Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  "They didn't take your warning to heart?"

  "On the contrary, I had no problem with them. I gave him his badge and brought him over to where our group had gathered before going out to board the bus. I was checking my list to be sure everyone was there when a little old lady who hadn't said two words the whole tour walked up to him and stared at his badge. 'Who are you?' she said right in front of our local tourism contact. 'You haven't been with us before.'"

  "Was the contact a security type?"

  "Undoubtedly. He went over to a telephone to make a call. I grabbed one of my good guys and asked him to create a diversion. He didn't know what was going on, but I knew he was sharp enough to get the picture. He started a loud argument that drew attention away from me and my scientist. I whisked him out a rear door."

  From stories she had done in her newspaper days, Lori was familiar with the river boats that traveled up and down the Danube. They carried on commerce between the countries of Central Europe, operating between East and West. She had heard from other CIA people that some of the captains could be hired to transport illicit cargo. At the riverfront, she located a French-speaking German boat captain who agreed to take on two passengers for a sizable fee. Using a French passport she carried, Lori posed as the captain's mistress, while the Russian traveled as an extra crewman. After several close calls with river patrols, the captain managed to get them up the Danube, which marked the Czech-Hungarian border, and into Austria.

  "I can see why that would have been your last Agency assignment," Burke said. "Sounds like you did a helluva job getting him out, though."

  "The operation was a success, but I blew my cover. And I blew my job with the travel agency. They didn't take too kindly to having a tour group abandoned in Budapest."

  "I'd think not. But the story explains why you insisted I keep that extra passport handy."

  "Right. I'd have been in deep trouble if I hadn't had mine. After that I decided to go back home and give the travel business a try. I found the Agency had been looking into the need for an outside travel service, and they agreed to help me get started."

  Clipper Cruise & Travel became an almost instant success. She worked hard to put it on a firm footing, then began a slow but steady expansion. After her marriage a couple of years later, that growing success turned out to be the Achilles' heel of the relationship with her husband. It revealed an ego problem that ultimately wrecked her marriage. Her husband had turned abusive when he couldn't accept a wife who was more successful in business.

  The most startling thing she revealed to Burke, though, was the real meaning of her earlier comment that she had been born into the clandestine world. She had learned only recently, following her mother's death, that she was not the natural child of Cameron and Julia Quinn.

  "You remember Dad saying that I was born in Hungary? He had been in contact with some of the leaders of the uprising. One was a young economist, early thirties, about the same age as Dad. His wife was pregnant and went into labor in the midst of all the turmoil. When the Russians began their crackdown, he asked Dad to look after the baby should anything happen. The AVO—Hungarian secret police—captured him and came to the hospital for his wife. Mother was in the same hospital, on the same ward. She had just undergone a hysterectomy. With the help of a friend in the British MI6, and a cooperative doctor, they got the records switched to show that Mrs. Julia Quinn had given birth to a baby girl. Me. My real parents were never heard from again."

  "So you're really Hungarian," Burke said, intrigued.

  She grinned. "Actually, but not really. I'm as American as apple pie. I have an American birth certificate, and no records exist anywhere to argue otherwise."

  "Okay. Granted, you're one hundred percent Yankee. But you have what I now see as a Hungarian characteristic, something that intrigued me from the moment I saw you at your office last week. Sort of a sultry, gypsy-like quality. Mystery woman."

  "Now you're embarrassing me," she said, lowering her eyes, giving her head a shake.

  "I didn't mean to. It's really very charming. Now I understand something else, too. I wondered how a good Catholic like Cam could have only one child."

  "Yes, I'd love to have had some brothers and sisters, but it wasn't possible." She glanced at her watch. "I think that's enough true confessions for awhile. We'd better try to get a little shut-eye before we reach the South China Sea."

  The next time the stewardess came down the aisle, she could see nothing but two soundly sleeping passengers, one with dark hair tumbled onto the other's shoulder. Crossing the International Date Line, they lost a day as they slept.

  The pregnant-looking Boeing jet swept down over the teeming harbor in the early afternoon, skimming above its conglomeration of ferries, ancient junks, ocean-going container ships, and lighters that carried cargo to and from the occasional freighter. Smoothly it slipped onto the long ribbon of concrete at Kai Tak Airport. Lori and Burke quickly checked through customs and immigration and headed out to the line of taxis. They went directly to Ruttonjee Hospital in the Wan Chai area west of Shau Kei Wan.

  At the hospital, they were shunted about with bureaucratic dispassion, winding up in a small waiting area. When the clerical collar came through the door, Burke knew the news was not good.

  "Mrs. Quinn?" said the chaplain tentatively. He obviously took Burke for her husband. "Mr. Logan Charles' daughter?"

  Lori gave a brief nod, her eyes beginning to glisten.

  "I regret to have to tell you that your father passed away about thirty minutes ago. If there is anything I can do to be of assistance..."

  Lori looked around at Burke, then closed her eyes tightly and bit at her lower lip. She could have screamed, pounded her fists against the bearer of such hideous news, filled her handkerchief with a flood of tears. He would not have blamed her. After the conversation with Hawk Elliott, Burke had been prepared for the worst. He wasn't sure Lori had been. But as he put his arm around her, he felt her body stiffen, and then she opened her eyes.

  "I want to see him," she said in a steady voice.

  The chaplain took a deep breath. "He's rather badly battered. It would be better to remember him as you last saw him, rather than in his present condition."

  "Don't you need someone to identify the body?" she asked with calm practicality.

  The chaplain was obviously unprepared for her reaction. "Uh...that won't be necessary, Mrs. Quinn. There's a gentleman from the U. S. Consulate General there now."

  There was a determination in her eyes that defied any opposition. "I want to see my father," she repeated.

  He shot a pleading glance at Burke, who offered no help, then nodded his acquiescence. "Come with me."

  They followed him through a maze of corridors and onto an elevator to the next floor. He finally stopped outside a room where a serious looking man with tousled brown hair, late-forties, stood talking with a white-clad Chinese doctor. The man turned and gave Lori a knowing look.

  "You're his daughter," he said. It was not a question. "I'm terribly sorry about, uh, Mr. Charles. I'm Sam Allen, Political Attache at the Consulate General." He said it as though he expected his audience to be duly impressed.

  Burke suspected he was something more than an attaché.

  "I want to see my father," Lori repeated to the sober-faced Chinese physician.

  He glanced around at the chaplain, who nodded. "They have just been removing the respirator, IV's, oxygen, all the paraphernalia," the doctor said. "He looks pretty bad but he didn't suffer. He was unconscious from the time the ambulance brought him in." He held the room door open for her.

  Burke turned to Allen. "I'm Burke Hill. I've been working with Logan Charles."

  Allen nodded, eyes narrowing. "Yes, I was told you might be coming."

  That settled it. Allen was CIA all right. Hawk Elliott had guessed he wouldn't take that advice to forget everything and go back to the Smokies.

  "I must go leave word of my whereabouts," the chaplain said apo
logetically. "I shall be back in a few minutes." He walked off down the corridor.

  Burke followed Lori into the room. An IV stand with a plastic bag hanging from a crossbar stood beside the bed, its tubes drooping down toward the floor. A metal tray holding several instruments sat nearby. The mortal remains of Cameron Quinn lay under a white sheet pulled up to his chin. Ugly spots of blood stained the covering. His bare arms stretched out at his sides, atop the sheet. Heavy bandages hid most of his skin, though one wrist was left bare, bruised and bloody where the IV had been removed. Parts of his face that weren’t covered with gauze bore garish purple bruises. He hardly resembled the man Burke had dined with at Lori’s condo a few nights ago.

  It was painful to see. Burke began to question what he might have done to avoid this, but he knew it was a futile exercise. Cam Quinn was doing what he loved to do. He took every precaution, but he wasn’t averse to taking a necessary risk. Something had gone badly wrong.

  As Lori turned to the doctor and asked a question, Burke stepped out to the corridor to confront Allen. "How did the accident happen?"

  "He was driving a rented car east of here in the area of Shau Kei Wan,” Allen said. “It was dark and rainy. The roads around there are hilly, lots of curves. He didn't make one of them. Not a skid mark. The car was a mess. According to the blood test, he was bombed out of his gourd."

  Burke bristled. Even if it were true, he didn't appreciate Allen putting it so crudely. "That's what Hawk Elliott said. I find it hard to believe. He was determined to stay off the booze."

  "Look, pal, I've seen the official police report. Believe me, it's there, alcohol two-point-zero."

  Burke shook his head. "What was he doing on this side of the island?"

  "Hell, how should I know? He never even bothered to check in with me. I wouldn't have known he was in town if one of his old SIS buddies hadn't called looking for him. Said their people reported he was staying at the Pearl. Obviously he was out boozing it up somewhere."

  Burke showed a pained frown. "It doesn't make any sense."

  Allen gave a hoarse laugh. "It's a damned idiotic world we live in these days, pal. If you find something that makes sense, let me know, will you? Say, what name is his daughter using?"

  "Her own," Burke said coolly. "Lorelei Quinn."

  Lori came out of the room just then, the doctor gripping her arm. Her face was pale but the determined look had not diminished.

  "If you'll call me in the morning, Miss Quinn," Allen offered, "I'll help you make arrangements to fly him back to the States. Unless you need something else now, I'll get on back to the office."

  And report on my whereabouts, Burke thought.

  "No," Lori said. "Thank you very much. I'll call in the morning."

  Burke took her hand as Allen walked away. "Sure you're okay?"

  She nodded. "Thanks. I'll be all right."

  He turned to the white-coated Chinese. "There's one thing we have a problem with, doctor. Mr. Charles had sworn off drinking. Yet Sam Allen said a blood test showed two-point-zero alcohol."

  The doctor glanced apprehensively at Lori. "Yes, that's true."

  Lori's mouth opened in shock. She shook her head vehemently. "It can't be! He wouldn't!"

  Burke still had some doubts, but he wanted to make sure, especially for Lori’s benefit. "Mightn't there have been a mistake in the lab?"

  "I hardly think so," the doctor said.

  "Lori, my dear, I just got word. I'm terribly distressed." They looked around as a short, distinguished looking gray-haired man came hurrying up the corridor in front of the chaplain.

  Lori ran to meet him and threw her arms around him. "Uncle Sydney!" She buried her head into his shoulder and her steely resolve finally broke into muffled sobs.

  "There, there, dear," he said in a soothing tone. "Have yourself a good cry. It's perfectly all right."

  After a few minutes, she began to pull herself back together, and Burke gave her a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

  The older man held out his hand. "And who do we have here? I'm Sydney Pinkleton, Lori's godfather."

  "Burke Hill," he said, shaking the hand. "I'm an old friend of…" he hesitated, remembering to use the pseudonym, "Logan Charles."

  Pinkleton nodded. "Yes, I've heard him speak of you. Terrible tragedy. I had just talked with him Monday morning."

  Lori managed a wan smile. "Remember I told you about Dad's friend in Budapest, Burke? That was Sydney."

  The MI6—or SIS—man, Burke recalled. No doubt he was the one Cam mentioned having reported the ex-East Bloc agents on his tail. "It's a pleasure to meet you," Burke said. Then he had an idea. It was probably beating a dead horse, but he thought it best to clear up Lori's doubts. "Maybe you can help us with a little problem here."

  "Certainly. Be happy to help any way I can."

  "The doctor says they ran a blood-alcohol test and it showed two-point-zero. Lori says her Dad had been on the wagon for months. I should think a re-test would clear things up."

  "Well, now," Pinkleton said, suddenly shifting to an all-business tone, turning to the physician. "I am with Her Majesty's Government, sir. Why don't we just have another test run and see what it shows?"

  The doctor bowed solicitously. "Let me go call the laboratory." He hurried off to a nearby nurses' station.

  The chaplain excused himself again, leaving the three of them alone.

  "You say he had given up the Scotch?" Pinkleton said, lowering his voice. "I heard about the suspension last year."

  "He hadn't had a drink in months," said Lori. "I could swear to that. Why would he do this now?"

  Pinkleton shrugged. "Pressure, perhaps. Though I must say he certainly sounded in a jovial mood when we talked Monday. Do you know anything about the case he was involved in?"

  "No, but Burke was working with him."

  Was is correct, Burke thought, but he made no allusion to his conversation with Hawk Elliott.

  "Were you aware that he was being followed?" Pinkleton asked.

  "Yes," Burke said. "I called him from Tel Aviv Sunday night. He told me there were a couple of Bulgarians."

  "That's correct. We had run up on them before. A pair of real nasties, worked for the old Bulgarian intelligence service. One of them was suspected of involvement in that attempt to assassinate the Pope. They followed Cameron from the hotel Monday morning, but he shook them off. Unfortunately, we lost track of them after that."

  Lori listened with a concerned frown. "Do you think they might have had something to do with this accident?"

  Pinkleton folded his arms and shook his head. "I see no cause to consider that at the moment. Unless Cameron were on the brink of making some major breakthrough."

  "He had just turned up our first real lead, but I don't know how far he'd been able to pursue it," Burke said.

  The doctor came back, towing a younger Chinese, hardly more than a teenager, dressed in a white laboratory coat. The doctor faced them with a somber look. "I'm sorry. We have a problem." He glanced at the youth.

  The boy hung his head, avoiding their eyes. "The test tube dropped. Broke," he said in a low, barely audible voice. "No more blood sample."

  "Shit!" Burke could only shake his head. How the hell could he have been so careless? That left no way to disprove the test results.

  The lab technician bit at his lower lip. He was breathing hard, trembling, obviously a nervous wreck. "It's the truth. I'm very sorry."

  Burke saw Sydney Pinkleton making a mental note of the name on the boy's badge. "Let me go take a look at the police report, and I'll get back to you," Pinkleton said. "Will you be at the Pearl?"

  Lori nodded. "If we can get rooms there."

  It was late afternoon by the time they arrived back in Kowloon. A sympathetic manager at the Pearl Hotel provided them with connecting rooms. He had already turned over "Mr. Charles'" personal effects to representatives of the U. S. Consulate General. He wasn't aware, of course, that they were from the CIA.

 
Burke ordered a bottle of Blue Nun from room service and they sat at the table in Lori's room.

  "Did you give a report to Sam Allen while I was in the room at the hospital?" Lori asked.

  "You might as well know," he said, agitation in his voice. "I talked with Hawk Elliott as soon as I got back to Washington from Israel. He told me to butt out, said I was no longer needed. He didn't even want to listen to what I'd found out in Tel Aviv. Said Cam hadn't reported anything to him and they would have to start the whole investigation over from scratch."

  "That's stupid," she said. "I'm sure you could tell them a lot more than what they know now."

  "My sentiments exactly. But I'm afraid Mr. Elliott lets his animosity toward Cam get the better of his good judgment."

  "They never got along."

  Burke sipped at the wine. Should he go all the way and tell her about Jabberwock? Now that he thought about it, this accident was exactly what Cam had feared. In the morning he would have to carry out Cam's instructions and call on Mr. Luk at the East Asia Bank. Or would it be better for both him and Lori to just forget the whole thing, put Hong Kong behind them, and go back and try to pick up their lives where they had left off?

  Lori Quinn had a perceptive and analytical mind and obviously saw right through his dilemma. "You're trying to decide what to tell me," she said. "If it has any possible bearing on my father's death, I want to know."

  He considered for a moment giving her the whole story, but what to do about Jabberwock was his problem. There was no need to drag her into it. She had enough on her mind with worrying about her father's death, the details of getting him home, a funeral, and winding up his affairs.

  He shook his head and took a long swallow of wine. "No," he lied, "I was just thinking about that bastard, Elliott. As far as he's concerned, if you aren't a CIA insider, you don't have enough sense to run a kindergarten operation."