Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  "And who is babysitting the team members tonight while we sit here talking?" asked Newman's deep, resonant voice.

  "We're taking care of that," said Golanov. "They're being monitored at their motel tonight by Captain Katerina Makarenko, a highly competent officer of the Second Chief Directorate. She is the only person outside of this room who has knowledge of the full details of Operation Jabberwock."

  Burke had studied KGB accounts over the years and was familiar with the Second Chief Directorate. A plot involving both the CIA and KGB. And both Franklin Wizner and Donald Newman. No wonder it had seemed unbelievable.

  "If I may..." It was the other "English" voice.

  "Yes, General Kostikov?"

  "What Andrei said is not completely correct, as one or two of you may be aware," said the general. Burke recalled a Vladimir Kostikov in the Second Chief Directorate. He listened as the general continued. "The details are also known by a key member of the Central Committee, Yevgenni Zamyatin, Minister of Heavy Industry, who has given the operation his complete blessings and support. We did not think it wise to create any suspicion, however, by having him come to this country now."

  "Understood," said Wizner. "One further point of clarification. As all of you know, we have been deeply concerned by the interference of a rogue agent named Burke Hill. Richard, what can you tell us about him?"

  "He's proven much more resourceful than Mr. Elliott and I ever dreamed. Using Lorelei Quinn as bait, we had a trap set for him this morning in Washington. He saw right through it. How, I can't tell you. We saw no one in the area remotely fitting his description, yet he knew we were using a double for Miss Quinn. The only thing I can conclude is that he must have a partner."

  "What about this Dr. Brackin, the black man that Lorelei Quinn mentioned under influence of the drugs?" asked Hawk Elliott.

  "Was he the one on the island?" Golanov inquired.

  "Correct," said Richard. "Yes, it's possible he could have wandered by this morning while we were waiting in the driveway. He definitely knows too much. He and his wife both. As soon as our colleagues from the Continent are finished with Miss Quinn upstairs, they have orders to pick up the Brackins and arrange a suitable accident."

  "Something similar to what happened with Cameron Quinn in Hong Kong?" said Elliott.

  "Or the Chinese girl."

  "That leaves the main question before us," said Wizner, "which is the real reason for calling this meeting. Do we risk going ahead with the operation knowing that Burke Hill is still at large?"

  That was all that Burke heard. A high-powered electrical charge suddenly struck him in the back, temporarily paralyzing him. The submachine gun fell from his shoulder as he toppled to the ground. The earplug popped from his ear, and he lay there, groggy.

  The wiry, dark-complexioned Bulgarian known as Dimo, who had sneaked up behind Burke and incapacitated him with an electric stun gun packing 65,000 volts, picked up the automatic weapon and pointed it at him as Burke began to stir. If fate had placed his parents in the south of Italy at the time of his birth, instead of on the outskirts of Sofia, Dimo would have wound up a Mafia "enforcer." His muscles seemed fashioned out of some flexible alloy of steel, his reflexes quick as the shutter on one of Burke's fast cameras. At the moment they were clicking on full auto. He directed an intense stare at the face he had been studying in the photographs. It would be a pleasure to find some excuse to use this lethal weapon, but that would have to wait. The men inside had questions for this one.

  "Up." Dimo said.

  Burke struggled to his feet. He stared with a hopeless look at his own weapon aimed at his stomach.

  "Into house. March."

  Beyond the entrance foyer, a carpeted staircase rose toward the second floor. The walls featured decorative wainscoting and elaborate crown molding. The flooring was oak plank, partially covered by the delicate design of an Oriental rug. Dimo instructed Burke to walk to his left and knock on the door to the library, where the meeting was taking place.

  The door was cracked open by a frowning Robert Jeffries, whose face quickly blossomed into a smile as big as a sunflower. "Well, look who's here!" He flung the door open.

  "Caught him at window," said Dimo with a satisfied grin, nudging Burke into the room with the barrel of the M76. "What we do now?"

  "Who is he?" asked Wizner.

  Ingram spoke up. "That's Burke Hill, sir."

  "Gentlemen," concluded a beaming Franklin Wizner, "in that case, I should say this about wraps it up. Operation Jabberwock can proceed to its foreordained conclusion."

  Burke glared at the smiling men around the table, which sat in an oak-paneled room lined with bookshelves. He had really blown it this time. God save the President. It appeared that Burke Hill was not destined to do so. And in a sudden flash of understanding, as he studied the diabolical faces before him, he realized that Jabberwock was a plot to deliver the United States of America and the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to the hard-line conservatives of each country. They, in turn, could be counted on to quickly dissolve whatever nebulous bonds had brought them together and return the world to the brink of nuclear holocaust. Neither would harbor the least amount of trust for the other.

  It was the short, heavy man with slavic features and a smooth English accent, polished to perfection while a student at Cambridge many years ago according to the dossier Burke recalled reading, who stood and coldly provided the answer to the Bulgarian's question that had been left hanging.

  "Dimo, escort Mr. Hill up to join his friend, Miss Quinn," said General Kostikov. "Hold them until around three o'clock. Then take them up the river, just above the Falls, and let them enjoy a swim."

  "No shooting if possible," said Golanov, glancing toward the General for a nod of approval. "It should appear as an accidental drowning."

  Hawk Elliott allowed himself an unaccustomed smile. Burke guessed he would inform Lori's assistant that the accident had occurred while she was on a secret mission for the Agency. No mention should be made of it to anyone. The Drs. Brackin would not be around to raise any alarms.

  Burke saw Lori fight back the tears as she watched him enter the room in front of the sinewy Bulgarian. Burke figured she had kept her courage up with the tenuous hope that he would somehow locate the house and effect her rescue. That hope now lay in shreds. She watched with a look of total despair as the trim, lithe man called Grigor bound Burke's wrists and secured him to a straight-backed chair identical to the one in which she sat, equally immobilized.

  Burke didn't speak. It wasn't necessary. He was sure his eyes said it all. I've failed you. I've failed everybody.

  You took it all too lightly at first, he rebuked himself. Then, after realizing the seriousness of it, you found your techniques too rusty from years of disuse, your senses too dull, your instincts useless.

  The two men began to talk in their native tongue, no doubt planning disposition of the captives later that night.

  Burke looked across at Lori, who sat about five feet away. They were being held in a bedroom furnished colonial style, with a four-poster bed covered by a rose-colored canopy. Heavy decorative glassware on the dresser picked up the same color as an accent to the light oak furniture. Burke's chair sat near the dresser. Lori gave him an encouraging smile.

  It was precisely the medicine he needed. Like some potent elixir, it softened the hard, unforgiving lines of his face. He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin to show a jaw firmly anchored in a determined set.

  "The fat lady ain't sung yet," he said.

  Chapter 47

  On the bedroom wall, the old-fashioned wooden clock with Roman numerals showed two-forty when Dimo said something to Grigor and quietly left the room. Up to that point, both men had maintained the vigil, no doubt having been told about what had happened on Oyster Island. During the early evening, someone had come to the door now and then to consult with one of them in hushed tones. All had been quiet, though, since around midnight.

  Burke
had waited throughout the evening for one of them to leave. He knew this would likely be his only chance. Now his hands behind his back went to work in earnest. He had attempted to plan for every contingency this time. A large ring on one finger gave the appearance of a Masonic ring with a raised crest. It was something altogether different, a device Walt Brackin had told him about, available from a magic shop. Using his thumb, he turned it around so that the crest faced inside his hand. When pressed to one side, the crest moved on a pivot and allowed a small, razor-sharp blade to snap erect. It measured only half an inch.

  He had worked slowly for some time, in order not to appear obvious, and had almost severed the rope. Now he completed the job, being careful to allow nothing to fall to the floor. He also sliced the rope that bound him to the chair.

  "Could I have a drink of water?" Burke asked.

  Grigor laughed. "Soon you get plenty drink. Dimo go get car ready."

  The man had a pistol stuck inside his belt. He was too far away to rush. He would have the gun out before Burke could reach him. Somehow, he had to be lured closer, with his back to Burke if possible. Then he noticed Lori twisting about. He wondered if she had seen his hands, guessed what he was attempting to do. When she spoke, he had his answer.

  "This blasted rope is cutting into my chest," she complained. "Could you pull it down a little?"

  Grigor raised an eyebrow and looked across at her. Even barefoot, three days in the same dress with little opportunity to freshen up, Lori still presented an alluring figure. Burke knew she would be a tempting sight for a guy far from home, doubtless kept busy over the past few weeks. He watched as Grigor eyed the rope that encircled her, pressing against the fullness of her breasts. He walked over near her, bent slightly forward and reached a hand toward the rope, letting his fingers stray inside her blouse.

  At that moment, Burke pulled his hands free and pushed himself up from the chair, hoping to land a blow before Grigor could turn. The man was a good fifteen years younger, doubtless strong as a tiger and trained in karate. He would be no match in a fair fight. Unfortunately for Burke, though he had cut through the rope that bound him to the chair, it was still wrapped around enough that it caught on the chair bottom, nearly turning it over, frustrating his intended movement.

  Grigor heard the commotion and spun around, reaching for the gun.

  Burke had stumbled back into the dresser. One hand brushed against a rose-colored glass candle holder. It was the only weapon available. In one arcing move, he grabbed the holder and hurled it toward the Bulgarian.

  A sharp edge of the heavy glass object caught Grigor on the jaw just as he was raising the pistol. It stunned him momentarily and the gun slipped from his hand, falling to the carpet. Without hesitance, he rushed forward before Burke had time to find another weapon. As the charging figure reached his hands toward Burke's throat, Burke swung his hand out and raked the razor-sharp ring-knife down an outstretched arm. Blood spurted immediately from the long, slashing wound.

  Grigor paused a moment, frozen by the shock of the cut, the unexpected sight of his own blood. It gave Burke just enough time to aim a heavy hiking boot squarely into the man's crotch.

  Grigor staggered from the pain. Burke swung again, just as the stocky man flung his head back, causing the small knife blade to rake across beneath the chin. As the wounded man dropped to his knees, Burke grabbed a heavy bowl off the dresser and slammed it against the side of his head. He slumped to the floor unconscious, blood gushing from the neck wound.

  Breathing heavily, the adrenalin pumping, Burke rushed to Lori's side, slipped the ring off and began to cut her ropes.

  "I don't know what you've got there," she said in an excited whisper, "but I wish I'd had it earlier. Hurry. The other one may be back any minute."

  As he pulled the ropes from her, she sprang forward to grab the pistol that lay on the carpet beside the still figure. She was about to turn toward Burke when the door swung open and Dimo rushed in with his gun drawn, babbling in Bulgarian, evidently about the noise he had heard.

  Lori held the gun in her right hand, about chest high. Without taking aim or steadying her grip with the other hand, she fired off three quick shots. One of them struck a vital spot. Caught by surprise, Dimo was able to squeeze off only one round. It went wide. His momentum caused him to topple forward into the bedroom, his weapon skittering across the carpet in front of him.

  Burke rushed over to snatch up the pistol just as he heard a noise on the stairway beyond the door. He crouched low, holding the gun out with both hands, and jumped through the doorway. He was about to pull the trigger when he saw the shocked look on an underwear-clad, unarmed Robert Jeffries halfway up from the landing.

  "Don't shoot!" Jeffries flung his hands above his head.

  "Move up to the top of the stairs," Burke said, straightening up, the pistol aimed at Jeffries' head.

  The frightened figure promptly obeyed. His only fighting experience had been in the cockpit of a streaking jet. Close combat was a different breed of warfare.

  Then Burke heard the sound of another pair of feet rushing up the stairs. As he sprinted into view at the landing, the stocky, blond-headed young man came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide, the pistol in his hand wavering. Burke spun Jeffries around to face the man and pressed the barrel of the automatic against his temple.

  "Drop your weapon or Jeffries is a dead man," Burke said with a growl.

  As the man hesitated, Lori stepped around Jeffries, Grigor's gun squarely aimed at the blond head. He released his grip, letting the pistol fall to the carpet with a muted thud.

  "I'll frisk him," Lori said, moving down the steps, keeping the gun trained on her captive. She ordered him to spread eagle, with his hands against the wall on the landing.

  Burke pressed the barrel harder against Jeffries' head. "Is there anyone else downstairs?"

  He could see the man tremble as he stammered. "No...no one."

  "What about outside?"

  "No one outside."

  Burke grabbed an arm, pulled it back and up. He put enough pressure on to make Jeffries flinch. "You're positive?"

  "Positive."

  "What do you know," Lori said from the landing. "A pair of handcuffs. And a key." She snapped them on one wrist of the blond-headed man, then pressed the gun against his back. "Now bring the other hand down slowly."

  When she had him secured with the cuffs, she turned back to Burke. "This must be one of Hawk's hired goons. Probably a small-town cop."

  "Big mouth broad," the man said.

  "That's no way to talk to a lady." She gave him a shove. "Okay, up the stairs."

  They tied up the two men in separate bedrooms, gagging them in case someone should return soon. Then they returned to check on the two Bulgarians.

  Burke bent over Dimo, lying beyond the doorway. "This one's damned sure not going to engineer any more auto accidents. The bullet went through his neck and out the back, probably severed his spinal chord."

  Lori was checking on Grigor. "This fellow certainly isn't going anywhere." She turned her head away from the sight of all the blood. "Your little knife must have hit the carotid artery." She stood up and looked across grimly. "After what they did to my Dad..." Her voice faded away.

  Burke was in full agreement. He had set out on this odyssey to track down Cam's killers. Now they were a pitiful looking sight. But he had never been out for revenge, only the pleasure of seeing them behind bars. The task ahead, though, had become even more urgent.

  "We'd better get out of here," Burke said. "Where are your shoes?"

  "I don't know. They took them away when I first got here. Let me look around."

  Almost as soon as Burke had walked out into the foyer at the head of the stairs, he heard a sound coming from the front lawn. Sprinting across to a window, he looked out into the darkness and saw a car pulling into the parking area. The doors opened, and he could see several men starting to climb out.

  "Lori!" he called. "Let's go. Ther
e's a car out front."

  She ran out of the room, still barefoot. He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the stairs. They ran down to the main floor and back into the kitchen, where they found an outside door. Crossing the deck behind the house, they began to race across the lawn toward the woods to the rear.

  Lori had no problem on the smooth grass, but when they reached the densely wooded area, the going became treacherous. Beneath the trees, the darkness intensified. Even if there had been paths, they could not have followed them. Thick underbrush clogged the area. Frequent low stumps, fallen trees and the tentacles of thorny bushes made for hazardous footing.

  Burke had planned to turn toward the stone fence and make their way into the adjacent property where he had parked the Jeep. But in their headlong rush into the blackness, attempting to dodge hazardous obstacles, he had lost his bearings. With only occasional patches of sky visible, it was impossible to determine which way they were heading.

  "I can't go any farther," Lori said, dropping down on a large log. She was almost in tears. "My feet feel like they have spikes in them."

  Burke kneeled down and lifted one of her feet. He could feel the bloody cuts. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped both of her feet. Then he ripped strips from his fatigues and wrapped her feet with them. He knew they hadn’t gone far enough to feel safe.

  "You go on, Burke. Get to a phone and call someone. Come back for me later."

  "No," he said. "I'm not leaving you here. I'll carry you out on my back."

  "How are you—"

  Her voice broke off as they heard the sound of someone pushing his way into the underbrush.

  "Shine the light over this way," a voice called in the distance.

  "Go on, Burke." Lori’s low voice sounded urgent. "It may be your only chance."

  "We still have the guns," he said. "If necessary, we'll fight our way out."

  He had brought along the flashlight he used on Oyster Island, but it had fallen victim to his ambush by the Bulgarian. Same as the web belt, the M76, and the radio receiver.