Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  Stone fiddled with a pencil. “Then you are familiar with the agent?”

  “But of course. He’s a consummate actor who has penetrated any number of intelligence facilities. He’s believed to have killed several agents as well as acted as a consultant for a number of terrorist organizations—which means nothing but the trouble for us, I am afraid.”

  “General, if I may… Due to our mutual concern over the possibility of direct threat to our respective security… I would, with your permission, be pleased to offer the assistance of an intelligence officer familiar with Dragonfly. We could have him up there shortly, if need be.” He hoped he’d phrased it right. He hoped Molière would take the offer.

  “Absolutely. We would be most grateful,” Molière said, tossing the glowing cigarette from the doorway, watching it fall end over end into the slush.

  Relieved, Stone dragged his flat-nailed fingers through thin hair. “Very well, he’ll leave immediately. Contact’s tag is George Baker. I wish us both luck.”

  “Thank you, M’sieu Stone. And I shall mention your generous cooperation to our prime minister. Good day.”

  As Stone hung up the phone, he gazed blankly at the curtain of falling snow, his head spinning from lack of sleep. He poured more coffee for himself and freshened Andy’s, aware that even with a coffee maker he could not make a good-tasting cup. He buzzed Janie.

  When Andy entered the room he looked as tired as Stone. As he sat, he felt a nervousness in his ostensibly calm boss. His fingers polished the chair’s brass tacks. The smell of coffee helped him notice his cup had been refilled, too. You shouldn’t be waiting on me, he thought, pitying the Old Man this late hour.

  Stone stared into the black coffee and saw his own face looking back at him.

  Andy raised his cup of coffee and said, “To Duncan.”

  “Yes. To Duncan.” Stone’s heart sank, and he wanted to explain why, but did not. “And to having a double in the DS.”

  They toasted.

  After a time Stone said, “I want you to check in with me whenever possible. This will be your operation, Andy. I want you to know that. No more mistakes from involving too many others. We learned that lesson with Borikowski the last time. But I feel I should warn you that there’s a chance this is nothing more than a ruse to lure you out into the open.”

  “I know.”

  “They would like to double you, too. Remember that.” Stone made the coffee travel in a perfectly symmetrical funnel in the center of the cup. Plenty of practice.

  “Yes.”

  “And I also have a mole in Montreal who could really help here. He will only meet in person—no phones—and he only contacts us here. But I will put the word out that we need help, and I’m certain he’ll come through. I’ll relieve his usual contact and leave that up to you. But if it is all to work, you must check in.”

  “I understand.”

  Stone took a minute to unlock a drawer and rummage through a file. He wrote something down and handed it to Andy. “There’s a phone booth at that address. If you receive the code word, then go to this phone booth. It will ring on the hour. Let it ring four times, and then answer it. Don’t say a thing. Just hang up. Exactly two minutes later a car marked as a private taxi will stop next to the booth. Get in. Tell the driver you want to go to New Holland.”

  “My contact’s in the cab?”

  “Yes. He’ll be driving.”

  “Got it.” Andy handed the paper back to Stone, and the Old Man inserted it into a small shredder mounted in his trash can and shredded it into dust.

  “All right. Let’s make our code word: JACKPOT. That will mean he wants a meeting.”

  “Fine. JACKPOT it is.”

  “Well, that’s about it,” Stone said. “The rest will be handled in Processing, downstairs. Documents, a weapon, and the rest.” Stone stood slowly, arm extended.

  They shook hands.

  “Remember, Andy. We only want verification. We’ll want to coordinate a trap with the Canadians—that’s the way these things are done, eh? Identify and locate, understood? Turning him is another matter.”

  Andy nodded, though he knew his chances of ever finding Leonid Borikowski were slim. He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a black billfold, and handed it, smiling, to Terry Stone. It was Stone’s wallet. One of Andy’s streetwise talents was pocket picking—he was very good at it. This particular ritual had been an ongoing joke between the two men for years, but with Andy away for so long, the Old Man had forgotten.

  Stone shook his head, accepting his wallet with a rueful grin of remembrance spreading over his face. “You really shouldn’t do that.”

  8:04 A.M.

  Montreal, Canada

  Congested by Central Station’s arriving commuters, Montreal’s Belmont Street churned with a colorful mixture of umbrellas and overcoats. The illuminated cross atop Mount Royal was being taken from the sky by the clouded sun.

  After threatening water had receded from the city in 1643, Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, climbed Mount Royal with a wooden cross as an act of thanksgiving. Now, three centuries later, an electric cross gleamed over the city—consecrating the mountain.

  Borikowski still sat in an uncomfortable position behind the wheel of the Peugeot. For the past few hours he had studied even the most distant sounds, worrying it might be his pursuers. Leonid Borikowski worried often. He would have welcomed sleep, but dared not even doze. His head felt thick and dull, and he was extremely cold. He wished he was back in Bulgaria.

  He entered the throng of commuters walking toward the station, and bought a newspaper from a rosy-cheeked vendor with tattered half-finger brown gloves and a green wool jacket with big buttons. The front page showed fuzzy photographs of the two Bulgarians and an article on their possible threat to the Pope. There was nothing of his victim.

  The crowd of people thickened at the doors to the station. He suspected two were agents: the man banging his hands together, and another in a thick overcoat, both outside in the cold. You don’t know me, you fools, he chortled. I don’t know you. We’re even. You’re looking for the wrong man. I am Franz Vogel now, not that ugly wretch who stabbed your agent. No. He is well behind us. I am a doctor, a rich doctor, who walks with a lilt to his step, has a heavy German accent when speaking one of his four languages, and is feeling a little tired.

  Lifting on his toes, he saw uniformed police throughout the station; they were singling out all males and obviously requesting identification, which was creating bottlenecks at every gate. The others roamed the terminal scanning the crowd, stacks of photographs in hand. But none showed this face.

  Knowing the all-important role luck played in the success of any operation, and not liking the odds he saw, Borikowski intentionally dropped his paper, knelt to pick it up, turned and walked away.

  With few alternatives, Leonid Borikowski—Dragonfly—accepted the contingency plans he had once argued against. He detested the thought of working with others. He had wanted to do this alone! He took hold of his anger, pushed it into a reserved corner of his mind, and closed the door. His anxiety passed.

  Scuffling shoes, mindless chatter, clicking of metal-tipped umbrellas on the sidewalk: swarms of pedestrians headed for work. Borikowski entered a breakfast café beneath a pale green awning frayed by the wind. The door shut, shaking rows of small bells. Coffee aromas and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke. A capacity crowd surrounded tables littered with egg-yellow plates and coffee cups. He approached an aged phone booth that supported a listing, three-legged cigarette machine, its dull enamel chipped and scarred, pulled the bifold door closed, and dialed.

  Lydia answered. “Bonjour?”

  “I’ve lost my watch. I wonder if you have the time?” He knew by her hesitation that hearing the code again had surprised her.

  “From time to time.”

  “Which time?”

  “The first time. Every time.”

  “The rental’s broken down.” Primary plan aborted.


  “Very well. Location?” What backup plan are we using?

  He appreciated her professionalism, knowing from her dossier that she was young but well qualified. He thought, The Durzhauna Sigurnost, the KGB, never helps any agent to look good. To do so only threatens their own job security. They make themselves look good, and because of this they obtain all the gasoline they need, the nicest cars, and a dacha on a lake. But this woman’s dossier is clean. Even complimentary.

  He said, “Three blocks, near the Beta Shop.” Contingency Plan Three, Basilica of Mary. “One more thing,” he added, telling her to meet him in one hour.

  “Yes?” She posed it as a question, but was in fact acknowledging the message.

  “Never mind.” Message terminated.

  She hung up. Borikowski caught himself thinking she had a beautiful voice.

  The coffee was far superior to airplane coffee; the food, much needed. He sat at the counter, pleased the café was busy enough to keep the plump waitress from bothering him. He needed a few moments of peace.

  He relived the scene at the airport, feeling the spike heel digging into his ankle, hearing himself swear…. Embarrassment colored his cheeks.

  And now who was involved? Interpol? The Americans? The Security Service? Were they all involved now? A few hundred trained professionals after one fugitive?

  Stupid mistake.

  8:30 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “Goddamnit all!” In his office, a bleary-eyed Terry Stone faced the television. He switched it off and looked at the person in the chair across from him. “Kwang must be stopped. She’ll spoil the whole thing!”

  Chris Daniels, a gaunt young man in his early twenties, predictably dressed conservatively, today in a dark suit, white shirt, and patriotic tie. His SIA identification tag was clipped to the breast pocket. At the age of fifteen, he had graduated summa cum laude from the University of Michigan, at sixteen had received a master’s in communication, and at seventeen, when his employment application to the CIA had been detoured to the Security Intelligence Agency due to age requirements, had been handpicked by Terry Stone to serve as an assistant.

  One of his first contributions to the SIA was inventing an agent code that utilized newspapers’ crossword puzzles. The simple cryptograph allowed agents in the field to be notified of events without phone conversations or clandestine meetings—simply by deciphering the morning paper’s crossword puzzle. The Crossword Code had been so successful that Daniels had been promoted almost immediately. And then again. And again.

  Now Daniels was Stone’s Intelligence and Communication Administrator—his right-hand man—and had just recently obtained one of the highest security ratings in government.

  His thick lips opened to emit a peculiar falsetto, as if he had never outgrown adolescence. He began, “Borikowski didn’t follow established routes. For weeks now, Interpol has been hinting at a new corridor that they claim has opened up between Murmansk and Vardo. There has been an increasing number of Soviet mini-subs spotted in that area by our Eye-10 satellites. At first it was believed they were on reconnaissance missions, like the one that went aground in Sweden; but traffic at known corridors has slowed down. He could have gone from Petrozavodsk to Murmansk by boat where a series of lakes connect by marshland. An airboat, perhaps. He would have then boarded there and shipped on to Vardo. In any event, we missed him.” After a moment Daniels stated, “Sir, Captain Clayton has made two previous attempts to abduct him.”

  “Yes.”

  “But Dragonfly killed his twin brother—”

  “—Yes—”

  “—Duncan Frederick Clayton: code Hummingbird.”

  “Yes. Listen, I’ll have Numan follow up on this mini-sub theory. Central and the Bureau, respectively, are watching both sides of the Canadian border and keeping tabs on all commercial transportation. We’ve used the snow as an excuse to cancel the president’s schedule. At least he’s safe. The State Department is leaking that we’ve blown Borikowski. If that makes it up the chain of command in time, they may call him back…. Is there anything I’m overlooking?”

  “The press?” Daniels asked.

  “Yes. We must keep a lid on it, eh? I would like to brief Lyell on all of this,” he said, referring to Andy’s chess partner of the night before. “I want the press shut down. Especially this Kwang woman…”

  “Lyell has already arranged a meeting. She’s agreed to stop in Washington on her way to Memphis.”

  “Fine.”

  “If I may, sir?” Daniels asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  “Please.”

  “Using Clayton seems a risk.”

  “You’re unfamiliar with both men, aren’t you? Borikowski, you see, is the classic KGB or DS operative: he follows orders and orders alone. Which is not to say he’s incapable of improvisation. Quite the contrary, he’s clever and an excellent actor. But he sticks to a schedule, Chris—a preconceived plan—and in this way, he’s the exact opposite of Andy. Have you briefed yourself with Clayton’s records?” Stone asked, quizzing Daniels, as was his custom.

  “Yes, of course: Georgetown University, like all the Clayton men; Army Intelligence in Vietnam, G-3; father died in a commercial plane crash; his mother’s in a security ward in a hospital in McLean. His most recent assignment was MES—Middle East Security operations—a post he held for several years. Following Duncan Clayton’s abduction two years ago—and subsequent death—he was given leave. He’s tried for Borikowski twice: Bucharest and Prague, I believe. Following Prague he was assigned the task of writing a detailed report on MES.”

  “Correct…”

  “In 1975, he was able to remain underground in Kiev for sixty-two days without being captured.” Daniels sounded impressed.

  “Code name?” Stone asked, still quizzing.

  “Following Kiev: Chameleon. Now: Baker2.”

  “Correct. Know how he did it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Curious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Picked pockets. MI trained them that way. Change identities; obtain local currency. He finally stole a tourist’s passport with a close-enough photo—and that got him out. He’s our best at remaining underground.”

  “And that’s why you chose him?”

  “Essentially, yes.” Stone sipped his lukewarm decaf. “The leaks we’ve been having prohibit a group effort. Borikowski’s too good at spotting agents. Andy has a nose for Dragonfly. Our last attempt to take him was compromised by leaks. Not this time. Andy will check in here. This way, we gather the data but leave the chase to Andy. I think he’s a driven-enough man to pull this off. He loved his brother—twins you know—and well, there’s more to it than that. Put simply, he’s the best surveillance man I have. And he also happens to have captured more enemy agents than any other SIA agent. I simply picked the best man I had available.

  “You know, as well as I, that if we turned this assignment over to the CIA,” Stone continued, “there’d be a bunch of guys in trench coats on street corners with walkie-talkies: sad but true. Not only that, but within forty-eight hours the entire country would know about it. We can’t risk that with Borikowski.”

  “Yes. I see what you mean.”

  “Besides, we have a deeply planted mole in Montreal. Don’t forget that. Borikowski will be following a plan, rigidly. Andy will be following instincts. It will be interesting to see how it turns out. If our mole can find out the plan, Andy should have him.”

  “He may kill him.”

  “Indeed,” Stone allowed, knitting his brow and looking away from the young man. “It is a possibility—something I’ve considered. But he knows I want a double in the DS.” Stone seemed to be convincing himself. “Either way, Borikowski must be stopped. He’s never handled a light assignment. And, as you well know, we have reason to believe he orchestrated the Beirut embassy massacre. We certainly can’t afford that again.”

  “Or the Pope.”

&
nbsp; “Or the Pope,” Stone agreed.

  “You’re fond of Clayton, aren’t you, sir?”

  “Fond? Hardly the word,” Stone said, avoiding the truth. “In the past, he’s given us all nine yards, Chris. He wants this man badly. I owed him the assignment… if there is such a thing.”

  “And what about Bookends?”

  “How do you…? Oh, yes. I keep forgetting about your new rating.” He paused in thought. “Andy was never told much about Bookends. Only generalities. That was my decision.” No one, other than myself, knows everything about Bookends, he thought. Not even you, Chris. “At the time, I thought it prudent to remove him from action for a while, so we told him that we wanted an in-depth report on the MES operations. We’ve made him go through five drafts. It’s taken him seventeen months.”

  “I see. But they may be after him. It could be a trick: using Borikowski’s presence to lure Captain Clayton out again. The bait, if you will. After all… didn’t Bookends call for both brothers to be abducted?”

  “Yes. True, they may still be after him.” Stone waited quite some time and added, “But they’ve tried before, haven’t they? And they haven’t gotten him yet.” He looked intently at Daniels. “Nothing comes for free, Chris. It’s all a gamble.” He toyed with his glasses. “All a gamble.”

  10:00 A.M.

  Vaughnsville, Ohio

  His hair was the color of polished sterling silver. His fillings were gold and showed when he laughed. Dr. Eric Stuhlberg, dressed more like a surgeon than a research scientist, edged his way around the large counter that stood in the center of the laboratory and sat down in front of the electron microscope. Next to him a plump woman with domed cheeks and sparkling eyes sat at a stool taking notes. Dr. Mellissa Sherman looked tired.

  The laboratory, a combination of glass and white tile, had no windows to the outside. Buffed stainless steel and bright lights predominated, reflecting the room’s sterile atmosphere. Stuhlberg’s thick German accent, muffled by the paper mask, sounded hollow in the room. “Well, that’s it. The 1134 is what I recommend we show him. What do you think?” he asked Sherman.