McKenzie had been leaning back, obviously taking in every word, storing it for future retrieval. He must have had a mind that soaked up facts like a sponge, Burke surmised. Suddenly McKenzie leaned forward, planting his elbows amidst the piles of photographs, map sections and computer printouts on the desk. "So you want to shoot some aerial photos."
"Right. Only I don't have that kind of equipment."
McKenzie spread his hands. "Well, I expect we've got just about anything you could ask for. Should be no problem at all."
Burke made a cautionary gesture. "There's a little more to it than that. The island and five miles around it is restricted airspace, up to twenty-five thousand feet."
McKenzie tapped his fingers on the desk and rolled his eyes thoughtfully. "What's the name of the island?"
"Oyster Island."
"I've flown over the coast along there, but I don't recall a restricted area."
Burke looked surprised. "I saw it listed on something called a NOTAM."
"Aha! Notice to Airmen. I've got a file here." He reached into a cabinet beneath the desk and pulled out a folder, flipped it open and ran his finger down the sheet. "Yeah, here it is. This is a temporary restriction requested by a private firm. It's for the pilot's own protection to keep clear. But it's not the same as a military restricted area. They won't scramble the jets if we violate it."
"But we don't want to tip off the people on the ground what we're up to."
"I've got a camera I don't talk much about. I built it with the help of a friend who had worked on the U-2. It's a scaled down version, of course. Four-by-five format. It'll mount in my trusty old Cessna 182. We can tilt it up to forty-five degrees from vertical. If necessary, I can drop a wing and do a straight-ahead slip to get a sharper angle. But five miles would be a bit too far out." He took a pencil and started to draw a diagram. "Say we come in at five thousand feet altitude. Who the devil will know whether we're three or four or five miles away? Let's figure fifteen thousand feet horizontal, five thousand vertical." He reached for a small scientific calculator, pressed a few buttons. "That would give us a shooting range of sixteen thousand feet at an angle of about seventy degrees. Which translates to a twenty-five-degree bank. It'll be a little tricky, depending on the winds. I should be able to hold it long enough, though."
Burke had been lost way back there. He gave a slight shake of his head and inquired, "What kind of resolution could we expect?"
"I'm sure you've read what Kodak did with their new Tmax 3200 film."
"That deal where they pushed it to ASA 25000?"
"Right. They blew it up enough to read a license plate from about two blocks away. I've got some film I've been aiming to try out with that camera. Should give some spectacular results. Sounds like your deal would be just the right kind of test. We certainly ought to be able to tell you what's happening around that island. When do you need it?"
Burke squirmed in his chair. "Would you believe yesterday?"
McKenzie's laugh was one of resignation. "Why not? That's when everybody else wants it. I'm tied up tomorrow, and Wednesday morning. I could do it after that, weather permitting."
He turned to his computer and punched a few keys. Watching the screen, he typed in a few more characters. Then he hit the print command and the dot matrix printer began to buzz, sending paper rolling out the top. Tearing off the sheet, he swung around in his chair.
"There's some rain along the west coast of Florida, but it's moving east. Let's see, we have a front over southern Texas. It's due to move northeast. Should go west of here on up into Arkansas. Forecast looks good. If it holds up."
THE FRENCH QUARTER
Chapter 33
New Orleans was a carnival almost any summer night, particularly in the loose confines of its quaint Vieux Carré. Burke's motel sat on the edge of the Quarter, and he could hear the shouts of the revelers and the plaintive, bluesy notes of the musicians as he crossed to the motel restaurant for dinner. He had chosen to stay close by to make certain he would not be late for "the appointed hour," as Lori chose to call it. Promptly at seven-twenty Central Daylight, he called the home of Sara Lawson. Lori answered.
"What do you tell your friends is going on?" he asked.
"Friends don't care," she said. "I just told them the phone was going to ring at eight-twenty, and I would answer it. Are you ready for Mr. Ingram?"
"Shoot."
"He is forty-eight years old, divorced, currently president of the Weapons Division of PWI. He's a protégé of Donald Newman, the PWI chairman, who has open sesame powers at just about any door in Washington. Ingram joined the Marines ROTC program in college, where he got his mechanical engineering degree. He served four years on active duty, including a tour in Vietnam. After Nam, he went to work for a company that designed and manufactured small arms for the military. He helped them branch out into light artillery. The company was bought out by PWI and Ingram moved up the ladder. He's been involved in aircraft armament, some phases of the missile industry and, lately, SDI."
"He's been a busy man."
"I also learned that Oyster Island is a facility of the PWI Weapons Division."
A light flashed in Burke's brain. "You didn't happen to learn whether he was in Berlin on May tenth?"
"You think he was, what did they call him, Joshua?"
"Right. He was to have the training camp ready. And he was the man with the 'device' and the 'birds.' My guess is the device would be a weapon of some sort, the birds whatever it shoots."
"I'll go along with that. The question is, what kind of weapon. How did you make out with Kevin McKenzie?"
He related his visit to Aerial Photomap.
"If you get the photos on Wednesday, you won't be any too soon," Lori said. "They're apparently leaving the island on Saturday."
"Yes, and I'm not at all sure the pictures will tell me everything I need to know. It may take a little nocturnal reconnaissance."
There was a pause while she digested that comment. "You're thinking about invading that island?" she asked.
"I wouldn't call it an invasion. Just a surreptitious visit to try and figure out who's doing what to whom. Like who the hell makes up the Jabberwock team, and why are guys with the stature of Blythe Ingram and Robert Jeffries involved? Who was the bogus Hong Kong salesman Emerson Dinwiddie, and who sent in the Bulgarian hit men?"
"You think a search of Oyster Island will answer all that?"
"Well, it ought to provide a damned good start." He sensed that he was about to be called to task for leaving her out again, and she quickly proved him correct.
"I suppose you know you can't do it alone," Lori said. "One of those intercepts indicated they would have, what, eight people?"
"Right." He tried a whimsical note. "I can sure give it the old college try."
"And get your tail shot off. Remember the detection system the man in Panama City told you about. I'm coming down there. You probably couldn't even get out to the island without drowning yourself."
"The hell I can't," he said. Now his competence was being challenged. "I can rent a boat with a driver to take me out there."
"Ha!" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "That's how much you know about boats. You don't call the man who sails a boat like that a driver."
"Whatever. Anyway, you don't need to be down here. I may have something else for you to look into up there."
"Burke Hill," she all but shouted. "I wish to hell you would stop treating me like a China doll you keep on a shelf. I have managed to take care of myself under circumstances much more dangerous than this. I'm not going to sit around here and let you get yourself killed because of some nineteenth century notion about a woman's place."
His ear felt hot, almost as if the fire in her voice had singed the wire to his phone. "Okay, okay," he said, not wishing to prolong the argument. "I probably couldn't do anything before Friday night anyway. I may not get to see the photos until Thursday. We'll talk after that and decide what to do."
"That 'we' sounds a little better. Remember Saturday night we were talking as equals, like partners. If this relationship is going to go anywhere, it has to be on a partnership basis."
He knew she was right, but only grudgingly admitted it. "Yes, ma'am," he said in his best boyish manner. "Talk to you later, partner."
The next morning, Burke cashed the two remaining Hong Kong checks, at separate banks. He figured he would have to pay McKenzie in advance for his services, and there would be other expenses if he laid on a night mission to Oyster Island. Despite Lori's vehement opposition, he had a hunch such a move would prove essential before it was over. Afterward, he drove back along the coast, arriving in Apalachicola early in the afternoon. He spent the rest of the day checking around the marinas to determine what was available in charter craft that might be used for a trip out into the Gulf.
It was late afternoon when he called Aerial Photomap.
"Weather's still looking good," McKenzie confirmed. "There's a cold front that's stirring up things in the Pacific off Mexico, but it shouldn't get here before the weekend. I believe we're in business. I presume you want to go along?"
He wasn't thrilled at the idea of flying out over the Gulf in a small, single-engine plane, but he definitely wanted a look at Oyster Island. "If there's room."
"With the camera installed, it's just a two-seater. But you can fly co-pilot. It'll be around a two-hour flight over there. Let's plan on a noon takeoff. That'd put us back here about four-thirty. The boys in the lab are going to be tied up pretty late tomorrow, so the earliest we could process it would be Thursday morning."
Burke felt a little disappointed at the delay, even though he had anticipated it. That would mean another night in New Orleans and wouldn't put him back in Apalachicola before sometime Thursday afternoon. He had entertained an outside hope of mounting his Oyster Island expedition Thursday night, but the time it would take to line everything up and make all the arrangements effectively ruled that out.
When he checked in with Lori that evening, he found she had been visited by Hawk Elliott. The CI chief was in his usual crotchety mood. He denied any knowledge of the stakeout at her house but accused her of holding out on the Agency.
"He said he knew I had been in contact with you, but I hadn't called Judge Marshall to report it."
"Did he say how he knew?" Burke asked.
"No. I suppose he figured my trip out to the car the other morning was a decoy. He knows I've been going somewhere different every night, and I've made very few calls from home. I took your bug detection device into the office today but didn't turn up anything. We have several phone lines, of course, and he could tap them all if he chose to."
"I should have bought the other gadget," he said, a bit irked at the oversight. "The one used to check for line taps. Did Hawk make any threats?"
"Just by implication. He's pretty cagey. He knows I'd go straight to the Judge if he did anything overtly. He wanted to know how much I knew about Jabberwock."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I didn't know about anything except your trip to Tel Aviv and Dad's to Hong Kong, that you both were apparently chasing down leads. I don't think he believed me. But he said they were looking more closely at the Israeli angle."
"Bullshit," Burke said. "There ain't no Israeli angle. But there's a damned solid American angle. And a still nebulous Red flag."
"Have you thought about this possibility?" she asked, the sudden change in her manner echoing a deeply felt concern. "Could it be some supersecret U.S. operation? Maybe the Agency investigation is just a smokescreen. With people like Ingram and Jeffries involved, and the use of the PWI facility, it sure takes on the look of a government-sanctioned enterprise."
He had to admit there was a certain logic to her suggestion. But it still left a major gap. "In that case, how do you explain Cam's death?"
Her voice turned a bit flat. "I can't. But we don't know definitely that it was related to Jabberwock."
"Oh? What happened to Amy Lee?"
"Do we know if she was really killed? What if she's back on the job?"
Her questions were beginning to nurture a vague, disquieting doubt. He had been so blindly certain of his own analysis that he had failed to ask himself the really tough questions. Could he have been wrong all along? What if he were to go charging out to Oyster Island and discover that he was compromising some vital, highly-classified paramilitary operation?
“How much do you trust Sydney Pinkleton?” he asked.
“I’d trust him with my life, why?”
“You’d better, because that’s what we’re about to do.”
“What do you mean?”
"Do you know how to contact him?"
"Not offhand. I'm sure I could track him down."
"See if he would find out what happened to Amy Lee. And ask him to check on that lab guy at the hospital."
The business day was just getting started in Hong Kong. She agreed to contact Pinkleton immediately after Burke detailed McKenzie's plans for the aerial reconnaissance mission the next afternoon.
LAKEFRONT AIRPORT
Chapter 34
When he met McKenzie at the Aerial Photomap office the next morning, Burke brought up the subject he knew he should have explored on his first visit.
"I'm sure you'll want payment in advance," he said. "How bad's the tab going to be?"
McKenzie shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I'll let you pay for the gas. I'll take care of the rest. This is an experiment, remember. I've got high hopes for the results, but I can't guarantee anything."
He ushered Burke into the nearby Lakefront Airport hangar, where he introduced a small, short-haired dynamo named Buddy Bottelli. Buddy wiped his stubby fingers with a tattered green rag before grasping Burke's outstretched hand.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hill," said Bottelli with what appeared to be a perpetual grin.
"Buddy's my right-hand man," said McKenzie. "He's chief camera technician, lab supervisor, map plotter. He can pick things out of a photo you wouldn't guess are there."
"I'm impressed," Burke said. "Where'd you acquire all this genius?"
"The good old U. S. Air Force," Buddy said. "I worked with cameras first. Then I decided to take a look at what the hell that stuff was coming out of those magic boxes. I served a hitch as a photo interpreter."
"They wish they had him back, too," McKenzie said with a grin. "But they won't pay him what I do. Everything ready to go, Buddy?"
"Camera's ready. Set forty-five degrees to port. As long as you don't miss the friggin' island."
"He's kidding, Burke." McKenzie stooped to point at a large blister on the underside of the Cessna's fuselage. "That's a radome. There's a scope in the cockpit. All I have to do is get the island centered on the scope and start firing. The intervalometer on the camera will give us a series of shots to make sure we get what we're going after."
McKenzie took his time inspecting the outside of the maroon-colored, high-winged plane, an action that helped dispel some of Burke's apprehension as he watched. The flame-haired pilot wound up by removing the hatch cover and checking the oil dipstick, then mounted a short stepladder to make certain the gas tanks had been topped off. Completing his inspection, he climbed through the door, motioning Burke to follow. After they had been towed out of the hangar, he fired up the engine and made his pre-flight checks, then called the tower for takeoff instructions. He had already checked the weather around Oyster Island before leaving his office. It was mostly clear, scattered cumulus at four-to-six thousand, surface temperature eighty-six degrees, southwest winds of twenty at five thousand feet.
Burke had no real fear of flying, but small, single-engine aircraft did not engender the same sense of security as a multi-engine commercial jet. He sat somewhat rigidly as they rumbled along the runway, the engine roaring at full power. He felt a slight queasiness in his stomach at the point where vibration from the landing gear suddenly ceased, giving way to a strange stilln
ess sensed despite the engine's thunder, meaning they were no longer part of the gravity-bound terrestrial world. McKenzie gave a grinning thumbs-up signal and started a climbing turn out over the Gulf. Keying the microphone, he advised Flight Service that he was "off at six minutes past the hour" and activated his VFR flight plan to Panama City. Bathed in the afternoon sun, the shimmering water below appeared to be a sea of sparkling diamonds.
During the flight, McKenzie pointed out various landmarks along the way, Biloxi's beachfront resorts, Pascagoula's shipyards, the northward sprawl of Mobile and Pensacola's naval air station. He handed Burke the sectional chart and indicated their path across it. Panama City appeared beneath them around two in the afternoon, and McKenzie radioed Flight Service to close out his flight plan. From there, they steered clear of Tyndall Air Force Base and took a southeasterly heading toward Port St. Joe. After passing over the small town that hugged St. Joseph Bay, he took up a heading almost due south and quickly crossed over the sandy shoreline out into the Gulf.
As the distance to Oyster Island grew steadily shorter, Lori's questions from last night nagged at Burke more insistently. He had begun to sift through all the facts and search for hidden meanings that might have escaped him earlier. Had the Arab on Cyprus really been shot, or was it something stage-managed for Cam's benefit? The man at Ben-Gurion airport, was he for real, or just an actor? Cam's death was tragically undeniable, but he wouldn't feel comfortable about the reasons behind it until he had heard from Pinkleton.
His thoughts were interrupted by McKenzie's dramatically waving finger, pointing ahead to the left.
"There she is," he said, squinting down past the Cessna's long nose. From this distance, the island was only a small oasis of mottled green and light brown. He adjusted the radar and soon pointed to the small image at the top of the scope.
Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers) Page 22