by Walter Grant
John Gilbird’s eyes narrowed. He stood and inhaled deeply, and then slowly expelled the air from his lungs. His shoulders rose slightly as he filled his lungs then fell into a relaxed position as he exhaled. He had come to a decision. There was no tension in his voice when he replied, “Okay, let’s go.”
Max had watched the man struggle with his emotions and knew the questions with which he labored. He followed the man’s thinking almost thought for thought and was especially alert as they entered the stateroom. He knew there was danger, but this was where he wanted to be, alone with Gilbird in his stateroom.
John Gilbird took plenty of time with the lock, removing the key with his left hand. Although he’d been in deep cover for over a decade his training was still there, automatically recalled by the situation at hand. Gilbird knew it was now or never—there would be no second chance.
Max stayed close behind Gilbird as they entered the room. He saw Gilbird’s left hand toss the stateroom key onto the bed, a ploy to divert his attention, watched the KGB agent slip his right hand in and out of his pocket with lightning speed, he saw the glint of steel, heard the spring lock the blade into place, watched the man plant his right foot in order to pivot back to his left and thrust the knife upwards into the soft tissues of the unsuspecting man who followed him blindly into the room. The KGB agent, no matter how fast, was too slow. At the very instant Gilbird attempted to plant his foot, Max grabbed him by the seat of the trousers with his right hand, lifting him to an off-balance position. At the same time his left hand seized Gilbird by the hair pushing his head down and using his own weight and the KGB agent’s forward motion, ran him headfirst into the steel bulkhead opposite the door. Max released his grip on the unconscious man and let him fall to the deck. There was nothing to indicate anyone had seen them enter the room or heard any suspicious noises; there was no one in the passageway outside when Max closed and locked the door.
He removed the small leather case from his pocket, knelt and placed it on the floor beside the motionless figure. Max opened the case and carefully removed a hypodermic syringe. He attached a needle and pushed the needle through the top of a small rubber stopped vial containing a clear liquid, drew a measured amount into the syringe, and replaced the vial in its niche inside the leather case alongside several other identical-looking vials. He pulled up Gilbird’s pant leg, and jammed the needle deep into his calf, slowly forcing liquid out of the syringe into the muscle tissue where it would make its way into the bloodstream. Tonight he would return and bring Gilbird out of the drug-induced sleep, shoot some sodium-amytal with benzedrine into his veins and see what he could learn about KGB involvement at Vandenberg.
With the syringe back in its case and safely in his pocket he rolled Gilbird over onto his back and started searching through his pockets. A wallet was the only item of interest; he would check it later. Next he turned his efforts toward locating the suitcase he had seen Gilbird carrying when he boarded the plane in Los Angeles and which he was still carrying when he hailed a taxi at the airport. It didn’t take long to find. Max looked around for something to open the locks and spotted the switchblade Gilbird had planned on using to open up his vital organs. He retrieved the knife and used it to pry open the locks.
Neatly taped bundles of fifty-dollar bills filled the suitcase. Each bundle contained one hundred fifty-dollar bills, there were two hundred such bundles. Well, as the saying went, one man’s loss was another man’s gain and his one-man crusade against the KGB was sure to be expensive; it seemed only fair to let the bad guys pick up the tab. At that moment Max wished Gilbird had brought hundred-dollar bills, since they would have taken up less space in his backpack and would have been easier to stuff in his parka, but he knew the KGB had a theory that hundred-dollar bills attracted too much attention and always used fifties.
There were too many bundles to fit into the large pockets of his parka. The black plastic bag lining the trash can, by the cabin’s small writing table, would serve to carry the cash to the solarium. Max stuffed the money inside, then twisted and tied a knot in the top of the bag. After returning the empty suitcase to its original hiding place he picked up the black plastic bag and opened the cabin door. Using the key Gilbird had tossed on the bed Max locked the door, and then walked toward the ladder leading to the upper decks.
Max stopped in front of stateroom 24 and raised his hand to knock, hesitated, lowered his hand, and moved on down the passageway. Mitchell would wait. A ladder led to an open deck aft of the cafeteria. He walked to the fantail, leaned his back against the railing and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh air blowing crisp and invigorating across the open deck. Another minute or two passed before he walked a dozen paces and climbed a ladder that opened directly onto the solarium.
The ship’s whistle sounded and the traditional announcement came over the address system. “The Matanuska will sail in five minutes; all visitors ashore.”
The rain had stopped and the clouds were lifting to reveal numerous glaciers hanging in the high valleys below the snow-covered peaks towering over Juneau. The capital city seemed to be clinging desperately to the lower slopes of the mountains. The mountains seemed determined to push it into the water. In time the mountains would surely win.
Passengers, taking advantage of a break in the weather, gathered in small groups along the ship’s railings on the open deck aft of the solarium watching the last of the trucks, autos, and recreation vehicles being driven onto the car deck below. Line handlers stood by to cast off hawsers securing the big blue and white ship to the pier. They were about to get underway.
Max made his way through and around the other chairs until he located the one he had staked out for himself. Pulling his backpack out from under the chair, he removed the items near the top and stuffed the plastic bag down toward the bottom, then replaced the removed items, secured the backpack and shoved it back underneath the chair. After removing his parka and placing it on top of his backpack he adjusted the chair to a horizontal position, and then unzipped his sleeping bag. Sitting on the chair, he removed his Juneau sneakers, also known as Ketchikan tennis shoes, and placed them alongside the backpack. As he swung his feet up and pushed them down into the sleeping bag, the ship’s speakers blared, “Stand by to cast off all lines,” followed a few seconds later by the command, “Cast off all lines.”
The solarium on the big Alaska State Ferry, open to the rear with glass overhead and on both sides, offered an unobstructed view. Whereas a person traveling the Inside Passage for the first time might stand in awe, Maxwell Kayne, settling into his lounge chair, was aware of the majesty surrounding him, for a moment only, as he reminded himself he was not here to enjoy the beauty of this vast land—he was here to kill.
The Matanuska slipped her mooring, eased out into Gastineau Channel and slowly moved off into the semidarkness as alpenglow, playing along 6,000-foot peaks above Juneau, signaled an end to this late October day. In the Lower Forty-eight the sun was still high in the western sky, but Alaska’s Panhandle days were growing shorter; winter was fast approaching. Already nights were below freezing along Lynn Canal; snow, now down to 1,000 feet, gave off an eerie glow as evening faded, giving way to the night.
Radiant heaters overhead, glowing red, kept the chill out of the solarium and with a stretch of the imagination you might even consider it warm, except when the wind, carrying an icy hint of the impending winter, whipped in across the stern. Passengers here, however, preferred fresh air to the stuffy closed-in observation deck or sleeping lounge, and dressed accordingly; Max Kayne was not unprepared. Pulling the drawstring on his mummy-style sleeping bag until only his face was left uncovered, he welcomed the chance to sleep. In the fleeting seconds before sleep came, he thought about the past, about the events that had brought him to this space and time.
As sleep took control of his body, unconsciousness took control of his thoughts, and he drifted back into the past, some of which he had forgotten, some of which he would never
forget.
The pulsating sensation on his wrist stopped. He lay motionless, eyes closed, still breathing slowly and evenly as if in a dead sleep. Thirty seconds passed and the pulsating came again, lasting for another ten seconds. Cautiously he moved his hand to the watch on his left wrist and touched one of the tiny push-button switches. The pulsating did not recur. Max opened his eyes only slightly at first and then they popped open wide as he bolted upright. His pulse was racing, the color drained from his face, and beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.
As he became aware of his surroundings he relaxed, color returned to his face, his pulse returned to normal, and the panic racing through his body only moments before was swept away with a sigh as he sat marveling once again at the beautiful and mysterious aurora borealis dancing across the northern sky. For one terrifying moment he feared he had awakened from a dream and was still in Moscow. On countless nights and for hours on end he had gazed out across the Russian steppes watching the northern lights, but now for the very first time he watched them from the sanctuary of the free world.
Something nudged his consciousness and he remembered the reason for setting his wrist alarm. When he touched a certain button on his watch the numerals 1:21 glowed red for five seconds and were then automatically extinguished.
Easing out of his sleeping bag, he reached underneath the chair and retrieved his Juneau sneakers. After slipping his feet into the black rubber boots he knelt down and felt around inside the pockets of his parka until he located the small leather case, dropped it into his shirt pocket and buttoned down the flap. All the chairs were now occupied with people snuggled into various-colored sleeping bags. Two freestanding tents had sprung up in the after section of the solarium near the unprotected area. Nothing moved as everyone appeared to be asleep. The ship’s stacks and the unbroken rhythm of the huge screws cutting through the water were the only sounds to be heard.
Well, it was time to bring Gilbird out of his drug-induced sleep and with the help of a little truth serum find out what he was involved in at Vandenberg. When Max climbed down to the fantail, the cafeteria was dark, just as he suspected it would be at this time of night, and he reached stateroom 26 without seeing or being seen by anyone. The key turned easily and the door opened quietly.
After stepping inside he closed and locked the door. As he reached for the light switch he realized something was wrong. When he flicked the switch, light flooded the room and he knew exactly what was wrong. He found himself looking into the business end of a short-barreled .357 magnum. Many would have panicked at the sight of a big mean-looking guy sticking a gun in their face, but Max had been there before, many times. Pretending to be Gilbird he asked, “So, you must be Haskel Mitchell?”
Max reasoned no one other than Mitchell was likely to be in Gilbird’s room. A key had probably been left at a prearranged drop, and now Mitchell was waiting in the room, wondering who the unconscious guy was and why Gilbird hadn’t shown up with the money. Max continued without waiting for an answer, “I understand you have something you want to sell me.”
When there was no response from the stranger, Max changed his tone to infer a hint of concern, but was sarcastic when he said, “Well, maybe I was wrong, perhaps you have nothing to sell and you intend to rob me instead?”
The man was unmoved; the gun remained steady and trained dead center on Max Kayne’s chest. Feigning impatience, Max snapped, “Look, Mitchell, I’ve got a problem here. If you want to get your money put the cannon away and give me a hand.”
Finally, without moving or lowering the gun the man asked, “Who’s the guy on the floor? What’s wrong with him?”
Mitchell was a big man about six feet four inches tall and well over two hundred pounds. Max knew he couldn’t make any mistakes with Haskel Mitchell. A company man turned traitor and killer would be suspicious of everyone and everything. He was not a man to be taken lightly. Max knew also that he could forget about the sodium-amytal with Benzedrine. Whatever secrets Gilbird might have divulged while under the influence of truth serum he would take to his cold and watery grave. “I don’t know,” Max lied. “I came back from the cafeteria this evening and found this guy filling his pockets with money. I banged him on the head, loaded him up with ketamine hydrochloride, and stayed away until I thought it was safe to drag him topside and dump him overboard.”
“Do you still have the money?” Mitchell asked.
“Yeah, I’ve still got the money. It’s stashed in a locker in one of the showers. Do you have the material you promised?”
“Everything is in my room,” Mitchell replied.
“Okay, good. Help me get this guy up to the fantail and over the side and then we can get down to business.”
“Why should I help you?” Mitchell was beginning to come around.
“Because neither one of us can afford to have someone find this guy. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want him following me around when he wakes up.” Mitchell seemed convinced; he lowered the hammer on the big revolver and slipped it into a shoulder holster.
“Check the passageway,” Max instructed, and without waiting for Mitchell to react, grabbed Gilbird’s arms and started dragging him toward the door.
“Looks okay,” Mitchell reported. Max continued dragging the unconscious man through the door and out into the passageway. Mitchell closed the door and took hold of Gilbird’s feet. They paused at the top of the ladder. The cafeteria was still dark and the fantail deserted. Without further hesitation they carried Gilbird across the open deck and swung him up and over the railing.
“Seven-minute water,” Mitchell remarked, as he stood looking down at the ship’s wake some fifty feet below.
“Seven minutes until what?” Max inquired.
“Seven minutes until you can’t move your arms or legs,” Mitchell explained. “In thirty-four-degree water it takes about seven minutes.”
“Well it’s reassuring to know you won’t be able to swim ashore.”
Mitchell reacted quick as a cat, but even then he was too slow. He had been leaning against the railing, but straightened up hauling out the heavy-caliber revolver all in one quick motion. Max had noted earlier that the .357 magnum was single-action and knew the hammer must be manually cocked each time the gun was fired. As Mitchell concentrated on getting the gun out of the holster, pulling the hammer back, and bringing the weapon to bear, Max shifted his weight forward and at the same time his right hand, held flat with the fingers together and the thumb pulled back, shot upwards. In one smooth motion Max caught Mitchell in the Adam’s apple with the inside edge of his hand, crushing the windpipe; he continued the motion by rotating his upper body and stepping into Mitchell, transferring the weight of his body through his rotating shoulder into his elbow as it came up crashing into Mitchell’s solar plexus. As Mitchell slumped forward, a chopping right hand came down like a hammer on the top of his shoulder, shattering the man’s collarbone.
The gun skittered along the metal deck as Mitchell fell forward, clutching his crushed windpipe with his left hand. He tried to cushion the fall with his right hand, as his legs, unable to support the weight of his body, gave way and he pitched forward, but the broken collarbone wouldn’t let his right arm respond and his face crashed against the steel deck. The broken windpipe prevented him from disgorging the liquid welling up from his stomach, a result of the blow to his solar plexus, and he was drowning in his own vomit.
Max quickly searched through Mitchell’s pockets until he found the key to stateroom 24 and slipped it into his own pocket. Then, grabbing a handful of hair, he yanked Mitchell to his knees and snarled into the face of the doomed man, “That’s for the guy you left at Eagle Point with his throat cut.”
He dragged Mitchell to his feet and slammed him into the railing. Unable to stand he grabbed the railing with his left hand and frantically held on as Max reached down and grabbed the helpless man by the ankles, lifting him up and flipping him over the railing. Mitchell managed to hold on to
the railing with his left hand, the useless right arm hung limply at his side.
Max retrieved the pistol and walked back to where Mitchell was dangled over the side of the ship and still clinging desperately to the railing with his one good hand. Looking down into the panic-stricken face staring up at him, Max spoke softly but the tone of his voice conveyed his contempt for the man, “Just so you’ll know before you die, my code name is Spider.”
Mitchell’s eyes opened wide, pleading, and he tried to speak. There was no doubt that he knew who was sending him to his death.
The heavy revolver slammed down, crushing the knuckles of Mitchell’s left hand. There was no other sound as the fingers released their grip on the railing; unable to scream, Haskel Mitchell plummeted silently into the seven-minute water fifty feet below. Max half-whispered, “And that’s for me.”
He tossed the gun over the side and stood looking at the dark waters below for a few seconds before turning toward the ladder leading to the solarium. As he looked up someone moved back away from the railing on the deck above. He hesitated for only a moment before taking the ladder two steps at a time. It had been a moment too long. No one was in sight and nothing moved in the solarium. He walked to the railing where he had glimpsed the shadowy figure, turned, and stood surveying the sleeping passengers. There was no place to hide—perhaps it had been an illusion? Yet, something told him he had, indeed, seen someone. Possibly it was the aroma he detected as he approached the spot where the person had stood watching him dump the two spies overboard, an aroma he couldn’t place at the moment but was familiar with just the same. Well, he would concern himself with that later, but now it was time to take a look in stateroom 24.