"When I hadn't heard from her by noon, I called her office. Her assistant, Brenda Beasley, said Lori had called her at home before seven-thirty this morning. She said Judge Marshall was sending a car to pick her up, that she would be at Langley for awhile. But she hasn't showed up at the office or called back."
Burke relaxed a bit. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. They're probably having a high level pow-wow over this—"
"That's not the end of the story," Walt said. "About half an hour ago, I got a call, anonymous male voice. Said he had a message for Burke Hill regarding Miss Quinn."
Burke lost another heart beat. "What was the message?"
"First he warned that no one was to call any local, state or federal agency about it. He said they would know if we did. 'We've got contacts everywhere' is how he put it. Then he said if you wanted to see her again, you were to call the number for 'the man with the money.'"
"Damn.” It was more a mark of pain than an epithet. Not unlike the pain he had felt in Tel Aviv when he had been told of Cam's accident. Only this time he knew precisely where the blame lay. His agony quickly turned to anger. "They couldn't hold onto me, so now they've grabbed her."
"Is there anything I can do?" Walt asked.
"No. Take care of yourself. Now that they’ve connected us, you could be in danger.”
“I’ve been watching my backside.”
“Somehow I'll track the bastards down and find her. If they've done anything to her, somebody'll pay dearly." It was tough talk, but it was followed by a sense of acute frustration. How would he find her? Where would he start the search? "Right now I need some time to think," he said. "If they call again, tell 'em you haven't been in touch with me yet."
"Okay, but I hope it won't cause any problems. Do you think they'd do anything to hurt her?"
"They'd damn well better not. No, I'm the one they're after. They're just using her for bait. I'll be in touch."
He sat motionless for what might be described as a brief eternity. Just stared at the phone, his thoughts racing. Judge Marshall had sent the car. He had no doubts that Lori had experienced the same fate he had been dealt on the jet the day before. He pictured it in his mind. A very subtle operation. Only a driver when they picked her up, in order not to sound any alarms. Then a casual mention of stopping for another passenger or two. The goons would have grabbed her and used the needle before she could have managed more than a brief shout of protest. She could be anywhere by now.
He hadn't considered the possibility of something like this. And in his wildest musings he would never have dreamed that the Director of Central Intelligence could be involved. No wonder the man on the phone had told Walt "we've got contacts everywhere." With the CIA compromised, where could he turn for help? Who would believe him? Not the FBI. Not with what they had in their files on him.
He thought of Freddie Young. If Young had been able to turn up something on that phone number, it might provide a place to start the search for Lori. As bad as he wanted to nail down the Jabberwock mystery, finding Lori was first priority.
The Memphis number rang and rang and rang with what struck Burke as a plaintive echo. There was no answer.
Chapter 44
Traffic along I-75 crawled in spots, then picked up to a decent pace, then lagged again. They had hit the Detroit area during afternoon rush hours. Gary Overmyer viewed the bumper-to-bumper lines of cars and trucks and buses with undisguised contempt. Had he not been burdened by a chaperon, he would have darted over onto the shoulder and raced past these creepers so fast all they'd have seen was a blur. But he could see the tan pickup in the rear-view mirror, and he knew Ingram would pounce on his ass like a mama bird after a marauding tomcat.
They passed the signs marking exits to such places as Wyandotte and River Rouge, familiar names from the area's heyday in the automobile business. Many of the sprawling old plants associated with car and truck production lay rusting beneath the glare of the sinking summer sun. Hans Richter in the righthand seat and Naji Abdalla, perched on the edge of the opening to the rear, stared at the passing scenery with no comprehension of its role in the economic deterioration that had played a role in the spawning of Jabberwock.
They started up the long incline of the Ambassador Bridge, leading from Detroit to Hamilton, Ontario, around five o'clock. Ted had earlier prepared them for the reception they would receive on the far end of the span. Overmyer presented the letters and documents granting permission to bring the truck into Canada. Then they pulled off the road into an area where a team of customs officials swarmed over the truck, opening every door, checking every removable panel, looking beneath, above and behind. The search was primarily for weapons and drugs. However, it did not turn up the one weapon on board, which had been dismantled and ingeniously placed to appear as legitimate parts of the truck. Overmyer had earlier, with considerable reluctance, parted with his Sig Sauer, which his handlers had assured would be returned to him in Toronto.
Lone Star Network's satellite van finally received an okay to proceed. They drove on a short distance to a welcome center, where Blythe Ingram was waiting with a heavyset man dressed in a blue pinstripe suit. A big lock of brown hair tumbled over his forehead. That was the only frivilous note to his appearance, however. He had the cold, uncompromising look of a veteran big city cop, and his style was not far removed from that ilk. He preferred to leave the niceties to others. When it came to showtime with the opposition, he believed in the judicious application of brute force. Admittedly, these days it was getting more and more difficult to determine exactly who the "opposition" was.
"Meet Richard," Ingram said as they stepped out of the truck. "He's taking Ted's place. He'll stay with you to Toronto and see that you're squared away there. Good luck with your mission."
Ingram waved as he hurried over to his truck, prepared to drive back to Detroit, make a report to Donald Newman, and conclude his active role in Jabberwock.
Richard studied his charges for a moment, then herded them back into the truck. "I'll stay behind you until we get near Toronto. Then I'll move in front and lead you to the motel. Let's go."
As they drove off, Richard wondered how this curious amalgam of international mavericks would fare when the moment of truth arrived. At least they played his kind of game. But, at the moment, his personal game plan had been altered a bit. He knew he couldn't afford any more debacles like the one at the house near Nashville. He was older than Ted and more wise in the ways of the intelligence racket. But he would have to be extra cautious from now on. His main interest in Jabberwock had been to advance his career. Now his problem was to redeem himself. And he'd get that opportunity in a new phase of the operation he would take over as soon as the team was settled in Toronto.
As an FBI agent, Burke had often gone at a frantic pace for weeks at a time, putting in countless hours on stakeouts, missing meals, finding little time for sleep. He wasn't sure whether the difference now was one of age or habit, but there was definitely a difference. When he checked into the motel early that afternoon, he felt as drained as if he’d lost two quarts of blood on a Red Cross cot. He knew that physically he was in great shape for a man of fifty-five. Anyone who could withstand the rigors of the Smoky Mountain trails in the dead of winter should not have his stamina questioned. But the stress of the past two-and-a-half weeks, both mental and physical, was weighing on him. Constant travel, matching wits with a sometimes unseen enemy, skirmishes on Oyster Island and near Nashville, and now the kidnapping of Lori, it had all combined to leave him hanging by a tenuous thread.