A young man with sandy hair and a commanding voice nodded toward the Englishman and Burke’s captor. "You two check out the truck while I frisk him."
As they headed around the vehicle, Burke was ordered to spread eagle and lean his hands against the truck in the classic search posture. He was patted down, his Ruger, Minox and billfold removed.
"All right, straighten up and turn around."
Burke saw the man look in his billfold. "Douglas Bell," he read. "Private Investigator." He looked up. "You're in a hell of a lot of trouble, mister. This is a United States Government reservation."
Burke had let his hands drop to his sides. He glanced briefly to the right as the two men returned from their search of the truck. It was his first look at the bare-chested man in jungle fatigue pants, who still held the Sig Sauer in his hand. He considered the face borderline handsome, though it held more than a hint of bitterness. He noted a tattoo on the man's left arm at the shoulder, some kind of insignia. Crossed arrows over a knife, or something like that.
"Nothing there, Ted," the Englishman said. "Apparently he's alone."
Burke spoke up, looking at the one called Ted. "The sign on the beach said U. S. Government contractor."
"Semantics," Ted said. "It isn't going to make much difference when we turn you over to the FBI. What were you after? Who sent you?"
Whoever this one was, Burke thought, he had picked the wrong party to bullshit with that FBI talk. "You know the ethics of the profession," he said with a shrug. "I can't divulge the name of my client or what I'm investigating."
Ted examined the Minox. "People don't go picnicking with 8mm cameras and ultra high speed film."
They were all standing beneath the glow from the sodium light. The one with the tattoo had returned his pistol to it's holster, leaving only Ted and the Englishman with weapons drawn. A deep voice suddenly boomed from the shadows beyond the truck's hood, and every head turned to see the barrel of the Walther pointed at them from the curve of the windshield.
"Freeze right there, gentlemen," Walter Brackin said, phrased in his normal polite manner. "You two, very slowly, throw your weapons to the side, beyond Mr. Bell."
Burke grinned. Special Forces to the rescue. Good old Walt had sure picked the right moment to intervene. Ted and the Englishman, looking angry enough to chew rocks, did as they were told.
"Very good," Brackin said. "Now if you'll stand there quite still while my friend—"
His voice choked off abruptly as they heard a dull thud, the sound of a karate chop striking Brackin's right shoulder. Walt had shifted his stance at the last moment, saving himself from the full force of the blow. But the Walther clattered against the truck hood and fell to the ground.
Burke had started bending over to pick up the guns. He stopped at the sound of the blow and found himself suddenly slammed to the ground by a diving Englishman. One of the pistols was hardly two feet away. He wrestled to free an arm and reach for it, but the attempt was in vain. The hulking figure with the odd face, obviously one of the Jabberwock team members, had jumped in to pin his arms against the sand.
A few moments later, he heard a Mideast-sounding voice call out from beside the truck. "I suspected he might have a partner. What do you want done with this one?"
“I’d say this calls for a summary judgment, and the two spies should be shot,” said the man in camouflage fatigue pants, waving his gun toward Burke.
“Put your weapon away,” Ted ordered. “There will be no executions until we have some answers.”
Burke looked across at Walt Brackin, whose eyes were closed, his lips pressed together in a thin straight line. His right shoulder was obviously causing considerable pain. They were tied securely at the wrist, each arm bound separately to the back of the wooden chairs. They were in a small office area that occupied one corner of the machine shop. Since there was nothing but water for miles around, their captors hadn't bothered with gags. But they had taken no chances. The cook called Sarge leaned against a table a few feet away, an Army-issue .45 in his beefy right hand. Something didn't look quite right about the way he held the gun, but Burke was too concerned about the next move to pursue the thought.
Before they were hustled into the building, lights had been turned on throughout the campsite and around the perimeter of the island. It looked like party time, and any unwelcome guests would be subjected to a perverse kind of hospitality. The group was dispatched in pairs, two in the Jeep, to search for possible additional intruders.
Fifteen minutes later, Ted and the Englishman returned to the shop.
"We found your raft," Ted said. "And the rope you used to get over the perimeter security. Very clever. You didn't come all this way in a damned raft with a little electric motor, though. Where's the boat?"
Burke and Brackin stared at him in silence. Then Brackin let out a low moan and clenched his teeth.
"What's the matter with you?" Ted asked.
"Damned shoulder. It's killing me. Must be fractured. I need something for pain."
"You'll get more pain if you don't do as you're told." Ted turned to Burke. "This is no PI game, Bell. I want some answers, and I want them fast. Is there anyone else with you?"
"Yeah, we brought your mother. You may have heard her barking out there."
Ted nearly toppled him over with an open-handed blow to the face. "Smart ass! Who sent you out here?"
Burke shook his head and blinked his eyes a few times, then glared at his tormentor. "Mickey Mouse. Who else?"
Ted drove a fist into his stomach, bringing a choking gasp.
Burke’s head and shoulders toppled forward, and he struggled to catch his breath. Finally, he was able to lift his head and press his back against the chair, taking short, rapid breaths. Despite the blow and the powerful slap, which still rang in his ears, he was determined to divert their attention from any thoughts of going after Lori.
"It appears our visitors are going to be a bit more difficult than anticipated," the Englishman said. "As entertaining as it might be to pursue this, I doubt there's time at the moment."
Ted glowered. "What the hell are you suggesting?"
"I think we should get the men and equipment away from this island immediately. Bob can fly the team out. He could circle the area and see what kind of boat they came in, see if it appears likely anyone else is aboard. He can radio back to us."
Ted didn’t appear any happier, but he nodded. "Somebody should go with Blythe on the boat. He may need help, the way the weather's looking."
"I'll go," Sarge volunteered.
Ted and the Englishman exchanged apprehensive looks, leading Burke to conclude they had serious misgivings about the cook’s ability to help with the boat.
"I'll go with him," said the Englishman. “We’ll take Hans along in case there’s a need for heavy lifting.”
Ted, like Golanov, knew the success of the mission depended on making certain the team joined with Ingram and the truck and got safely on their way to Arkansas. The contact in Little Rock would be made by Ingram. Plans for painting the truck on Sunday had already been agreed upon. Ingram would hide the team members in a motel, arrange for the auto theft gang to pick up the truck and return it to a certain location. There would be no physical encounter with anyone. The trail had been carefully blurred through a labyrinthine series of approaches to prevent its being traced back. The auto theft operation had been contacted by a counterfeiter, a former cellmate of one of the gang members. The counterfeiter had been recruited through an ex-cop, who in turn was approached anonymously by telephone. He knew only that the caller had spoken the correct words.