Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  "When we get back to the Jeep," he said in a low voice, "we should have a full confession on tape. I had a transmitter on the window of the library during their meeting. There's a receiver in the Jeep connected to a recorder."

  During their hours of waiting in the bedroom, he had told her as much as the Bulgarians would allow about the people who had gathered in Wizner's house for the final Jabberwock briefing.

  "If we get back to the Jeep," she whispered as the voices slowly came closer.

  "Just stay put," Burke said, looking around, "I’ll do a little exploring."

  He moved about until he found a tall tree with several vines hanging down like heavy, fibrous ropes. He remembered climbing vines like this as a boy, swinging out over the river, sometimes dropping into the water with a huge splash. He wrapped his hands around a cluster of vines and tugged. They held. Slowly, he began to climb hand over hand. It was rough on his palms, and the muscles around his stomach objected with twinges of pain. But after a few minutes he had managed to reach the first large branch. Swinging a leg over it, he pulled himself up. Then he began to climb from one branch to another. In his mind, he was back in Missouri, out by himself on a summer night, conjuring up visions of Tarzan swinging from tree to tree. He half expected to hear his mother's shout in the distance. "Burrrke! Burrrke Hill! Time to come in!"

  It was a tall tree. Soon he reached a point where he could see through most of the surrounding forest. He spotted the beam of a strong flashlight some forty or fifty yards off to one side. Lights from the house glowed from another direction. Orienting himself by the lights, he determined a ninety-degree course that would lead to the wall. But a glance at the sky raised the hair on his neck. In the direction that should be up-river, a searing streak of lightning brightened the night like the flash of a warning beacon. A low rumble of thunder followed.

  He began an urgent descent, branch by branch.

  Back at the log where Lori waited, he showed her the direction they needed to take. Bending over, he motioned to her. "Climb aboard. We need to get moving."

  "They'll hear us," she said.

  "At the moment, they've skirted past us on the other side. Anyway, they'll soon be hearing something a lot louder."

  As if on command, another rumble of thunder echoed from upriver.

  "A storm?"

  "Right,” he said. “It’s on the way. Let's go."

  She put her arms around his neck. He cradled her legs packsaddle style and began the slow trek toward the wall. He took care while dodging trees and thick bushes to maintain a constant heading as best he could. Even so, when they reached the rock barrier, he found they had moved at an angle toward the river, pushing them farther back into the woods. Had their pursuers circled around this way? He hadn’t spotted the flashlight beam again.

  By the time he boosted Lori over the wall, the first drops of rain filtered through the overhanging leaves. Within minutes, brilliant flashes of lightning followed by deafening crashes of thunder marked the storm’s path directly above them. A chilling wind swept the trees, and rain gave them a merciless pelting. The woods, which had begun to brighten with the coming of dawn, were plunged deeper into darkness. Burke finally gave up. They huddled together beside the wall as the storm plodded by overhead like some slowly lumbering behemoth.

  After an agonizing wait, the sky began to brighten. They started out again, slowed by the treacherous footing of a slippery bed of leaves and grass, interspersed with puddles and strips of mud. It was after seven when they reached the Jeep, chilled and soggy, Burke's boots coated almost black by the mud.

  He started the Jeep and let it warm up, switching on the heater to give Lori some relief from the shivering. Meanwhile, he disconnected the tape recorder, removed the tape and inserted it into the player on the dash. He switched on the radio and set the tape to rewind. It soon clicked back to forward and Blythe Ingram's voice came through the speakers:

  "...test firings were right on the money. We adapted a standard eighty-one millimeter mortar so it could be bolted to the floor of the truck. A circular hatch in the roof is removed for firing. The elevation and azimuth for aiming the weapon have been preset for the marked location on Victoria Street..."

  Lori seemed to forget her discomfort as she listened in fascination as the Jabberwock plot unfolded through the voices of the conspirators.

  "We've got to find a telephone and call Judge Marshall," she said when the tape had finished.

  "But the CIA is up to their assholes in this thing," Burke said.

  "Not the CIA. Hawk Elliott and some of his henchmen. That Richard you heard on there is Alvin Kirsh. I recognized the voice. He's one of Hawk's yes-men. Kingsley Marshall doesn't know a thing about this."

  "Why are you so sure?"

  "You heard it on there. Colonel Golanov said the only people privy to the operational details were in the room, except for a KGB captain and Minister Zamyatin."

  Burke hadn't thought about it, but that definitely left out the Director of Central Intelligence. Still he persisted. "Weren't you going to meet Judge Marshall when they kidnapped you?"

  "That's what Hawk told me. I was so damned smug about what seemed to be happening that I made the mistake of believing him. When I called the night before, the duty officer told me Judge Marshall was out of town and probably wouldn't be back for another day. That's why I consented to talk to Hawk. Dumb me."

  Burke shook his head. "Join the club. I got taken in by that smooth-talking Donald Newman. By the way, who is Colonel Golanov? I only know him as Emerson Dinwiddie."

  "He's a very smooth KGB operator who used to be the darling of the diplomatic party set. Apparently he's with the Second Chief Directorate now. General Kostikov is head of it."

  "Damn." Burke checked his watch. Seven-thirty. He started the Jeep and backed around to reach the trail that led out of the woods. He had no idea what time the parade was scheduled in Toronto this morning.

  Chapter 48

  It took much longer than it should have to locate the pay phone, but Burke didn’t want to risk driving past the Newman house. He worried that the search team would be out looking again after the storm had passed. As a result, he cut back away from the river and wound up on a rural road that only took them farther into the boondocks. It was after eight when Lori finally got to a telephone and called Judge Marshall's home. It rang interminably with no answer.

  "What's the problem?" Burke asked.

  "He's not at home. It's Saturday, he could have gone to his place in the Poconos. Eastern Pennsylvania."

  "You think he'd have left town with this summit coming up?"

  "You have a point," she said. "I'll try Langley."

  Again she got a watch officer. This one she didn't recognize. He professed not to know where the DCI had gone. He offered to put her through to the Chief of Counterintelligence.

  "Bullshit!" Lori blurted. "Where's General Palmer?"

  "He may be in the building," said the reluctant officer.

  "Then you'd damned well better find him in a hurry. This is a Priority One emergency."

  "Who did you say you were?"

  "I'm Lorelei Quinn, a former officer of the Clandestine Service. My Dad was Cameron Quinn, who recently died in the service of your beloved Agency. Now get me General Palmer."

  She didn't know the General very well, except that her father had characterized him as overly cautious because of his newness on the scene. Quinn indicated that Palmer deferred too much to his counterintelligence chief's recommendations. She was afraid to trust him with this.

  "This is General Palmer, Miss Quinn. What's the problem?"

  "It concerns Jabberwock, General. Where is Judge Marshall? I have to talk to him right away."

  "Well, that's interesting. Mr. Elliott has just made a real breakthrough on that case. I can't discuss it, of course. What information did you have?"

  So Hawk was already preparing the way, blaming things on the Israelis, no doubt. "I promised the Judge I would
speak only with him. How can I reach him?"

  The General sounded a bit miffed. "I don't know that he wants to be disturbed."

  "Believe me, General, when he hears what I have for him, he'll be deliriously happy at being disturbed. Can you patch me through to him?"

  "Yes, of course. But...oh, very well. Hold on. Let me see what I can do."

  After a long delay, Judge Marshall's voice came on the line.

  "Lori, General Palmer says you have something for me regarding Jabberwock. I hope your friend Hill isn't still trying to interfere. Hawthorne Elliott just made a breakthrough this morning. He has positive proof that it involves the Israelis."

  "I hate to be the one to disabuse you, Judge," Lori said. "There is no Israeli involvement in Jabberwock. But Hawk Elliott is in it up to his eyeballs. He's one of the ringleaders."

  "I know you dislike Hawk, but a charge like this. What do you think Jabberwock is all about?"

  "It's about a plot to assassinate Presidents Giles and Petrovsky in Toronto this morning."

  "That's preposterous!" Judge Marshall said in a voice that signaled shocked disbelief at the very thought of it.

  "I'm afraid it isn't, sir. And fortunately you're right about Burke Hill. He kept pursuing the case until he turned up all the answers. Hawk Elliott had me kidnapped Tuesday morning on a ruse that I was being taken to a meeting with you at Langley."

  "I was out of town on a Presidential mission."

  "I didn't know where you were, but I believed him and wound up a captive in a house in Niagara Falls." Her voice rushed on as her brain snatched at bits of fact that might prove persuasive. "Burke tracked me down and came here last night. He taped part of a meeting of the Jabberwock conspirators before one of their goons jumped him. They planned to drown us in the Falls, but we managed to escape."

  "Lori, I'm...I'm overwhelmed. I've never known you to make up such a farfetched tale. It's...it's unbelievable, yet..." He hesitated. "Now that I think of it, the kidnapping part makes a bit of sense. I had a strange call from Sydney Pinkleton of the SIS. I believe he was a friend of your father's. He asked how he might contact you. Said something about he had information that you were on a special mission for the Agency." The Judge, as he had a way of doing, suddenly shifted gears. "I'm on the way to Toronto right now. Hawk said he had learned the Mossad planned something in connection with the events there today."

  "If you'll listen, sir, I'll play Burke's recording of the meeting. You can hear the plan from your counterintelligence chief himself, among others."

  She started the tape and held the small player up to the phone. When the recording had finished, she heard the Judge's voice saying, "Good God! How can we stop them? The two Presidents are due there about now."

  "Burke has seen the people involved. He knows more about it than I do. I'll put him on."

  Burke took the phone. "Judge Marshall, do you know what time the parade is scheduled?"

  "It's to start in about forty-five minutes. The Presidents are probably arriving at the reviewing stand now. There's a little ceremony planned before the parade. I'd better contact the Secret Service and have them cancel everything immediately."

  "I don't think that would be wise, sir," Burke said. "This Abdalla character is watching the reviewing stand. If the Secret Service were to start any kind of evasive action, he would probably call for immediate firing of the weapon. By exploding above the stand, it would cover a wide area. Probably get them even if they started to move out."

  "We can't just sit here," Judge Marshall said.

  "I think we have a little time," Burke said. "They want to create maximum panic and the widest TV exposure. That means at the start of the parade. I know what the truck looks like from the air, and I have a plan." It was just taking shape in his mind. "Could you get me a Royal Canadian Mounted Police Specialty Team helicopter with a winch and a couple of their people aboard?"

  "Where are you?"

  "Niagara Falls, New York."

  "Stand by on the line."

  Burke waited agonizingly with nothing but a hum in his ear for several minutes, though it seemed an hour. Then Judge Marshall was back.

  "Get over to the Customs and Immigration office on the American side of the Rainbow Bridge, that's the international bridge just below the Falls. The chopper will pick you up in fifteen minutes. What do you intend to do?"

  Burke hastily outlined his plan.

  "Why not send the Mounties in to storm the truck?" Judge Marshall asked.

  "Keep the security forces away from it. They're monitoring every direction from inside that truck. If anybody approaches too close, I'm sure they'll fire immediately."

  "Maybe we could get an artillery piece or an anti-tank weapon and destroy the truck. We don't know how much time we have."

  "You're right," Burke agreed. "But could you locate such a weapon and get it there in time?"

  "I don't know, but I'll find out. Meanwhile, you get over to that bridge. We'll radio you in the chopper."

  The Customs officers waved their arms continuously like automated mannequins, attempting to keep traffic moving at the foot of the bridge. Everyone seemed intent on watching the big RCMP helicopter as it settled to the cleared area like a huge bumblebee, took on two passengers, then immediately lifted off and disappeared to the northwest out over Lake Ontario.

  As they had ducked beneath the whirling rotor and were boosted into the chopper, Burke and Lori were met by a smiling Sydney Pinkleton as they moved across the narrow deck. He gave Lori a hug and a kiss. She had donned a pair of too-large boots contributed by a female Customs officer.

  "I was worried about you, young lady." Pinkleton shouted above the throb of the rotor and the din from the engine as they strapped themselves in. "I called your office Wednesday and received an odd message from Miss Beasley. Something about your being out of contact on a mission for the Agency. She seemed to think it strange as well. Judge Marshall just told me why."

  "I sure didn't expect to find you here," Lori replied.

  He grinned. "A case of being in the right place at the right time." He turned to Burke. "Let me introduce you to a couple of people. This is Sergeant Ian Macleod."

  The Sergeant unbuckled his seat belt and knelt on the deck of the chopper in front of them. He was dressed in his Specialty Team uniform, a hefty Sig Sauer P226 semi-automatic strapped to his waist, several other pieces of equipment hooked to his belt, including two hand grenades. His fellow teammate, a solemn-faced youth with sandy hair that appeared to curl at the edges, sat across from them as if deep in thought, hands clutching his automatic rifle. A large, muscular Scot with steely blue eyes and a bushy black mustache, Macleod shook hands with Burke. The grip, strong and forceful, mirrored the Mountie's personality. It took little imagination to picture him bundled in a parka, standing heroically behind a dogsled, in hot pursuit of some northern territory miscreant.

  "This is Pierre Bonhomme, with my sister service in Canada," Pinkleton said, nodding toward the opposite side of the chopper.

  A dapper looking French-Canadian in a navy-blue blazer, Bonhomme, not his real name, leaned across to shake Burke's hand and touch slender fingers to his brow in a salute to Lori.

  Burke explained his plan, after which a frowning Macleod fixed him with a probing stare. "I think I should be the one to carry this out," the husky Mountie said.

  Realizing the significance of the look, Burke countered. "If you're concerned about my credentials, I put in thirteen years as a special agent with the FBI. These people have been battering us around pretty badly. I'd love to settle the score." And prove once and for all that I'm still capable of successfully completing an operation, he added to himself.

  "We'll see," said the sergeant.

  Burke turned to Bonhomme. "You might ask your people to be on the lookout for a KGB man, Lt. Col. Andrei Golanov."

  Pinkleton looked up in surprise. "He's here with the official Russian party. What's the connection?"

  "If Operation Ja
bberwock succeeds, his job is to destroy the evidence by setting off explosives inside that truck. He should be somewhere in the area."

  "Where do you expect to find the truck?" Macleod asked.

  "They mentioned Victoria Street. Is that near Nathan Phillips Square?"

  "Right. Let me advise the pilot."

  As Macleod moved forward, Pinkleton leaned across to Lori. "I have those pictures of the Bulgarian agents, if you still need them."

  Lori gave him a thin smile. "I don't think that will be necessary, Uncle Sydney."

  Seeing the rumpled brow, Burke answered the unasked question. "Dimo and his partner suffered a little misfortune a few hours ago. They won't be worrying you any longer."

  Macleod returned to his kneeling position. "We'll be there in ten minutes." He turned to Bonhomme. "Sir, the pilot says you're wanted on the radio."

  The CSIS man returned shortly to relay a message jointly from the American DCI and the head of his own service. No long range weapons suitable for taking out the truck could be in place within thirty minutes. Burke's plan appeared to be the only option left.

  The Canadian gave a typical French shrug and smiled. "They say our famous unprotected border has proved a liability in this case. No one feels the need to keep anti-tank weapons handy."

  Burke looked down at the broad expanse of Lake Ontario, its waters shimmering in the morning sunlight. Ahead he could see the Toronto skyline, the domino-like rectangles of soaring modern hotels and office buildings, the thin spire of the CN Tower beside the Blue Jays' domed stadium. Off to the left blossomed the odd cantilevered structures of the theme park called Ontario Place.

  He leaned across to Macleod. "Better tell the pilot to stay well above the area until he's ready to come down. That way they shouldn't have any warning of what we're up to."

  The sergeant made his way forward again and explained the problem. As he started back to his seat, the chopper crossed over the warmer surface of the Toronto Islands and caught a thermal updraft. It threw Macleod off balance. He grabbed for a handhold overhead but missed, the full weight of his body crashing into a metal stringer along the side of the fuselage. His right wrist took most of the force of the blow.