Beware the Jabberwock (Post Cold War Thrillers)

by Chester D. Campbell

  Macleod's partner rushed to his side and watched with wide-eyed concern as he held his wrist and tried to flex his fingers. They would barely move.

  The sergeant looked at his partner and then at Burke. He had mentioned that the young Mountie was just out of the Specialty Team training program. This was his first mission. Burke could picture the wheels turning in Macleod’s mind, weighing the value of thirteen years experience with the FBI, plus knowledge of the truck and the people inside it.

  He looked across at Burke. "It appears that it's your game, Mr. Hill."

  Burke gave him a thin smile as the Mountie clutched his aching wrist. "Sorry it had to be this way, Sergeant."

  MacLeod shrugged. "I have to warn you. I've been giving this some thought. I can see several serious risks in your plan. They could be life-threatening."

  "One is pretty obvious," Burke said. He had been going over the plan in his mind also. "If they were to fire the mortar while I'm swinging overhead, I could get clobbered."

  "Right. The shell wouldn't explode until it reached the point it was fused for. But if it hit you, it would smash one hell of a hole! Another worry is the racket that rotor makes." He pointed his thumb toward the whirling blade that clattered above. "When we start descending over Victoria Street, that's really going to rattle their cage. If somebody raised up in the hatch with a weapon, you'd be a sitting duck."

  "I'd say the odds are pretty long on getting hit by the mortar shell," Burke said. "As for the noise, I'm counting on the earphones they'll be using to stay in contact with the man at Nathan Phillips Square. They should be heavily padded to protect their ears from the blast of the mortar. Hopefully that'll mask the rotor noise until it's too late to retaliate."

  MacLeod nodded. "There's one thing more, one that presents a much greater probability if you succeed with the grenade. As soon as you release it, I'll signal the pilot to start a full power climb out. We'll also start the winch reeling you in. But, depending on how the truck blows, and how fast this bird reacts, you'll be in real danger of picking up some flying debris, call it shrapnel."

  Burke glanced at Lori and caught her worried frown. "You have a good point, Sergeant. But I don't know anything I can do about it but pray. To borrow an old Spanish phrase, or a Doris Day tune, Que sera, sera."

  "What will be, will be," said Bonhomme with a fatalistic smile.

  TORONTO

  Chapter 49

  From the restored Victorian townhouses of Cabbagetown to the Italian restaurants west of Bathurst Street, a colorful mosaic of small neighborhoods, about as diverse in character as a world atlas, fanned out north of Lake Ontario to form the polyglot metropolis known as Toronto. It could rival New York City as a melting pot, but wherever they had hailed from originally, Torontans today were in the mood for a parade.

  With the pre-dawn storm having exhausted its fury out across the lake, Saturday morning turned out sunny and warm, the temperature pushing a comfortable seventy. Crowds of people representing dozens of ethnic groups milled about in a festive mood. They came not only from Toronto and the Province of Ontario, but from all across the vast expanse of Canada. Countless Americans had driven the hundred-and-forty kilometers over the QEW, or Queen Elizabeth Way, from Buffalo and Niagara Falls, hoping for a glimpse of the world's two most powerful leaders. The jovial crush of humanity, young, old, fat, skinny, dark-skinned and light, packed the broad sidewalks along Queen Street West in front of the towering Sheraton Centre. A line of uniformed Metro and Ontario Provincial Police separated the throng from the parade route and the reviewing stand across the street in Nathan Phillips Square.

  A cordon of Mounties in their ceremonial red coats was arrayed around the square some distance from the reviewing stand. Plainclothes RCMP officers from the Prime Minister's protective force mingled with Secret Service agents and KGB men in the immediate area of the leaders, their earpieces making them resemble an army of the hard of hearing. A platform had been erected at the southwest corner of the square to accommodate a battery of television cameras that panned back and forth from the undulating crowd to the more sedate group of dignitaries on the reviewing stand.

  Those who took the time to look up from their streetside vantage points could pick out the dark-clothed figures of sharpshooters along the rooftops, crack riflemen with scopes who could pinpoint and blast away any would-be assassins in seconds.

  Others crowded north on University to the point where school bandsmen clattered drums and blew horns in the musical cacophony of warm-ups that signaled the parade was about ready to begin. It would march down University, turn left onto Queen Street West, pass the reviewing stand and disband on the other side of Yonge Street.

  Police barricades blocked off the cross streets, and arm-waving officers detoured motorists away from the parade route. They had Yonge north of Queen blocked at Shuter Street, which came to a dead end opposite the middle of the long expanse of the Eaton Centre. Victoria Street lay two blocks east. In contrast to the gleaming facades of the nearby skyscrapers, this was a more shabby section, lined with low buildings that housed small businesses catering to students from Ryerson Polytechnic Institute, located just to the north. In addition to the pool halls, the dry cleaners and book shops, there were rows of aging brick walkup apartments.

  On the TV platform, Naji Abdalla swung his camera around frequently, as he had been taught to do, although the picture in its viewfinder was going nowhere after reaching a small microwave dish mounted nearby for appearance sake only. The tiny microphone in front of his lips was live, however, and through the earpieces he could hear Overmyer and Richter talking from the truck on Victoria Street. They had begun setting up the equipment early, and they now reported everything in readiness. The mortar had been mounted and aimed, the overhead hatch opened. The surveillance cameras were operating. Every pedestrian headed their way and every vehicle that moved along the street would show on the monitors. A curtain had been drawn across the opening to the cab so that no one from outside could see what was going on in the compartment. Abdalla knew the two men would be sitting anxiously in their chairs, awaiting his signal from Nathan Phillips Square.

  The mood in the rental car driven by Andrei Golanov was as festive as that of the throngs in the nearby streets. He chatted amiably with Katerina Makarenko as they drove toward Victoria Street.

  "I can already hear the mournful music playing on Moscow radio and television, Katya."

  She smiled broadly. "I trust General Kostikov will enjoy the music."

  "Yes, he should be contacting the Ministry of Defense soon about joining our cause."

  "There shouldn't be any problem once the news gets out that the Americans and Israelis are behind all this," Katya said.

  "True."

  There was one small change in the plan from what he had reported at the meeting in Niagara Falls the previous night. Hans Richter had been chosen for the Jabberwock team because of his past trusted service as a KGB agent in the East German secret police establishment. As soon as the weapon was fired, Richter would eliminate Gary Overmyer with a lethal blow designed to appear accidental. He would step out of the truck and into the car driven by Golanov. Then an anonymous tip to the Mounties would put them on the trail of a link between the assassination, the Mossad, the CIA, and two prominent American capitalists.

  A disturbing thought suddenly erased the smile from Katya's pretty face. "But what about this Burke Hill?" she asked. "What if he gets away again?"

  Golanov shook his head. "Not this time. I was told just before we left the hotel that he and his girlfriend are trapped in a wooded area back of the Newman house. They were caught in a thunderstorm. Our people are bringing in the dogs. They probably have them in custody by now."

  As they approached Victoria Street shortly before time for the parade to begin, Golanov slowed at the sight of a squad of Metro police setting up a barrier to close off Victoria at Shuter. Although he could not see it, the same thing was taking place at Dundas, to the north at th
e other end of the block. Other officers were moving quickly to evacuate apartment dwellers and customers of the businesses along Victoria through rear exits.

  "I don't like the looks of this," Golanov said with a darkening frown.

  He pulled up near the barrier and motioned to one of the officers. When the policeman walked over, Golanov showed his credentials as a member of the official Soviet delegation.

  "What's the problem, officer?"

  "I'm not sure, Colonel. We were told there may be a bomb in this block, to keep everybody out. It's far enough away, it shouldn't affect the parade."

  Golanov forced a grin. "That's good."

  Then he swung the car around, cursing their failure to provide him with a radio to make contact with the truck. He could only hope that Richter and Overmyer would spot the activity on their TV screens and open fire immediately. It would present a problem making the pickup of Hans, but he was a resourceful fellow.

  The two Mounties, Macleod struggling with one hand, strapped Burke into a nylon sling and hooked it to the steel cable that ran from a power winch. When the pilot turned his head and pointed a finger downward, they looked out at the city below. The chopper was cruising along slowly at about six hundred feet altitude.

  "There's Victoria Street," Macleod shouted, pointing off to one side.

  Burke shifted his eyes along the strip of asphalt. Then he saw it. A white truck with a satellite dish at the rear. "That's it," he yelled. "Right there. In front of that low building. See the small, dark circle on top? That's the open hatch."

  Macleod shouted to the pilot. "Take her down."

  As they began to descend, Macleod strapped his belt with the grenades around Burke's waist, then double-checked the hook connected to the sling. "Ever done anything like this before?" he asked.

  Burke shook his head and grinned. "I've done a lot of hanging out in my time, but never from a helicopter."

  "There's not much wind. You shouldn't get too wide a swing. We'll drop you down about nine meters on the cable. Then maneuver you as close to the hatch as possible."

  "Will you be able to see me toss the grenade?" Burke asked.

  "Sure. I'll be hanging out the door." He hooked a nylon strap around his waist that would keep him from falling out. "As soon as you turn loose of the grenade, I'll signal the pilot. Good hunting."

  The Mountie pulled open the door and latched it. "Get ready."

  Lori reached over to squeeze Burke's hand and give him a game smile. He saw that she was biting her lower lip.

  The chopper was in a descending hover, slowly closing on the ground. At about a hundred and fifty feet, Macleod patted Burke on the back. He swung over the edge of the opening and dropped free.

  Burke felt the downwash of the rotor as the cable reeled out. It buffeted his face, tossed his hair like a stiff wind on a stormy day. And then time seemed to hit a warp. The cable played out in slow motion, stopping when it had extended about thirty feet.

  But he kept dropping as the chopper closed in on the truck.

  He had become a free falling object with no control. The takeoff in Kevin McKenzie's Cessna back in New Orleans was a nursery ride compared to this. He thought briefly that it was close to how a fledgling paratrooper would feel on his first jump. He was well aware of the potential consequences, but an adrenalin high blocked the danger from his mind.

  Burke swung like a pendulum as he watched the truck grow larger beneath him. He recalled the padded earphones Overmyer and Richter should be wearing, how they should mask the sound of the chopper. He knew that by the time he was in place, the downwash would pummel the truck enough to signal those inside that something was amiss. He could only pray that it would not happen too soon.

  As the chopper seemed to inch forward, the opening in the truck’s roof became clearer. It was hinged inward and he could see the bolts that held it in place. Only a few feet away now, he gripped one of the grenades in his right hand. It would be a bit tricky with the way he swayed in the turbulence. His aim wouldn't be as sharp as in the days when he had played baseball as a boy back in Missouri.

  Would it be good enough?

  In contrast to the old pineapple-shaped grenades he had seen during his FBI career, this one was round like a baseball. It had a familiar feel. There was no doubt this would be the biggest pitch of his life.

  It meant life or death for two world leaders.

  The clatter of the rotor overhead drowned out all other sound. He focused his mind on the task. Once he turned the grenade loose, it would explode in four seconds. Could the men in the truck grab it and toss the grenade back through the roof?

  Now he was a few feet to the left. No more than four or five feet above the truck. Swinging forward. In seconds he would be in perfect position.

  The street below looked strangely peaceful. Deserted. On the periphery of his vision he saw the flashing lights of a police car at the next intersection.

  Concentrating on the dark circle that lay like a bullseye atop the truck, he pulled the pin. He had the feeling of being in a slow motion dream. Then he was on target, just above the hatch.

  He lobbed the grenade at the gaping hole.

  Naji Abdalla had seen two men hurrying onto the reviewing stand. They appeared to be consulting with the two leaders. The bodyguards on and around the platform become more active, their heads bobbing about constantly.

  "Gary...Hans," he said in a staccato voice. "Something's wrong. I don't like the looks of it. You'd better get ready and fire immediately."

  "I agree," said Overmyer, pushing up from the chair. "I haven't noticed a car or a person on this street for the last ten minutes."

  As he turned to see that the mortar round was ready, he felt a sudden tremble.

  Richter looked at him, alarmed. "What the hell was that? An earthquake?"

  Overmyer checked the monitors. He saw nothing in the street. He gazed up through the roof hatch. Nothing there but blue sky. Still he felt the truck vibrate. This was no earthquake. He jerked off the earphones and listened. There was another roar that sounded above the noise of the airconditioner, which blew full blast. Then he recognized it as a familiar sound from long ago in Vietnam.

  "Chopper!" he yelled, and grabbed for the shell.

  At that instant a shadow passed over the opening above the mortar, and something fell past it. Both men saw it hit the floor and bounce to the side.

  "Grenade!" Overmyer screamed, diving for it. He hit the floor with a jolt but got his hand around the grenade. He looked up and felt a downwash of air that would be from the rotor. He twisted around to get in a position to throw the grenade back through the opening in the roof.

  As soon as he released the grenade, Burke waved his arm, then clutched the line with both hands. He heard the engine wind up and the rotor begin popping faster overhead. There was a sharp tug as he began to sway backward and upward. At that moment, a muffled roar sounded below. It was followed immediately by a chain reaction of explosions as the plastic ignited. He was about halfway to the aircraft when he smelled the smoke and heard pieces of debris whistling about. He felt something sharp gouge into his right arm just above the elbow, accompanied by a searing pain, and immediately saw fragments pelting against the underside of the chopper. It continued its rapid climb.

  Burke quickly glanced down at the blood spreading across his arm, which hung limply after he had lost his grip on the cable. He got a glimpse of a large cloud of black smoke and, beyond it, a gaping crater in Victoria Street. A brick wall had crumpled at the front of the adjacent building. Then two pairs of hands suddenly gripped him tightly beneath his arms, hauling him into the cabin. He grimaced as the pain shot through the injured limb. He was aware of Lori shouting at MacLeod to bring a first aid kit. Then he lay back on the floor, eyes closed tightly as Lori began to clean and bandage the wound.

  After a moment, he opened his eyes. "Did we make it in time?"

  The chopper circled toward Nathan Phillips Square, its passengers gazing down at
the reviewing stand, hoping against hope they would find it still intact.

  It was.

  Around the corner from the square, the first bands were turning into Queen Street West. The crowds, oblivious to the nearby drama, cheered and waved. It was a great day for a parade.

  Sydney Pinkleton turned and leaned toward Burke, grinning. "Everything looks great, old bloke. Mission accomplished."

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Chapter 50

  The carefully clipped lawn was a lake of green bordered by hedges of osmanthus and boxwood. Bright hues of roses and anemones splashed the planting beds with color beneath the leaves of the crab apple trees. Beyond the French doors that opened beneath a white-pillared colonnade sat the Oval Office.

  The tall figure of President Thornton Giles towered over Burke and Lori. He squinted in the sunlight of a glorious Monday morning as he smiled at Burke. "I heard you were an outdoorsman, so I thought the Rose Garden would be the best place for this. How is the arm?"

  "Rather sore," Burke said. "Otherwise, okay. I had a time getting it into this jacket, though." He spoke with a sheepish smile. He felt proud and humbled by all of it, but he would prefer to have traded the moment for a small, private audience. It had required a hasty trip to a clothing store first thing this morning to acquire the suit. The President had insisted, and Judge Marshall concurred, that nothing short of a public ceremony before the news media and the nation would do to salve the Agency's wounds. Out of deference to Lori and Cam, he couldn’t refuse.

  The President stepped to the microphone, raising both arms to silence the applause from the crowd of newsmen and dignitaries, including the ambassadors of Canada, Russia, and the United Kingdom.