Blood of the Albatross Read online

  “You alright, man?”

  “No.”

  “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “I do, Rocks. I have to.”

  “If it looks wrong, I’m coming after you. So if something goes down, use your head. We won’t get a second chance.”

  “Listen, Rocks, in case something happens…”

  “Hey, fuck the sentimental stuff and shut the door.” Jocko drove away down the clouded street without looking back.

  Jay walked his bike for half a block, giving Jocko a head start. His shoes sponged on the slick sidewalks, squeaking and smacking. The bike clicked along beside him. Cars purred past, wheels whining through the light water, tossing spray onto the row of parked cars between the street and sidewalk. The fog, lit by the signs and street lamps, felt like a low ceiling in a smoke-filled room. Jay liked this weather: this was Seattle.

  Slightly damp, he reached Murphy’s and chained the bike to a lightpost. He tried to collect himself, remembering Jocko’s instructions: appear confident and be prepared for anything. He spotted Jocko’s van parked down the street and the sight instilled him with confidence. He took a deep breath and pulled open the door.

  The wind was knocked out of him instantly. His first thought was that some drunk had hammered into him while trying to get out the door. Then he felt the arms wrap around him—thick arms. He saw the strange tattoo of a mushroom cloud. The man lifted him off the ground and carried him away from the door. Jay attempted to break the goon’s grip. The guy’s viselike arms were choking the wind from him, pinning his arms helplessly to his sides. His first scream nearly made a noise, but ended up more a gush of air. Then he couldn’t breathe, much less scream.

  A big man, escorting a pretty woman, complained, “Hey!”

  John Chu said, “Dusted, ya know. Angel dust, he’s freaked out bad…”

  The couple backed off and moved around them as Chu fought to stuff Jay inside a panel van double-parked in front of the bar. He finally got him in and squeezed in behind. Donnie sat behind the driver’s wheel. As Chu took hold of Jay again, Holst barked, “Drive.”

  “Where?”

  “Shipyards. This side of the canal.”

  Christ, Jay could see it coming. They were going to carve him up into pieces and dump him. End of the line. Holst was confident and relaxed—strong—kneeling in the back of the windowless van, rocking from side to side. He asked, “Where is the tape, Jay?”

  Jay looked around. No Marlene. He’d been conned. Roached. Jay didn’t have the slightest idea what to do. Jocko’s few suggestions became tangled into a kind of mindless running dialogue between Jay and himself. Eyes alert. What else? You choose topics to discuss. What else?

  “Where is the tape, Jay?” Holst repeated calmly.

  “Where’s Marlene?”

  Holst nodded. They had planned for this. Chu took hold of his feet and dumped Jay onto his stomach so that he lay facing Holst. The rug in the van smelled like cat urine. Chu sat down heavily on Jay’s back and yanked his arms out in front of him. Holst repeated, “Where’s the tape, Jay?”

  “You said you would trade,” Jay gasped.

  Chu pinned Jay’s arms to the floor of the van. Jay sucked for air, inhaling the rank smell.

  Holst touched the back of Jay’s hands. “The deal we had is altered, is it not? You would be well advised to inform me as to the whereabouts of the videotape.”

  Jay said nothing. The van lurched on its springs as Donnie took a corner quickly. The floor was warming from the transmission, bringing with it noisome odors. Where’s Jocko? Jay wondered. Where the hell is Jocko?

  “Musicians need their hands, do they not?” Holst continued to stroke the backs of Jay’s hands affectionately. Without warning, he snapped Jay’s smallest finger to the side, breaking it easily. Jay screamed and jerked, trying to move Chu. His head spun. Holst snapped the ring finger of the same hand. Jay wailed.

  The van slowed. “Yes, musicians need their fingers. They need their hands, don’t they? Men who like to touch pretty women need their hands too, no? Especially this finger,” and Holst broke Jay’s middle finger at the knuckle. It didn’t break well, so he tugged on it, and snapped it again. Nice and clean. Jay moaned, unable to think, to hear. He opened his eyes and could hardly see. “No more. No more. The tape is in the back of my amp at Charlie’s. Up on stage. No one is playing tonight. My amp is the Fender Twin Reverb, next to the drums. Jesus! no more!”

  Holst smiled thinly, a sliver of white teeth showing. “Are we there?”

  “Shipyard all around us. Canal to our right,” replied Donnie.

  “All clear?”

  “All clear.”

  “Pull over and stop.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Becker. I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed knowing you. Quite frankly, you have been a headache for me from the beginning.” He thought to himself, You’re the Albatross—you brought the bad luck. “We both appreciate her, you see, you and I. Both in our own ways—and there is seldom room for two men with one woman.”

  “What if I lied about the tape?” Then Jay said, “I lied about the tape.” Insisting.

  “You are out of your element, Mr. Becker. You did not lie. Believe me, I have learned the difference. No, I am quite certain that tape is exactly where you told me it is. Quite certain.”

  “You bastard,” Jay managed, his thoughts clearing. His left hand—his left hand the most important guitar hand—looked like a wheel that had sprung some spokes. Mildy, he thought. Right there, strapped to his leg—the switchblade. Chu, still sitting on Jay, struggled with a length of heavy chain.

  The collision knocked Chu off of Jay and into Holst. Something had hit the van hard. And then Jay knew: Jocko! Donnie rocked back and then forward. His head broke the windshield, knocking him senseless. The momentum lifted Jay up off the carpet. He reached down, withdrew the switchblade, pushed the release, and plunged the knife deeply into the first piece of human he saw: Holst’s arm. Holst yelled. Jay stabbed him again. It felt good. It felt right to do this. He wanted to plant the thing in Holst’s back. He raised the knife…

  The front door flew open. Jocko pulled Donnie from the driver’s seat onto the pavement and kicked him in the groin. He waved his gun around before poking his head inside the van. Chu stirred.

  “Book it!” Jocko declared, reaching around the steering shaft and removing the keys. Jay moved the switchblade between the thumb and index finger of his mangled hand. He opened the van’s side door and scrambled out. Chu started to move but stopped when he heard gunshots.

  “No, Jocko,” Jay hollered, picturing the driver with a slug in his head. “Come on,” he ordered, climbing into Jocko’s van. Then he saw Jocko shoot the rear tire as well. The van rocked to the left as the air blew out of the tire.

  Jocko climbed in, the van still running. “Yee-ha!” he shouted maniacally, throwing the van into reverse, the tires screeching. “Fucking A!”

  Jay leaned back, gripping his hand. The van roared away.

  Jocko switched on the overhead light and, looking over, saw Jay stroking his broken fingers. “Oh God,” he said. “Oh my God.”

  “They got me,” Jay agonized. “They really got me.”

  36

  The doctor counted slowly to ten, and at six the woman with the sandy brown hair fell under his control. “Tell me your name.”

  “Sharon Johnson,” she said quite clearly.

  “Occupation?”

  “Special Agent for the Central Intelligence Agency, presently assigned to the American Embassy in Bonn, West Germany, telex code name, WINDFIRE.”

  “Are you comfortable, Sharon?”

  “Yes.” She smiled.

  He brought her back to the night agent Robert Saks had died in Regensberg. Her brow creased as she recalled his desperate last moment. “He pulled the photograph from his inside pocket, and then his fist tightened on the photograph. I tried to pull it loose and he gripped it even harder. I turned
his wrist and I saw the man in the photograph. It had been taken in an office, with several other men. He had drawn a circle around one of the faces. I assumed that was the man he had told me about—the double agent.”

  “I want to stay right there for a moment, Sharon. I want you to go back to that first instant you saw the face in the photograph. I want you to push all other thoughts from your mind…” He adjusted the flow of fluid into her arm by turning a small valve on the plastic tubing. That very instant you first saw the face. Only the face. You see only the face.” He paused. “Now, do you see him? Do you see the man in the picture?”

  “Yes,” she answered, her voice more distant.

  The doctor looked over at the Agency artist, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Are you ready?” The artist nodded back.

  The doctor said to Sharon, “I want you to open your eyes when I tell you to. I want you to compare the face in your mind with what you will see and I want you to carefully tell me the difference.” Again, he paused. “Can you do that for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well then.” The doctor slid out of the way, allowing the artist to face Sharon. “Open your eyes.”

  Fifteen minutes later she had corrected the drawing. Five times the doctor asked her to make absolutely certain the face in her head matched the artist’s sketch. She responded to the last of these requests by saying, “The photograph was taken at a distance. It is not perfectly clear. This man I see here is very similar. Very similar.” Her sentences were becoming too long, he was losing her. He brought her out carefully and let her rest.

  Director Maxwell had a short meeting with the doctor and seemed pleased with the results of the session. He invited Sharon into his spacious office, which overlooked a leafy canopy. A sea of green. She sat down, intimidated by the flags, the photographs, and the man.

  He said, “I think you’ve done it, Sharon. How do you feel?”

  “Fine, sir. I hope I did it right.”

  “We will send this out to Seattle and get the wheels rolling. I wanted to personally thank you for all you’ve been through. I know these last few weeks are some you would probably rather forget. I would doubt you would ever see that kind of operation again. We don’t get too many of those, I assure you. Thank God. But I want you to know that you have provided the Agency and your country a great service by your sacrifice and dedication to duty, and as a token of gratitude I am permitted to promote you two grades higher, and that is exactly what I shall do this afternoon. It is a promotion well deserved. Again, thank you.”

  He stood, and she understood. They shook hands, and she left the office thankful it was all over. As she reached the door she turned and asked, “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Yes, Sharon?”

  “Well, I wonder if I could be informed if we catch the man. I feel close to this assignment, and I think I would rest easier if I knew the outcome—good or bad.”

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  She nodded, wondering what went on inside Maxwell’s mind. What did he have to live with every night? As she pulled the door shut, she hoped she might never find out.

  37

  Kepella reached the Rainier bank’s Stoneway branch at three-thirty. He signed the safe deposit register and handed the woman his key. A moment later he was in a private booth opening the small box. He pulled out a pocket of folded papers. In his hands were the entire northern Pacific schematics for the Navy’s SOSUS listening system: a string of submerged microphones that could “hear” and triangulate the exact location of enemy submarines. It was among DOD’s most sensitive information—just the kind of bait Kevin Brandenburg knew would attract Wilhelm.

  The sun stung his face as he left the bank. Seattle at its best: hot, humid, beautiful. The air smelled wonderful, like a million flowers. The streets bulged with athletic types: joggers, bike riders, kids on skateboards. Kepella reached into the glove compartment and exercised his elbow, drinking down three big gulps of vodka. Today marked an improvement. He had waited until after ten o’clock to have his first nip. It had been nine yesterday, and right out of bed the day before that. He felt he improved with each day.

  Less than ten minutes later he pulled into Rosie’s short driveway, the warm spot beginning to form at the base of his skull. Rosie looked worried as she stood in the kitchen fixing herself a bowl of granola, dressed only in cotton bikini underwear and matching camisole. Her thin body moved fluidly to Kepella. They embraced.

  He located his briefcase and said, “I have to make a call.”

  She looked worried.

  “Business.” He studied her. She looked like a child. For the first time he found himself doubting that Rosie was involved in Holst’s operation. Could it be she had nothing to do with this? He tried not to think about that, realizing what it meant if she was here of her own accord. He placed a call, which rang Holst’s portable briefcase phone. After a short conversation he hung up, turned to Rosie, and said, “I have to go.”

  “You had drink this morning.”

  “Yes,” he admitted, somewhat ashamed of himself. “Nerves.”

  “No more today, okay, Roy?”

  “We’ll see. I can’t promise.”

  “Please?”

  “I’ll try, Rosie. I don’t know. I’ll try. Can’t promise.”

  “Something wrong, Roy.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  “What is it, Rosie,” he asked, pulling her close, feeling his groin stir. Jeez, he’d grown fond of her. Too fond.

  “Something wrong, Roy. I can tell. Don’t go. Please, don’t go”

  “I have to, baby.” He pushed away from her gently. “I’ll be all right. Last job for a while.” He knew he shouldn’t have said that—bad luck to call anything the last—but he couldn’t help himself. “After this we’ll take a trip. I’ll show you the Olympic Peninsula, like I promised.”

  She nodded and wiped away her tears, trying to smile. She didn’t believe a word. Something was wrong. Roy Kepella wasn’t coming back.

  ***

  As Kepella left Rosie’s, he didn’t notice the car following him. Jocko had rented two cars, one for Jay and one for himself: his van’s radiator was bashed in from last night’s collision. Now he was at Shilshole keeping watch. Jay had driven to the apartment he had followed Roy to the night of the fire. Now, he was right behind the guy.

  At first, Kepella had been surprised that Holst would return to The Westside Motel. Then he realized it was the last place he would have thought of looking for him. He checked his pocket for the SOSUS papers and left his car.

  The drapes had been pulled and Kepella had to adjust his eyes to the darkness as he entered the room. The air was musty and smelled of perspiration. Marlene sat on the bed, her hair messed, her face badly bruised, her shirt torn at the shoulder, which was also bruised. She kept her swollen eyes fixed on the carpet and did not move as Kepella entered.

  Holst’s shirt was torn, his left arm bandaged. He was perched on the edge of a chest of drawers, shirt unbuttoned, a slight grin on his lips as he gazed at Marlene. “Shut the door.”

  Marlene was nearly catatonic. Kepella noticed scratches on Holst’s neck. Fingernail scratches. Her legs were bruised and discolored, her lips, though covered with too much lipstick, swollen and split.

  “Sit,” Holst demanded.

  Kepella sat in the only chair. He couldn’t stop looking at Marlene, who still had not looked up.

  “Tell him, Marlene.”

  She obeyed immediately, though her voice was toneless and defeated. “There was nothing in the plans you delivered to indicate an adequate power supply for the laser, if satellite-based. Explain this please.”

  Kepella shrugged. “I don’t understand all the bullshit.” He looked to Holst. “That’s all we have. If there’s something missing, that only makes sense. No one location has the whole picture. You must know that.”

  Holst said, “And you are certain it is to be satellite-deployed?”

  “In this job, one
is never certain. You know how well the different services use blinds. This whole thing could be bullshit. As far as I know, this stuff is legit. It is to be deployed by satellite in late September, early October. I told her all that. That’s all I know.”

  Marlene still had not looked up. “You brought the SOSUS papers?” Holst asked. Kepella nodded, still watching Marlene. “Show it to her,” Holst demanded.

  Kepella handed the folded papers to Marlene. She unfolded them slowly and studied the first page, then turned to the next page.

  “Is that it?” Holst asked.

  “Patience,” she said. She glanced at Kepella, a full conversation in the single glance. She was telling him, Help me. Please help me, without saying a word.

  Kepella’s eyes shifted back and forth between the two. Holst grew anxious. He slipped off the chest of drawers and approached Marlene. He struck her hard across the head. “Answer me!”

  She appeared not to feel the blow. She turned the page and looked into Holst’s eyes. Her voice was flat. “I am trying to read.”

  Perplexed, Holst faced Kepella, the gun apparent in his hand for the first time.

  Kepella could feel it coming. Holst had lost a screw. He was going to kill Kepella, maybe even the girl. Whatever had happened prior to his arrival had damaged them both, but only Marlene showed it. Kepella reached an instant decision. Brandenburg’s deal, was, for the moment, down the tubes. Kepella’s efforts had come down to this: three of them in a motel room, no backup, and a crazy German with a weapon in his hand.

  Kepella leaped from his chair and knocked the gun from Holst’s hand. He drove the German into the chest of drawers and raised his hand to deliver a right to the man’s throat. Holst drilled his knee into Kepella’s crotch, pushing the overweight agent back onto the bed. Marlene lunged to the carpet, grabbing for the gun. Holst slammed his foot down onto her wrist. Bones crunched loudly. Marlene screamed…

  ***

  The heavy sliding glass door and the hanging drapes muffled the voices inside. Jay found it impossible to discern any of the words. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Then it sounded like a struggle. He pulled on the door. Locked. His eyes lit on a stack of metal-wire milk crates two doors down. As he reached the stack, he heard Marlene scream…