Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  A light snow continued to fall. The car whisked past.

  He held his position, rocking side to side to further bury himself. His jeans became wet. Fucking cold! A second car approached and passed. The third pulled over.

  It was a dark brown four-door, new enough to be a rental or government-issue. Andy hoped the driver might attempt to offer help and drive on. But instead, a tall man climbed out of the passenger seat. Even in the dark, Andy recognized the man as the person who had greeted Lydia at the chalet.

  Bump… bump… bump… his heart rate increased. He had been followed, and he had never even suspected it.

  A third man left the idling car and joined the other, who was just now peering inside the driver’s window.

  As Andy had hoped for, and expected, both men walked past the cap-less gas tank, none the wiser. When this second man withdrew a tremendously large handgun from under his jacket and pointed out Andy’s tracks in the snow, Andy was faced with an immediate decision: if he waited too much longer they might get too spread out, or worse yet, they might notice the flare in the gas tank.

  Outnumbered and losing precious time, he made up his mind. He aimed carefully at the flare and fired three consecutive rounds. The first two missed, but following the third, as the agents turned around and took aim on him, a soft pufft occurred simultaneously with a yellow flash of light, and then, so quickly that it seemed impossible, the car blew apart, scattering debris and tossing the men in the air like weightless puppets. The resulting inferno swallowed them.

  Andy instinctively shielded his face from the roar of flames.

  The driver of the other car jumped and rolled onto the pavement, carrying a large rifle at his side.

  Andy saw the man and pulled himself from the snow, waving his gun in the man’s general direction. But then a thick cloud of black smoke enveloped both, covering the highway and making it impossible to see. Each knew the other was only yards away, but neither could see well enough to risk a shot. Andy backed up and fanned the smoke with his left hand, hopelessly trying to cut a hole through which to see. To make matters worse, the snowflakes were larger and falling more heavily, swirling and obscuring his vision as well. Then, like the flicker of a candle, a gust of wind washed the smoke away. The agent was standing up, eye sighting the rifle, and facing Andy, who was looking too far to his left.

  The man squeezed the trigger and the rifle discharged.

  The concussion lifted Andy off his feet and knocked him backwards, stealing his wind. Yet he felt no wound; and as quickly as he pounded to the pavement, he returned fire.

  A piece of the man’s shoulder tore loose. The force of the shot spun him around and he fell, screaming, into the spreading gasoline fire. His shoes caught fire first and then, in one quick flash, he became a scarecrow afire. He thrashed and flailed his arms and, blinded, ran further into the consuming fire. Soon, his screaming ceased.

  A car’s headlights appeared in the opposite lanes, still a good distance away. Then another vehicle crept over the rim behind Andy, and without a second thought he climbed into the driver’s seat of the idling car and drove away, choking on the smoke and the smell of burning flesh.

  The only damage that he could see was a slight crack to the front windshield. Moments later, when he was up to speed, he switched on the interior light and looked down at his chest, expecting to see his own blood, for he assumed the bullet had merely numbed his chest. Astonished, he saw only a stainless steel cartridge with a fluffy white tip: a tranquilizing dart that had embedded into his coat’s breast pocket… the pocket containing his wallet.

  He yanked the dart free and stared at it. And then he began laughing, partly from fatigue, partly from the tension of having just killed three men. He kept seeing the first two being lifted into the air by the explosion; and he heard the screaming of the third man as he watched him be swallowed by flame.

  Hell.

  I’m sorry, he told them. You were pawns in the way of the queen. I have no intention of losing Borikowski now.

  5:16 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Daniels entered the Old Man’s office without warning. “An item of interest.”

  “I’m listening…”

  “Naval Intelligence reports an unscheduled assignment for a Class-2 nuclear submarine out of Kamchatka, bearing east-southeast. It departed Thursday night, and if they’ve plotted its course correctly… it should be one hundred and fifty nautical miles off the coast of Vancouver Island in just over three days.”

  “In international waters?”

  “Yes, sir. It could be the rendezvous. That close to shore, Borikowski would only be over water for a matter of hours. Once he’s transferred to the sub, they know we’re not going to strike. And of course the submarine could have equipment on board to further pressurize the bacteria.”

  “It’ll be tricky,” Stone acknowledged, rolling a pencil between thumb and index finger, “for both of us. Those are rough seas to make any kind of transfer in.” He grew pensive for a moment. “Good work, Chris. I’ll set up a meeting with the vice president. You contact the Coast Guard and have them be on the lookout for any Soviet trawlers straying toward the coast.”

  “Yes, sir. Oh, one other thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “As you requested, I generated a Crossword Code to inform Baker2 about the bacteria and its susceptibility to salt water. Because the phones are out, the crosswords will have to be flown in, and I need your approval for that expense.” He handed Stone a paper to sign, which the Old Man read quickly and signed.

  “Will these hit all the Canadian newspapers?”

  “All but a few small ones. The syndication people were cooperative as always.”

  “And what about those devices? Did you warn Andy about that?”

  “Yes. I hope he understands the message. As you know, the Crossword Code is rather cryptic. What about Molière?”

  “No luck. They still intend to arrest him.”

  “But Dragonfly may be contaminated! Did you tell him that?”

  Stone puckered his mouth into a disquieted frown. “Yes, I did.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “He laughed.”

  7:37 P.M.

  Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

  “From behind, Leonid. Take me from behind,” she pleaded as she let go of his waist, rolled over, and tucked her knees under herself. He gripped her on either side of her hips and they joined. She groaned approval, and then he reached forward and pulled her hand free and guided it toward her crotch so that she might masturbate at the same time.

  He loved it.

  Soon she was engulfed in pleasure, writhing fervently, moaning with each thrust, head bowed low, one hand pulling on the mattress.

  He grunted and slammed into her so hard that she hit her head on the headboard; and now she bit firmly on a pillow and screamed, collapsing to the sheets and panting heavily.

  A few minutes later he was smoking a cigarette, clad in trousers, sitting at the small table in the motel room. His nose had not bled for nearly two hours, but the previous nosebleed had caused both of them great concern, for it had lasted nearly thirty minutes.

  He looked to the phone. “They’re far too late. They should have called. We’ll change plans.” He slipped a timetable back into his coat pocket. “We’ll go by train instead.” The motel room’s color television, used for background noise, was tuned to a cable station that ran advertising billboards and local radio music.

  They had been waiting at Thunder Bay’s Nu-View Motel for an hour, expecting a call.

  Lydia attempted to cover her surprise, but failed.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just that I thought trains were considered an unnecessary risk. They offer no chance of escape, should anything go wrong.”

  “Yes, this is true. But Vladimir knows we are here, and he knows we are planning to drive the rest of the way. If he’s been taken prisoner… if he should talk. No!
We change plans now. Besides, we’re behind schedule and I’m not feeling well. You can’t possibly drive this alone. And what of this storm?” he asked, parting the curtains and looking out onto a parking lot collecting snow. “It’s a blizzard! What if the storm closes the highways? What do we do then? I am on a tight schedule now. No, the trains will continue to run even through a snowstorm. We’ll change identities here—both of us—and we’ll board the nine o’clock for Winnipeg.”

  Her spectacularly shaped eyes were softly illuminated by the changing light of the television set, and her mood was subdued and enchanted. Her arms were crossed, and she continually rubbed her hands against the cotton of his man-tailored shirt, which she left open and unbuttoned. The shirt and a pair of silk panties were all she wore. She smelled of perfume and of their lovemaking, and to him, it was wonderful. “Do you feel any better?” she asked.

  He attempted to forge a smile and reached across the table to touch her cheek. She offered him her hand with a reluctance she didn’t fully understand. For some reason she was reminded of a wedding she had attended recently. The holding of hands seemed more a finality. A commitment.

  He said, “We must change our faces quickly, if that’s possible. I’ll help you however I can. This train is the only one with private cabins until tomorrow. Still we must be extremely careful with our cosmetics. We must be convincing.” He pinched his temples between his hands. “They may have agents on the trains. With your help, they’ll never recognize me. I have saved my most convincing identity for last. Do you have a sister?”

  “No.”

  “You do now.”

  “A woman?”

  He nodded.

  She smiled. “I wish we did not have to change your face. I like you as you. You’re very handsome, you know.” She squeezed his hand tightly and then let go. She wanted to say, “I’m worried for both of us. Where are the others? Why have they not called, as they were supposed to?” She said nothing.

  He stood and turned to pull the curtains entirely closed and she gasped. He spun around quickly. “What is it?”

  A trembling hand covered her mouth, tears glassed her eyes, and she appeared both shocked and horrified.

  “What is it?” he repeated.

  She stood, the open shirt revealing her smooth dark skin, and led him by the hand over to a chest of drawers that fronted a large mirror. She spun him around.

  There in the mirror, on his back, at his waist, he saw two perfectly drawn bluish hand prints, exactly where Lydia had held him during their initial lovemaking only minutes earlier.

  Only the hands had not been drawn on.

  They were bruises.

  10:15 P.M.

  Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada

  Sitting across from the Nu-View Motel, Andy was thinking how lucky Borikowski was, considering the DS agent had spent the better part of his intelligence career underground, invisible—stalking victims, sleeping in dives, traveling less than third class—and now he was courting a beautiful woman; and here they were sharing a room and God knows what else.

  And here I am, freezing my tail off, sitting in a car in the middle of a Canadian blizzard.

  It had taken him three hours to catch up to the Porsche, finally spotting the closely set taillights. Two hours later they had exited at Thunder Bay and had driven directly to the motel.

  Room 7.

  The windblown snowfall obscured Andy’s view of the two as they left the motel, and he might have missed the couple entirely had they not returned to the Porsche, and if Lydia’s hips had not swayed the way they did. When two women left number 7 he was nearly fooled; but he knew from his own observation that no one else had entered the room since Borikowski and Lydia had. So, either someone had been waiting in 7 for them—and had now taken Borikowski’s place—or this was, in fact, Borikowski dressed as a woman. He favored the latter possibility, because it seemed a typical Dragonfly trick, and because the new woman carried the same red suitcase Andy had seen being loaded into the Porsche back at Wawa.

  She/he was a slightly overweight, middle-aged Ms. Bland, an enigma whose demeanor suggested overwork mixed with disappointment, even through binoculars. She slouched as she walked, her head hung in boredom. She seemed plain and innocuous.

  Andy slouched down behind the steering wheel—although the two were careless, walking away from the motel in conversation, paying little attention to their surroundings.

  The Porsche made second gear as it whined by Andy, who lay across the front seat to avoid being seen. He waited and then followed them, remaining close behind. In this snowstorm—this blizzard—spotting a following car would be difficult, if not impossible. The road demanded full attention.

  When the Porsche parked in front of the Thunder Bay train station, and the two hurried inside—bags in hand—Andy was caught completely off guard. Unable to locate an easy parking space, he double-parked and crossed the street, snow whipping around him.

  But the two had cleverly timed their arrival, and the train was prompt; so by the time Andy entered the station—looking like a bum—they were nowhere to be seen.

  The dull and lifeless young woman selling tickets explained in an apologetic tone that Andy had just missed the train: an “overnight coach” with private cabins, headed express for Winnipeg where it would pick up a first-class dining car and two scenic coaches, and then continue on to Vancouver with several stops in major cities.

  Andy read a schedule and felt nauseated. He had had too little sleep, too much NO-Dōz, and now had too far to go. The idea of racing an express train to Winnipeg, alone in a blinding snowstorm, seemed ludicrous. So he hurried to the phone booths, hoping the lines had been repaired, hoping to reach Parker Lyell; but the lines were not repaired. They were dead.

  From behind him a low voice asked, “George Baker?”

  Andy turned around. The man was in his early forties and wore a conservative dark suit. His shiny shoes held glossy beads of melted snow and his smile was vague and filled with mystery. Andy felt strange next to this man. “No, the name’s Welch. I’m sorry.” He turned to leave.

  “Could I see some papers please?” the stranger asked.

  Andy thought, Oh shit, they’ve caught me again. But they won’t dare try for me until there are less people around.

  He turned, now a few feet further away. “Certainly not. At least until I see some identification. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m sorry.” The stranger unfolded a leather billfold containing an impressive-looking shield and an official-looking card, complete with a color photo. “Robert Stevens, Assistant Deputy, Royal Canadian Mounted Police Security Service, Ontario Province headquartered at Thunder Bay. Mr. Baker, you’re to come with me, if you don’t object.”

  “The name’s Welch,” Andy insisted, handing the man his borrowed driver’s license.

  Stevens studied the paper, but looked dubiously at Andy. He leaned forward and covered his mouth while whispering, “Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I know who you are. I’ll play along, but we meet outside immediately, or this becomes embarrassing for both of us. Don’t make me chase you, Baker. That would be a mistake.” Then more loudly Stevens said, “Oh! I am sorry, sir. I hope you’ll forgive the confusion,” and he walked out of the terminal, turning to keep an eye on Andy’s next move.

  Andy might have welcomed contact with the Security Service—since they would be the agency to assist in Borikowski’s abduction—but Stevens had not mentioned the code.

  When Lyell had rated Andy HOT, he had assigned him to the Crossword Code in the event the phones were sabotaged. If the rating was now changed, then the code word was JUMBLE. Even though Stevens’ identification had appeared authentic enough to Andy, the man had not used the code word. Wrong.

  Guardedly, Andy walked outside and met up with the man. Stevens explained, “I don’t want to make this into a problem for either of us. The deputy director would like to see you.”

  “What the hell is going on he
re?” Andy looked around. Stevens didn’t appear to have any backup. He had probably been sitting around the station most of the day.

  Stevens was restless. “Your assignment is canceled. I’m not familiar with the details. You’re to come with me, if you please.”

  Andy’s car was double-parked across the street. A quick glance revealed no attended cars in the immediate vicinity, so if Stevens planned on using force, he would apparently be acting alone. To be safe, Andy asked, “Your car?”

  This question confused Stevens, who relaxed, thinking Andy had decided to cooperate—not at all what he had been told to expect from Baker. He pointed to a black car not five feet away. It was empty. “It’s open.” He stepped in front of Andy and opened the door for him.

  “What about my car?” Andy inquired, pointing across the street.

  Stevens turned sideways, holding the opened door with his right hand.

  Andy made up his mind.

  He kneed Stevens below the ribs, grabbed the man’s hair, and slammed Stevens’s head against the metal door-jamb. Stevens collapsed, unconscious. In the same motion, Andy stuffed Stevens into the front seat and closed the door. The Canadian was bleeding from above his right ear.

  Someone shouted through the storm.

  Andy ran across the street, hurried into the double-parked car, and drove away, angry and confused. Why was Stevens here? What am I up against? He suddenly wished he had tried for Borikowski at the motel—when he had had a chance—despite his orders. Now what? Had Stevens actually been waiting for him at the station? Were others waiting at other stations? Airports? Service stations? Bus stations? What the hell was going on?