"You'll get your baptism under fire tomorrow, Naji," said Jeffries. "We'll check all the communications procedures. Everything but the microwave relay, which really isn't needed, of course. For your sake, I hope Blythe's calculations on the detonation area are correct."
Abdalla gave what was as close to a smile as he ever allowed himself. "I'm familiar with Mr. Ingram's reputation. I have no quarrel with his calculations."
"One point we haven't fully discussed is the placement of the Semtex in the truck," said Richter.
"I'll go over the firing device with you, Hans," Jeffries added," but where you put the plastic explosives is between you and Ingram and Goldman. I hate to think of all my hard work going up in smoke, but I guess it's necessary."
Abdalla was looking up at the white puff-ball clouds scattered across the horizon when he saw the small aircraft in the distance. "Is that the same airplane that flew past just after the shot?" he said, eyes narrowing.
Jeffries, an old hand at aircraft recognition, looked up. "Same type. A little hard to tell from here, but it's most likely a Cessna. He was headed south a little while ago. Somebody out looking for a boat or just joyriding over the Gulf. He's cheating a bit on the five-mile Restricted Area, though." As he watched, the small plane did an odd maneuver. It started a roll to the right, then held that position for nearly a minute. The wings came level again and it continued on out of sight to the north. He said nothing about it, though, since he saw nothing threatening in the maneuver.
Lori had decided to provide her surveillance team with a little diversification that evening. She contacted one of her frequent travel clients, the manager of a fashionable restaurant in Alexandria, and made dinner reservations for three, herself and the Brackins. The place featured a South Sea Islands theme and they entered beneath a thatched roof, strolling past lush tropical plants, the tempting aroma of barbecuing meat filling the air. An attractive Polynesian girl with long black hair and a sarong greeted them, followed quickly by the manager, who came over to provide a personal welcome to Lori and her guests. She advised him that she was expecting an important long distance call and asked if she could take it in his office.
While the waitress was bringing drinks, Chloe Brackin reached over and put her hand on Lori's. "I hope I don't come across too intrusive, doll, but we're your best friends, right?"
Lori nodded.
"We've become both fascinated and distressed by what seems to be happening to you the past few days. If I only knew a likely subject, I'd swear you were in love, lady." She smiled as she spoke, and then it faded. "On the other hand, you get terribly preoccupied at times with some knotty problem. Like when you picked us up this evening, I know you’re grieving, girl, but I’ve seen grief. This is something else."
Lori gave an embarrassed grin. "I thought you were a GYN specialist, Chlo, not a psychiatrist."
"Listen, you see patients every day like I do, you learn the psychology of personality the hard way. I don't mean to be probing, just want you to know we're concerned. Anything you'd like to get off your chest, just say it. Anything we can do to help, just ask."
Lori had been one of Dr. Chloe Brackin's first patients when she went into practice with her father, a highly respected family physician in Arlington. They had quickly developed a close personal friendship. They had similar interests, personalities that meshed nicely, and neither was reluctant to express her opinion on any given subject. But the great respect they held for each other easily smoothed over any points of disagreement along the way.
Lori squeezed her friend's hand. "I know how you feel. I really appreciate it. It's just—"
She was interrupted by the manager, informing her that her call had come through. He escorted her past a row of flaming torches to his office and pulled the door shut as he left. She sat behind his austere metal desk and answered the phone.
"Well, we got our photographs. Won't get to see 'em until in the morning." The tone of Burke's voice relayed a clear sense of disappointment.
"You don't sound too happy about it."
"Frankly, I'm not too optimistic."
"Why?"
"From the distance we had to fly, it was like shooting a bean in a bathtub. He reminded me before we started that it was strictly an experiment, he couldn't guarantee the results. I don't think there's much doubt it'll take a probe on the ground to ferret out what's going on down there."
That was what she had been afraid of. He could be about as stubborn as anybody she had encountered. But she wanted to get to the bottom of this as much as he did, to find out who was responsible for her father's death. If he was going to investigate Oyster Island, she didn't intend to be left out. "I want you to promise me something, Burke." Her voice was insistent.
"What's that?"
"Promise me you won't try to go to that island before you talk to me tomorrow. Agreed?"
Since he had already decided he wouldn't be able to make a try before Friday night, and with those troublesome doubts leaving him unsure as to whether it should be attempted at all, this was an easy promise to accept. "Okay, I promise. I'll do nothing before we talk tomorrow. Now, did you have any luck with Pinkleton?"
"Uncle Sydney called me back shortly before I left for dinner. They found Amy Lee's body in a small inlet below a bluff, not too far from where she lived. Some kids noticed her shoes at the edge. When they looked down, they saw something tangled in the driftwood."
"When was she found?"
"The day after we left. But the pathologist put the time of death at sometime Monday night. The night of Dad's accident."
"Did they suspect foul play?"
"Uncle Sydney said they learned she had broken up with a boyfriend recently, so they listed it as probable suicide. But he talked to some of her friends. They said no way."
"Will he suggest they reopen the case?"
"No. He didn't think it would be a good idea." She hesitated a moment. "He said Dad was the last person known to have seen her alive."
"Damn." Burke groaned. "What about the lab technician?"
"Are you ready for this?" Her voice brightened. "He resigned the morning after we talked to him. Then he and his whole family, parents, grandparents, several brothers and sisters, everybody pulled up stakes and cut out."
"Left Hong Kong?"
"Didn't tell a soul where they were going. Chinese have deep roots. They're not impetuous like us. They wouldn't suddenly move off without a compelling reason. Those that have been migrating out because of the problems with Beijing have done so reluctantly. But here's the clincher. Uncle Sydney questioned the other technicians. He found one who had also been there the night of the accident. This guy said he had seen the boy talking to two men he called 'Europeans.' He picked out the Bulgarians from photographs."
"Well, well," Burke said as all of his doubts suddenly melted away. "I'd say that pretty well illegitimizes Operation Jabberwock. I'm prepared to believe a lot of shenanigans go on up there in Fantasyland by the Potomac, but I can't see Uncle Sam hiring Bulgarian communists to assassinate one of his own, plus an innocent Chinese girl."
"I agree. I asked Uncle Sydney if he was going to report his findings to the Agency."
"Is he?"