"I only have two small bags," he replied.
"Where are you, sir?"
"At a hotel on Ha Yarkon."
"My advice would be to get over to the El Al bus terminal as quickly as possible and check your bags, then hurry on out to the airport."
Burke raced back to his room and threw his clothes in the bag, then grabbed the camera case and rushed back down to check out. He hailed the first taxi in sight and told the driver to see how fast he could get to the airline bus terminal.
Thirty minutes later he was running into the terminal at Ben Gurion, looking for the El Al ticket counter. He sweated out the line until he could give the agent his ticket and passport and explain that his return flight had been moved up. Only when he finally received his boarding pass did he begin to relax a bit.
He detoured by a restroom before heading for the security check-in point. As he came out, a tall, wiry man wearing a light brown jacket with an open-collared shirt approached him. It was typical Israeli informal business dress.
"Pardon me," said the swarthy man in a clipped voice, "are you Mr. Burke Hill?"
Burke's eyes narrowed. Could it be something to do with Cam Quinn? "I sure am," he said.
"Let me your see passport." The tone was rough, demanding.
Burke automatically reached for the pocket where he carried his passport, then balked. Something didn't seem right. He wasn't sure what at first. For one thing, there was a universal characteristic about authorities, be they policemen, immigration officers, various kinds of inspectors. He knew, for he had lived among them for nearly a dozen years. They were almost universally polite in approaching ordinary citizens. They used words like "sir" and "please." This one was brusque to the point of rudeness. "Who are you?" he asked, frowning.
The man drew a black plastic folder from his jacket, popped it open for just an instant and then snapped it closed. "Security Police," he said, jamming the identification back into his pocket.
"Hold on, brother," Burke said, raising his hands in a halting gesture. He shifted his feet into a defensive stance. "Let me see that once more, please. Slowly."
The man scowled. "We have some questions for you, Mr. Hill. Your passport. Now!"
"I'm not parting with this passport until I see that ID, and I'm convinced you're entitled to ask for it."
The man had put his right hand into his coat pocket and seemed to be gripping something, undoubtedly a pistol. Looking past him, Burke saw a uniformed airport policeman walking in their direction. He made a calculated decision. He had never known a police officer reluctant to identify himself properly. That only left the Mossad, and if they were not involved in Jabberwock, they should have no interest in him. The odds were overwhelming that this guy was not legitimate.
The man reached out his left hand as if to seize Burke's arm. "You will come with—"
Burke drew back, his eyes like stones. "Friend, unless your orders are to shoot me and risk certain capture by that policeman coming this way, I suggest you get the hell out of here." With that, he turned toward the policeman, who was now only about twenty feet away, raised his arm and called out, "Officer!"
The policeman was suddenly alert, his hand moving to the belt next to his sidearm. The thin man shifted his eyes in alarm as Burke started toward the waiting officer. Holding his breath, careful to give the policeman a clear line of sight to the intruder, Burke strode forward. He pulled his boarding pass from his pocket. He held it out, glancing back quickly at the imposter, who had ducked his head and was hurrying away.
Burke smiled, to put the officer at ease. "I'm on the El Al flight to London and New York. Which security check point do I need to go through?"
The policeman looked quickly at the boarding pass then toward the back of the tall, thin man. "Was that fellow causing any problem, sir?"
Burke shrugged. "He was acting a bit peculiar."
"Go through that area over there," the officer said, pointing, then hurried off in the direction of the retreating brown jacket.
Burke moved quickly to the sanctuary of the security area, where he found a seat and waited for the boarding call, worrying and wondering about Cam Quinn. Somebody was definitely trying to throw up roadblocks. Could Cam's wreck have been something other than an accident?
Chapter 22
It was eleven p.m. when Burke's flight arrived at Washington National. He’d had plenty of time to get his thoughts in order and decided the best source to learn about Quinn was Hawthorne Elliott. He located a pay phone and dialed the CI chief’s private number.
"Yes?" Hawk Elliott's curt voice snapped over the wire.
"This is Burke Hill, Mr. Elliott. What have you heard about Cam Quinn?"
"You know about the accident?"
"Yes, sir. Only the barest of details. That it happened about eight p.m. Hong Kong time, eight this morning your time."
"They brought him in unconscious. Don't give him much chance to live." The voice was barren of feeling, hollow as a rotten log. But it was the shock of what he said, not the manner of delivery, that struck Burke.
"Oh, God! What happened?"
"What the hell would you expect? Mix booze with the man's driving habits. He's a maniac behind the wheel. You have a perfect prescription for disaster."
"But… but," Burke stammered, "he's been off the booze."
"You mean he was supposed to have been off the booze. I've talked with our station chief. A blood test at the hospital showed a heavy concentration of alcohol."
Burke's jaw dropped as he stared at the telephone. He couldn't believe it. Cam had seemed perfectly sober when they talked. As for his suicidal driving habits, there was no contesting that. He had to admit that he’d only been around Cam for a few days. He couldn't vouch for how strong his friend's will might have been if a bottle of Scotch were placed before him. But he had carefully avoided it while Burke was around.
"We won't be needing your services any further," Elliott added.
Burke wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "I've just gotten back from Tel Aviv where—"
"I know where you've been." The voice had gone from cool to cold.
"But what about Cam? What did he report from Hong Kong?"
"Mr. Quinn has reported absolutely nothing. As far as I'm concerned, he's drawn a complete blank. I'm assigning the case to a new man who will have to start over from scratch."
"But I've received information—"
"Hill, I caution you to remember your security oath. Whatever information you have received regarding this case or any other agency operation is highly classified. You will not divulge it to anyone under any circumstance. Incidentally, I found the part of your FBI file that Quinn hid from me. For your own good, I suggest you get back to your mountain hideaway. Forget you ever heard of Cameron Quinn, or Hawthorne Elliott, and, especially, Jabberwock. It would be unhealthy to do otherwise. Do I make myself clear?"
Burke's face became flushed and his breathing quickened. "Are you threatening me?"
Elliott’s voice was calm and deliberate. "I do not make threats, Mr. Hill. Only promises."
It suddenly hit Burke that this was deja vu… J. Edgar Hoover and the Bureau all over again. You're fired! Get the hell out of here and don't come back! It left him momentarily speechless.
Before he could utter another word, Elliott's voice came back with a final, sharp, "Good-bye." The line went dead.
Burke was not a person easily provoked. He normally showed minimal emotion. It had once led his ex-wife, during the heat of a one-sided argument, to call him a "cold fish." But, on rare occasions, he had been known to lash out with sudden fury at the source of his anger. And right now he was on the verge of developing a full-fledged rage. He jammed another coin into the slot and reached toward the number pad to re-dial Elliott. But when he glanced down at his notebook, he saw Lori's name and number instead. His hand froze. She should be home by now. Had she heard?