Reattaching the wig proved no problem, but the lump on his skull told of the force of the fall. And now a headache ran wild, as if a hundred head of cattle were stampeding toward his eyes. Every little bump in the road magnified his pain tenfold.
To his alarm, his nose continued to bleed, and easily qualified as the worst of his life.
***
They drove to a house on the north end of Blind River. It was Tudor and in need of fresh stain, as well as some masonry work. The nosebleed finally stopped a few minutes after their arrival. Borikowski changed his bloodied shirt and then lay down on the couch to allow his nose time to fully clot.
He was up and about when three Kolyma arrived at the house on schedule, twenty minutes later, and took over.
Borikowski had never met a single member of the elite squad who was, in his opinion, worth knowing. He was happy to be continuing on without them, aware that in a few short days, and a few thousand miles, he would meet with them again.
For now, Borikowski was free of Stuhlberg, and to him, this was all that mattered.
One of the Kolyma entered the living room. “Fuck the old German bastard!” the man directed at Borikowski.
“What is it?”
“We changed the dressing on his hand and everything was fine.”
“Yes?” Borikowski inquired.
“Now he has a nosebleed! And the damn thing won’t stop!”
7:56 P.M.
Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan
Andy enjoyed the hunt now. This was as close as he had come to Borikowski yet: a real, live, living-and-breathing connection, and he wasn’t about to lose her.
He had taken a room—cash—eaten and showered. He wore a new change of clothes: blue shirt, blue jeans, and a corduroy sport coat.
Downstairs, in the small underground garage, a rental car awaited him. Inside were two ice chests filled with fruits and dairy products and bags of ice. Binoculars, road flares, a compass, a hunting knife, a high-powered flashlight, thermal socks, long underwear, a winter parka, and felt-lined boots had been on his list as well. At a Sears he had pick-pocketed three men all within a matter of a few minutes. Two of the wallets he merely dropped onto the floor as if fallen from a pocket. The third he kept. Unlike the others, no photograph showed on the identification. Instead, this man, Ted Welch of Dearborn, Michigan, had recently been issued a temporary driver’s license, and owned three credit cards, one of which had been used to rent the car. Andy felt this necessary, because he knew the KGB had moles in the offices of every major credit card company and most banks, and he was taking no chances of his location being discovered through a credit trail. His suitcase, now filled with his dirty clothes, lay on the floor of the back seat, and the blue car’s gas tank was filled with unleaded.
Most of this was typical solo surveillance precaution. If the woman left the hotel and traveled to any form of public transportation, train, bus, or air, Andy could follow, leave the car behind, and take the same means of departure as Lydia. If she left by taxi or a car of her own, he was prepared to follow her, even if it took days.
The styrofoam ice chests were not original either. He had learned this trick years before from a crusty old intelligence officer named Ralph Plank, a man who could not be without food for more than an hour.
For now, though, he sat in an uncomfortable chair, on the landing to the fourth floor, the door to the fire stairs cracked open with a pencil. He had a good view of the elevators and much of the hallway.
The combination of the rental car, keeping an eye on the hallway, and the cordless phone in his coat pocket, which was bridged to her room’s extension, offered him security. If a call came to her room, he could listen. If someone arrived, or if she left without a call, then he would see.
Trapped, that’s what she was. Trapped.
So he leaned forward, eye to the crack, and waited.
8:22 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
Scrawny Chris Daniels had found time to race home, shower, and change. So had Terry Stone for that matter, but he didn’t look at all different.
Daniels now wore khakis, a buttoned-down oxford shirt, and a black silk tie. He entered the office pushing his glasses back onto his nose.
Stone was accustomed to the habit. He thought, How many times have I told the boy to get those damned things fixed? “You ought to get those damned things fixed,” he said stridently.
Daniels announced proudly, “I believe we may have something here,” and sat down facing Stone.
“In what form?”
Daniels’ exceptionally long fingers guided a stapled group of papers across Stone’s enormous desktop. “The Canadians sent it telex to Central. It’s in the computers now. This is your copy.”
Stone reached for it and studied it in a cursory manner. “I’d rather an explanation, if you don’t mind.” He lifted his glasses off the desk. “I refuse to wear these another minute.”
Daniels nodded, nervous by the intimacy. These last few days had shown Daniels a glimpse of the other Stone: the human side. Daniels started in. “The Security Service turned up certain medical supplies in their raid this afternoon on a Sault Ste. Marie safe house: lactated Ringer’s solution, surgical tubing, some syringes—”
“I’ve already read that report. And we’ve already discussed it.” Stone toyed with impertinence.
“True. Well, sir, a few hours ago, a hospital in an exurb of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, was robbed. The stolen items match those confiscated this afternoon.”
Stone perked up and leaned forward. “Run that by me again, son.”
“The same items.”
“Someone’s injured?”
“Certainly a possibility. Perhaps injured…”
“Or illness. Stuhlberg would have a hell of a time holding up as a hostage. He’s an elderly man, for God’s sake.”
So was Terry Stone, but Daniels hardly felt it an appropriate time to make comparisons.
“You don’t agree?” Stone asked, detecting reservation in Daniels’ face.
“It’s hard to say. Any number of possibilities exist: coincidence, decoy, injury, illness…”
“But…”
“But I can’t help but be reminded of the Hutchinson kidnapping, sir. The similarity of the medical inventories is astounding.”
This triggered a laugh from Stone. Sometimes Daniels was too bright for his own good. “Refresh my memory on the Hutchinson kidnapping, would you please?” He scratched his nose in order to cover his mouth, for he was grinning, and although he did not mind laughing with people, he disliked laughing at them.
“An FBI case—”
Stone then interrupted, and snorted, for the joke was on him: he did remember. “Of course! They buried the daughter alive for something like fourteen days! Texas, wasn’t it?”
“I’m impressed,” Daniels conceded.
“Bullroar! If I hadn’t remembered, you’d have been disappointed. There’s a difference, Chris.”
Daniels continued. “Remember how they kept her alive?”
“IVs and an oxygen tank…” Stone clicked his tongue to the top of his mouth.
Daniels continued for him. “Lactated Ringer’s solution to prevent dehydration and supply food to the blood, and an oxygen/nitrogen combination fed through a gas mask.” He waved the stack of papers in the air. “Same gear.”
Terry Stone slapped the desktop. “Nice job, Chris! You anticipate that they’ll try and ship Stuhlberg?”
“It’s certainly what I would expect. And it creates two interesting possibilities. First, that they will keep both Stuhlberg and Borikowski together, so that, as we said before, Stuhlberg’s presence increases our losses if we attempt to take Borikowski. Second, however, is the possibility that they merely want to render Stuhlberg useless, and divide and conquer, if you will. If they are separated, then each has his own chance of escaping detection, and the odds increase that one or the other will get out of the country. Separation also frees Dragonfly of a cu
mbersome package.”
“They’ll use a casket?”
“Yes, that would be my guess. If not an actual shipping casket then a crate of equal size. A shipping casket would be easier and draw less attention.” Then he added, “And a shipping casket would allow the use of detonation devices.”
“That’s a morbid thought…. You mean rig it to blow up the doctor?”
“It would discourage us from opening any and all caskets.”
“Would it?”
“Wouldn’t it?” Daniels asked heatedly.
But Stone did not answer. Instead he asked, “I suppose they’ll try to fly Stuhlberg out, eh?”
“I doubt it. The enhanced airport security would all but rule out air shipping. You’ve heard the news reports. Air traffic has been slowed by the thorough searches. Federal Express and Emery both have filed suit against the FAA, claiming their companies should be exempt from the searches. Caskets have always been a favorite of gun runners and dope dealers…. The Canadians and the FBI have both stopped a dozen air shipments in the last four months, so the DS would anticipate caskets being searched.”
“So they’ll try something else.”
“That’s my guess.”
“And we wait and see.”
“Yes. And we put men on rail and trucking routes in both Canada and the U.S. That, I think are their likely choices.” Daniels added, “I’ve also alerted Naval Intelligence.”
“For what reason?”
“Because of what Stuhlberg’s assistants told us. I think it safe to assume Dragonfly took a sample of the bacteria. If true, then he must avoid flying with the bacteria because of its extreme sensitivity to pressure change. We’ll know more accurately what we’re up against once the brass lets us look at that data; but if he can’t fly out, then he’s headed for one coast or the other, and it may involve a rendezvous with a ship.”
Stone, intrigued with this notion, again sat forward. “That’s good thinking, Chris. Yes. Soviet ship movement—including their fishing fleet—may indicate which coast he’s headed for.” He leaned back in his chair. “That would lead us to him, wouldn’t it?”
“It is certainly a strong possibility.”
“Yes.” Then Stone’s face held a wise expression. “You know something?”
“What’s that?”
“You’d make a hell of a strategist.”
Daniels blushed. “Sir, perhaps it is time we passed on our hunches to Parker Lyell. He could relay the information to Clayton when they next speak. After all, Stuhlberg’s assistants warned of the bacteria’s toxicity….”
“I agree completely, and as a matter of fact, I’ve already spoken to Lyell. He’ll pass along the information tomorrow at noon. We will maintain Clayton, however—much to the protests of GH4—on the off chance he can uncover Borikowski. He’ll be on orders not to shoot.”
“Will that make any difference?”
Stone, surprised by the question, smiled bleakly. “I hope so,” he said.
11:55 P.M.
Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan
Andy Clayton sat in a chair, straining one eye to see through the thin crack of the stairway door, which allowed him a view of the hallway of the fourth floor.
The simplicity of the hotel’s semi-automated phone system had made it easy for Andy to connect the Sears cordless phone he had bought to Lydia’s room extension. He had also performed surgery on the phone’s receiver, disabling its microphone by snipping two thin wires, so that he could listen in, but not be heard. And so, a few hours ago, when she had ordered dinner, he had listened to her conversation with room service and had been pleased with how well the system worked. The hotel operator would ring his extension first, then seconds later would connect Lydia’s phone, thus eliminating the quiet pop of Andy’s receiver being connected. Now, four hours after that successful first test with room service, his cordless receiver rang again and he switched it on.
“J’ai perdu ma montre. As-tu le temps?” a male voice asked, and Andy’s heart raced.
“De temps en temps.”
“Quel temps?”
“Chaque fois.”
Andy began scribbling a cryptic shorthand onto a piece of paper resting on his thigh.
The male voice—Borikowski—asked, “Have you any travel plans?”
She asked, “How’s your weather?”
“Blue sky.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“It is.”
And they both hung up.
Andy immediately shut off the cordless by setting it on the floor, and just as quickly it rang again. He picked it up, put it to his ear, and heard two lines connect again.
“Room Service,” a young voice answered.
“Brandy please. Four-ten.”
“Any particular brandy, madam?”
“Your most expensive… and a cup of hot water to rest the snifter in.”
“Yes, madam. That’s room four-ten.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.” She hung up.
So did Andy, realizing that she planned on leaving—“Have you any travel plans?”—yet deciding it would be later than sooner—because a brandy was a before-bed drink.
Taking no chances, he pocketed the cordless phone and headed to the underground garage, deciding to park across the street from the hotel, where he had both a view of her lighted window and the front—and only—hotel entrance. Here, he waited out the night.
At half-past midnight, her window went black.
Tuesday, November 25
6:47 A.M.
Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan
She came out of the hotel’s front door looking as beautiful as any fashion model. A doorman carried her bag, and she, her purse. A cab was waiting, and only seconds later it pulled out into a light traffic, Andy’s rented Citation following.
He had remained awake through the night, sitting in the rented car watching the hotel’s front door, cordless phone resting on the dashboard, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. His new parka had ten pockets and was reversible from beige to dark brown, and he played with velcro for something to do. The parka and new boots had helped to keep him warm; but even so, the cold Canadian air had forced him to run the car’s engine periodically to warm himself.
He wondered why she had not departed at three in the morning—as he had expected she might—rather than now, when heavier traffic made it more difficult for her to spot someone following. He knew this was no doubt part of a plan—the phone call, the timing of the departure, the rendezvous—devised and conceived by Borikowski or even higher-ups, and now set in motion despite the flaws born into it.
He shrugged and turned left, following a good distance behind her cab, rubbing his eyes and trying not to feel tired.
The morning air warmed the sky, a tinge of orange brushing a few clouds to the east. Two pigeons settled on the roof of a nearby building.
Her cab headed straight out of town and across International Bridge.
Using George Baker’s credentials—but still in possession of Tom Welch’s temporary driver’s license he had pick-pocketed the night before—Andy passed through the border checkpoint without any trouble. But as the Customs man handed back his identification, Andy realized that others could also be aware of his George Baker identity, just as the Montreal mole had known of Borikowski’s Peter Trover and Franz Vogel identities.
He slipped the driver’s license back into his wallet and drove away, restless and annoyed at himself for not using the Welch identification.
And then he started looking in his rearview mirror.
***
The cab dropped her at a Hertz agency, where she rented a large dark blue four-door. Within minutes Lydia left the city and found her way to the Trans Canadian Highway.
Andy’s Citation remained well behind. As he devoured an apple from a cooler, he checked his map and began his own patented brand of surveillance. Because she would be watching for any tail
s, he had to be extremely cautious. He settled on the Kreuter plan: dropping well behind the suspect until visual contact is lost; keeping a careful eye on both the odometer and the map, only closing the gap between the two vehicles when—according to the map—the suspect approaches the next upcoming exit.
This was an American Intelligence surveillance technique developed by Harold Kreuter in the mid-1960s, and worked on any major limited-access highway. Back roads, with their numerous intersections, would have forced Andy to keep too close a tail on her, and more than likely, she would have spotted him. But there were no such back roads west of Sault Ste. Marie. Instead, the Trans Canadian Highway cut through thickly forested, lush green mountains, snaking through the hills like a ribbon dropped from the sky.
He checked his watch, turned on the radio, located some loud rock music, and settled back, prepared for a long drive.
He thought about his earlier conversation with Mari, her arguments against his continuing the assignment. And though he wanted to believe he would not attempt to kill Borikowski at the first opportunity—as he had told her—he was not absolutely certain what his reaction might be.
He argued with his conscience throughout the drive. He was afraid of Borikowski, if for no other reason than that the man had compromised Duncan—and Duncan had been rated as one of the country’s top five field operatives at the time of his abduction. At the same time, Andy feared the sloppiness that might accompany his own unrelenting desire for vengeance. There was no room for mistakes now. Borikowski was on unfamiliar ground, on what was obviously a complex operation, and Andy held the element of surprise.
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