“Yes,” said Alexander, studying Havelock. “But no one knows I know. Or my source.”
“Will you tell me? No one will ever know my source, you have my word on it.”
“For what purpose, Michael?”
Havelock paused, then smiled. “Send a basket of fruit probably. A letter, of course.”
The journalist nodded his head, smiled and answered, “It’s a place called Poole’s Island, somewhere off the coast of Georgia.”
“Thank you.”
Alexander noted his empty glass. “Come now, we’re both out. Freshen yours and do mine while you’re at it. That’s also part of the rules, remember?”
Michael got out of the chair, shaking his head, smiling still, despite the tension he felt “Be happy to pour yours, but I really have to get going.” He picked up the journalist’s glass. “I was expected in McLean an hour ago.”
“You’re leaving?” exclaimed the old warhorse, his eyebrows arched, turning in the chair. “What about this piece of information from London you claimed would make up for some of the best meals you ever had, young man?”
Havelock stood at the copper dry-bar, pouring brandy. “I was thinking about that as I drove out here,” he said pensively. “I may have been impetuous.”
“Spoilsport,” said Alexander, chuckling.
“Well, it’s up to you. It concerns a very complicated, deep-cover intelligence operation, which in my judgment will take us nowhere. Do you want to hear it?”
“Stop there, dear boy! You’ve got the wrong scribbler, I wouldn’t touch it. I subscribe to Anton’s maxim. Eighty percent of all intelligence is a chess game played by idiots for the benefit of paranoid morons!”
Michael climbed into the car; there was the faint odor of cigarettes. “You’ve been smoking,” he said.
“Feeling like a little boy in a graveyard,” replied Jenna, curled up on the floor. “What about Bradford? Will your friend bring him out here?”
Havelock started the engine, engaged the gear, and swung rapidly around the circular drive toward the entrance. “You can get up now.”
“What about Bradford?”
“We’re going to let him sweat for a while, stretch him out.”
Jenna crawled up on the seat, staring at him. “What are you saying, Mikhail?”
“We’re going to drive all night, rest for a while in the morning, then keep going. I want to get there late tomorrow.”
“My God, where?”
“A place called Poole’s Island, wherever it is.”
24
The island was off the coast, east of Savannah; five years ago it had been a sparsely populated island of less than two square miles before it was taken over by the government for oceanic research. Several times a week, said the fishermen, helicopters from Hunter Air Force Base could be seen skimming above the water toward an unseen pad somewhere beyond the tall pines that bordered the rocky shoreline.
They had reached Savannah by three-thirty in the afternoon and, by four, had found a nondescript motel on the ocean highway. At four-twenty they walked onto the pier of a commercial marina across the way in time to watch a dozen or so fishing boats come in with the day’s catch. By a quarter past five they had talked to various fishermen, and at five-thirty Havelock had a quiet conversation with the manager of the marina. By ten to six $200 had exchanged hands, and a fifteen-foot skiff with a twelve-horsepower outboard had been made available to him, with the hours at his discretion and the night watchman of the marina informed of the rental.
They drove back along the highway to a shopping center in Fort Pulaski where Michael found a sporting-goods store and purchased the items he needed. These included a wool knit hat, tight sweater, chinos and thick, rubber-soled ankle boots—all black. In addition to the clothes, he bought the following: a waterproof flashlight and an oilcloth packet, a hunting knife, and five packages of 72-inch rawhide shoelaces.
“A sweater, a hat, a torch, a knife,” Jenna said rapidly, angrily. “You buy one of each. Buy two. I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Do you forget Prague and Warsaw? Trieste or the Balkans?”
“No, but you do. In each place—everywhere we went—there was always a secondary we could fall back on, if only to buy time. Someone at an embassy or a consulate who was given the words that constituted a counterthreat.”
“We never used such people.”
“We were never caught.”
She looked at him, her eyes reluctantly accepting his logic. “What words do I have?”
“I’ll write them out for you. There’s a stationery store across the mall. I want to get a yellow legal pad and carbon paper. Let’s go.”
Jenna sat in an armchair next to the motel desk where Havelock wrote. Taking the carbon copies from him as he tore them off the yellow pad, she checked the blue impressions for legibility. He had filled up nine pages, each line in precise block letters, each item numbered, every detail specific, every name accurate. It was a compendium of selected top-secret intelligence operations and penetrations perpetrated by the United States government throughout Europe during the past eighteen months. It included sources, informants, deep-cover and double agents, as well as a list of diplomats and attachés in three embassies who, in reality, were controls for the Central Intelligence Agency. On the tenth page he gave an account of Costa Brava naming Emory Bradford and the men he had spoken with who had confirmed evidence that could only have been obtained with the cooperation of the KGB, and of a VKR officer in Paris who admitted Soviet knowledge of the deception. On the eleventh page he wrote of the fatal meeting on the Palatine, and of an American intelligence officer who had died saving his life and, moments before his death, had exclaimed that there were lies being told by powerful men in Washington. On the twelfth he briefly described the events at Col des Moulinets and the order for his execution issued under the code name Ambiguity. On the thirteenth and last page he told the truth about a killer from Lidice who had called himself Jacob Handelman and the purpose of a farm in Mason Falls, Pennsylvania, which sold the services of slaves as efficiently as any camp that had provided labor for Albert Speer. The final line was concise: Secretary of State Anthony Matthias is being held against his will at a government installation called Poole’s Island in Georgia.
“There are your words,” he said, handing Jenna the last page and getting up to stretch. His body ached; he had written furiously for nearly two hours. While Jenna read he lit a cigarette and walked to the window overlooking the highway and the ocean beyond. It was dark, the moon intermittently shining through a night sky streaked with clouds. The weather was fair, the seas normal; he hoped both would stay that way.
“They’re strong words, Mikhail,” said Jenna, placing the last carbon on the desk.
“It’s the truth.”
“Forgive me for not approving. You could cost the lives of many people, many friends, with this.”
“Not the last four pages. There’re no friends there … except the Apache, and he’s gone.”
“Then use only the last four pages,” said Jenna.
Havelock turned from the window. “No, I have to go all the way or not at all. There’s no middle ground now; they’ve got to believe I’ll do it. More important, they’ve got to believe you’ll do it. If there’s the slightest doubt, I’m dead and you might as well be. The threat’s got to be real, not hollow.”
“You’re assuming you’ll be caught.”
“If I find what I think I’m going to find, I intend to be.”
“That’s insane!” cried Jenna, quickly getting to her feet.
“No, it isn’t. You’re not usually wrong, but you are now. That island’s the shortcut we’ve been looking for.” He walked toward the chair where he had dropped the purchases from the sporting-goods store. “I’ll get dressed and well work out a telephone relay.”
“You mean this, don’t you?”
“I mean it.”
“Booths, th
en,” she said reluctantly. “No call over twelve seconds.”
“But only one number.” Michael changed direction and went to the desk. He picked up a pencil, wrote on the pad, tore off the page and gave it to Jenna. “Here it is; it’s the Cons Op emergency reception. Dial direct—I’ll show you how—and have a pocketbook full of change.”
“I have no pocketbook.”
“And no money, and no clothes,” added Havelock, taking her by the shoulders, pulling her to him. “Remedy that, will you? It’ll take your mind off things for a while. Go shopping.”
“You’re mad.”
“No, I mean it. You won’t have much time, but most of the stores in that shopping center stay open until ten-thirty. Then there’s a bowling alley, a couple of restaurants, and an all-night supermarket.”
“I don’t believe you,” she exclaimed, pulling her face back and looking at him.
“Believe,” he said. “It’s safer than telephone booths on the highway.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s ten of nine now, and Poole’s Island is only a mile and a half offshore. It shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes to reach it—say, by ten. At eleven I want you to start calling that number and say the words ‘billiards or pool.’ Got it?”
“Certainly. ‘Billiards or pool.’ ”
“Good. If you don’t get an immediate response, hang up and get to another phone. Call every fifteen minutes.”
“You say a response. What will it be?”
Havelock frowned. “ ‘We prefer pool.’ ”
“ ‘We prefer pool.’ Then what?”
“A last call, again fifteen minutes later. Someone else other than the operator will be patched into the emergency line. He won’t use a name but he’ll give the response. The second he does, read him the first two lines on the first page. I’ll take the carbons with me so the words match. Do it fast and hang up.”
“And then the waiting begins,” said Jenna, holding him, her cheek against his. “Now, our immovable prison.”
“Very immovable—stationary, in fact. Pick up food at the supermarket and stay here. Don’t go out. I’ll reach you.”
“How long will it be, do you think?”
Havelock gently pulled his cheek away from hers and looked at her. “It could be as long as a day, two days. I hope not, but it may be.”
“And if …” Jenna could not finish the sentence, and tears came to her eyes, her face drawn.
“After three days call Alexander in Fox Hollow and tell him I’ve been killed or taken, that Anton Matthias is being held prisoner. Say you’ve got the proof in my own handwriting, plus my voice on the tape I made at Salanne’s house in Cagnes-sur-Mer. Under the circumstances, he can’t walk away from you. He won’t. His beloved republic is being poisoned.” Michael paused. “Just the last four pages,” he said quietly. “Burn the first nine. You’re right, they don’t deserve to die.”
Jenna closed her eyes. “I cannot promise you that,” she said. “I love you so. If I lose you, none of them matters. None.”
The water was choppy, as it often was when coastal currents were interrupted by sudden offshore land masses. He was about a quarter of a mile from the island’s rocky coastline, approaching from the leeward side, the wind carrying the minimal sound of the engine out to sea. He would cut if off soon and use the oars, rowing forward toward the darkest section of the surrounding pines, guided by the soft glow of light beyond the treetops.
He had made his own separate arrangements with the marina’s night watchman, tenuous arrangements any experienced field man would attempt to make if he hired a boat with the possibility that he might have to abandon it. One never gave up means of escape unless it was absolutely necessary, but one obscured those means as best one could, if only to buy time; five minutes of confusion was often the difference between capture and escape. So far, however, the trip had been clean. He would propel the skiff into the blackest inlet and beach it.
Now was the moment. He pushed in the throttle; the engine coughed quietly and died. He jumped to the mid-seat, body forward, and lifted the oars into their locks. The outgoing current was stronger than he had expected; he pressed against the seaward tide, hoping it would alter before his arms and shoulders weakened. The wound from Col des Moulinets was beginning to hurt; he had to be careful and use the weight of his body.…
Sound. Not his, not the abrasive creaking of oarlocks or the lapping of waves against the bow. A muffled sound … an engine.
A light, a searchlight, sweeping the water about half a mile to his right. It was a patrol boat rounding the far point of the island, veering starboard, directly at him. Did the island’s security system include sonar? Sonic beams shooting over the water, rising and falling with the tides, capable of picking up small craft approaching the shore? Or was the boat on a routine patrol? It was not the moment to speculate. Keeping his body low, Havelock swiftly lifted the oars out of their locks, shoving both under the slatted seats so they rested on the floor of the hull. He reached toward for the mooring line, throwing it over the bow, and then slipped over the side into the ocean, breathing deeply and tensing his muscles to ward off the cold. He slid back and held on to the propeller shaft, splashing water over the outboard motor, cooling the top surface. He had traveled at very low throttle; in minutes only a sensitive hand would be able to determine whether the engine had been running—if anyone thought to check.
The searchlight suddenly blinded him; the skiff had been spotted. The faraway engine roared through the wind, joined by the wobbling wail of a siren. The patrol boat accelerated, bearing down on him. He dived under the water, swimming out, away from the island, the current propelling him. The skiff was still nearly a quarter-mile from the shoreline, too far for a swimmer to attempt comfortably in these waters; it was a fact that might weigh in his favor when the boat was found.
By the time the large patrol boat had sidep-slipped into the skiff and cut its motors, Michael was twenty yards behind its stern, breaking the surface, pulling the wet wool knit hat down over his head. The searchlight was crisscrossing the water everywhere; he went under twice, his eyes open, re-emerging when the beam had passed. It continued scanning the area, but no longer behind, only in the front and the sides. Two men with grappling hooks had the skiff in tow; the one at the bow shouted.
“Leo’s Marina, Lieutenant! Out of Savannah! Marker number GA zero-eight-two!”
“Tell base to raise Leo’s Marina in Savannah and cut us in!” yelled the officer to an unseen radio operator in the open cabin. “The number’s GA zero-eight-two! Get a reading!”
“Yes, sir!” came the reply.
“And inform base of our location. Have a security check run on sector four.”
“This thing couldn’t have gotten in there, Lieutenant,” said the man with the stern hook. “It’d be tripped by the flat nets. Everywhere there ain’t no rocks we got flat nets.”
“Then what the hell’s it doing here? Are there any clothes, any equipment? Anything?”
“Nothin’, sir!” yelled the first man, climbing down into the skiff. “Stinks of fish, that’s all.”
Havelock watched while treading and bobbing in the water. He was struck by an odd thing: the men on the patrol boat were in khaki fatigues, the officer in a field jacket. They were army, not navy. Yet the boat had a naval registration.
“Lieutenant!” The voice came from within the cabin as a face with a headset framing it appeared in the open archway. “The watchman at Leo’s said a couple of drunks had that skiff out and brought it in late. He figured they didn’t tie it up proper and it went out with the tide. He’d appreciate it if we towed it in; it’d be his ass. The boat’s shit, but the outboard’s worth money.”
“I don’t like it,” said the officer.
“Hey, come on, sir. Who’s gonna swim a half—mile in these waters? The fishermen’ve seen sharks around here.”
“Suppose it’s been in?”
“With the flat nets?” asked the man with the stern
hook. “No place else to park, Lieutenant.”
“Fuck it! Throw up the line and let’s circle around nearer the nets and rocks. This Leo owes us.”
And Havelock knew he owed a night watchman far more than the hundred dollars he had given him. The patrol boat’s engines roared as the first man climbed aboard and another tied the skiff’s mooring line to a stern cleat. In seconds the surface prowler was heading toward the shoreline, crisscrossing the waters as its powerful searchlight roamed the darkness.
Flat nets. Fields of lightweight fabric, stretched and held afloat just below the surface by buoyant cork or Styrofoam, woven together with strands of piano wire. Fish could not break the wires, but propellers could, and if they did, the alarms went off. Rocks. Stretches of the island’s coastline that were prohibitive to vessels of any size. He had to keep the patrol boat in sight; it was approaching the rocks.
Sharks. He did not care to think about them; there simply was no point.
What he had to concentrate on was reaching land. The current was almost intolerable, but by breaststroking between the waves and the undertow beneath he made slow progress, and when he could see the beams of a dozen flashlights shining through the pines, he knew he was getting closer. Time was irrelevant, its passage reflected only in the straining pain in his arms and legs, but his concentration was complete. He had to reach a net or a rock, or some other obstruction beneath him that told him he could stand.
A net came first. He worked himself to the right, hand over hand, slipping on the thick nylon cord, until he felt a huge floating Styrofoam barrel shaped like an ocean buoy. He rounded it and pulled himself in on the border of cord until his knees struck two sharp objects that told him he had reached the rocks. He held on to the net, his body battered by the incoming surf, and waited, gasping for air. The flashlight beams were receding into the pines; the security check in sector four had proven fruitless. When the last beam disappeared between the trunks, he inched his way toward the shore, holding on to the wired net with all his strength as the waves crashed over him. He had to stay away from the rocks! They loomed above him—white, jagged points of stone made razor-sharp by millennia of rushing waters. One enormous wave and he would be impaled.