"Sailing," he mused, recalling the decor of Clipper Cruise & Travel. "I figured that must be one of your passions. I've only been sailing one time, and that was on a lake. Always thought I'd like it, but never found the time."
“Maybe you could go with us on the next trip and see what a workout sailing can provide.”
Lori pulled to a stop among the bustle of passengers. Brakes screeched and horns beeped around them as cars and taxis jockeyed for position like NASCAR drivers headed for the pits.
Burke patted his stomach. “After meals like that one last night, I could probably use more workouts." He grabbed his bag and camera case from behind the seat. "Thanks for the lift, Lori. Have fun sailing."
"I'm sure I will. Hope yours is an uneventful trip. Remember, don't take any chances."
"I won't," he said as she drove off.
Chapter 16
Andrei Golanov, alias Goldman, enjoyed a good night's rest at a first class hotel in New Orleans, ate a leisurely breakfast in the coffee shop, then strolled along Canal Street for a few blocks, stopping off at a drug store for a few necessities. At around noon, he headed for the mall-like complex called the New Orleans Riverwalk and began to stroll along the seemingly endless corridor flanked by shops of all descriptions. The holiday weekend crush of tourists filled the complex. By the time he reached the food area, there wasn't an empty table in sight. This didn't bother Golanov, since his sole purpose was to disappear among the throngs. There was little likelihood that anyone would be tailing him, but he lived by the principle that a successful operative never ignored his tradecraft.
When the flow of people moved up to another level, he took advantage of the opportunity to glance back at the milling crowd below. So far he had spotted no repeat appearance of a particular face. At one point he found an exit toward the front of the building and slipped through the crowd of incoming visitors to reach the street.
Luck was with him. When he saw a taxi nearby, he moved quickly to the open window opposite the driver and inquired, "Are you available?"
"Climb in, buddy." A weasel-faced character with slicked-back, oily gray hair, the cabby asked, "Where to?"
"Somewhere in the Canal Street vicinity where I can board the westbound St. Charles Avenue trolley."
The driver nodded. "Brit, ain't you?" He whirled the cab around, barely missing an oncoming car, and dashed off toward Canal Street.
Golanov smiled, keeping an eye on the area around the Riverwalk exit. No one appeared to show any interest in where he had gone. He stepped out of the cab a block off Canal Street and waited in a doorway out of the sun near the trolley stop. Soon a lumbering streetcar bearing the name "St. Charles" screeched to a halt. He climbed aboard, dropped his fare into the box and headed for a seat at the rear. No one else boarded with him. He began to relax.
He had visited New Orleans before, while assigned to the Soviet mission to the United Nations. He enjoyed its unique atmosphere, part carnival, part river town, all mixed up in a potpourri of French, Spanish, white and black heritage. A native of Saint Petersburg — he preferred the old name Leningrad — Golanov had been exposed to music at an early age, but not the variety he’d found in this Mississippi Delta city. His mother was a classical violinist, his father a noted professor of Russian history at the university. Both were multi-lingual. This sophisticated background produced an unexpected result. With close relatives in England, he became quite proficient in English as a child. Members of the Komsomol were encouraged to inform on each other, as well as on their families. When a spiteful boy reported Andrei’s excellent command of English as a sign of deviant behavior, it brought him to the attention of influential men who selected him for a special kind of education. On completion of his schooling, he became a field officer in the First Chief Directorate, the foreign intelligence arm of the KGB.
Now a borderline handsome man in his thirties, he had made friends easily at foreign posts. A well-mannered Russian who spoke excellent English was always welcome at a cocktail party. In the early days of the new regime, he watched the storm clouds build. When he discovered where the power lay, he abandoned the glamour of the international scene and arranged a transfer to the Second Chief Directorate, which was mainly concerned with internal security. Now the Directorate had been all but abandoned, its officers fired or shifted to other positions. He’d had little trouble arranging a leave of absence to allow his participation in Jabberwock, but he wasn’t sure if he would still be on the payroll when he returned.
The St. Charles Avenue line finally came to an end at Palmer Park. Golanov spotted a familiar face as he stepped off the trolley. A blonde of medium height, she had a full figure that looked right at home in a red-striped, low-neck dress. She wore large sunglasses and carried a matching red-striped tote bag slung over one bare shoulder. She walked toward him, her face glowing with a warm smile.
"Andy, good to see you," she greeted him with arms outstretched, coyly tilting her cheek for a kiss.
"Margo, old girl. You look delightful." The kiss was perfunctory.
She linked her arm in his, and they began walking toward a nearby tree-lined street that was shrouded by a canopy of green.
Her eyes twinkled as she looked at him. "Have you missed your little playmate, Andrei?"
Golanov gave a tight-lipped smile. If Margo devoted a little effort to cultivating an accent with the consistency of molasses, she could pass for the flower of a Louisiana plantation. Her real name was Captain Katerina Georgevna Makarenko, a KGB officer who traveled under cover as an Aeroflot stewardess. One of the small group who had been tapped for admission to the inner workings of Jabberwock, she was a sexy young woman who had been trying to lure him into her bedroom. A divorcee, he had resisted on practical, not moral grounds. She had also shared the bed with the colonel who was his immediate superior.
"Best we get down to business, Katya, my dear. Tell our leader that everything is going about as well as could be expected. The only problem at the moment appears to be Overmyer."
"Problem? What kind of problem?"
"Hardly an insurmountable one. Overmyer, as you know, was designated as team leader. He's an intense, rather overbearing person. Thinks his combat experience in Vietnam entitles him to do things his own way. Not too different from how some of our junior officers acted after Afghanistan. We are forced to keep reminding him that he is being paid handsomely to do the job our way."
Katya tightened her grip on his arm. "Have they done a test firing yet?"
"No. That comes next week. The system is quite intriguing, though. Everything is calibrated precisely, to very close tolerances. The use of the computer is most interesting. Americans, as you know, are big on computers. That kind of weapon is not supposed to be very accurate, but they claim with this setup it is unerring."
Katya beamed. "You should have some exciting information for our military analysts. This should assure you a full colonelcy when Jabberwock is finished."
Golanov thought her reasoning transparent. With him as a full colonel, she counted on his moving in on a rival of equal rank. He wanted no part of it. "Advise the General that the Palestinian is working out fine. He will be the point man, you know, which will make it much simpler for us to compromise him in the end. He's not aware that we know his true origins. It will be the final ploy of a brilliant plan."
"How are you getting along with the CIA man?"
"We act like brothers in love with the same woman. We smile a lot, joke about trivialities, tolerate each other's incompatible points of view, and watch each other like falcons tracking a pheasant."