There were a number of large trees around the close-cropped green lawn that surrounded the house. They were spaced well apart, however, giving Burke an excellent view of the front of the structure. He found a spot that offered good concealment, utilizing both the trees and the stone wall.
He had been there for only a few minutes when a shiny black sedan cruised up the driveway and parked near the house. Watching through the binoculars, he observed two men and a woman alight from the car and walk toward the front door. Spotting the errant forelock, he confirmed his suspicion that "Richard" from his Tennessee captivity was indeed the man he had been dealing with on the phone. When he got a glimpse of the woman's face, he was forced to catch his breath. It was Lori Quinn. Or so he thought at first. But as he watched the swing of her legs as she walked, noting the build a little too heavy, he realized it was only someone whose face had been made up to resemble Lori.
Some twenty minutes later, the same trio returned to the car and drove off. The woman had made a few subtle changes in her makeup and hair so that she looked even more like Lori than before. She had probably used a photograph initially, but now had seen the real thing. She chatted and laughed with the men. Even if he hadn't been tipped off by her walk and size, it would have been obvious that she was no captive.
The plan appeared clear. They would be flown by private jet to Washington, where they would appear at the row house on Twenty-Second Street at ten o'clock, in expectation of meeting and deceiving one Burke Hill. He would have smiled at the thought were it not for the knowledge that no doubt Lori was a prisoner somewhere inside this house. He started moving parallel to the property, studying each window, hoping to see some sign of where she was being held.
When he had reached a point opposite the rear of the house, he noticed the trim green back lawn extended for some two hundred feet, then faded into dense woods similar to those which hid him. He was soon forced to back-track to the trail of tire tracks, where he found the tangled wooded area continued to a bluff over the river.
Returning to a spot with a clear line of sight across the rear of the mansion, he resumed checking the windows. At one toward the near end of the main section, he paused, almost certain that he had spotted something moving. Gazing through the binoculars, he saw it again. Was it long hair like Lori's? He thought so, though he couldn't be sure.
At around ten o'clock, he returned to the Jeep and drove toward the city to locate a telephone. He dialed the number in Area Code 703. After a few moments, a male voice came on the line. It was different from the previous one, which he took as further confirmation that he had been dealing with Richard.
"This is Burke Hill," he said in an angry voice. "Tell that bastard I talked with last night that I'm not falling for his crude tricks. That was not Lori Quinn in the car. Just somebody made up to look like her. I'll be back in contact with him."
He hung up the phone and drove to a nearby market, where he bought enough canned and packaged food items to make a couple of meals. He had decided to stand vigil outside the house until after dark, then break in and locate Lori. He would also place a tiny transmitter that would send a signal to be picked up and taped by a voice-actuated recorder in the Jeep. Hopefully it would provide some clues to the when and where of Jabberwock's mission.
Unexpectedly, several cars began to arrive around dark. To the neighbors, it probably had the appearance of a Friday night gathering of friends at the Newman's. But to Burke, who scrutinized the faces as they appeared in the light from the coach lamps in the parking area, the party was much more sinister, not a gathering of angels. Richard had returned shortly after noon. From Washington, no doubt. And late in the afternoon, a long, black chauffeur-driven limousine had brought Blythe Ingram and a robust man with thick white hair who he recognized from the photo Lori had obtained. Donald Newman, lord of the estate.
The new arrivals included Robert Jeffries and a thin, slightly bent man he could not identify. Next came "Emerson Dinwiddie" and a short, heavy man with a ramrod straight back. Last to arrive was a tall, dark-haired figure whose impatient movements showed in the lamp's glow. Burke saw the unmistakable profile of Hawthorne Elliott.
After several minutes, when the parade seemed to have reached an end, Burke made his move. This was more than he had hoped for. But if he wanted to get the Jabberwock plotters on tape, he would have to work fast. He strapped a lightweight M76 submachine gun around his shoulder and moved through the woods toward the darkened area at the rear of the house.
From his observations during the day, Burke had concluded that there were no perimeter security devices installed on the property. Keeping his body horizontal, he rolled over the rock wall. He slipped across the lawn behind the house, sprinting from tree to tree, keeping enough distance to avoid any light spill from the windows. At the far end of the house, he moved in close. Two sets of sliding glass doors at the rear of the wing on this end opened onto a wood deck in back. The drapes were closed, but he could see enough through the gap at the middle to determine that the room was unoccupied. It appeared to be a large drawing room with sofa and chairs, a baby grand piano, several tables and a fireplace at the center of the end wall. The doors were locked.
He slipped around to the front and made his way to a window where a bright flow of light beamed from the curved fanlight above. Standing close to the window, he could barely make out voices inside. Not enough to distinguish any of the conversation.
Opening a small canister clipped to his web belt, Burke removed a tiny transmitter connected to a rubber suction cup. Carefully, he pressed it against the window pane. Then he switched on a small receiver in the canister and inserted a plug-type earphone into one ear.
"… test firings were right on the money," said a voice he did not recognize. "We adapted a standard eighty-one millimeter mortar so it could be bolted to the floor of the truck. A circular hatch in the roof is removed for firing. The elevation and azimuth for aiming the weapon have been preset for the marked location on Victoria Street. The powder charge was precisely calculated for the proper trajectory. It will clear all of the buildings in the area but provide minimum time to target. The shells are fused to detonate just above ground for maximum effect."
"And what if they should find something blocking the Victoria Street location?" asked a voice with an English accent, though Burke did not think it was "Dinwiddie."
"We've designated two alternate locations, General. They know the necessary corrections to make for aiming. Should something prevent the use of any of the three locations, they could park nearby, with the truck headed due south. They have an electronic device to measure the distance and the angle from the predetermined position. They can feed this information into the computer, and it will give them precise aiming instructions. It will also tell them if the powder load is still correct. You may be interested to know that we have redundant systems for everything. If the computer fails, for example, there's a backup installed."
"Holed up in that truck, what's to keep them from being surprised by someone from outside?" Burke recognized the voice of the "man with the money." Newman, apparently.
"Bob Jeffries took care of that. He has small surveillance cameras mounted with windows looking in each direction. There are four monitors on the panel. They can see anything approaching from any direction."
"Thank you, Blythe," said another voice, one that reeked with authority. "You seem to have covered everything quite thoroughly. Anything else you want to add?"