"It's the last house in the row," the man continued. "There's a driveway between it and the next building. Miss Quinn will be in a car parked in the driveway. After you've seen her, don't try any stupid heroics. It would be useless. Just go into the house and answer the questions put to you by the gentleman who meets you. If you're candid with your answers, both you and Miss Quinn will be free to leave."
Yeah, Burke thought, about as free as the occupant of a butterfly net. I would probably leave unconscious in an ambulance and Lori wouldn't have been there in the first place. There was no chance they would trust taking her out in the open like that. Too many opportunities for something to go wrong.
"Okay," Burke said, feigning a note of resignation. "I'll be there."
Of course, he had no intention of being anywhere near Washington, D.C. But it would buy him the time he desperately needed. He left the telephone booth, located outside a restaurant in Charleston where he had stopped for supper, and returned to the Jeep. Before starting out again, he removed the Tennessee license plate and replaced it with the Louisiana tag he had taken from the old Buick.
Gary Overmyer and Hans Richter stepped out of the taxi on Dundas Street and walked south on Victoria. Looking like a couple of curious tourists, they strolled among the scattering of students from a nearby technical school, eyes fixed on the curb, until they saw the two small red marks made with spray paint. The marks were separated by the exact length of the satellite truck. When he drove here on Saturday morning, Overmyer would park with the left wheels flush against the curb, front and back ends even with the red marks. This would orient the weapon precisely according to the predetermined powder loading and fusing of the mortar shells.
Satisfied with their findings, the two men nodded at each other and strolled back to Dundas, where they turned west toward Yonge Street and the glass-roofed Eaton Centre, Toronto's giant, three-story downtown mall. There they would lose themselves in the early evening crowd for a bit of shopping. Tomorrow would be a throwaway. They needed books or something to occupy themselves while holing up in the motel to await the dawning of "D-Day."
Burke pulled into a twenty-four-hour convenience store on the road into Niagara Falls around eleven o'clock. He bought a street map of the city, then drove over to the Falls area where he turned in at a decent looking motel. There were no rooms available. He hadn't noticed the "No Vacancy" sign, nor had he taken into account the popularity of the area during the tourist season. A friendly clerk made a few calls, however, and he soon had a place to stay for the night.
After he had unloaded his travel bag and a case containing a few needed supplies, he searched around for the telephone directory. Running down the "N" column, he zeroed in on "Newman Donald W" and copied the address on the pad beside the phone. He had been afraid the number might not be listed. However, that would only have delayed him long enough to locate a city directory and check the list of names and addresses. He unfolded his map on the bed and spotted the street on the outskirts of the city along the Niagara River.
Satisfied that finding it would be no problem, he set his watch alarm and collapsed onto the bed. It had been another twenty-seven-hour day.
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
Chapter 46
The large, two-story brick Georgian house sat like a gracious overseer in the forefront of a plot of several acres that bordered the river, looking as genteel as a cultured country gentleman. The front featured a white wooden portico, supported by four round columns, and a large wooden entrance door with a transom above it. A paved driveway ran back from the massive wrought-iron gate to a parking area in front of the house, then circled around to the rear. A chest-high stone fence extended back from the road along the property line.
Burke drove slowly past the Newman home around seven a.m. He noted another house, half-hidden by trees, on the lot to the left, while an extensive wooded area extended to the right. A farm peopled with horses and bounded by long stretches of gleaming white fence lay on the opposite side of the road. The next house beyond the Newman's was a good quarter of a mile away. However, about two hundred yards down the road, a worn spot in the tall grass showed where vehicles had recently been driven back into the woods.
Burke swung the Jeep toward the grassy area and bounced along the rutted trail into the forest for about fifty yards. He then turned back toward the Newman place and parked among a clump of tall oaks. The trees and a tangle of bushes hid the Jeep from view, both from the road and from the crude trail. He had dressed in hiking boots and combat fatigues, which blended nicely with the vegetation. Swinging a pair of binoculars around his neck, he started off toward the Newman home, determined this time not to become a soldier of misfortune.
There were a number of large trees around the close-cropped green lawn that surrounded the house. They were spaced well apart, however, giving Burke an excellent view of the front of the structure. He found a spot that offered good concealment, utilizing both the trees and the stone wall.
He had been there for only a few minutes when a shiny black sedan cruised up the driveway and parked near the house. Watching through the binoculars, he observed two men and a woman alight from the car and walk toward the front door. Spotting the errant forelock, he confirmed his suspicion that "Richard" from his Tennessee captivity was indeed the man he had been dealing with on the phone. When he got a glimpse of the woman's face, he was forced to catch his breath. It was Lori Quinn. Or so he thought at first. But as he watched the swing of her legs as she walked, noting the build a little too heavy, he realized it was only someone whose face had been made up to resemble Lori.
Some twenty minutes later, the same trio returned to the car and drove off. The woman had made a few subtle changes in her makeup and hair so that she looked even more like Lori than before. She had probably used a photograph initially, but now had seen the real thing. She chatted and laughed with the men. Even if he hadn't been tipped off by her walk and size, it would have been obvious that she was no captive.
The plan appeared clear. They would be flown by private jet to Washington, where they would appear at the row house on Twenty-Second Street at ten o'clock, in expectation of meeting and deceiving one Burke Hill. He would have smiled at the thought were it not for the knowledge that no doubt Lori was a prisoner somewhere inside this house. He started moving parallel to the property, studying each window, hoping to see some sign of where she was being held.
When he had reached a point opposite the rear of the house, he noticed the trim green back lawn extended for some two hundred feet, then faded into dense woods similar to those which hid him. He was soon forced to back-track to the trail of tire tracks, where he found the tangled wooded area continued to a bluff over the river.
Returning to a spot with a clear line of sight across the rear of the mansion, he resumed checking the windows. At one toward the near end of the main section, he paused, almost certain that he had spotted something moving. Gazing through the binoculars, he saw it again. Was it long hair like Lori's? He thought so, though he couldn't be sure.
At around ten o'clock, he returned to the Jeep and drove toward the city to locate a telephone. He dialed the number in Area Code 703. After a few moments, a male voice came on the line. It was different from the previous one, which he took as further confirmation that he had been dealing with Richard.
"This is Burke Hill," he said in an angry voice. "Tell that bastard I talked with last night that I'm not falling for his crude tricks. That was not Lori Quinn in the car. Just somebody made up to look like her. I'll be back in contact with him."
He hung up the phone and drove to a nearby market, where he bought enough canned and packaged food items to make a couple of meals. He had decided to stand vigil outside the house until after dark, then break in and locate Lori. He would also place a tiny transmitter that would send a signal to be picked up and taped by a voice-actuated recorder in the Jeep. Hopefully it would provide some clues to the when and where of Jabberwock's mission.
Unexpectedly, several cars began to arrive around dark. To the neighbors, it probably had the appearance of a Friday night gathering of friends at the Newman's. But to Burke, who scrutinized the faces as they appeared in the light from the coach lamps in the parking area, the party was much more sinister, not a gathering of angels. Richard had returned shortly after noon. From Washington, no doubt. And late in the afternoon, a long, black chauffeur-driven limousine had brought Blythe Ingram and a robust man with thick white hair who he recognized from the photo Lori had obtained. Donald Newman, lord of the estate.
The new arrivals included Robert Jeffries and a thin, slightly bent man he could not identify. Next came "Emerson Dinwiddie" and a short, heavy man with a ramrod straight back. Last to arrive was a tall, dark-haired figure whose impatient movements showed in the lamp's glow. Burke saw the unmistakable profile of Hawthorne Elliott.
After several minutes, when the parade seemed to have reached an end, Burke made his move. This was more than he had hoped for. But if he wanted to get the Jabberwock plotters on tape, he would have to work fast. He strapped a lightweight M76 submachine gun around his shoulder and moved through the woods toward the darkened area at the rear of the house.
From his observations during the day, Burke had concluded that there were no perimeter security devices installed on the property. Keeping his body horizontal, he rolled over the rock wall. He slipped across the lawn behind the house, sprinting from tree to tree, keeping enough distance to avoid any light spill from the windows. At the far end of the house, he moved in close. Two sets of sliding glass doors at the rear of the wing on this end opened onto a wood deck in back. The drapes were closed, but he could see enough through the gap at the middle to determine that the room was unoccupied. It appeared to be a large drawing room with sofa and chairs, a baby grand piano, several tables and a fireplace at the center of the end wall. The doors were locked.
He slipped around to the front and made his way to a window where a bright flow of light beamed from the curved fanlight above. Standing close to the window, he could barely make out voices inside. Not enough to distinguish any of the conversation.
Opening a small canister clipped to his web belt, Burke removed a tiny transmitter connected to a rubber suction cup. Carefully, he pressed it against the window pane. Then he switched on a small receiver in the canister and inserted a plug-type earphone into one ear.
"...test firings were right on the money," said a voice he did not recognize. "We adapted a standard eighty-one millimeter mortar so it could be bolted to the floor of the truck. A circular hatch in the roof is removed for firing. The elevation and azimuth for aiming the weapon have been preset for the marked location on Victoria Street. The powder charge was precisely calculated for the proper trajectory. It will clear all of the buildings in the area but provide minimum time to target. The shells are fused to detonate just above ground for maximum effect."
"And what if they should find something blocking the Victoria Street location?" asked a voice with an English accent, though Burke did not think it was "Dinwiddie."
"We've designated two alternate locations, General. They know the necessary corrections to make for aiming. Should something prevent the use of any of the three locations, they could park nearby, with the truck headed due south. They have an electronic device to measure the distance and the angle from the predetermined position. They can feed this information into the computer, and it will give them precise aiming instructions. It will also tell them if the powder load is still correct. You may be interested to know that we have redundant systems for everything. If the computer fails, for example, there's a backup installed."
"Holed up in that truck, what's to keep them from being surprised by someone from outside?" Burke recognized the voice of the "man with the money." Newman, apparently.
"Bob Jeffries took care of that. He has small surveillance cameras mounted with windows looking in each direction. There are four monitors on the panel. They can see anything approaching from any direction."
"Thank you, Blythe," said another voice, one that reeked with authority. "You seem to have covered everything quite thoroughly. Anything else you want to add?"
"No, Mr. Wizner. Unless someone has a question."
Wizner! Robert Jeffries' father-in-law. Burke figured he was the one who had arrived with Jeffries, and apparently he was chairing the session. But what would be the target for this elaborately staged mortar firing exercise from a TV truck? He wasn't familiar with Victoria Street, had no idea where it might be located. He concentrated his full attention on the voices in the earphone.
Franklin Wizner was in his element, directing things as de facto "chairman of the board." This was the game he loved, the role at which he excelled, drawing out the details from staff experts, analyzing the problems and opportunities, investigating the options and determining the one best course of action to achieve success. In the rarefied atmosphere where he operated, success was the bottom line, not money. He had more money than he could ever spend. His goal was always success, and the power that went with it.
It hadn't always been this routine, of course. He had fought his way up the ladder, stepping in to fill a void when weaker men faltered. He excelled in the milieu of corporate politics. He could spot strengths and weaknesses, and he knew who was headed up, who down. With a singular purpose, he had clawed his way to the top, and once there, he reigned unchallenged. Until Thornton Giles had come along and begun to hack away at some of his most sacred conservative roots.
Wizner and Donald Newman had been members of a small, elite group of insiders known as the Lexington Alliance. It took its name from the town where "the embattled farmers stood and fired the shot heard 'round the world." Inside the Alliance, they jokingly referred to themselves as the "dirty half-dozen." They were men of position and prominence. King-makers. They could tap a man for a Senate race, provide the resources necessary for his election, and then command his allegiance to the programs they espoused. The name Lexington Alliance was sometimes whispered in a congressional caucus room or a key White House staff office, but it was virtually unknown outside the corridors of power. Few knew its full makeup. Fewer still would be willing to reveal what they knew.
But over the past year, Wizner and Newman had angrily withdrawn from the Alliance. The other members would not go along with their hard-line stance in the face of the rapid changes taking place around the globe. The two had become bitter enemies of Thornton Giles, whom they viewed as having deserted the true conservative cause. Newman had pressed his CIA protege, Hawk Elliott, to search for a solution to the problem, and Jabberwock had been the result. Newman knew how to reach men and how to control them. Cameron Quinn had been the one big disappointment. Despite all the efforts he had exerted, Quinn had proved incorruptible. So in the end, he had to go.
Hearing no further questions regarding the technical details, Wizner turned his attention to personnel, another key ingredient. "Colonel Golanov, would you brief us on the team, please?"
Golanov. Russian? Burke frowned as he listened.
"Of course, Mr. Wizner. As you know, the team consists of the American, Gary Overmyer; the German, Hans Richter; and the Palestinian, Naji Abdalla. Overmyer is the team leader and will fire the weapon. Abdalla will be located on the television camera platform opposite Nathan Phillips Square. He is posing as a cameraman and will be in radio contact with the truck. He will determine the exact time of the firing, ascertaining that both Presidents are in their places. Should there be any problem, he can order immediate fire. However, to create maximum panic and a full television audience, he will await the proper moment, at the start of the parade. The gentlemen should go out with a little musical accompaniment, don't you think?"
Burke flinched at the words, as though they were cold steel probing his back. A sudden chill coursed down his spine. There was no mistaking the intent of Jabberwock now. It was the very thing that had lain in the shadows of his mind. His instincts ha
d cried out, but his rational brain had rejected them, refused to listen. Jabberwock was a cold-blooded power play, a vicious plan to assassinate Thornton Giles and Nikolai Petrovsky. And to his knowledge, only he was in a position to thwart it. The cool and deadly voice was undoubtedly that of the "salesman" in Hong Kong who had called himself Emerson Dinwiddie, the one Burke had dubbed “the Englishman.”
He heard Golanov continue. "Richter will assist Overmyer, but one of his chief responsibilities is to destroy the evidence."
"What evidence?"
"The truck and everything in it, Mr. Wizner. Richter has placed plastic explosive charges throughout the truck. He has a radio-operated detonator, which is to be used after firing of the weapon. They believe the plan is for me to drive down the street in a getaway car. Richter would blow up the truck as we drove away. What they don't know is that I also have a detonator. I will ignite the charges prior to their coming out of the truck. Thus eliminating two possibilities for compromise, as well as the physical evidence of the truck."
"What about Abdalla?"
"Our responsibility," said the laconic voice of Hawk Elliott. "Richard will be on hand. He'll pass along the word, supposedly just received, that Abdalla is part of the operation. The Palestinian will probably resist capture and be killed. Then we'll reveal that his mother was Jewish, his grandfather a rabbi. We'll tie him to the Mossad."
"Excellent! That goes along with the hints you've been dropping."
"Yes, sir. The original leaks weren't planned, but fitted in perfectly. We reinforced the Israeli angle by eliminating the Palestinian on Cyprus for Quinn's benefit. We had him wired with a microphone so we'd know precisely when to shoot."
The poor bastard, Burke thought. That was what he was trying to tell Cam when he died. He and the Mossad had both been double-crossed.
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 34
