a burning hated for Presidents Giles and Petrovsky. Then he remembered that the two leaders would be in Toronto on Saturday and in Washington for the summit on Sunday. Could Jabberwock be related in any way to these events? Surely not. It sounded a bit too bizarre. On the other hand, what could be more bizarre than that group of plotters on Oyster Island, or his kidnapping at the behest of a wealthy, respected businessman? He recalled with chilling clarity the polite but firm voice on the telephone. "I consider myself a patriotic American, but I am first and foremost a businessman."
He finally dismissed the idea. Without more evidence, he was not prepared to believe the unbelievable. He thought of Lori's plan to contact Judge Kingsley Marshall. The CIA certainly had the resources to track down the answers. Of course, if it were a domestic operation, technically, at least, they would be required to bring in the FBI. He had heard that cooperation between the two organizations was much improved, but because of Jabberwock's origins overseas, the Agency might still try to protect its turf as long as possible.
He took a cab to the airport and booked a flight to New Orleans. While killing time during the wait for the boarding call, he dialed the office of Dr. Walter Brackin.
"Burke," said Walt, happy for a break in the day's routine, "did you find anything on Overmyer?"
"Sure did. He's a real tiger. It's a good thing I didn't try any funny stuff with him. One thing I learned is that he hates Giles and Petrovsky, blames them for his fiancee's death."
"I'd forgotten about that. I believe it was mentioned in the papers right after she died."
"What have you heard from Lori? Did she convince the Judge?"
"I really don't know," Brackin said. "She hasn't called yet. Why don't you check back with me in an hour or two."
"I'm catching a plane to New Orleans shortly. I'll call when I get down there."
Burke checked his watch. He still had a little time to waste. Recalling the years he had been assigned to the Memphis Field Office, he wondered if any former Bureau friends might yet be around. His old Special Agent in Charge there, Frederick Young, was his all-time favorite FBI person, a man with both the ample dimensions and the pleasant demeanor of Santa Claus. Due to his size and weight—Burke had frowned on it, but some of the agents had called him Fat Freddie—Young often found himself in J. Edgar Hoover's doghouse. Burke called the office and asked for the SAC.
"Burke Hill, son of a gun. This is Pete Crowley. I was in New York when you were. Boy, that's ancient history. What are you up to?"
He remembered Crowley as a plodding, lackluster agent. Always took his time, usually got the job done but made no waves. Now he was a Special Agent in Charge. He had either changed over the years, or that was the type they sought for SACs nowadays.
"I was at the airport, just passing through town, Pete. Thought I'd call and see if anybody was still there I knew. What ever happened to Freddie Young?"
"Fat Freddie? He's been retired about five years. Worked for the phone company in Nashville awhile. I think he lives back here now."
Burke thanked him and hung up. So Freddie had worked for the phone company. He took out his notebook and looked up the number listed for "Ben E. Factor." Maybe Freddie could dig up something about it for him. Tracing a call to the number would be a practical impossibility. It would require the cooperation of phone company technicians wherever the trace led, possibly across the country. It would require lots of clout, which he was woefully short of. He found a Frederick X. Young listed in the phone book. Recalling that middle initial—it stood for Xavier—he was certain he had the right one. He dialed the number.
"Freddie, this is Burke Hill. How's retirement?"
"Damnation! I haven't heard anything out of you in over twenty years, Burke. I've wondered about you now and then. You were one of the sharpest young agents who ever worked under me. I hated what happened with Hoover."
"You heard about that?"
"Of course. We were told to black list you, put the screws on. I'm glad you didn't come around Memphis, I'd have gotten in a lot of trouble."
"Why's that?" Burke asked.
"I'd have refused to pull that kind of crap. SOG wouldn't have liked it a bit."
Burke smiled at the term "SOG." He hadn't heard that in years. It stood for Seat of Government, the term Hoover had used for the FBI Headquarters. "I heard you'd been working for the phone company. What's the story there?"
Freddie Young laughed. "I retired again. Just a few months ago. I worked in the state office in Nashville. I was involved in security matters, among other things."
"I wonder if you might be able to find out something for me. If it's going to be any problem, just say so and forget it."
"Be glad to help. What is it?"
"I've got a phone number, it's in Area Code Seven-Zero-Three, Northern Virginia. I need to know whose it is, where it's located. It may be unlisted."
Young's voice turned serious. "If it's unlisted, that could be a problem. I have some friends who could probably get it for me, but they might be a bit reluctant if they knew I planned to pass it on to somebody else."
"Like I said, Freddie, if it's too much of a problem, don't worry about it." He paused a moment, then added plaintively, "But it would be a big help to me. The guy who uses the number is really causing me a major headache."
"Give it to me and let me see what I can come up with. If I strike out, I'll let you know why. Where can I reach you?"
"I'm at the airport," Burke said. "Just passing through. I'll give you a call this afternoon. How's that?"
"Sure. Good to hear from you. Don't wait twenty years next time."
It was the lunch hour when Burke arrived at Aerial Photomap. He caught Kevin McKenzie on his way out to the parking lot.
"Hope that old clunker I left overnight didn't get in your way," Burke said, inclining his head toward the banged-up Buick."
"I wondered if that was the car you mentioned," McKenzie said. "What did you do, swap your van for a 'Rent-a-Wreck?'"
"Just needed some temporary transportation," Burke said with a grin. "It runs as smooth as a sewing machine." He quickly shifted subjects. "Have the cops come up with anything on the break-in?"
McKenzie shook his head, frowning. "Probably won't. They didn't even find a fingerprint." Then his face suddenly brightened. "By the way, Buddy said he finally figured out what that truck was in the photos. He saw one just like it on TV. It had a satellite dish on the back end. Buddy said it's used for live TV news transmissions via satellite."
As he made his way through the noon traffic, a white truck whipped out of a side street and cut in front of him. His foot jammed the brake pedal as he scowled and muttered a few choice adjectives to describe the driver. Happily, the old car's brakes still worked like new. Then, looking at the back of the truck, he realized it was the same model as the Jabberwock vehicle, though this one hadn't been sliced across the middle. He wondered where the team could be now, if they had picked up a dish antenna to go on the back. He decided to do a little further checking into Lone Star Ne
twork before calling Walt Brackin again.
At the local telephone office, he searched through the Dallas directories, both white and yellow pages. There were no listings for Lone Star Network. Next he called directory assistance. To get an address in case a number was available, he asked for "Lone Star Network on LBJ Freeway."
After a pause, the operator said, "I have a Lone Star Network, but it's at 4100 Spring Valley Road."
Burke smiled. "I'm sure that's it."
A computer generated voice droned out the number. He thumbed through the yellow pages book to "Secretarial Services" and ran his finger down the column. He found two services listed at 4100 Spring Valley Road. They provided everything from typing and printing to mail service and private offices. He dialed the number that directory assistance had given him.
"Lone Star Network," a male voice answered.
"This is Art Maxey with Public Affairs Newsline," Burke said, making up the tale as he went. "I have a story I think you folks would be interested in. I'd like to come over and talk to someone about it. Who would be the one to contact?"
The man hesitated a moment as if collecting his thoughts. "I'm sorry but things are in a real mess here. We're in the process of moving. This would be a very bad time. Could you check back with us later?"
"When would you suggest?"
"Anytime after Sunday," the man said.
After Sunday, Burke thought. That could mean "D-Day" was this weekend, just as Cam Quinn had speculated. Saturday morning, he recalled again, Thornton Giles and Nikolai Petrovsky would review a parade in front of the Toronto City Hall. Sunday they would meet in Washington for the first summit session.
He dialed Walt Brackin's office.
"I was hoping you would call soon," Walt said.
"What did you find out?"
"Something has happened to Lori," he said in a voice filled with alarm.
Burke's heart skipped a beat. "What's happened?"
"When I hadn't heard from her by noon, I called her office. Her assistant, Brenda Beasley, said Lori had called her at home before seven-thirty this morning. She said Judge Marshall was sending a car to pick her up, that she would be at Langley for awhile. But she hasn't showed up at the office or called back."
Burke relaxed a bit. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. They're probably having a high level pow-wow over this—"
"That's not the end of the story," Walt said. "About half an hour ago, I got a call, anonymous male voice. Said he had a message for Burke Hill regarding Miss Quinn."
Burke lost another heart beat. "What was the message?"
"First he warned that no one was to call any local, state or federal agency about it. He said they would know if we did. 'We've got contacts everywhere' is how he put it. Then he said if you wanted to see her again, you were to call the number for 'the man with the money.'"
"Damn.” It was more a mark of pain than an epithet. Not unlike the pain he had felt in Tel Aviv when he had been told of Cam's accident. Only this time he knew precisely where the blame lay. His agony quickly turned to anger. "They couldn't hold onto me, so now they've grabbed her."
"Is there anything I can do?" Walt asked.
"No. Take care of yourself. Now that they’ve connected us, you could be in danger.”
“I’ve been watching my backside.”
“Somehow I'll track the bastards down and find her. If they've done anything to her, somebody'll pay dearly." It was tough talk, but it was followed by a sense of acute frustration. How would he find her? Where would he start the search? "Right now I need some time to think," he said. "If they call again, tell 'em you haven't been in touch with me yet."
"Okay, but I hope it won't cause any problems. Do you think they'd do anything to hurt her?"
"They'd damn well better not. No, I'm the one they're after. They're just using her for bait. I'll be in touch."
He sat motionless for what might be described as a brief eternity. Just stared at the phone, his thoughts racing. Judge Marshall had sent the car. He had no doubts that Lori had experienced the same fate he had been dealt on the jet the day before. He pictured it in his mind. A very subtle operation. Only a driver when they picked her up, in order not to sound any alarms. Then a casual mention of stopping for another passenger or two. The goons would have grabbed her and used the needle before she could have managed more than a brief shout of protest. She could be anywhere by now.
He hadn't considered the possibility of something like this. And in his wildest musings he would never have dreamed that the Director of Central Intelligence could be involved. No wonder the man on the phone had told Walt "we've got contacts everywhere." With the CIA compromised, where could he turn for help? Who would believe him? Not the FBI. Not with what they had in their files on him.
He thought of Freddie Young. If Young had been able to turn up something on that phone number, it might provide a place to start the search for Lori. As bad as he wanted to nail down the Jabberwock mystery, finding Lori was first priority.
The Memphis number rang and rang and rang with what struck Burke as a plaintive echo. There was no answer.
Detroit
Chapter 44
Traffic along I-75 crawled in spots, then picked up to a decent pace, then lagged again. They had hit the Detroit area during afternoon rush hours. Gary Overmyer viewed the bumper-to-bumper lines of cars and trucks and buses with undisguised contempt. Had he not been burdened by a chaperon, he would have darted over onto the shoulder and raced past these creepers so fast all they'd have seen was a blur. But he could see the tan pickup in the rear-view mirror, and he knew Ingram would pounce on his ass like a mama bird after a marauding tomcat.
They passed the signs marking exits to such places as Wyandotte and River Rouge, familiar names from the area's heyday in the automobile business. Many of the sprawling old plants associated with car and truck production lay rusting beneath the glare of the sinking summer sun. Hans Richter in the righthand seat and Naji Abdalla, perched on the edge of the opening to the rear, stared at the passing scenery with no comprehension of its role in the economic deterioration that had played a role in the spawning of Jabberwock.
They started up the long incline of the Ambassador Bridge, leading from Detroit to Hamilton, Ontario, around five o'clock. Ted had earlier prepared them for the reception they would receive on the far end of the span. Overmyer presented the letters and documents granting permission to bring the truck into Canada. Then they pulled off the road into an area where a team of customs officials swarmed over the truck, opening every door, checking every removable panel, looking beneath, above and behind. The search was primarily for weapons and drugs. However, it did not turn up the one weapon on board, which had been dismantled and ingeniously placed to appear as legitimate parts of the truck. Overmyer had earlier, with considerable reluctance, parted with his Sig Sauer, which his handlers had assured would be returned to him in Toronto.
Lone Star Network's satellite van finally received an okay to proceed. They drove on a short distance to a welcome center, where Blythe Ingram was waiting with a heavyset man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit. A big lock of brown hair tumbled over his forehead. That was the only frivilous note to his appearance, however. He had the cold, uncompromising look of a veteran big city cop, and his style was not far removed from that ilk. He preferred to leave the niceties to others. When it came to showtime with the opposition, he believed in the judicious application of brute force. Admittedly, these days it was getting more and more difficult to determine exactly who the "opposition" was.
"Meet Richard," Ingram said as they stepped out of the truck. "He's taking Ted's place. He'll stay with you to Toronto and see that you're squared away there. Good luck with your mission."
Ingram waved as he hurried over to his truck, prepared to drive back to Detroit, make a report to Donald Newman, and conclude his active role in Jabberwock.
Richard studied his charges for a moment, then herded them back into the truck. "I'l
l stay behind you until we get near Toronto. Then I'll move in front and lead you to the motel. Let's go."
As they drove off, Richard wondered how this curious amalgam of international mavericks would fare when the moment of truth arrived. At least they played his kind of game. But, at the moment, his personal game plan had been altered a bit. He knew he couldn't afford any more debacles like the one at the house near Nashville. He was older than Ted and more wise in the ways of the intelligence racket. But he would have to be extra cautious from now on. His main interest in Jabberwock had been to advance his career. Now his problem was to redeem himself. And he'd get that opportunity in a new phase of the operation he would take over as soon as the team was settled in Toronto.
As an FBI agent, Burke had often gone at a frantic pace for weeks at a time, putting in countless hours on stakeouts, missing meals, finding little time for sleep. He wasn't sure whether the difference now was one of age or habit, but there was definitely a difference. When he checked into the motel early that afternoon, he felt as drained as if he’d lost two quarts of blood on a Red Cross cot. He knew that physically he was in great shape for a man of fifty-five. Anyone who could withstand the rigors of the Smoky Mountain trails in the dead of winter should not have his stamina questioned. But the stress of the past two-and-a-half weeks, both mental and physical, was weighing on him. Constant travel, matching wits with a sometimes unseen enemy, skirmishes on Oyster Island and near Nashville, and now the kidnapping of Lori, it had all combined to leave him hanging by a tenuous thread.
The room had two double beds. One lay in the path of the blistering afternoon sun that streaked through the window. He stretched across the other one, intending to rest a short time before trying again to reach Freddie Young in Memphis. When he awoke, the room was dark, except for the glow from the lighted parking area beyond the window. Glancing at the red numbers on the bedside clock, he saw that he had been asleep for hours.
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 32
