"I trust Hoover didn't take kindly to that," Quinn said.
"When I got back to Washington, he refused to see me, wouldn't take my calls. I finally posted myself at the entrance to Harvey's, one of Hoover's favorite luncheon spots. When he came in, I stepped up and pleaded with him for a meeting to talk things over. He pursed his lips in his best bulldog scowl, frowned up at me and snapped, 'The FBI has no place for failures.'"
Quinn just shook his head. "Let's leave the past buried. It's a new day, a new chapter."
Burke sat back in his chair. "If that's the case, let's get on with it. Are you going to clue me in on this deal now? Or do I have to prick my finger and sign a blood oath on the tablecloth first?"
Quinn gave a rattling laugh that shook his body and drew stares from the table across the way. He lowered his voice. "You crack me up. Part of me hoped you would give that bastard Elliott a real zinger. But the other, practical, part prayed that you'd keep your cool and be satisfied with a polite brush-off. Which, thank God, you were. This thing is my last chance to redeem myself with the seventh floor."
"The executive suite, I presume?"
"You presume correctly. Hawk would like to fry my balls. But my instincts tell me this could be a very major operation. If we manage to deal with it successfully, I'll have the Director and General Palmer toasting me like a fraternity brother."
Burke raised an eyebrow. "Anything in it for me?"
"Hell, we might even make Elliott eat his words and offer you a job as a special case officer."
"Thanks, but no thanks." He folded his arms, shifting into business mode. "Okay. What are we after?"
Quinn leaned forward and lowered his voice even further, forcing Burke to do likewise. "About three weeks ago, the NSA intercepted a phone call from Singapore to a company in Kansas City. The caller mentioned an apparent operational code word called Jabberwock. Three days later, another intercept operator picked up the same code word in a call from Hong Kong to Berlin."
Burke scratched his beard in wonder. "Those electronic snoops must really be combing the haystacks."
"They won't reveal operational details, of course. But I gather these calls were netted in sweeps while they were searching for something else. An analyst noted the repeat of the same code word and passed it along to his supervisor. It was a week after the first call before the DCI received the information from NSA."
"Long enough for the trail to go cold," Burke said, nodding. "Say, Jabberwock sounds awfully familiar, but I can't—"
"Ever read Through the Looking Glass?"
"Of course. Lewis Carroll. Yeah, I remember. Part of it was printed backwards in the book. You had to read it with a mirror. 'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!'"
"Right. It's advice well taken."
Their conversation was interrupted by the waitress bringing their sandwiches. Then Quinn continued.
"The company in Kansas City was Rush Communications. I checked on the director of security there, found he was a former FBI agent named Toby Callahan."
"Toby?" Burke broke into a half-smile of disbelief. "We worked together in the New York Field Office years ago. He was on the Goon Squad, too. One of your compatriots, as I recall. Wouldn't lift a finger on St. Patrick's Day, except to hoist a huge glass of Irish whiskey."
"That's him. A true Hibernian. I told him I was with State Department Security. We were checking out an employee of the Singapore embassy who had made a call to this Kansas City number. He said he'd look into it and get back to me."
"Toby was meticulous. I'll bet he checked you out."
"He did. I gave him the State Department number and an extension that rings at our office. Anyway, he said the number was a private line on the desk of their vice president in charge of research and development. Only on that day, May seventh, Mr. Robert Jeffries was at a business meeting in Hawaii. His secretary said no one to her knowledge had used his office that day."
"Someone sure as hell did if NSA picked up the conversation. What about the caller?" Burke asked.
"He used a phone booth in a hotel on Orchard Road in Singapore."
"Dead end," said Burke.
Quinn munched on a bite of his sandwich, then looked up. "Right. The other call came from an office in Hong Kong. Our people there tell me it's one of those setups like we have over here, a reception area and one room offices. There's a receptionist-secretary, takes everybody's calls, types letters and such. Her records showed the call was made by a man who claimed to be a salesman. Was only there a few days. He gave a false name and a nonexistent London address."
"She remember much about him?"
"That's what I intend to find out. The heavy-handed bastard who interrogated her really blew it. She got angry and refused to tell him anything further. Threatened to call the local police. As soon as I get you squared away, I'm heading for Hong Kong."
Burke frowned at the bite he had just taken. Raising the top slice of bread, he took a toothpick and lifted off an intruding slice of dill pickle as though it were an old shoe caught on a fishing line.
He glanced back at Quinn. "Anything from the Berlin end?"
"The number led us to the offices of I. F. Dreisbach. They're a shady dealer in military hardware. We know they've handled some transshipments for the Israelis. We suspect they've been dealing with guys like Qaddafi as well, though there's no solid proof. A discreet inquiry there turned up a flat denial. Nobody knew of any calls from Hong Kong the second week of May."
"And you couldn't push it too hard without tipping your hand."
"Exactly. It goes into the file as another question mark. Hawk wasn't kidding when he said there were too many unanswered questions."
Burke found the details of the intercepts interesting, but without reference to the content, they held little meaning. "What were the conversations about?"
Quinn glanced around him. Two other tables were occupied now. "I'll show you later," he said.
By the time he had described the shooting on Cyprus and the subsequent meeting in Kingsley Marshall's office, they had finished their lunch. Quinn pushed Burke's money away and paid the bill.
"I told you you wouldn't get rich doing this," he said. "But all your expenses will be taken care of from here on."
"Thanks."
Burke was hardly a wealthy man, but he wasn't concerned about the money. His photography business had done rather well the past couple of years. As they walked toward the car, he picked up the conversation at the point Quinn had ended his story. "So I got drafted because your division was all tied up chasing down terrorists?"
"That's about it. As you know, the Russian president is coming here for a summit next month. And the Canadians are having a little pre-summit gala in Toronto the Saturday before. We got orders from the White House to start monitoring every known terrorist group."
Burke nodded. "Not the type the President's Chief of Staff would like on the invitation list."
"Right. They're planning a big celebration in Toronto. It'll be on the plaza in front of the New City Hall. A parade with marching bands, the whole nine yards."
Cam unlocked the door, and Burke swung onto the front seat. Accustomed to riding in an open Jeep, he wasn’t prepared for the heat of a closed vehicle sitting in the sun. "Whew!" He shook his head. "A little air, please." He leaned back and took a deep breath. "I remember reading about the Toronto deal. Honoring the leaders for their roles as peacemakers, as I recall. Those Canadians know how to get good press."