Burke felt the warmth of her body beside him and suddenly realized how long he had ignored the natural urges that came with being a man. He had a sudden desire to put his arm around her. Instead, he did the opposite, pulled away to lean against the end of a high-backed sofa, straining to keep his mind on the subject of Cam Quinn.
He spoke in a half-whisper. "When I first saw him down there, I got the impression he was coming apart like a paper boat in a rainstorm. I'm happy if I've been able to cheer him a bit."
"You certainly have. And I've really enjoyed having you over this evening. When you get back from Israel, maybe I can treat you to something like a night at the Kennedy Center. Do you like symphony music?"
"Love it. Russian style, particularly."
She smiled, obviously pleased. "Good. The Moscow Radio Symphony Orchestra is appearing there in the next two or three weeks."
"Sounds great. I'll check with you when I—"
"Let's hit the road," Quinn said as he bounced into the room. "Had a great evening, Lori. I'll call you from Hong Kong. Take care."
"You, too," she said, sobering. "No more deals like Cyprus."
Quinn stopped suddenly and frowned. "What do you know about Cyprus?"
"I know what you didn't want to tell me. Remember, I have my sources."
"Damn breach of security."
She kissed him on the cheek. "Just be careful. Okay?"
He gave her a hug. "For you, okay."
The sky was partially overcast. As the lights of Washington bathed it with a swirling kaleidoscope of color, Burke thought of a surrealistic painting he’d seen at the Hirshhorn Museum. It was a notable switch from the star-speckled black void he viewed from his mountain perch in the Smokies. He was glad he had come, though, pleased with the opportunity to get to know Lori Quinn.
Cam Quinn was quiet at first as they drove back to the hotel. His voice had a contemplative ring to it when he spoke. "I didn't want to say anything in front of Lori. God knows she worries enough about me as it is. But this is something you need to know."
Burke shifted his eyes in the dark confines of the car. He sensed another melodrama in the works. "You're getting into one of your ominous moods again."
Quinn grinned. "That is undoubtedly part of my nature. But I believe in being prepared. That's one of the cardinal rules of this business. Be prepared for anything."
"And what should I be prepared for?"
"If anything should happen to me in Hong—"
"Whoa!" Burke threw up his hands. "What could happen to you besides getting ptomaine from eating in some offbeat Chinese restaurant?"
"Remember Cyprus?"
"I thought that was a PLO aberration?"
"That was Hawk's idea. Perhaps. Perhaps not. At any rate, in the unlikely event something should happen to me in Hong Kong, I want you to go to the East Asia Bank on Queen's Road Central. That's in the island's main commercial district. You should ask for Mr. Luk in the trustee department."
"Luk, eh? With any luck at all, I won't need that advice."
"Damn it, I'm serious about this." Quinn looked around, his face twisted.
"Sorry." The tone told Burke he would brook no more foolishness. "I've got you. Mr. Luk in the trustee department, East Asia Bank, Queen's Road Central."
Quinn pulled something out of his pocket and handed it over. "Give him this. He'll know what to do."
Burke held up the piece of paper so he could see it in the glow of passing street lights. It appeared to be half of a Hong Kong ten-dollar bill, torn diagonally. Actually, it was one of the smaller, so-called "new" bills issued by The Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation. He looked back at Quinn. "That's it?"
"As you say, you probably won't need to make use of it. If so, you won't need to know any more about it."
Burke studied his friend's face in the dull light of the car and fingered the torn bill in his pocket. He realized nothing had been said about returning the banknote if he came back. He had no doubts that Quinn viewed this operation as fraught with dire consequences. Having a guy shot to death beside you would be enough to trigger a few nightmares, but Burke hadn’t seen enough evidence to convince him of any pressing danger. Over the years, he had learned to put a lot of faith in Quinn's sixth sense. Had it become burdened by the effects of aging? Was it failing him now in the twilight of his career?
OYSTER ISLAND
Chapter 14
The underwater cable from Oyster Island carried two trunk lines which tied into PWI's private line telephone system. One phone was located in the office/control center, the other in the lounge area of the dormitory. The line terminating in the lounge could be accessed from the office, but not vice versa. While most of the island's occupants were just rolling out of bed or showering in preparation for breakfast on Saturday morning, Blythe Ingram quietly locked himself inside the office like a conspirator within a conspiracy. He plugged the telephone line into a portable set mounted in a large black case he had brought with him. He dialed a private line at the Southampton, Long Island mansion of Donald Newman.
"Mr. Newman, this is Blythe," he said when the PWI chairman answered. "Shall we go secure, sir?"
"By all means," Newman replied.
Ingram entered his "crypto-ignition key" and waited while the data was routed to a computer at the National Security Agency in Maryland. Within fifteen seconds, a digital display spelled out "Donald Newman, Chairman, Pan West Industries, Top Secret." At the same time, Ingram's own identity and security clearance was being flashed on the telephone in New York. Simultaneously, the NSA computer randomly selected one of countless encoding algorithms to scramble their conversation.
"We're secure, sir," he confirmed.
"How is the operation going?" Newman asked in a deep, sonorous voice, articulated with the precision of a network newscaster.
"I'm not so sure we should have stretched the training out over a three-week period," Ingram said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I suppose it was necessary to give Bob Jeffries time to rebuild the truck. But we've pretty well covered most of what they need to know. There won't be a test firing until next week."
"Do I detect some measure of concern? Perhaps a restlessness on the part of the team members?"
"Very perceptive, sir. It isn't too bad yet, but it could become a problem. Overmyer is probably the worst. He's very impatient, always on the move, prowling like a cat. The German is a little less active, but judging by his looks, he disapproves of most everything and everybody. It's probably just his outlandish appearance. You half expect him to start growling like some prehistoric creature and swinging his claws."
"What about Abdalla?"
"Very aloof. Seldom speaks except to ask a question. You can tell he absorbs every word of what's said, though. You get the feeling that all three of them are lethal instruments."
There was a slight chuckle at the other end. "That is precisely why they were chosen. As for the decision to schedule three weeks on the island, several other factors were considered besides the actual time needed to train them, and the time Jeffries required to install his equipment. One was to isolate them from the rest of the world long enough to assure their total immersion in the operation. Another was to separate their disappearance sufficiently from the target date that it would likely ring no alarms. And there was also a hope by one of the planners that it might throw them together long enough to create some personal rapport, make them more of a real team, perhaps achieve a degree of synergism."
"A hundred and twenty percent effort?"
"Precisely. How does it look to you? Are they learning?"
Teaching them to aim and fire the "device," as it had been referred to on the telephone, was Ingram's task. A former Marine, he had served in Vietnam during the early days of the war. After his discharge, he took his engineering degree and sought a place where he could pursue his interest in firearms and ballistics. With a firsthand knowledge of combat and the needs of troops in the field, he helped develop improved we
apons in the small arms and light artillery categories. Then he moved up the ladder, broadening his interests into aircraft firepower, missiles and, ultimately, the cutting edge of weapons technology, anti-satellite, anti-missile systems, the Strategic Defense Initiative, better known as "Star Wars." At that stage, he became head of the Weapons Division of Pan West Industries, hand-picked by Donald Newman.
"Yes, sir," Ingram replied. "There are actually two phases to what we're doing. Jeffries is practically building a TV studio in the truck. They have to have a working knowledge of everything in case some inquisitive official should come along. He'll get into the communications end of it when the installation is complete. My part is relatively simple, though it must be handled with precision, as you know. I'd say they're coming along fine for novices at most of the technology. Ted insists each one know how to do every task, in case something should happen to one of them."
"Ted's a very thorough young man. It sounds as though everything is going according to plan. I trust you've had no problem with unauthorized visitors?"
"Haven't seen a soul. We keep the intrusion system going virtually all the time. The Coast Guard called one day to see if we needed anything." He gave a dry laugh. "If they only knew. Jeffries flew out late yesterday with Goldman. They're due back Monday morning."
The deep voice hardened. "Where was Goldman going?"
"I don't know, sir. They were flying into New Orleans. He said he had to send a report to his boss."
Newman's voice crackled with the sharpness and chill of an icicle. "I don't like the idea of that man running around loose. He's dangerous. I wish we could have somebody following him, but that might jeopardize the operation." He paused a moment as if mobilizing his final thoughts. "I want you to give everyone a stern warning. They must do or say nothing after they leave there that could possibly tie this operation back to Oyster Island. That is vital. You understand it is to protect your own neck as well as mine?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You're doing a good job, Blythe. I knew I could count on you. Keep me posted."
Ingram smiled as he hung up the phone. He had spent enough time with his employer to know what lay behind his thoughts. He admired Donald Newman as a man of vast imagination and discernment. At seventy-five, Newman was in excellent health and in firm control. An old school patrician with a vision of America as the unchallenged leader of a fractious world, he would be content to share the reins of power with a few colleagues of like mind. Anyone or anything he deemed as a threat to that vision merited nothing save his wrath. That wrath, like the Almighty's judgment, knew no bounds.
The Newman family fortune had been accumulated from oil and land investments. Donald, head of the family holding company and the sole male heir, could have succeeded as easily as a financial guru. Well ahead of the pack, he saw the handwriting on the wall and made his move away from oil before the Arabs changed the face of the petroleum industry.
The war in Vietnam produced big profits for a large defense contractor on whose board he served. Newman shifted the family's wealth into the company's stock at the dawn of the seventies and soon wrested control. From there, it was the classic story of a dynamic empire builder, merging more and more companies until he had amassed the nation's top defense-related conglomerate, Pan West Industries. In the past couple of years, he had witnessed the insidious metastasis of a new malignancy that threatened the vitality of America's position of preeminence, one that also posed dire consequences for his own industry. He viewed Jabberwock as an inevitable outgrowth. His main contribution, besides cash, had been Ingram’s talent and dedication.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Chapter 15
At about nine-fifteen that morning, Burke strolled into Clipper Cruise & Travel, bag in hand, ready to swing into the flow of his new assignment but lacking any real concern for where it might lead. He had made numerous routine trips abroad during his Bureau days. He saw no reason to think this one would be any different. Brenda Beasley ushered him into the Captain's Cabin, where he found Lori pouring over a stack of papers on her desk, looking every inch the busy executive. As a concession to Saturday, however, she wore a pink blouse and white slacks rather than a more formal dress or suit.
She greeted him with a warm smile. He was about to try reading something into it but quickly admonished himself to quit dreaming.
"Good morning! I hope you suffered no ill effects from the salmon?"
He chuckled. "Only in the calorie department. That dinner was great, Lori. It was a real treat to eat somebody else's cooking." Years of bachelorhood had forced him to achieve a measure of competence in the kitchen, but on the culinary Richter Scale, his efforts would hardly have caused a ripple.
"Don't talk about calories. Only the dessert was excessive, and you didn't overdo it." She picked up a folder from her desk and held it out. "Here are your tickets and hotel reservation. You leave right at noon, so you'll need to head for National pretty soon. Are you packed?"
He gestured at the bag outside the door. "I travel light. One bag."
"Looks like you'll have another. The courier from Langley was here a short while ago. Left that case over there." She pointed across the office toward a black metal case that sat beside a small, round table.
Burke walked over to it and found an ordinary aluminum camera case which, instead of the usual shiny metal, had been painted a dull flat black. He turned to Lori and grinned. "Good old CIA," he said with obvious amusement. "Paint it black, make it invisible."
A shadow seemed to cross her face. "Don't knock it. You might wind up very happy to have something that makes you a bit less conspicuous."
Burke caught the change in her expression. There wasn't even a hint of humor in her eyes. He wondered again what might have happened in Europe while she was operating without the shield of diplomatic immunity. "I can tell you've been there," he said.
She nodded. "I've been there, all right. You might even say I was practically born there."
She had been born in Hungary at the time of the uprising, he recalled. Obviously she'd been in enough tight spots that she didn't find anything humorous about the Agency's meticulous attention to detail. Glancing back at the case, he noticed it came complete with luggage tag made out with his name and home address. Opening the lid, he found a Nikon with three lenses, 50mm, 28mm wide angle and a 300mm telephoto that was unbelievably compact. The waterproof case also included color film and a light meter. Everything as ordered.
He turned back to Lori. "Did they send my passport?"
She took another packet from her desk. This one was sealed, with Burke's name on the front. "I trust it's in here. You can check it out at the table there if you'd like." She glanced at her watch. "I might just drop you by the airport. I need to go down that way shortly."
He sat at the table and opened the flap, then dumped the contents out. There was a passport in the name of Burke Hill, with his bearded face glaring out of the embossed State Department seal. And next to it was another issued to Douglas Bell. He had worn the beard for so many years now that the clean shaven face looking out at him was a bit startling. It didn't look like him, and yet it did. Douglas Bell could easily pass for five to ten years younger than Burke Hill. He fanned out the rest of the packet's contents. All of the ID that might be required for one Douglas Bell, driver's license, Social Security card, gasoline credit card, business cards, even a gold Master Card.
"I can't believe all this," he mumbled, shaking his head.
Lori looked up. "Believe what?"
"Sorry. Guess I was talking to myself. Cam said he was getting me another passport in a fake name, sans beard. They've included a driver's license, the works. I'm not going to Israel as Agent Double-Oh-Seven, you know. What the devil would I need all this stuff for?"
"I don't know why they're sending you over there," Lori said. "Evidently you think it's something pretty routine. Dad must have thought otherwise."
"It would look that way."
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p; "Well, I'd suggest you keep everything handy. Dad wouldn't have had them send it to you if he hadn't thought you might need it." She got up and walked around the desk. "I have to check a couple of things with Brenda, then we'll be ready to go."
Burke looked down at the pile of bogus credentials and slowly shook his head again. First a fake photographic assignment, and now this. It was exactly the sort of thing he had hoped to avoid.
Lori drove a shiny red Corvette that she treated with tender loving care. The antithesis of her father, Burke thought. As they headed down Memorial Parkway alongside the Potomac, he spotted the gleaming dome and broad columns of the Jefferson Memorial, and beyond it the pristine white spire of the Washington Monument. After all these years, he realized, the sights of this vibrant capital city still stirred a feeling of awe inside him.
"Seeing all those memorials to the founding fathers makes you stop and think," he said. "Maybe all this is really worth it."
"All this?"
"You know, wandering around the world, poking at shadows, trying to make sense out of random conversations, rumors—"
"You sound like you aren't convinced."
His voice took on a slight edge. "Frankly, I'm not. Your Dad coerced me into this. I didn't volunteer. I had some real bitter experiences in my waning days with the Bureau. I haven't been exactly thrilled at jumping back into this sort of thing."
She looked around at him, her dark eyes narrowing. "That validates one of my concerns."
"What's that?"
"I thought you were taking this a bit too lightly. I worried that you'd been out of the game too long to be serious about the potential for danger. That could prove deadly."
Burke shook his head. "All I'm doing is going over there on a photographic assignment, for which nobody's going to want the pictures I shoot. I'm to meet an old contact of Cam's and see if he can provide some information we need. Then I come back home."
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 8