Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  As a result, Ginger skipped most of her tour's remaining itinerary to tag along with her personal guide. They seemed to complement one another like an old hat and a new bow. When the week was up, they made plans for Burke to meet her in Boise, her hometown. He left her at the airport that afternoon, feeling more alive and full of anticipation than he had in years. It wasn't until the next morning that he heard the news. Her plane had lost power and plowed into the Rockies thirty minutes out of Boise. There were no survivors.

  "That was a tough blow," Quinn said after hearing the story. "We've both had our disappointments. This operation may be just what you need, get you out of the rut, dwell a bit among the masses.”

  He took several sheets of paper out of a slim leather briefcase and spread them on the table. "Here are the transcripts of the two telephone intercepts."

  The sheets had been stamped "Top Secret (Special Handling) NOFORN" in large red letters at top and bottom. The May seventh call from Singapore to Kansas City showed the pay phone number, the destination number and the time, 1:10 p.m. CDT. Burke read the conversation.

  Hello.

  Solomon?

  Uh, yes. That you, Daniel?

  Right. I told you I'd call in the morning. It's damned early here.

  You still in Singapore?

  Right. The Jabberwock team has been selected and they're to start training four weeks prior to D-Day. You'll have to get your stuff down to the site by then.

  No problem. I've got everything about lined up already. How many people are going to be there?

  Let's see, three on the team, three trainers including us, the man in charge of the operation and the cook.

  The cook?

  You didn't plan to stay there that long without eating, I hope. These guys are like caged tigers. We want to keep them well-fed.

  Yeah. Well, I've been getting all the electronic gear together. I'll be flying in, so I’ll need to ship everything to a convenient pick-up point.

  That'll work. We can bring it in the truck. See you then.

  Burke looked up at Quinn. "Solomon and Daniel? Old Testament characters."

  "Hawk thinks that reinforces the Israeli angle."

  "You don't?"

  "Hell, the Mossad wouldn't be so obvious. I worked closely with those people. I can't believe they'd be cooking up anything drastic against us."

  Burke glanced down at the paper. "It does sound a bit drastic. Guys like caged tigers? I don’t even have a guess at what could be going on, though."

  "Wait till you read the second call. Anything else strike you about this one?"

  Burke studied the paper a moment longer, two fingers toying with the soft bristle of his beard. "The guy in Singapore says 'I told you I'd call in the morning.' It was one-ten p.m. in Kansas City."

  "But with a thirteen-hour time difference, it was two-ten a.m. the next morning in Singapore."

  Count on Cam to have it all reasoned out, he thought. "Makes sense. The only other thing is that comment about getting stuff down to the site. Down where?"

  "Evidently somewhere south of Kansas City. That could mean Oklahoma, Texas, Mexico, South America. You name it."

  Burke moved to the next page, dated May 10, which showed the locations and phone numbers and the destination time in Berlin of 9:15 a.m. He read:

  Guten Morgen. Hier spricht—

  This is Noah in Hong Kong. I must speak with Joshua.

  Josh—ja, hold please.

  Hello, Noah. This is Joshua. What news do you have for me?

  All the arrangements are completed. The vehicle is to be finished this week. You should have the training camp ready by Saturday of next week. Time enough?

  Sure. I've got it blocked off. Just need to set things in motion.

  What about your device? Is it ready?

  Yes, it's all squared away.

  And the birds.Will there be a sufficient number available?

  We have enough for a few dry runs, several for the real thing. I'll get everything down there.

  Excellent. I'll report the Jabberwock is ready to fly.

  Burke's face was set in a frown as he turned to Quinn. "Obviously they're being cryptic. Device...birds...dry runs...the real thing. What the hell's going on?"

  "If I knew that I wouldn't have had to bring you in. Damned worrisome, though, isn't it?"

  "Doesn't really make much sense to me. Sounds military, though. At least quasi-military."

  "It sure doesn't have the ring of an intelligence penetration mission," Quinn said.

  He explained that Hawk Elliott had interpreted the mention of electronics gear as an indication Jabberwock was some type of electronic eavesdropping operation. The "device," he reasoned, could be a listening post mounted in the vehicle that was mentioned. The "birds" might be sophisticated new microtransmitters designed to foil normal detection equipment.

  “But the man in Berlin implied that the ‘birds’ were expendable, would be used up,” Quinn said.

  Burke nodded in agreement. “Enough for a few dry runs, several for the real thing.”

  “That sounds like an offensive operation. It would have to be fairly complex to require three trainers for three team members, not to mention four weeks of it.”

  Burke checked his watch calendar. "They were talking about last Saturday. That means the training has been going on for a week. Three weeks till D-Day."

  "Which means we have to get our asses moving. I'm booked on a flight to Hong Kong early in the morning. Lori will have you a ticket to Tel Aviv. I think you can get out by mid-day."

  Burke's hands flew up in a halting gesture. "I'm flying to Israel tomorrow?"

  This had all the earmarks of a real culture shock for a guy accustomed to the slow pace of the mountains, moving on foot or by Jeep, his travels measured in tens of miles. Now, in the space of forty-eight hours, he would be jumping from the Smoky Mountains to Washington, D. C. to Tel Aviv, Israel.

  "I want you to settle my mind on this Mossad question," Quinn said. "I have an excellent source over there, very reliable. I'm sure he can give us the answer. It would compromise him if I tried to go. I'm too well known. Even if I used a disguise, they'd know I was there within hours. With you—"

  "One small problem, old chum. I haven't been out of the country in years. My passport's long since expired."

  "Your passport will be delivered to Lori in the morning."

  "Just like that?" Burke snapped his fingers skeptically. "A legitimate passport?"

  "Issued by the Department of State to one Burke Hill, photographer. That was one reason for the photo session this afternoon. Just in case you should need it, I'm having another one made—an artist is going to remove your beard. He has a photo pre-Santa Claus. What name would you like on it?"

  Back through the looking glass, Burke thought. Why would he need another passport in a fake name? This was supposed to be a straightforward investigative case. Running down leads, checking out people's stories, gathering bits and pieces of evidence. Hawk Elliott made it quite clear he was no CIA agent. But he knew there was no use in arguing with Quinn. If you were going to play in their league, you had to play by their rules. Anyway, just because he had a passport in an assumed name didn't mean he'd have to use it.

  "How about Douglas Bell?" he said with a shrug. "That has a nice ring to it."

  "Doug Bell it is," Quinn said, ignoring the frivolous note. "Now, let’s get back to the Mossad."

  "Is your man on the inside?"

  "No. But he was. He still maintains intimate contacts right where we need them. All I want to know is whether Jabberwock is on their list of active operational codes. He can find that out for us."

  Quinn quickly sketched out the plan. Burke would travel under his own identity as a freelance photographer. He would be on assignment from a travel magazine publisher to shoot pictures illustrating an article on Jaffa, the old Arab port city now a part of the urban sprawl known as Tel Aviv. Just in case anyone became curious, he had the documentatio
n ready.

  Burke took the sheet of stationery that Quinn handed him, a letterhead of R. K. Leverett, editor-in-chief, Flyte Tyme Publications, publisher of in-flight magazines for several smaller airlines. The typed and signed letter, dated the previous day, read:

  Dear Mr. Hill:

  This will confirm our telephone conversation regarding the assignment to photograph Jaffa scenes for our article on the area. When you have submitted the photographs, we will pay you the agreed upon fee, plus reimburse all of your expenses.

  I look forward to working with you on this project.

  Sincerely,

  R. K. Leverett

  Editor-in-Chief

  Burke gave Quinn a questioning look. "You must have been pretty busy these past couple of days."

  "I took the liberty of getting a few things done in advance, anticipating you would agree to help out."

  "And if I hadn't?"

  "Let's not dwell upon the hypothetical, my friend," he said, rumpling his brow. "The important thing is that you're here, you're cleared, you're going to Israel tomorrow. And this is what you need to do when you arrive there."

  He provided the address and description of a small cafe called The Casbah near the Jaffa Flea Market, then went over an identification routine with the restaurant's proprietor that would lead Burke to Quinn's source, an Israeli named Ben Shallit.

  "You should get to Tel Aviv fairly early, giving plenty of time to make your contact during the day," Quinn said. "I want you to call me in Hong Kong that evening. Let's see...five Israeli time would be eleven in Hong Kong. Don't make it any later or I'd probably be so flaked out I would never hear the phone."

  "I've got one other small problem," Burke said when Quinn had finished. "I brought a camera with me, but I don't have all the equipment I'd take on an assignment like this."

  "Give me a list of what you need. I'll have somebody round it up for you." He raised a wary eyebrow. "Any other problems?"

  "No, but if you're planning to leave early in the morning, I'd think you've got plenty to finish up this afternoon. Why don't you drop me off at my hotel and get on your way."

  "Good suggestion. Let me tell my girl we're gone." He walked over and peeped through the door to see if she was busy. He found her alone, hanging up the phone. "We're finished, Lori. What are your plans for dinner?"

  Burke walked up just in time to catch that enigmatic smile that seemed to do strange things inside him, like bumping his pulse rate a notch. He found it a bit disturbing, a sensation he hadn't encountered in years.

  "I'm having two handsome gentlemen at my condo for dinner," she said. "What time should I expect you?"

  "We'd better ask our guest if that's agreeable with him," Quinn said, turning to Burke.

  He found the idea decidedly appealing. "Best offer I've had all day."

  "Why don't I pick you up around seven?" Quinn suggested. She only lives about twenty minutes away."

  "Is this formal, or come as you are?" Burke asked.

  She laughed. "You can wear shorts if you like. That's what I'll have on. What would you gentlemen prefer for an entree?"

  "Filet mignon will do for me," Quinn said.

  "I'd just as soon have chicken or seafood." Burke shrugged. "Whatever you want to fix will be fine with me."

  "A man after my own heart," said Lori. "Maybe if you'd stay around my Dad a while, you could teach him to lay off all that red meat and starchy food."

  "Killjoy." Quinn gave her a dirty look.

  Chapter 13

  Lorelei Quinn's condo was an upscale townhouse development. It included two bedrooms, two baths and a small office upstairs, a living room, dining room, kitchen and a half-bath down. Colonial style furnishings complemented the building's architecture. It meshed the taste and charm of a decorator's eye with the lived-in look of a practical housekeeper. The dining room opened onto a patio at the rear, where the lady of the house was tending a gas-fired grille when they arrived. A glass-topped round table set for three stood nearby.

  "We're having charbroiled salmon steaks," she announced, sprinkling a dash of something spicy on the large chunks of fish. "Flown in special from British Columbia."

  Burke noted with an appreciative eye that she had donned a pair of purple shorts, as advertised. He sniffed the aroma coming from the grille. "Glad I packed a dandy appetite." He grinned at Quinn, licking his lips. "You said filet, didn't you? Look at those."

  "If you two want to be health nuts, I presume I'll be forced to join you."

  "How about something to drink while you're waiting?" Lori asked Burke.

  He glanced questioningly at his burly companion.

  "Go ahead," Quinn said. "I'll find something non-alcoholic."

  "Got any white wine, Lori?" Burke inquired.

  "We're having a nice Rhine with our fish. It's over next to the table. Why don't you give it a try?" Then, as he started toward the table, she added, "Pour me a little, too, if you would."

  When Cam had returned from the kitchen with a tall glass of pineapple-flavored tea, Lori raised her wine and toasted, "To the two musketeers—may your forays be fruitful."

  Quinn gave a cautious glance at the tall foliage that surrounded two sides of the patio, screening them from the outside but providing excellent cover for anyone who might want to eavesdrop. "Let's not talk business during dinner."

  So they talked about what each had been doing, which was only natural since this was a long overdue gathering of old friends. Lori, who had a journalism degree from the University of Wisconsin, told about her stint as a reporter for the English language Herald-Tribune in Paris.

  "That was the era of Giscard d'Estaing and the French intervention in Zaire and Chad," she said, remembering.

  "Did you cover any of that?" Burke asked.

  “Heavens, no! I was just a cub reporter then, and a very young cub at that. About the most exciting assignment I had at that time was an interview with a visiting violinist from the States. He was in Paris for a solo performance with the symphony. I remember introducing myself and asking if he would tell me a little of his background. Forty-five minutes later, I told him I had another assignment to get to. He hadn't stopped talking the whole time."

  Burke shook his head with a grin. "Wasn't he about out of breath?"

  "I was afraid he was just getting his second wind," Lori said. "The most egotistical man I ever saw. When I got up to leave, he pulled out a long card shaped like a violin, signed it and handed it to me. I hadn't even hinted that I'd like an autograph. Fortunately, I never encountered any more like him."

  "What other kinds of stories did you write?" Burke asked. He found her a fascinating story teller.

  "After the first year, I began to draw some assignments to cover meetings and conferences. I soon became the resident conference reporter. Covered a lot of meetings around France and all over Europe. All the traveling I did for the newspaper was what got me interested in the travel business."

  Burke sipped at his wine. From what Quinn had told him, that extensive travel had also led to a succession of Agency assignments.

  "After that, she got a job with a travel outfit in Paris," Quinn said between mouthfuls of salmon. For someone who had ridiculed the menu, he showed no hesitance at putting away a healthy share.

  "We had lived in Paris for several years when I was young," Lori said. "I grew up speaking French like a Parisian."

  "She's as good a linguist as I am," Quinn said. "I guess that comes from bouncing about the map the way we did. Her mother wasn't all that keen on it, but I think Lori loved it."

  “I did. It proved quite handy in the travel business. I knew a good part of Europe first-hand. They gave me the job of running tours all over the place, on both sides of the Curtain."

  Recalling Quinn's comment about her undercover work as a writer and a travel agent, Burke began to wonder what sort of things she had done for the CIA. It sounded like a perfect set-up. But his old friend had cautioned about "talking business" tonight
, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

  During the conversation, Quinn ticked off some of the major capitals where he had been stationed. He had also pulled a tour of duty at the Consulate-General in Hong Kong in recent years, so it would be familiar territory.

  For Burke's part, he recounted a few of his adventures in the far north. He intrigued Lori with a description of the small Missouri town where he grew up. "Most of the people migrated there from the South. It was one of those places where gray-haired men sat on benches in front of the courthouse in the summer. They'd sit and whittle little doodads out of blocks of wood. Now and then they'd pause to spit a big blob of brown tobacco juice to one side."

  "That part sounds a little gross," she said with a distasteful frown. "You know, I've never lived in a small town."

  "We dragged her from one capital to another," Quinn said. "I don't guess I told you, but she was born in Hungary. I was stationed in Budapest then. It was around the time of the Hungarian uprising."

  "Now you're telling my age," she protested.

  Quinn looked at his watch. "Oh, to be your age again. I'm afraid mine is telling on me. I'd better get home and hit the bed before my alarm goes off. You have me flying out of here at the crack of dawn, young lady."

  "You're the one who wanted to hustle off to Hong Kong at the earliest opportunity," she said. "Burke, your flight leaves around noon. Check with me after nine in the morning, and I should have everything ready for you."

  Quinn excused himself to use the bathroom, and Lori casually linked her arm in Burke's and walked with him to the living room. "I don't know what kind of magic you wield with my Dad, but since he went down to visit you he seems to have come back with a new lease on life. He smiles like the old teddy bear I used to know, and he talks about tomorrow as though it were not the end of the world. You probably aren't aware of what you've done, but I'm grateful to you more than I can say."