"Correct," said Richard. "Yes, it's possible he could have wandered by this morning while we were waiting in the driveway. He definitely knows too much. He and his wife both. As soon as our colleagues from the Continent are finished with Miss Quinn upstairs, they have orders to pick up the Brackins and arrange a suitable accident."
"Something similar to what happened with Cameron Quinn in Hong Kong?" said Elliott.
"Or the Chinese girl."
"That leaves the main question before us," said Wizner, "which is the real reason for calling this meeting. Do we risk going ahead with the operation knowing that Burke Hill is still at large?"
That was all that Burke heard. A high-powered electrical charge suddenly struck him in the back, temporarily paralyzing him. The submachine gun fell from his shoulder as he toppled to the ground. The earplug popped from his ear, and he lay there, groggy.
The wiry, dark-complexioned Bulgarian known as Dimo, who had sneaked up behind Burke and incapacitated him with an electric stun gun packing 65,000 volts, picked up the automatic weapon and pointed it at him as Burke began to stir. If fate had placed his parents in the south of Italy at the time of his birth, instead of on the outskirts of Sofia, Dimo would have wound up a Mafia "enforcer." His muscles seemed fashioned out of some flexible alloy of steel, his reflexes quick as the shutter on one of Burke's fast cameras. At the moment they were clicking on full auto. He directed an intense stare at the face he had been studying in the photographs. It would be a pleasure to find some excuse to use this lethal weapon, but that would have to wait. The men inside had questions for this one.
"Up." Dimo said.
Burke struggled to his feet. He stared with a hopeless look at his own weapon aimed at his stomach.
"Into house. March."
Beyond the entrance foyer, a carpeted staircase rose toward the second floor. The walls featured decorative wainscoting and elaborate crown molding. The flooring was oak plank, partially covered by the delicate design of an Oriental rug. Dimo instructed Burke to walk to his left and knock on the door to the library, where the meeting was taking place.
The door was cracked open by a frowning Robert Jeffries, whose face quickly blossomed into a smile as big as a sunflower. "Well, look who's here!" He flung the door open.
"Caught him at window," said Dimo with a satisfied grin, nudging Burke into the room with the barrel of the M76. "What we do now?"
"Who is he?" asked Wizner.
Ingram spoke up. "That's Burke Hill, sir."
"Gentlemen," concluded a beaming Franklin Wizner, "in that case, I should say this about wraps it up. Operation Jabberwock can proceed to its foreordained conclusion."
Burke glared at the smiling men around the table, which sat in an oak-paneled room lined with bookshelves. He had really blown it this time. God save the President. It appeared that Burke Hill was not destined to do so. And in a sudden flash of understanding, as he studied the diabolical faces before him, he realized that Jabberwock was a plot to deliver the United States of America and the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to the hard-line conservatives of each country. They, in turn, could be counted on to quickly dissolve whatever nebulous bonds had brought them together and return the world to the brink of nuclear holocaust. Neither would harbor the least amount of trust for the other.
It was the short, heavy man with slavic features and a smooth English accent, polished to perfection while a student at Cambridge many years ago according to the dossier Burke recalled reading, who stood and coldly provided the answer to the Bulgarian's question that had been left hanging.
"Dimo, escort Mr. Hill up to join his friend, Miss Quinn," said General Kostikov. "Hold them until around three o'clock. Then take them up the river, just above the Falls, and let them enjoy a swim."
"No shooting if possible," said Golanov, glancing toward the General for a nod of approval. "It should appear as an accidental drowning."
Hawk Elliott allowed himself an unaccustomed smile. Burke guessed he would inform Lori's assistant that the accident had occurred while she was on a secret mission for the Agency. No mention should be made of it to anyone. The Drs. Brackin would not be around to raise any alarms.
Burke saw Lori fight back the tears as she watched him enter the room in front of the sinewy Bulgarian. Burke figured she had kept her courage up with the tenuous hope that he would somehow locate the house and effect her rescue. That hope now lay in shreds. She watched with a look of total despair as the trim, lithe man called Grigor bound Burke's wrists and secured him to a straight-backed chair identical to the one in which she sat, equally immobilized.
Burke didn't speak. It wasn't necessary. He was sure his eyes said it all. I've failed you. I've failed everybody.
You took it all too lightly at first, he rebuked himself. Then, after realizing the seriousness of it, you found your techniques too rusty from years of disuse, your senses too dull, your instincts useless.
The two men began to talk in their native tongue, no doubt planning disposition of the captives later that night.
Burke looked across at Lori, who sat about five feet away. They were being held in a bedroom furnished colonial style, with a four-poster bed covered by a rose-colored canopy. Heavy decorative glassware on the dresser picked up the same color as an accent to the light oak furniture. Burke's chair sat near the dresser. Lori gave him an encouraging smile.
It was precisely the medicine he needed. Like some potent elixir, it softened the hard, unforgiving lines of his face. He squared his shoulders, lifting his chin to show a jaw firmly anchored in a determined set.
"The fat lady ain't sung yet," he said.
Chapter 47
On the bedroom wall, the old-fashioned wooden clock with Roman numerals showed two-forty when Dimo said something to Grigor and quietly left the room. Up to that point, both men had maintained the vigil, no doubt having been told about what had happened on Oyster Island. During the early evening, someone had come to the door now and then to consult with one of them in hushed tones. All had been quiet, though, since around midnight.
Burke had waited throughout the evening for one of them to leave. He knew this would likely be his only chance. Now his hands behind his back went to work in earnest. He had attempted to plan for every contingency this time. A large ring on one finger gave the appearance of a Masonic ring with a raised crest. It was something altogether different, a device Walt Brackin had told him about, available from a magic shop. Using his thumb, he turned it around so that the crest faced inside his hand. When pressed to one side, the crest moved on a pivot and allowed a small, razor-sharp blade to snap erect. It measured only half an inch.
He had worked slowly for some time, in order not to appear obvious, and had almost severed the rope. Now he completed the job, being careful to allow nothing to fall to the floor. He also sliced the rope that bound him to the chair.
"Could I have a drink of water?" Burke asked.
Grigor laughed. "Soon you get plenty drink. Dimo go get car ready."
The man had a pistol stuck inside his belt. He was too far away to rush. He would have the gun out before Burke could reach him. Somehow, he had to be lured closer, with his back to Burke if possible. Then he noticed Lori twisting about. He wondered if she had seen his hands, guessed what he was attempting to do. When she spoke, he had his answer.
"This blasted rope is cutting into my chest," she complained. "Could you pull it down a little?"
Grigor raised an eyebrow and looked across at her. Even barefoot, three days in the same dress with little opportunity to freshen up, Lori still presented an alluring figure. Burke knew she would be a tempting sight for a guy far from home, doubtless kept busy over the past few weeks. He watched as Grigor eyed the rope that encircled her, pressing against the fullness of her breasts. He walked over near her, bent slightly forward and reached a hand toward the rope, letting his fingers stray inside her blouse.