Black Gambit

by Clark, Eric

  The car began to slow. Parker craned his neck to look ahead. ‘Looks like some truck’s turned over.’ The driver brought the car to a halt, but remained in his seat. The truck was on its side, its cargo of boxes scattered across the road. A car had pulled up a few yards away and a man, probably its driver, was kneeling beside what looked like a body.

  Hearing the prison car, he stood up and hurried over. ‘Hey,’ he began shouting when he was a few yards away, ‘you guys got a first-aid kit?’

  The guard wound down the window. The man was close now. Suddenly his hand was at the window, and in it was a gun.

  ‘Just open the door slowly,’ he said, ‘and don’t do a damn thing.’

  The door was opened and the man leaned in and removed the ignition key. ‘Okay, now open the passenger door.’

  He was a big man, well over six feet tall and built like a wrestler. His hair was cropped short and Parker noted that his eyes were narrowed like someone waiting for something to happen and showing he was ready for it.

  The guard obeyed.

  Beyond the man, Parker could see the ‘body’ lifting itself from the ground and getting into the parked car.

  The man with a gun edged around the car, holding the weapon with both hands, pointed all the time at the guard in front.

  He reached the passenger side and climbed in.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, handing back the ignition keys, ‘we’re doing fine so far. Now just pull past that truck and make the first right. It’s a track, maybe two miles ahead.’ He jabbed the gun into the other’s side. ‘Let’s go.’

  In the mirror, Parker saw the other car move off behind them.

  ‘There.’ The gunman was gesturing to a turn which could barely be seen. The track was pitted and seemingly unused for years. Parker reckoned they had been driving for about two miles since leaving the road when the gunman said, ‘Okay, we stop now.’

  The other car stopped. The gunman waited until its driver was outside before he ordered the two guards out. One of them turned to Parker who was still manacled to the floor.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Leave him where he is.’

  The man from the other car carried two guns, a shotgun and a submachine gun. He tossed one to the man who had hijacked the prison car.

  Parker thought at first that this was the move to free him, but now that he was left chained into the car, he began to feel real terror. He asked himself how they had known just when to block the road. He answered himself immediately. The handover minutes before! The men had been radioing ahead to set this in motion. That way they could ensure they got the right car.

  ‘Now.’ The man with the submachine gun was gesturing toward the desert, ‘you two walk that way, keep walking and don’t turn, whatever happens.’

  The second man came towards Parker; his chains were unlocked and he was pulled, blinking and stiff, into the harsh sun.

  The man said nothing, but went over to his own car, opened the trunk, and dragged out a sack. With effort, the two men dragged it to the prison car, both still clutching their guns.

  They eased it into the back seat. The one with the submachine gun stepped back. The second man leaned into the car and it looked as though he was opening the sack Then he leaned back, his shotgun pressed inside, his body shielded by the door.

  There were two shots. The first gunman noted Parker’s shocked puzzlement.

  ‘Teeth,’ he said conversationally. ‘Nasty things to leave intact. Too easy to identify.’

  The second gunman moved away from the can and the one who had spoken to Parker raked it with submachine gun fire.

  ‘They’re not looking back,’ said the other. Parker had forgotten the guards.

  ‘Good, but better get him inside.’

  Parker was led to the gunmen’s car and put in the front passenger seat. One man sat behind him. The other was pouring gasoline over the prison car. Finally satisfied, he tossed in a burning clip of matches and jumped back. The car exploded into flames. The man was back in the car now, yelling ‘Let’s go.’

  They reached the main road within minutes, screeched to a stop. The door was opened from inside and Parker was pushed out. Another car was waiting, a man leaning against it. He opened the door for Parker to get in.

  ‘My friends say welcome,’ said Foster Williams.

  Chapter Ten

  FOSTER WILLIAMS drove at a fast steady pace for fifty minutes, and then stopped. Without speaking, he reached into the back of the car and produced two sets of flying coveralls.

  Pulling on one, he gestured to Parker to do the same. Despite the confines of the car, it took only moments.

  Williams reached round again and this time came up with two helmets with vizors. He placed one on the floor near his feet, and gave the other to Parker.

  ‘Keep this on your knee till I tell you,’ he said. ‘In about ten minutes you’ll see an airfield. We’re going flying.’

  The getaway by air had been Cory’s idea after a great deal of consideration. He wanted the guards to hear and see enough of what was happening to be convinced that the badly burned body found in the car was Parker’s. Making them walk into the desert seemed the best way, but it meant they would be able to give the alarm in about two hours.

  Louie had suggested transferring him to a compartment in a large truck. But the truck might be stopped, it might be searched. Whatever the cost, there must be no chance of Parker being discovered alive at this stage. For that reason, with reluctance, Cory sought official help.

  The airfield — Edwards Air Base — came into sight almost exactly at the time Williams had calculated. The two men pulled on their helmets; behind vizors they were unrecognizable.

  At the gate, Williams’s pass produced immediate entry and directions to a helicopter pad where a pilot was waiting. He was not surprised that one man, the thinner one, said nothing on the whole of the five hundred mile flight to Phoenix: there had been enough hints for him to guess that the man was a defector the CIA had got out through Mexico and was now probably on his way to a ‘safe house’ in Arizona.

  At Phoenix Williams produced a change of clothes and from there he and Parker flew on commercial flights; first to Chicago and then, using different names, to Pittsburgh before driving the last six hours of the journey to Washington.

  This had presented Cory with his second major worry: where to hide and brief Parker for the next few weeks while he was being prepared for his mission. He wanted Parker to remain unsure of who was directing the operation. That meant somewhere other than Washington — ideally, a private house in an isolated location. Yet Washington was where the materials and people Cory needed were based. Conceding the reality that for the first two weeks at least he needed a place with all necessary facilities, he chose Camp Peary.

  Again — reluctantly — he sought official help. He explained his needs to Sunnenden and within a day obtained what he wanted: an operation authorization from the National Security Council, answerable only to the Secretary, allowing the use of the highest security classification. The operation itself was left vague.

  From now on, Cory knew, natural secrecy would take over: the more he demanded, the less people would want to know.

  Camp Peary stands in southern Virginia, a fifteen mile drive from Williamsburg. The base was once a wild life refuge, and its woods are still thick with deer. Today it is ostensibly a Defense Department research and testing station, hence the military police guards and barbed wire topped fences and signs saying ‘US Government Reservation. No Trespassing.’

  In actuality it is one of the most secret and closely guarded areas in the Western world. Much of its space is devoted to training new CIA men. Other areas of the camp are even more secret: on them special operations are planned, foreign agents briefed, defectors interrogated.

  To gain illegal entry to the base at all — with its guards, electrified fences, dogs and tripwires — would be difficult at best; to enter one of the high security sections without a
uthorization would be almost impossible. It was in one of those areas that Cory chose his house.

  Cory was waiting at the gatehouse when Williams’s car appeared. It was night-time. For the last twenty miles Parker had been lying on the floor, covered with a blanket — a small precaution but the best they could manage. Over the weeks they would add a number of others, along with pieces of false information, all meant to prevent Parker being totally certain for whom he was working.

  Cory, standing inside the gatehouse drinking coffee, saw the car stop under the lights. He recognized the number before the guard shone a light on to Williams’s face.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Cory, putting down his cup. He went outside, opened the rear door.

  ‘Don’t sit up,’ he said, lifting a corner of the blanket. ‘I just want to see your face.’ He stared for a long time. The face was more drawn than the photographs, but it was unmistakably Parker.

  Cory stepped back. ‘I’ll take over from here,’ he told the guard.

  He climbed into the front seat next to Williams. ‘Straight on, until the road forks,’ he said. ‘Then make a right. I’ll direct you from there.’

  He waved to the guard, who was on his way back into the gatehouse to phone the first check point. There were three. At each one Cory’s face and papers were sufficient to get them through. No one asked to look under the blanket.

  In the woods were other men, equipped with night-glasses, monitoring the car’s journey and making sure, despite Cory’s security clearance and rating, that it did not stop nor deviate from the designated route.

  ‘In fifty yards, there’s a track on the right,’ Cory said at last. ‘I’d slow now.’

  ‘I see it.’

  Williams and Cory helped Parker from the back wound through trees; the car had to stop once to avoid deer. The house was in a clearing, its grounds lit by spotlights. There were no guards in sight; they had orders not to come within 250 yards unless called.

  Williams and Cory helped parker from the back seat, keeping the blanket over his head until they were inside the bungalow. It was comfortable but rudimentary inside — the kind of place someone might build as a holiday home. The walls and ceilings were wood panelled, the floor was cork blocks and the furniture and pictures — all of American scenes — had obviously come from the same stockpile. The only sign of individuality was in the main room: stacks of well-read paperbacks left by a succession of former occupants and their guards.

  Cory dumped some parcels, then rummaged in one bag and took out a quart of Chivas Regal. He fetched glasses and poured three drinks.

  ‘To your freedom,’ he said and took a deep swallow.

  Williams drank immediately, but Parker raised his glass slowly, looking hard at Cory. He sipped and let the neat liquor swish around his mouth. He took a second sip. Then at last he smiled.

  ‘To my freedom.’

  Parker finished the drink. Cory poured him another, and Parker took one sip. They were all still standing. Parker wiped his forehead. ‘Christ, I’m tired.’

  Cory stoppered the bottle and handed it to Parker. ‘Drink it in bed,’ he urged. When there was no response, he said ‘I mean it.’

  Parker took the bottle. Cory led him along a passage and into a small bedroom.

  ‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ he said, closing the door.

  Parker noted that there was no handle on the inside. Somehow, it didn’t seem to matter.

  *

  Parker woke, and without looking at his watch knew it was 5.30.

  Then he did look, and it was almost nine.

  He lifted himself up and looked over the edge of the bed to the floor. The near-full bottle of whisky, carefully stoppered, was still there. He had finished his glass but poured no more: he had felt exhausted enough after the two days to be vulnerable without getting drunk. Moreover — and rightly — he suspected that the bottle was an initial test.

  He spent a few minutes taking in the room, and enjoying the unfamiliarity of it — the couch, panelled wall, curtained alcove containing a shower. There were recessed spotlights in the ceiling and a standard lamp in the corner near the window. Looking at them, he realized another reason why he had slept so well: the darkness.

  He saw that the door had been opened and left ajar, but he disregarded it and walked across to the shower.

  Dried and dressed, he looked out of the window. There were birds on the grass. Despite the hour there was little sun: the trees were close enough to mask it until mid-morning.

  When he finally made his way to the main room, only Cory was there. He was standing in the kitchen filling a mug with coffee. He held it out towards Parker.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, as though Parker’s presence was the most natural thing in the world.

  Parker took the mug, staring deep into Cory’s face. He was wary, frightened almost. The escape and this hide-out showed that whoever had freed him was both highly organized and totally ruthless.

  He tried to hide his anxiety. At least they wanted him alive. Clutching his mug, he started to walk to the window. Cory sensed his hesitation; it pleased him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you can go outside, but don’t move away from the house. And I mean that. Never.’

  Parker stood in the doorway, breathing in the morning air mixed with the smell of fresh coffee, enjoying the sounds of the woods. Behind him Cory began scrambling eggs in a pan.

  They breakfasted together at the small scrubbed table next to the bar. Both men ate slowly and carefully, Cory because it was his habit, Parker because he did not want to be sick. He had suffered once already after eating onion soup and filet mignon and pie and icecream on the journey from California.

  At last, the eggs and bacon finished, Cory fetched more coffee and spoke for the first time.

  ‘You’re a quiet man, Mr Parker, and I appreciate that. I’m a quiet man myself.’ Cory lifted his mug and drank, his eyes wide above the rim, watching carefully. ‘I also realize that the fact you are a quiet man doesn’t mean you’re not a curious one, but if I read you right you have managed to control that.’

  There was sound of the front door opening and closing; Parker kept his attention on Cory.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to continue to control it for a little longer,’ Cory continued. ‘I think that today you should rest. When we’ve finished coffee I’ll show you around the rest of the house. Sleep or read or watch television, whatever you like. If you’re hungry, eat.’ He waved toward the living room where Parker could see bottles lined up on a shelf, if you’re thirsty, drink. Tomorrow we’ll start work.’

  The door opened and Williams entered. Cory put down his cup. ‘For now,’ he said, ‘I’ll leave you.’ To Williams he added, ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

  He closed the door behind him and started along the passageway. A door opened quietly and Sunnenden stepped out to join him. For the past few minutes he had been watching Parker through the closed circuit television system.

  Cory waited until they were outside.

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘God,’ exclaimed Sunnenden, ‘I think it’s going to work.’

  *

  Cory closed the blinds while Williams set up the screen and projector. Parker, seated alone on the couch, watched the screen impassively.

  The first scene was the outside of a building; Parker could not place its location. A man came into view and walked down a short flight of steps. He wore a jacket, an open shirt, a beret, and drew at a cigarette as he walked — as though for every mouthful of air he took he needed another of tobacco smoke. He was bearded, and he kept looking from side to side.

  As he came closer, the picture became blurred and the film went blank. Another shot of the same man followed, this time standing with other people at what looked like an open-air party. In turn that image gave way to others: footage shot at a cafe, in a park, at a conference. Often the quality was poor: the scene was obstructed by moving bodies, or ruined by poor lighting. The one thing common to eve
ry scene was the bearded man.

  The film lasted perhaps half an hour. At the end of it Cory clicked on the light.

  There are more,’ he said. ‘All I want you to do for now is keep watching them. I want you to know that man.’

  Cory was rarely in the house during the next three days. For hours each day Parker watched films, mainly of the bearded man, but also ones showing the insides of buildings and other recurring faces. In the evenings he worked through portfolios of photographs. By the fourth day he could close his eyes and describe the things he had seen to the smallest detail.

  His attempts to get any feedback from Williams had failed. His brief talks to Cory were confined to pleasantries.

  Occasionally he heard cars arrive and depart; doors open and close. He sensed he was being watched, and suspected closed circuit television.

  After a few days the combination of a taste of freedom without real freedom and the uncertainty of the immediate future began to get to him. He would wake earlier and stand by the window, watching the dawn and wondering about his chances of getting free.

  With the lights out he was sure that he could not be seen on television, even if anyone was up to watch him. He was wrong on both points. On the screen the infra-red light that bathed the room made it as clear as in daylight. Each night and early morning Cory sat by the screen, watching and calculating and planning.

  On the sixth day the monotony of the routine was broken. Parker had just finished watching a film, for the tenth time. As Williams got up to change the film, Parker heard a car arrive at the front of the house. Then the door. It was Cory; behind him was another man, large, and baldheaded except for a few strands of hair carefully combed across from one side to another.

  At their arrival, Williams left the room. The stranger beckoned Parker to stand under one of the lights, then opened the blinds and stood him by the window. He walked around him, as though studying a painting. He looked at Parker’s skin and hands, patted his stomach, asked him to walk and to sit down and stand. Finally he took clips of Parker’s hair.