“You were comfortable then, as a child?”
“Yes. My father does very well. And you?”
“My father is a Lutheran minister.” She twisted her hands together in her lap. “We did not have too much money. We had a great deal of love.”
Her mystery, he thought.
She removed her robe and tossed it into the open companionway. It floated down into the galley. She rubbed oil on her arms and abdomen, and quickly over her chest. He felt a twinge in his groin.
“Would you mind?” she asked, turning her back to him and handing him the plastic bottle.
“Not at all.”
She reached up and untied the thin straps, lifting her hair out of the way. Jay ran his hands over her smooth back. The boat sailed on. After a while she retied the straps and stretched out on the cockpit seat. She was a long, lean, thing of beauty lying there, eyes closed, legs parted slightly, arms akimbo. Jay stared at her. He could almost feel the sun penetrating her skin, the warmth building up inside her.
He enjoyed the feel of the breeze and the sight of Rainier guarding the Sound. Ten minutes passed before he asked her, “Ready?”
“If we must,” she said, sitting up. As she rose, the boat hit some chop and she lost her footing. Jay jumped up and caught her before she hit her head on the edge of the cockpit. Her skin was warm and slippery. He held her until she had regained her footing, then leaned forward to kiss her. She started to kiss him back, but then pushed him away gently. “No, Jay. We mustn’t.”
He gazed into her eyes. Her voice said one thing, her vivid green eyes another. Letting go of her, he said, “I told you, Top-siders are a requirement.” He pointed to her feet, his insecurity obvious. “Bare feet can kill you.”
She ran a finger beneath his lips. His feelings hurt, he shied away from her touch. She went below, donned Topsiders, and put her robe back on. When she was back in the cockpit she brushed the hair out of her eyes and held it in the wind. “If it makes any sense,” she began, “I liked that very much. But it would only complicate things.”
“I don’t think so, Marlene. I think it’s inevitable.”
She grinned, causing her sunglasses to move on her nose. “Holst is a strange man, Jay.”
“So what? Are you his?”
Her smile widened. “No. Of course not.”
“Then what?”
“I work for him.”
“So what?”
“Do not do this to me, Jay. I can not explain it. I just can not explain it. It would not make any sense.” She moved away from him, taking hold of the rail and heading to the bow.
He hollered, “Try me, Marlene. Maybe, just maybe, I’d understand.”
She pulled her hair out of her eyes. No, she told him without a sound, you would not understand.
He loosened the main sheet and roared over the wind, “Ready about. Hard a-lee…”
17
On the fourth ring he had finally answered. The conduit. But before Sharon could utter a word, he had given her a different phone number and told her to call in exactly three minutes. Her next phone call proved identical to the first: again he supplied her with a different phone number and told her to call him, this time allowing exactly eight minutes to pass.
He finally answered, “Where are you?”
“I’m staying in a partially burned cabin by a lake on the west side of town, I think, near a church.”
“Do you know the name of the church?”
“No, but the church overlooks the lake.”
“A small, stone church? Ivy?”
“That’s it.”
“It’s on the east side of town. I know where you are. I’ll be right there.”
Thirty minutes later a nondescript car pulled up. A man knocked on the cabin door. She opened it cautiously, the Beretta ready.
He stood six feet tall and wore a full, dark beard and wire-rimmed glasses. He appeared to be in his early forties, and she thought him handsome, though tough-looking. He entered the cabin and shut the door. They shook hands.
He sat down in a chair by the soot-covered curtains. “Let’s take it from the top, okay? Tell me exactly what have you done, where you have been, who might have seen you in the last few days? It’s important I know.”
She told him about the shootings, which he had read about in the papers. “After that I ran. I spent a day ducking in and out of doorways. Eventually, I made it to the other side of town. There are a bunch of cars—a junkyard—over that way, I think,” she said, pointing, “and I slept in one for several nights—”
“Food?” he inquired, interrupting her.
“Vegetable gardens. I was careful not to be seen, and not to take enough to be noticed.”
“Go on.”
“I stole these clothes from a clothesline. I did my best to make it look like wind had blown the clothes from the line. I wasn’t sure if it would be convincing, so I moved on.”
“That’s good.”
“They train women, too, you know,” she snapped sarcastically.
He ignored the comment. “Then what?”
“It took me a day and a night to cross town. I wanted some high ground. I’m down to four rounds. I found this place—good view of the city and surprisingly few people.”
“Weekends they come here.”
“It’s a two-mile walk to the nearest pay phone. I tried to reach you while I was staying at the junkyard, but I couldn’t. Once I found this place I waited a day and tried again. Last night I bathed in the lake, it was my first bath in—”
“I’m sorry you had trouble reaching me,” he interrupted again. He peered out the glassless window. Fog covered the city. The street below shone with the moisture.
“I was told you would be available if I needed you,” she said indignantly.
He shrugged, uncaring. “So far, so good. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Yes.”
“The cops complicate matters. It would be one thing if we were just trying to get you past Fritz Wilhelm’s people. Mind you, in this city, that is something like trying to fool the Mafia. But the Regensburg police? They are even worse. It rules out conventional transportation. Both Wilhelm and the police will have everything covered, and not only in Regensburg. No, we’ll think of something else. And there’s another factor: Wilhelm is thorough. He has bought his way to the top. So there’s no telling who to trust.” He winked at her. “We’ll do this with a few of my people. No one else.” His tone of voice bordered on arrogance. The conduit: the one man who could get her out of here.
“So, what do we do?” she asked.
He peered out the crack in the curtains. “Good question.”
“A private plane?”
“No, we need something unconventional… I did have one idea that might work, but I am not certain…”
“What?”
“There are some people in France who can help us. If we are lucky, they can get you aboard a freighter bound for the States. So, we had better get you across the border.”
“Won’t I be safe once I’m in France?”
“Unlikely, and certainly not worth the risk. Wilhelm’s influence reaches far. Too far. And with this police trouble…”
“Why can’t Washington take care of that? Or Bonn? It was self-defense.”
“Because they won’t even admit you are here in Germany. They have proof you are on holiday in the U.S., in case something like this happened. We know that much.”
“That wouldn’t be true unless I was rated HOT,” she said. “You’re wrong. That can’t be right.”
He nodded. “Until we get you home, you don’t exist. You’ve been rated HOT since we lost you the night of Bobby Saks’s death.”
“That’s absurd!”
“Welcome to Operations.”
She slumped down into a discolored chair.
He parted the curtains again and looked outside. “Do you have your passport?”
“Yes, but it’s a diplo—”
�
�Get it for me.” He let the curtains close and watched as she walked over to her purse. She was a pretty woman. He respected women with guts and smarts. “I should tell you… You’ve done well so far. A lot of women—a lot of agents—wouldn’t have made it this far. We’ll get you out.” She handed him the passport and he looked it over. “Okay… this is fine. I’ll take this with me. I know someone who is good with these. You would be smart to cut your hair very short—like a man’s.”
“What?”
“Just do it. I’ll send a car here at eight o’clock this evening to pick you up. You’ll find a wig and some cosmetics in the back seat. Put the wig on immediately. When the driver drops you off, he will point out a building. Walk directly to the building. Don’t knock. Let yourself in.”
***
The house, also on the east side of Regensburg, sat alone down a narrow back road and was furnished like a summer cottage. The car, after letting her off, disappeared around the corner. The conduit, dressed in black, locked the door behind her. She worked on her face and wig for twenty minutes. Then she sat for the photo session. The conduit left after taking five photos and didn’t return for three hours. When he did, he handed her back her passport. She opened it up. The new photo had been fixed to the front page, a seal embossed atop it. The name read Cheryl Parker. He said, “You’re a diplomat’s daughter on vacation. It’s all in order. You will have no problem at the border.”
“You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes and no. You will ride with the same driver who picked you up tonight. I will follow behind as backup in case anything should go wrong.”
“Meaning?”
“I told you before: Wilhelm’s fingers reach far. There’s a network of people after you. We can’t rule out anything.” He handed her a small paper box that contained one hundred rounds of ammunition for the Beretta. “Anything’s possible. Now, reload that Beretta, and carry it on the seat beside you the entire way.” She slipped the box into a pocket of her skirt. “I know you’re frightened, Sharon. I’m frightened for you. You’ve done well, extremely well so far. I will see you to the border. If I cross, it might arouse suspicion.”
“Please. Answer me this: Why did they choose me for this operation?”
His eyes became gentle. “Timing, I suppose. You were the only agent close at hand who had Operations training. Because your vacation had already been planned, your absence from the embassy wouldn’t arouse suspicion. I would guess that had a lot to do with it. You had all the right qualifications. Being a mule is usually not too difficult—though not without risk. I never knew your contact. He was S.O.—deeply buried. I was told that he was in Regensburg—my territory. I’m too well known in the area to be given this kind of a job. I’m more of a ‘clean-up man,’ if you will. I handle things like this… as well as more undesirable tasks.” He walked to the window and looked outside again. “Washington contacted me directly and warned you might call. I was out on assignment. I had to relocate to Regensburg and arrange the proper phone connection. That took a few days. When I arrived I had to make my usual contacts. Then you called. Here we are.” He didn’t want to frighten her, but the truth was that his orders had come from the director himself. No go-between. Orders never came from the director, which meant this was one hell of an important operation—and Sharon Johnson the key.
“What do I do once I reach France?”
“We’ve improvised. A magician, just recently in Germany, will help you. His show is in Soultz-sous-Forets Seltz now. He’ll try to get aboard a ship. That would be the safest for you.”
“A magician?”
“Magicians make people appear and disappear… isn’t that true? Anything is possible given the proper circumstances.”
“What are the proper circumstances?”
He withdrew a billfold from an inner pocket of the raincoat he wore. From this he pulled a number of large-denomination bills, German and French. “You’ll take this. I have a voucher you have to sign, but I’ll do it for you. I want you to listen very carefully and feel free to interrupt at any point. It’s very important you know exactly what to do. There is little room for error. Do you understand? Any questions at all, you must ask, no matter how trivial. I’ll answer as best I can. Okay?”
He had changed, she thought. He was the devoted professional now, ready to brief her. She knew his insistence on thoroughness resulted not only from his concern for her safety, but for his own service record. She was in his hands now, his responsibility, and he had no intention of failing. She nodded her head and said, “I’m ready.”
He winked. “It’s no sweat, Sharon. You’re almost there.”
***
They were traveling down a two-lane country road, the conduit following in his own car, when her driver stopped the car behind a truck at a stop sign. Sharon had stayed wide awake for the entire drive, only now feeling tired, her head bobbing as she hovered on the edge of sleep. The Beretta lay ready beneath her right hand.
“Lady!” the driver barked, reaching over the seat to rouse her.
She opened her eyes: dusk on the horizon.
“We’re stopping for gas in a minute. Last stop before the border—”
The truck had stood still, blocking their way, for almost thirty seconds. Too long. Sharon was looking toward her driver when a soft yellow spurt of light flashed from the side of the truck. Instinctively, she leaned to her left to avoid the shot, her words of warning too late. Both the front and back windows cracked as the bullet tore through them. The driver’s body fell slack against the steering wheel, sounding the horn. Sharon struggled to unlock the back door, her fingers searching blindly for the lock as two more shots were fired. It opened. She tumbled out onto the pavement, Beretta in hand.
Another man, short, with a ruddy complexion, was standing by the side of the truck, legs spread, his large hands wrapped around a pistol. Three shots thumped into the open door she was using for cover. Sharon aimed and squeezed the trigger twice. The man was lifted off his feet and collapsed backward. Still.
The conduit smashed his car’s interior light and ran in a crouch across the road, drawing the fire of the driver of the truck, as he had hoped. He made it to the edge of the road, leaped into the bushes, righted himself, and got off four quick shots, the last of which winged one of the men.
Following the conduit’s lead, Sharon rolled into the bushes on her side of the road, rose to her feet, and hurried forward to a point alongside the truck. A third man she had not seen fired a sawed-off shotgun from the window of the truck. The blast tore a hole in the vegetation in front of her. Two pieces of buck shot embedded in her left arm. The wounds were minor, she realized quickly, and though painful, presented no real problem. She strained to locate the man. There! He was edging his way alongside the truck, gazing into the shrubs.
Sharon gripped the Beretta in both hands, steadied it, and pulled the trigger. The truck’s front windshield exploded—her shot had hit the cab but missed the man with the shotgun. She dropped to a prone position in the dry leaves. Three more shotgun-blasts filled the bushes all around her. She was saved from the buckshot by a slight tapering of the road’s soft shoulder. She crawled forward GI-style in the direction of the shots.
The conduit heard three more shotgun blasts and made his move. He had no intention of screwing this up. He stood and ran for the back of the truck. The wounded driver, now tucked back into the cab, aimed and fired. The conduit felt the bullet enter his gut. He buckled over, edging behind the shelter of the large truck and struggled to switch clips, reloading his weapon. The man with the shotgun leaped inside the cab and fired two consecutive blasts through the rear window of the cab.
Sharon saw it happen. She saw the conduit run across the road, saw him buckle as he took a slug, saw him reloading. Saw the shotgun blasts. Without knowing exactly why, she charged the truck, jumped up on the runner, and fired pointblank into the surprised face of the man holding the shotgun.
The wounded dri
ver fired once and dove out of the truck. The blindly fired bullet missed Sharon’s face by inches. She snapped her head back and fell to the pavement heavily, scrambling to look beneath the truck for his feet. The driver rounded the front of the truck, thinking he had killed her. She rolled under the truck and came to a stop, prone, gun facing front.
The driver’s feet paused briefly by the front right wheel. Then he jumped around the truck, ready to shoot a person he thought was prone on the pavement. Sharon tracked his motions with the gun. She would have taken a shot at his ankles if he had given it to her, but he stopped on the far side of the front wheel, denying her the shot From his hesitation she guessed he was confused as to where she had gone. Was she under the truck, or in the bushes? But his training told him quickly that if she were in the bushes she would have fired. The gun in his hand appeared suddenly and he fired the weapon blindly beneath the truck. His first attempt punctured the oil pan. Black oil poured from the hole and onto the roadway. The next attempt clicked: his gun was empty. As he lunged for the cab to try and get the shotgun, Sharon rolled over once and found herself on the far side of the truck. She moved quickly. Just as the driver pulled the shotgun from his dead partner’s hands, she fired, emptying the Beretta into his chest.
She ran now, hard and fast, passing the car she had been riding in and climbing into the vehicle driven by the conduit. She ground the gears, jerking into first, and spun the wheel violently, yanking the car onto the road and pushing the accelerator to the floor. Her training had come back to her. All at once. She was confident now. She had survived. She would survive.
***
The conduit drifted up out of unconsciousness, out of shock. He looked down at himself: he had been peppered with buckshot and was bleeding badly. He couldn’t see out of his left eye. He tried to lift himself off the hood. He knew he wouldn’t live long if he didn’t receive medical attention soon. Then he felt a hand on his arm. He rolled his head to try and see the man speaking German: a tall man with thick lips. “Put him in the van,” this man ordered. “We’ll want to question him before he bleeds to death.”
Blood of the Albatross Page 11