Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  ***

  Holst picked up the gun and fired. Kepella’s body jumped with the silenced shot, and he collapsed, his eyes staring unfocused at the dirty wall. Marlene screamed again.

  The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, spraying the back of the drapes. Jay’s first and only experience with courage had been in the back of that van. For his entire life he had considered himself a coward—he had never even been in a fist fight. Even so, he charged through the drapes, not realizing that with three homemade finger splints on one hand he had little with which to attack.

  The exploding window surprised Holst. As he prepared to fire another bullet into Kepella—to make sure—something, someone, flew through the drapes to his right. His gun moved as he pulled the trigger and the bullet hit the wall.

  Jay charged, stumbled, and smashed the milk crate into Holst. The impact knocked the gun loose and threw Holst into the chest of drawers, knocking the wind out of him. Jay saw Kepella’s open eyes and panicked. He grasped Marlene’s hand—she screamed—and dragged her until she began to run. Then he couldn’t stop her. Together, they fled through the hole where the sliding door had been.

  A window across the courtyard exploded as a bullet hit it. They ran harder, turning right at the first corner. Jay said quickly, “We’ll separate. Meet at Gasworks Park, ten o’clock tonight.”

  “No,” she wailed, slowing. “My hand.”

  “Hurry!” he demanded. “Yes. Now get in.” He stuffed her into the driver’s seat of his rental, reached around her, jabbed the key into the ignition, and started the car. “Drive!” he commanded, noticing for the first time that she held a thick set of papers in her good hand. Separated, at least one of them could escape Holst. She looked at him curiously, the life gone from her face. She gripped the wheel, dropping the papers onto the seat. “Go!” he thundered. And off she went.

  Jay tucked his hurt fingers against his body and sprinted like he had never sprinted before. He turned right, ran down the street, crossed it, turned left down an alley, right at the end of the alley, crossed another street, right again, left again. He dove into a thick hedge, winded. A car had followed him, followed his every turn. Thinking it had to be Holst, he listened as it drove by.

  38

  Mark Galpin had never liked hospitals. He had too many memories associated with the familiar smell, the rows of rooms like rows of prison cells. When he came to a hospital it was usually to visit the morgue. He hated it. A few years back—fifteen years into his service—he had still wondered why he had chosen this particular route through the labyrinth of life. What had compelled him to try and fight a war against crime that could never be won? What had compelled him to try and lead men through such a war? But he hadn’t had a single thought along those lines in the past few years. A switch inside him had been thrown. He had accepted his position in life. There was to be no more questioning, only service. Soon the twenty years would be up. Soon it would be retirement, sailing, a family life, and relaxation. God willing, he would have a good twenty to thirty years of life remaining to do the things he had always wanted to do. For now it was service.

  The door to the room appeared no different than any of the others. He pushed it open, noticing that his watch read 8:45 P.M.

  Roy Kepella lay in the bed closest to him; the window bed was empty. The surprised expression on Kepella’s face said it all. He had a bandage on his chest. Neither man said anything as Galpin dragged a chair over close to the bed and sat down.

  Galpin said softly, “In going through your wallet they found your business card. They called the Bureau.”

  Kepella nodded with his eyelids. “Figures.”

  “How’s it feel?”

  “Piece of cake. Missed the lung. No big deal.”

  “You want to tell me about it, Roy?”

  “I can’t, Mark. I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m on orders. It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “Perhaps I could clear things up for you.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I received a priority call a few days ago from Washington. A CIA agent who had been sent to Germany as a mule returned to the States with some vital information. The word was that Fritz Wilhelm, a middleman arms and technology dealer for the Soviets based in West Germany, had set his sights on Seattle. He was going after some spare computer parts for the Iranians, the green-laser communication technology for the Soviets, and the SOSUS map of the Pacific, copies of which are all kept in our archives. Any of this sound familiar, Roy?”

  “Can’t say that it does, Mark.”

  Galpin’s jaw muscles flexed and he nervously tugged the cuff of each shirt sleeve to protrude exactly half an inch past the end of his navy blue sports jacket. “Wilhelm has a mole in the Bureau, Roy. We believe this man intended to pose as a top-level official running an inside sting using one of our Seattle agents.” He saw Kepella’s already pale face drain of all color. He was talking to a ghost. “It would operate as a standard sting, is how we see it. He would convince the agent that this was the only way to get Wilhelm. The agent would then fall out of favor with the department in order to appear an attractive catch by Wilhelm’s people. Only Wilhelm’s people would know what was going on the whole time. The sting was really being played on the agent they decided to use. Ideally, they would obviously look for someone with access to the Bureau’s files.” He stopped. He’d said enough.

  Kepella stared at his friend. He looked at the man trying to think of something to say. “The agent calls himself Brandenburg. I took a sick day and flew to Washington to meet him.”

  “Go on.”

  “He met me at a hotel outside of D.C. He told me it was just between him and the director and myself.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I should have seen it. Christ, they gave me enough hints.” He paused. “He reimbursed my air ticket with cash and explained it away to secrecy. He knew exactly what items they would be coming for… I should have seen it.”

  Galpin sighed. “We don’t hold you responsible, Roy. You know our position. We want to make the best of a bad thing.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. Unfolding it, he passed it to Kepella. “This is an artist’s sketch of the man we think is the mole. Any resemblance to your Brandenburg?”

  Kepella looked at the photocopy of the sketch, nodding. “It’s close enough. His face isn’t that wide, and the chin is much different, but the eyes and nose are right on. That’s him.” He handed the paper back to Galpin, who accepted it and returned it to his pocket.

  “That’s the best news I’ve had in days. Excuse me a second.” Galpin used the phone, passing the information onto his office, which in turn would pass it on to Washington. When he had hung up, he sat back down in the chair and asked Kepella to tell him the whole story. Kepella took it from the first Brandenburg interview and caught Galpin up to date. It took him nearly an hour.

  Galpin digested the progression of events, referring to a notepad he had filled while Kepella talked. He asked, “So this musician left the motel with Marlene, and you’re fairly sure she had the SOSUS papers?”

  “Like I said, I kept my eyes open in order to fool them. Holst took another shot anyway, to make sure. As I remember, Becker knocked Holst down, grabbed Marlene, and fled. It seems to me she was carrying the papers in her hand. I can’t be sure.” He swallowed some water. “Holst went right after them. I made it over to my car. I was losing a lot of blood. I passed out in the emergency room. I woke up here.”

  “That checks out.” Galpin looked helpless. “So either this Marlene or Becker or both have the SOSUS papers?”

  “That would be my guess.”

  Galpin used the phone again. The downtown office was advised to put an all-points bulletin out on four people, including Holst and Chu. Fu Won’s was to be kept under surveillance, as was The Lady Fine. He addressed Kepella. “And what about the computer parts?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “A couple days ba
ck, Tuesday, I think it was, someone got away with four of ZyCorp’s computer terminals and several boxes of spare parts that would work in Crays. Since we heard from Washington, and began looking for you, we were certain it was all connected.”

  Kepella frowned. “I gave them that information, Mark. On Monday, I think. They got me drinking again, Mark, and well, my memory is kinda shot. I had no idea they had hit the warehouses. I thought it was a test of some sort—you know, see how accurate my information was. I didn’t realize they hit the warehouses. I wouldn’t know where the parts are, but I would guess they’re on that boat. Just a gut feeling, you understand, but I kept trying to figure out why Holst would involve a person like Becker in all of this. Why bring in someone new? The only thing I could come up with was that he needed someone other than himself to sail that boat somewhere. Why else would he risk involving a stranger? But if he did hire a skipper, then all sorts of things come to light. We know Wilhelm has never entered the States, but he’s been spotted in Canada several times—”

  Galpin interrupted. “Yes, so Holst has Becker sail the boat across the border on one of the busiest sailing weekends of the year. If all goes well, the stuff ends up in Canada. If something goes wrong, if the Coast Guard searches the boat, Becker’s the one with the explaining to do. Holst is long gone. That’s possible.”

  That’s how I’d do it.” Kepella supplied Galpin with every conceivable place to look for Becker, explaining the band’s poster on the phone pole and how someone from the band might know how to find him. Then he asked, “What about Brandenburg?”

  “We’ll sit on that address. We don’t want to alarm him. If he’s still there, he may lead us to Wilhelm or Holst.”

  “What if we sting him back? At the moment you don’t have anything on him, except the word of a drunk who’s been suspended from the Bureau and has given away state secrets. Let me help, Mark. Give me a chance to prove myself.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Wire me for sound. If he’s in communication with Holst at all, then he thinks I’m dead, right? So what happens if naive Roy Kepella comes wandering back into the nest, explaining the whole thing went sour and that Holst has gotten away? We’d at least be able to confirm that Brandenburg was running me, and I have the feeling I’m going to need all the help I can get. What do you say?”

  “It’s a thought.” Galpin hashed it over in his mind. “We could set up a strike force outside, in case it goes sour.” He rose. “Do you feel up to it?”

  “Shit, this thing is barely a scratch—cut a hole in some muscle is all. Believe me, Mark. I’d do anything to get Brandenburg after all this. I can certainly have a ten-minute conversation.”

  “I’ll check with your doctor and call Washington. I like it. It might even give us a lead. You rest up, Roy. I’ll contact you later. You get some sleep.” He walked toward the door and turned. “Oh, and by the way… I’m glad he missed. It’s good to have you back.” He shut the door. Hospitals still bothered him.

  39

  At ten o’clock, Gasworks Park, the tiny knoll of grass with its cluster of eerie refinery pipes that overlooks the north end of Lake Union, was empty. He followed a paved path up to the knoll to the giant sundial, a location that offered him a better view of both the entrance to the parking lot and Lake Union. As he waited, facing the lot, the tangled-metal labyrinth of the former gasworks sat off to his right. Far behind it, out on the street, a few lights managed to slip past the elbows, valves, and nozzles. The wind stung his cut face.

  He checked his watch. Ten past ten. No Marlene. What had gone wrong? She was supposed to meet him here. He waited. Twenty past ten. He was worried. He watched the reflection of boat lights stretched into long rippling rails that ran across the water. Ten-thirty. He could picture Holst beating her. Ten-forty. He hurried out to Northlake, walked into a sailor’s bar, and called a cab.

  What would Holst do next? Did he have Marlene? With Roy dead, Holst’s blackmail was over. Jay tried to put himself in Holst’s position: Seattle would hardly be a place to hang around. Holst would get out of here, either taking Marlene with him… or leaving her behind…

  Where would the German take her? Christ, it’s a big city, Jay thought, glancing around and seeing the thousands—millions—of lights: the houses, the office buildings, the shops, bars, restaurants, theaters, the Space Needle, the boats on Lake Union, the headlights and taillights milling about the hundreds—thousands—of streets, lanes, avenues, and drives. Good luck finding anyone out there. A jet flew silently over the Sound, its lights blinking. Was Holst on that jet? Had he already done away with Marlene and was now fleeing the city? The country?

  Time to find Jocko. Maybe even search The Lady Fine.

  The cab dropped him by Pier A, so he could approach the parking lot from the boats. Less conspicuous, he figured. The faint, continual drone of a busy city could be heard all around him, drifting out to sea. The strong overhead lights illuminated the colorful cars. Set against the glowing sky and still night air, it looked to Jay like a glossy photograph.

  He walked along the sidewalk that fronted the docks, keeping his head low. He ambled up a row of cars and made his way along the third row. He glanced to his left, eyes searching for the Chinese goon or Holst. Nothing.

  He strained to see beyond Jocko’s rental. He jerked his head to the left, thinking he saw a movement. His eyes scanned the parked cars. It had seemed like a person ducking back down behind a dash or behind a car. He waited, hoping to spot the movement again. Nothing. He stepped quickly between two cars and yanked on the handle to Jocko’s rental. It was locked.

  He tapped quickly on the window, feeling like someone was watching him. He thought, Come on, Jocko, open the goddamned door. He tapped again, louder this time. He bent over quickly, unable to see clearly inside the dark car, but well enough to see that Jocko had fallen asleep, head against the steering wheel. Jocko, known for the sleep of the dead, would not wake from a simple tap on a window. Jay hurried around the rental to the driver’s door. It opened. He bent and punched Jocko in the arm. Nothing. He shook him, stepping back quickly, throat tightening, knowing without wanting to know. Jocko slipped over in the seat, his head rotating as he fell. His chest was covered with blood; his throat had been slit. His eyes were glued open. In his right hand he held the butt of his unfired gun.

  Jay fell to his knees. Tears rolled down his face. Then he stood and screamed in his loudest voice, “You fucking assholes! You motherfuckers! Come and get me, you fucking assholes.” He dropped back down to the pavement, crying, his chest heaving.

  Had they done this to Marlene, too? Did they plan on doing this to him? He pushed Jocko over in the seat. The lifeless body slipped and fell to the floor. Jay pushed his dead friend’s legs out of the way of the pedals and then sat down in the driver’s seat. He picked up the revolver and laid it on the front seat next to him. Then he saw the face, a face painted in blood on the plastic of the dashboard. It was four simple lines: a straight line for a mouth, a vertical line for the nose, and two slanted lines for the eyes. A Chinaman. The Chinaman.

  He started the car and pushed the pedal to the floor. Thirty seconds after he raced from Shilshole’s parking lot, the first two FBI agents arrived in their plain, gray sedan.

  40

  He drove to Jocko’s in case Holst or Marlene had left a message on the answering machine. If he could brave it, he could remove the keys from Jocko’s pocket and get into the apartment. Then he could decide to go talk to the cops or take some other course of action.

  He pulled the car to a stop in front of the apartment building and put the car in Park, engine running. He slid over in the seat, noticing for the first time that he had sat in some of Jocko’s blood. The sight of the awkwardly placed body turned his stomach. He reached over and closed his friend’s eyes, feeling his own throat tighten. The keys were in the right-hand pocket.

  He climbed the stairs, pulling with him not only the weight of his body but memories of hundred
s of other times he had climbed these stairs. Jocko had been sick a few years back and Jay had doted on him for a change. He had spent the better part of two weeks here, for Jocko was basically helpless when he got sick. Having been raised under the tender guidance of an over-protective Jewish mother, he was accustomed to being waited on, and only became more ill if left on his own. There Was no healing Jocko now. His body was cold, lying in an inhuman position on the floor of the front seat of the rental, on the street below.

  One moment, either way…

  Jay wondered how such a thing could have happened. Jocko was street-wise. And yet somehow the Chinaman had surprised him, had overpowered him and had…

  He fiddled with the set of keys, searching for a match. Before opening the door he decided that the police would not be involved in this. It had gone well beyond that. There was no point in relying on criminal justice to punish the Chinaman. He had no faith in criminal justice. No faith in the law. And he knew that several days ago, even several hours ago, given a different set of circumstances, there would have been no way that Jay Becker could have convinced himself that he had the inner strength to kill another human being. Even being thrown out a window had not instilled it in him. But now he had no doubts whatsoever. He knew what had to be done, win or lose, and his only worry was that he might never find the Chinaman again. He might never get the chance. But if given the chance he would kill the man—and he would use any means possible. There was no fair in this. No gentlemanly code of conduct.

  He turned the key. The apartment, warm and stuffy, was silent. No loud stereo like there usually was whenever Jay entered through this door. He locked himself in and headed straight to the answering machine, concentrating on what lay before him, trying to keep the memories locked away. “One cannot dwell on the past,” Jocko had once told him. “One must live for today alone.”