The small mountain resort town resembled a Bavarian village in many ways. Flowers abounded along the streets and in window boxes. Many of the buildings had a European flavor, and off the main street, the mountainsides were dotted with A-frames and rustic wooden homes. What differed from a mountain town in Germany was the spate of gaudy junk shops and attractions, and the choking summer traffic that crept slowly along the Parkway.
Burke avoided most of the traffic by turning down River Road, where he parked at a motel whose manager was a friend. Then he walked up the hill to the bank. He saw Lars Olaffson, the manager, standing by a counter as he walked in. Lars looked at him, then did a double take.
"Is it really Burke Hill?" he said, squinting through his thick glasses.
"In the flesh," Burke said, "as opposed to behind the fuzz."
Lars, like a sizeable portion of Gatlinburg's relatively small cadre of permanent residents, was a fugitive from the snow belt. He had come down from Wisconsin for a visit one summer, fell in love with a local girl, and never went back. That the girl happened to be from one of the city's handful of founding families helped get him into the bank and into his present position. He was a lean, slightly hunched man who seemed to be as at home on skis or ice skates as in the expensive black Ralph Lauren shoes he wore.
"Haven't seen you lately," said Lars. "Been on vacation?"
"Out of town assignment," Burke said. "Just came back to pick up clean clothes and long green. I need to draw a few thousand out of savings."
Lars pulled a form from a slot under the glass-topped counter. "Fill this out and we'll take care of it for you."
As he wrote on the form, Burke asked, "Can I use your office to make a couple of long distance calls? On my credit card, of course."
Lars grinned. "It had better be. The Feds've got us under a microscope these days. Got to account for every penny. Go on in whenever you like."
Burke didn’t feel it necessary to add the card would be in the name of Clipper Travel. He closed the door to the office and sat behind the stylish Danish modern desk. He took out his appointments book and looked up Freddie Young's number.
This time he got an answer.
"This is Burke, Freddie. I called several times yesterday afternoon and last night, but nobody was home."
"Sorry about that. I had an emergency. Took my wife to the hospital right after lunch. She was having stomach pains. They admitted her, said it was her gall bladder. They'll probably have to do surgery."
"That's too bad," Burke said. "I hope she does all right. I imagine you were at the hospital late."
"Yes, I stayed with her as long as I could. You're wanting to know about that Virginia number, aren't you? I heard from my friend up there this morning. Afraid I can't help you much. It was unlisted, all right, but he couldn't get any details. Said it was in a small area served by an independent company. The people are real close-mouthed and wouldn't give out anything. He said it wasn't generally known, but the company is owned by three top wheels in Pan West Industries, the big defense conglomerate."
That got Burke's attention. "Did he mention the names of any of the phone company owners?"
"Yes, he did, but I'm not sure I can remember them. Oh, one was the chairman of Pan West, fellow named Newman… Douglas… Donald, or something like that. The other two, I just don't remember." He chuckled. "They say memory's the first thing to go."
So Blythe Ingram's boss was one of the owners of the little telephone company, Burke thought. A company that protected the sanctity of an anonymous number that automatically transferred calls God knows where. He recalled the large "N" that appeared on the tail of the jet that flew him to Nashville. "N" for Newman?
He dialed Walt Brackin's office in Fairfax.
"I wondered if something else had happened to you," Brackin said.
"No, except that I've been on the road quite a bit. I've been trying to track down a few facts that might steer us in the right direction."
"Well, I've learned a couple of unpleasant facts. Lori's assistant received a call from Mr. Elliott at Langley. He said not to worry, she was helping them out with a project that would require her to be out of touch for a few days. Then I've gotten a couple of more calls from the people who say they're holding her. I don't think they believed that I hadn't heard from you. The last time they threatened something bad would happen to Lori if you didn't contact them by the end of the day."
Burke rubbed his forehead, washed by a new wave of concern. Was his certainty that she faced no harm really warranted? "Don't worry," he said. "I'll give them a call. Hold on a second and let me check something."
Walt's mention of Mr. Elliott tripped a switch in his brain that had been on the verge of closing for some time. It concerned that phone number he had found on Oyster Island. He flipped through his book for Hawk Elliott's private line.
"Just placed another piece of the puzzle," Burke said. "Remember the phone number I found on the pad in the office at Oyster Island? It's Hawk Elliott's private line. You can add him for certain to the list of bad guys. Did you say anything to Lori's assistant about any of this?"
"No. I was afraid she might contact the police or FBI, and that would jeopardize Lori."
“Good. I’d suggest you and your wife find a nice out-of-the-way motel and hole up until we can get this situation straightened out. You could be next on their list.”
Burke ended the call and turned to the number for "Ben E. Factor." He studied it a moment, then dialed. A gruff, rasping male voice answered.
"This is Burke Hill," he said. If there was to be any negotiating, he would at least attempt to achieve the upper hand. "I believe you have some information for me."
"Yes, Mr. Hill, you've been keeping us waiting." The man sounded decidedly unhappy about it. "We have your friend, Lorelei Quinn. If you'd like her back alive, there are a few conditions attached. Number one, you must not mention Jabberwock, or anything you may have learned about it, to anyone for any reason. We have ways of knowing if you do. Second, you must submit to questioning by our people. We'll arrange a time and place."
"Okay," Burke said, determined not to make it easy for them, "I have a few conditions of my own. I want to know definitely that you have Lori Quinn, and I want to know that she's unharmed. In other words, I want you to put her on the line and let me hear her tell me that she's all right."
"Hold on a moment," the man said. There were sounds of voices in the background, unintelligible, and finally the man returned. "Here's Miss Quinn. She'll tell you that we haven't harmed her."
"Burke?" Lori said. Her voice was clearly strained.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
"Days are okay," she said. "The nights again are a problem."
As he heard a voice in the background growl "Enough talk," Burke realized she was using the code they had discussed in Hong Kong. Otherwise her comment made little sense. She spoke the words in a conversational tone so that anyone listening, although they might think it a bit odd, would not guess it had an alternate meaning. He grabbed a pencil off Lars' desk and scribbled on the top sheet of a scratch pad—The nights again are a problem.
The man was back on the line. "As you heard, she is being well taken care of. Now, tell me where you are and we'll set up a meeting."
"Try again, friend. If I told you where I was, I'd be lying. Just like you'd be lying if you told me where you were holding Lori. Here's what we'll do. I'll be waiting in the main American Airlines gate concourse at Washington National Airport tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. Bring Lori with you so I can see her before we talk."
"Don't be ridiculous," the man said in disgust. "We'll dictate the terms. We have Lori Quinn."
"Yeah, and you want Burke Hill. You want to know what I know and who I've talked to. Okay, I'm willing to tell you, but this way I'll know your folks aren't coming armed."