Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  The engines of the ship sped up. Finally, he reached the seawall, ducked his head out, and peered into the blinding lights of the dock area where two men were busy fastening the chains back around the logs while the crane held them in place. The ship headed away from the dock toward the mouth of the narrow harbor. An angry depression gripped him. To come so far, only to lose—again!

  He was looking at the departing ship, cursing their perfect timing, when he saw the small lights of the aged pivot bridge in the distance. It might work, he thought, already moving, deciding it was his only option. No other way. The bridge.

  Andy clawed himself along the seawall and belly-crawled into the darkness. Rain hurried the men on the dock. Andy, crawling, watched them over his shoulder until they blurred into the darkness. Then he stood and sprinted like hell.

  The trawler moved through the snaking channel, headed toward the turnstile bridge.

  Andy followed the degenerated outline of an old path running parallel with the shore. His heart pumped, his arms threw him forward, carrying the extra weight of his saturated clothes with difficulty. He had missed running his daily nine miles for the past few days. Still, his legs carried him well. He ran strangely on the edge of tears, afraid of failure.

  He squinted to his left, seeing the trawler making good time, and he leaned into the steady sheet of water, increasing the length of his strides. He heard a coach from long ago shout, “Reach deep!”

  Two loud blasts bounced off the shore, signals between ship and bridge.

  One hundred yards! He pushed hard for extra inches, chin high, arms thrusting forward and back. Forward and back. He heard the heavy clunk of steel I-beams disconnecting as the bridge rotated open on its axis.

  Fifty yards and closing!

  The bridge moved away from the shore like a huge propeller beginning to turn.

  Ten yards!

  The steel supports were now five feet from the road, six, seven, eight…. Andy sprung toward it like a cat in flight, body fully extended, arms stretching, fingers pointed. His hands smacked against the cold metal, groping for purchase; his face slammed into the steel and crushed his nose. He struggled to hold on. The bridge groaned, widening the gap between it and the shore.

  With his nose bent and bleeding and angled to the left, the skin surrounding his right eye swelling, he pulled his soaked and beaten body up. He crawled to the suspended catwalk and pulled himself to his feet.

  The ship waited for the bridge’s signal.

  The pivoting stopped with a tremendously loud thud. A horn sounded twice, and the trawler approached.

  As it motored forward, taking the bridge’s center support and control tower to starboard, Andy dropped from the catwalk, tiptoeing across the precarious struts that supported the steel mesh overhead. The vessel passed directly below him. The rain had cleared the decks of people. Andy was above, yes, but still had a fifteen-foot jump over water to reach the ship.

  A hell of a jump, he told himself, knowing if he didn’t time it correctly, using the piled fishing nets for padding, he would more than likely break his legs on the steel deck, or miss completely.

  With precious little time available for calculations he looked and thought, Just maybe. Bending his knees into an angry crouch, he spit blood into the water below, and jumped.

  To him it felt like slow motion as he fell through the rain. Then he heard himself say, “Shit!”

  He wasn’t going to reach the ship.

  He plummeted toward the water. All at once, his hands hit and took hold of a line suspended from one of the booms. Instinctively his fingers wrapped around the wet line. He slid down, down, skin burning off his hands. He squeezed with all his strength and finally stopped eight feet above the churning water, his hands raw and bloodied.

  He fought against the pain as he pulled himself back up the line, hand over hand. The ship bucked and groaned as it slipped out of the narrow mouth of the fishhook cove and into the violent sea. He climbed the line until he was level with the deck and then swung himself over and took hold of a cold stanchion. He peered over the edge of the deck and, seeing no one, pulled himself up. The windows of the wheelhouse glowed ivory.

  He felt as if he weighed tons. His head ached—his whole body ached. Both hands were badly rope-burned and bleeding, the salt stinging the wounds. His lower lip was split open, his nose broken and cocked to one side. He had been so obsessed with catching Borikowski that he had not considered the consequences of boarding the ship. What now, he wondered, watching darkness steal over the sea. What now?

  9:30 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “May I ask?”

  “About that phone call?”

  “Yes.”

  Stone took a piece of paper from the desk top and wrote a quick list. He said, “It was SeaSec, Seattle.”

  “And?”

  “The UDT missed the ship. Rough seas. We lost him.” He stuffed the paper into an inside pocket and sat back down at the table.

  “Damn it!” Daniels barked. It was the first time he had sworn in front of the Old Man.

  Stone sat in the straight-back chair, rigid, stately, a glint in his pale blue eyes. His face seemed holy. Behind him and over his left shoulder on the wall there hung a photograph of a much younger man in a robe. And if it had been color, the sash would have been the regal red of a fine wine, the sky an indigo blue; and had one been there, one would have smelled the sweet damp fragrance of fresh-cut grass.

  In the picture Terry Stone stood shaking the hand of a young John Fitzgerald Kennedy, who was in attendance to deliver the commencement address. Behind them the American flag was frozen in mid-flap.

  Chris Daniels could hear the flag. He looked down at Terry Stone’s nearly empty plate as Stone stabbed another brussels sprout and rocked it back and forth, inspecting.

  “What is it?” Stone asked.

  “Mind you, I’m not complaining. But I wondered… frankly, sir, my second meal with you, and in two days. We’ve never even shared a cup of coffee….”

  “Ah. I see. Yes. You’re quite right you know. Well, truth is, I liked our lunch together. This meal came off a little late. Oh well—”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “The company is nice….”

  “Yes.”

  “Just now I was remembering our discussion last week.”

  For a moment the brussels sprout looked terribly much like a human head. Daniels wondered why he allowed himself such an image. Then Stone stabbed the poor fellow. And ate him.

  Daniels thought, We’ve had a dozen discussions this week.

  Stone continued, “I’m a selfish old man, just as everyone jokes.”

  Daniels dared not interrupt.

  “I’ve always wanted a double in the DS, you know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Always. And well, Borikowski would be a dandy. He’s been privileged—part of their top assignments. He would know them inside and out.”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’ve screwed up. We should have heard from Andy by now. He’s had plenty of time to enter the States and make it to a phone that worked. He should have read the Crossword Code. He should have aborted.”

  “Yes.”

  “But he won’t. He’s too driven.”

  “Yes, sir.” Daniels placed his fork down onto his plate and started comparing the man before him and the man shaking JFK’s hand. Clearly the same man, only now a face with the skin of an onion.

  “I heard the truth about Bookends shortly after Major Clayton’s abduction.” He paused and looked up at Daniels. “There are some things that appear important to keep to oneself. Especially if they are seen only as a tool for confusion. Especially if they are too painful to face. I have held such a secret for quite some time now. It was stupid to do so.”

  Stone lifted his knife gently and sawed the next brussels sprout in half, holding it down with his fork. As he finished, one half scurried across the plate and nearly went off the rim and int
o his lap. He hoisted a cloth napkin and dabbed one edge of his lip, though it was not showing any food, then stuffed the napkin back down and out of sight. “I didn’t want to hurt him anymore than he already was….”

  Before lifting his fork he steered a wrinkled hand to the wineglass, which he took hold of and dragged across the place mat. Then he lifted it, sipped, and said, “Never did see any reason to reveal it. After all, Andy was driven to catch Borikowski because the man had killed his brother. That’s potent motivation for a man like Andy. His world was based on love and Borikowski shattered that love. I saw no reason to further destroy the man.”

  Daniels had not missed the tone of voice. He said nothing. He kept looking up at the picture and back to Stone and after half a glass of wine began to relax.

  It was then he asked, “What is it, sir?”

  Stone looked up. The brussels sprouts were gone. With one last long sip, the glass was empty. “You’re a smart bugger, Chris. You use that right and you’ll be happy. I guarantee you that. You abuse it, and you’ll grow lonely, friendless, and in much despair. I should know.”

  Daniels felt his heart in his chest: What are you trying to say?

  “What I’m getting at…” Stone leaned forward to grab the wine. He caught the bottleneck with the tip of his finger and managed to get hold of the bottle and pour another glass for them both. He was very graceful with it, and not a drop hit the table.

  “You’re retiring,” Daniels stated.

  “Yes. Fact is, I’m not going back. I have a list.” He reached inside his coat and withdrew the slip of paper folded neatly in half. “I thought I could bribe you with a late Thanksgiving dinner into retrieving a few things for me.”

  “Never?”

  There was a long silence. Then Stone said, “I’ve informed the president and all the rest. It is official. No. Never. Not again.” He swallowed deeply, his wineglass on the table. He rocked his head from side to side. “I can’t, Chris. I withheld vital information from the intelligence community for far too long. If I don’t retire they’ll throw me out anyway. No. Don’t shake your head. It’s the truth. I found out a few months ago from a very reliable source who disappeared four days later.”

  “Canbeck 3, sir?”

  “Yes. It was Canbeck 3 as a matter of fact. How did you know?”

  “The timing. You said the agent disappeared.”

  “That’s right. It was Canbeck 3.” Stone drifted. “I’d advise you do the same, son. Disappear. Teach at a college. Something different. It’s not right for you.” He laughed. “If anyone heard me say that they might lock me away for treason. You are an asset to your country, Chris. They need you.”

  “But…”

  “But, you need you, too. All I ask is you give it some thought.”

  “And of course I will.” Daniels stood, dramatically kicking his chair back and out of his way. He held his wineglass out and said, “Here’s to the Old Man, sir. Here’s to one hell of a service record.”

  “No, son.” Stone paused dramatically and spoke his next words softly and carefully. “He’s alive, Chris. Duncan Clayton is alive.” He lowered his eyes to his empty plate. “He was abducted and taken to the Neurological Research Institute in Leningrad. His death was created by the Soviets as a cover. All made up. They broke him—which is how they knew the particulars of the Beirut embassy meeting—how they pulled off the bombing. Duncan knew all about the meeting. It was Duncan who told them. They’ve been after Andy ever since. I assume they thought that if they could break one brother, well, birds of a feather and all that.” Tears formed in the pale blue eyes. “For months I had Andy write that damned report to keep him pinned down. I knew they wouldn’t try for him here. But now… now he hasn’t reported in, so I assume they’ve abducted him. I gambled selfishly with a man’s life—all for one goddamned double agent—and I lost. Now I must quit.

  “My problem was,” he continued, “I just couldn’t bear to bring him that sorrow. No point in sorrow.” He rubbed an eye and thought aloud. “Grief and guilt are life’s biggest burdens, son. I guess I traded one for the other…. Now I’ve lost. Yes, I’ve lost….”

  Daniels’ wineglass slipped from his hand and shattered on the table.

  Terry Stone closed his eyes. He could barely be heard. “I truly believed that Andy was the best agent for this assignment… that he could beat the odds. They’d tried for him before, you know. Jesus Christ, Son of God, forgive me my decision. Bless that man wherever he may be. Bless him and give him strength, for certainly now, he needs it more than ever.” He sobered and looked up, staring Daniels in the eyes. “You had better change all the codes….”

  11:00 P.M.

  The Pacific Ocean

  Andy touched his nose and cringed. It hurt like a son of a bitch! His right eye wasn’t tops either—swollen nearly shut and stinging from the salt water that rolled off the overhead net. Hell of a condition, he told himself. Hell of a piss-poor predicament.

  He tried to guess how many were aboard, and how well armed, wondering if he was going to have to kill each of them—a thought that turned his stomach. And what then? he asked. Navigate this stinkpot back to shore in a goddamned winter storm complete with gale-force winds?

  He had only seen a small crew. He guessed the minimum at a captain, an engineer, and possibly two hands. If they needed him they could enlist the services of Borikowski. That totaled five.

  Knowing sailors, Andy crawled to a nearby cleat and loosened an overhead line so that it flapped violently against the hull and dragged in the sea, expecting that even in this weather an experienced crew would hear the line. And they did.

  A man in a black slicker came out of the pilothouse and hurried toward the line to fasten it. “Fuck your mother, you shithole freezing bitch,” he cursed in Russian as he approached. Then the man turned his back to the stern, to the wind, and approached incredibly close to Andy. He bent over and grabbed the nylon line, then tied it off on a large cleat.

  Andy stood, wrapped another line tightly around the unsuspecting man’s neck, and pulled him quickly down, smashing the sailor’s head against the deck, and feeling him go slack. He dragged him out of sight and removed the man’s slicker, putting it on immediately. He bound and gagged the man and hid him under the nets. He untied the line so that it whipped the overhead boom loudly. He hid, facing the bow, and waited.

  The wind whistled across the stays. Atonal harmonies pierced the air. The clapping brought a second seaman topside. Only a man of the sea could have heard that line in all this racket, Andy thought.

  This man shouted, “Ivanovich, Ivanovich!” Annoyed by no response, he worked his way back toward Andy, tightening and checking lines, still calling out into the night. Andy reached for his gun, but felt only fabric. Gone. Lost.

  The boat rocked suddenly, releasing the body of the unconscious man from the net. He slid across the deck close enough to be seen by the approaching sailor. Then, like a puck on ice, the body glided to starboard, slipped under the rail, and fell feet first into the seething waters.

  Andy rushed the sailor from his blind side, but the man sensed him and ducked. Andy’s swing missed. Startled, the man blocked with his left and jabbed with his right. Andy ducked and avoided the punch, managing a right of his own that caught the man’s chin.

  The sailor produced a gun. Andy knocked it from the man’s hand. It slid along the deck and caught in the netting behind them. Then the sailor withdrew a knife and, as the ship leaned heavily to port, both men lost their balance and the knife plunged deeply into Andy’s thigh. But the ship rocked steeply and only Andy was able to keep his hold; the sailor slid across the open deck, arms flailing, legs spread, and vanished over the side.

  Andy removed the knife, his scream unheard. He fought for balance, and battled his way back to the snagged weapon, retrieving it. Then he clawed his way back to the pilothouse stairway. It felt like miles.

  As he pulled the heavy door closed behind him, the groan of the engines rep
laced the deafening roar of the sea. The captain, a fat man, didn’t even turn around. He struggled with the wheel, knees bent, pipe spewing scarlet sparks and gunmetal gray smoke into the air. He grunted in crude Russian, “Find Ivanovich?”

  Andy answered in high Russian, “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  But the captain didn’t recognize this voice, so he turned around. His jowled face took on a look of horror, and he released the wheel.

  The trawler shifted to port.

  They wrestled briefly, the captain unprepared for a fight, and Andy quickly dominated him, despite the weight difference. The man lost consciousness. Andy would need him later. Hopefully.

  He used the captain’s belt to tie off the wheel, hoping to steady it, but the ship pounded through the rough sea poorly. It reeled to starboard and then yawed forward, dumping Andy partway down a steep stairway. He recovered only to fall again, this time to the narrow aisle leading to several rooms—a galley off to port, a bulkhead to starboard, captain’s quarters straight ahead….

  ***

  Stuhlberg was propped against the wall, his shirt covered with caked blood. Borikowski had given him an injection ten minutes earlier.

  Stuhlberg began to awaken.

  He opened his eyes first and could not believe the sensation in his nose. He looked about, groggy, trying to focus. He saw Lydia’s beautiful body and thought he must be dreaming, except that she appeared terribly frightened. He spotted the briefcase across the room—the briefcase containing his bacteria.

  No one had a right to that discovery but himself. No one.

  Then he saw Borikowski’s badly bruised face; wads of red-stained tissue paper plugged his nose.

  Borikowski said, “Welcome, Doctor.”

  “Who are you?” Stuhlberg’s voice could barely be heard.

  “You knew me as Alex Corbett,” Borikowski announced proudly.

  “Bastard,” the feeble voice hissed. Stuhlberg looked again to Lydia, and then touched his own nose. He stared at Borikowski. “We’re contaminated?”