Never Look Back

by Ridley Pearson

  Andy didn’t reply to this. He watched as hordes of well-dressed people exited a church via a set of steep stone steps. The ringing bells reminded him of other years. It was a Sunday wedding.

  The informer said, “If you’re who I think you are, you had better be careful, too. They missed you in Detroit, but they’ll try again, given an opportunity.”

  “Have you heard anything about Kolyma?”

  “Yes. Several have arrived on the continent. I also know about Tristovich.”

  In order to protect Testler as a source, Andy did not reveal that he had already heard about Tristovich. “Which is?”

  The cabbie corrected him. “No, who is.” The car swung left, then left again quickly, and traveled down a narrow alley. The man continued. “A recently arrived KGB bureaucrat who has taken over Rhinestone for a while. He’s also in charge of the Kolyma. And, as I understand it, their main concern is the abduction of a Captain Andrew Clayton. Is that you?”

  “Why Clayton?” Andy answered.

  “No idea.”

  “Does Washington know?”

  “How the hell should I know? Baisse mon cou! I haven’t been in years, friend.”

  Andy stared at the knitted cap and actually saw a face looking back at him—a face that had to belong to that voice: The man was clean-shaven and had a firm jaw, a pug nose, and dark, beady eyes the color of old tires. He had a crack down the middle of the left front tooth with the finest line of gold filling the crack that had ever been put into a mouth. He probably worked in a clerical or communications department of the Soviet Embassy, and had a cousin or a friend who drove a cab. He was definitely caught in the deadly trap of working both sides, where he trusted no one, no machines, no wires to be listened to. He demanded meetings on his terms, driving cabs along city streets with his mirror aimed down at the front seat. He would return the cab, then be driven back to his embassy desk job and, once again, excuse his absence. And then one day he would be followed, and his own precautions would hang him.

  “I have two of Dragonfly’s identities,” the informer continued. “They are out of date, of course, or I wouldn’t have seen them, but they may help. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Franz Vogel and Peter Trover.”

  “V-O-G-E-L?” Andy spelled.

  “Yes.”

  “T-R-O-V-E-R?”

  “Right.”

  “Got ’em.”

  “Do you have any Canadian money?” the cabbie inquired.

  Surprised by the question, Andy replied, “Not much. I jumped a plane.”

  “Then I’ll drive you to the airport.”

  Before Andy could say, “Thank you,” the cab lurched left and up a ramp, and the accelerator kissed the rubber mat. They pulled out onto the autoroute.

  Andy cracked the window.

  The cabbie said, “One other thing. There’s a rumor that Tristovich is connected with the NRI in Leningrad.”

  “Meaning?” Andy leaned forward intently. Testler had vaguely mentioned the same connection.

  “They do brain research there: surgery, that sort of thing.”

  “They also debrief defectors there.”

  “Then you know about it?”

  “A little.”

  “It makes for interesting possibilities.”

  “Such as?” Andy asked.

  “Who knows? It’s not confirmed anyway.”

  “But it’s interesting.”

  “I just said that, friend. I just said that.”

  Monday, November 24

  7:22 A.M.

  Lake Huron, Michigan

  The ship jerked. Gears suddenly screamed loudly and the hull vibrated.

  He felt it pull away from its slip.

  The sound of the engines was deafening, and so, after a few minutes, he abandoned the captain’s quarters, walked up to the main deck, and leaned against a bulkhead where no one noticed him. Cold wind slapped his face; squawking gulls spinning loops around the ship, dizzying and frantic, sang the same chorus in toneless harmonies.

  The ship motored noisily away from the shore, blue exhaust rising above its boiling wake. A few of the crew freed Stuhlberg’s sleeping bag from the tangle of netting. One of the men took his pulse, after which two of them carried the scientist below deck.

  Borikowski edged over to a chain rail supported by stanchions and watched the hull push back the water. With Stuhlberg along, this was the only safe way to cross back into Canada. And in a few hours, his rendezvous with Lydia.

  A growing wave curled away from the ship, and a small wake began its long and predestined journey, out and away.

  Out and away.

  5:03 P.M.

  Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan

  The lobby was nearly empty and no one stood behind the registration desk, but even so, Andy hoped he might catch the day manager before he left for home. And he did.

  He was an overweight man in his mid-fifties: thick but flabby neck, jowls, and a bowl of black, oily hair surrounding a vast expanse of shiny bald skin. He appeared with a handkerchief in hand, and kept it close by at all times, blowing his nose in little spurts, so much and so often, it seemed, that his upper lip was a permanent bright pink.

  Andy’s shoulders slumped, his clothes were wrinkled, and his eyes drooped. He smelled something like a gymnasium.

  “What can I do for you?” the manager growled.

  “I wonder if we might speak in your office?”

  “This is my office,” he declared, stretching his arms out to encompass the registration desk and perhaps the entire hotel.

  “Some place private then.”

  “Just kidding.” When the big man smiled, he tilted his head back as if to hold in his teeth. “You take a left up there,” he said, pointing, “then another left through the door marked Private. Say! That’s appropriate, isn’t it?” He winked and grinned, and again leaned so far back that it appeared he might fall over.

  Andy followed the directions and the two met in a hallway outside the office. The man blew his nose and then led the way in and waddled over to a much worn desk chair, collapsing into it.

  Andy took a chair in front of the desk. His body was of such a size that he rarely, if ever, looked comfortable when sitting. “I’m a Federal agent assigned out of Washington. I’m interested in seeing your guest bills for the last day or two. Specifically, I’m interested in a single woman who is charging her meals to room service.”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No.”

  “You know, I thought it was a joke, except that you look exhausted. Can I offer you a cup of coffee or something?”

  “Thank you. In a while maybe. I am exhausted.” Andy had spent the better part of the night waiting for a plane at Mirabel airport in Montreal, and had consumed this entire day questioning five other hotel managers, all of whom had taken their time.

  “Important, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I have to tell you this is the most unusual request I’ve ever had as manager, and not at all the kind of service we provide. Obviously, I will need some identification, as well as a reference or two whom I may call to confirm your authority on such matters. I’ll also have to check with our home office in Los Angeles and receive at least a verbal approval. I should wait for the telex, but that might take forever.”

  “I don’t carry identification,” Andy told him.

  “Oh my.” The big man tilted back in his chair. “That is a problem.”

  Andy noticed a candy bar wrapper lying dead in the wastebasket. He said, “There is a number you can call.”

  The man rocked forward. “Well. That’s a start. Let’s have it and we’ll see what we can do.”

  While the manager made the call, inquiring about a George Baker, Andy looked about the office. Besides a couch, a low table, and two guest chairs, there was precious else. No plants, few wall decorations, no filing cabinet. Bland. Blaaa…

  The fat man hung up and said, “Yes. I suppose I be
lieve you. But the fellow who I spoke with said that your wife has taken ill and would appreciate a call.”

  “Pay phone?”

  “You can use this one….”

  “No. Sorry. It has to be a pay phone.”

  “Around the corner and down the hall, left, down the stairs and there you have it. Follow signs to the pool.”

  “Will you help us?”

  “Yes. Of course I will. I’ll get all the billings for you immediately, and I’ll place a call to the home office and see where we stand.”

  A few minutes later, following a brief exchange, Andy hung up the pay phone and waited for it to ring. When it did, he introduced himself as George Baker.

  Parker Lyell’s voice responded, “Oh yes. Terrific! Are you secure, George?”

  “Yes, are you?”

  “Not to worry. All’s fine. Here’s the gist: Our friend has hit a store in Ohio. Unfortunately, the computer data-storage has been erased, and so access into the area is still not possible. It’s sealed tight as a drum. There are backup computers over at the Pentagon, but the brass is dragging its feet. We still don’t know what, if anything, he took with him. The place was riddled with video cameras though, so at some point we’ll know the whole story. Meanwhile, it is essential you stay in close contact. But on that note, we have other problems. Listen up. Interpol has uncovered a sabotage plot aimed at destroying Canadian communications. We have no idea how serious the threat is, but should communications be lost, we will go to CROSSWORD CODE, RIGHT. Copy?”

  “RIGHT.”

  “Correct. Otherwise, check in midday tomorrow. We expect to know more by then.”

  “Okay. I’ve got it.”

  “News?”

  Andy found himself tempted to tell Lyell of the almond-eyed woman he was stalking; but, recalling his cab ride of the day before and the warning of leaks, thought better of the idea, and instead told Lyell that he was tired, hungry, and dirty.

  “Remember to keep us up-to-date.”

  “Yes.”

  The two hung up and Andy returned to the office.

  The jowled manager had on his desk a tidy stack of guests’ bills. Andy entered, closed the door, and sat down with a sigh.

  The manager said, “Take a look at these. Three single women out of two hundred and two beds filled! How do you like that? And only one who has ordered meals from Room Service. She checked in yesterday.” The man slid the chit across the desk to Andy. A line of computerized charges filled the right-hand column.

  Andy waved the bill in his right hand. “This is as close as I’ve come, but I’m faced with a bit of a problem.”

  “More?”

  “I don’t dare tell your room service personnel what’s going on, or who I am, because they’ll act differently—no matter what they may think—and that could foul this all up. But it is imperative I match descriptions of the woman. I wonder…”

  “Yes?” the manager asked, leaning forward intently.

  “…If you could discretely make some inquiries for me, we might achieve the same results.”

  “Such as?”

  “Is there any way to tell who has delivered to her, and who hasn’t?”

  “Yes. No problem. The individual orders will be initialed by the waiter or waitress. May I ask a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Is the hotel in any immediate danger? This isn’t a terrorist or something like that….”

  “No danger.”

  “Oh good.”

  “Then perhaps you could approach one of your older waiters who has delivered to her and pretend you’re infatuated with the woman in”—Andy checked the bill—“four-ten.”

  “I can certainly do that with no problem.”

  “What I’d like you to do, is pose it as a question. Her outstanding feature is her eyes. You could ask, ‘Say, is that woman who has the eyes and the dark hair, like Sophia Loren, the one in four-ten?’ Something like that.”

  “Oh yes. I see.”

  The manager appeared excited by it all, and this worried Andy. “You must not seem too excited. Only interested. You understand?”

  “Mr. Baker, we talk about beautiful women everyday. Shop talk. It’s nothing new. I’ll check the charges and see if I can’t find one of the waiters. We’re just switching shifts and there should be someone here who served her last night. Just a minute.” The man forced himself up and out of the chair and waddled to the door, closing it as he left.

  Andy sat restlessly for nearly ten minutes before the man returned with a tight-lipped smile pasted on his face. It had seemed more like half an hour. He said, “Peter agreed she’s the prettiest we’ve had in six months. The eyes and hair match. What now?”

  Andy sighed. After seven hours of this, he had been ready to give up. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll take that coffee now, if I may? Oh, and I’d like to take a look at your phone system, if I could.” And then he added, “And I’d love a bite to eat.”

  The fat man chuckled. “And a hot shower, I’ll bet.”

  “Yes. A shower would be wonderful.”

  “Which will mean a room.” He leaned across the desk. “Will that be cash or credit card?”

  7:23 P.M.

  Lake Huron, Across the Canadian Border

  He had been on board ship for twelve hours when it approached the old fishing town of Blind River. A Canadian wind stirred the night air, and where Borikowski stood, overlooking the dark shoreline, the wind stung his cheeks.

  Finally, the Ciel Rouge banged into the old wooden docks, which complained in muted creaks, and the crew made her fast.

  This leg of his assignment caused Borikowski additional concern. Here he was to wait for a contact, something he never liked because it left him under the control of others. Yet this stop would also temporarily rid him of Stuhlberg. The scientist was to be turned over to the Kolyma for the next part of the operation. If all went as planned, then Stuhlberg would be shipped to British Columbia, and for a few days, Borikowski would be rid of him.

  A few days.

  Meanwhile Borikowski would travel with Lydia, and he looked forward to that with heightened anticipation.

  When the expected agent was an hour late, Borikowski became concerned.

  By the end of two hours, his lungs hurt from smoking and his stomach growled angrily at the black coffee. The sailor who was standing sentry at the bottom of the ramp pounded his feet on the dock to fight off the cold. Borikowski did the same as he paced the stern deck, listening to the hypnotic slap of water against the hull, annoyed once more by the assignment’s share of problems. He lit another cigarette and continued to pace.

  “Psssst.” The sentry caught Borikowski’s attention, then cocked his head toward the dim glow of a cigarette in the shadows of one of the nearby warehouses.

  Borikowski nodded and struck a match, but the wind blew it out, so he cupped the next and it stayed lit.

  The visitor approached the ship cautiously, was searched, a gun taken from him—much to his objection—and then joined Borikowski on the stern deck.

  “I am LeClux. You have had some difficulties.”

  Borikowski spoke through his stuffed nose. “I hope they warrant your being two and one half hours behind schedule. It all goes in my report, LeClux. Certainly you realize that it all goes in my report.”

  “Fuck your mother with your report.”

  Borikowski struck the man across the face.

  “What the fuck!?” LeClux touched his pained cheek.

  “You may be accustomed to a certain casualness around your colleagues. However, I will not tolerate it. You will observe rank, soldier, or I will have you reduced to a citizen. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You cannot demote me, m’sieu. Yes, sure, you can strike me; but I am not your soldier! The man you were to see was badly injured in Soo. The Security Service raided your safe house earlier today. It was a disaster!”

  “I did special favors for your agents,” the man continued. “We
have some of the same long-range goals. The man you were to meet here trusted me to assist you. He said it was important you be informed. I am telling you, he is hurt badly, m’sieu, and has taken refuge in a small cabin up near the ski area. I wish to help you, m’sieu, but I will not be treated like this. Non! Henri LeClux is a man of principles and of honor.”

  Borikowski took a drag off the cigarette. “Forgive me. I appreciate your help. Please explain the raid.” He stared out into the dark.

  LeClux explained, “Three of your agents were arrested. Two of theirs were injured. My friend and I made it out. He asked me to tell you that the SS took the medical supplies intended for your delivery.” He rambled on, nearly hysterical. “I am late because I had to be extremely careful of tails. The SS is good you know….”

  “The exchange?” Borikowski inquired, unimpressed by the typically frenetic Frenchman.

  “Yes. I can take you to the exchange, but the medical supplies—your contact was to bring them along.”

  “Is there nothing you can do?”

  “Such goods are black market, of course. But I would need to get back to the city to make the necessary arrangements… and I would need to be paid, of course.” He looked quizzically at Borikowski, wondering what his reaction would be.

  “That’s no problem. But I am on a schedule. You will take me to the exchange. I will have two of these sailors with me. Once contact is made they will return for the cargo and bring it to us. When my responsibilities are fulfilled, I will be on my way. You and… and the people I’m meeting can work out the details.”

  “Whatever works the best.”

  “That’s the way we’ll do it.”

  “Okay. Fine with me.”

  Borikowski picked up his suitcase and nodded to shore.

  LeClux proceeded down a steep metal stairway, which led to the shore ramp and then to the dock. But as Borikowski, suitcase in hand, placed his foot on the first step, he slipped on a thin layer of ice, which had formed only minutes before. He threw the suitcase forward, and miraculously LeClux, who had heard the slip and turned, caught it. Borikowski, who was worried more for the suitcase and the enclosed bacteria than for his own safety, banged his head against the metal steps and slid, face up, crashing into LeClux. His head had smacked the fourth and fifth step severely, with such force, in fact, that it tore loose his wig. Dazed and briefly unable to stand on his feet without support, he was helped into the Jeep by a deck hand and LeClux and driven away, bleeding only slightly from his nose.