“Oh, nothing really.”
Michael started the engine and pulled out into the evening traffic. At the end of a long day, his mind tended to kick into overdrive. It was time to relax a little.
He looked over at Jessica. She was sitting with her head back and her eyes closed. If she were anyone else he was working with on a case, he’d ask her to dinner so they could both unwind. The idea held a lot more appeal than spending an evening in his room or taking in the sights of Bourbon Street alone. But making that kind of overture would just put a further strain on their already tense relationship. Besides, she probably wouldn’t accept anyway.
“Shall I drop you back at Aubrey’s apartment?” he asked.
Her eyes snapped open and she cast him a sideways glance. “That would be fine.” Actually, going home alone to the empty apartment wasn’t a prospect she anticipated with great excitement. For a fleeting moment she considered asking Michael to come up for dinner. But that probably wasn’t really a very good idea, particularly in light of her declaration in the hallway at the police station.
“Are you going to keep me informed on your progress?” she asked.
“I should hear something tomorrow on the stuff I sent off. I’ll probably be over at the university during the day, checking their files and asking some more questions. What if I give you a call around six?”
At least they seemed to have made some improvement in their working relationship. “Couldn’t I go to the university with you?”
He shook his head. “No. You’ve already approached them. I don’t want them to think this necessarily has anything to do with Aubrey.”
“I guess you’re right. But you will call me—for sure.”
“I will.”
They pulled up in front of her apartment.
For a moment she remained unmoving in her seat. Then she reached for the door handle. Before she could pull it up, he took her hand, his fingers warm and firm over hers.
“Jessica, you know Simone is right about this thing being dangerous. I want you to promise me you won’t go poking around in it anymore without clearing your moves with me.”
She took in the concerned look on his face. “All right, I promise. But it’s going to be hard to wait around all day twiddling my thumbs.”
* * *
C
ONSTANCE
M
C
G
UIRE
glanced at her watch. It was 0800 hours, Eastern Standard Time. Jed Prentiss was already two hours late checking in after a very dangerous assignment, and she’d never known him to miss a deadline.
Outside, a steady rain fell from the overcast sky, making the usually cheery atmosphere of the solarium oppressive. Even the parrots seemed glum. Perhaps they’d caught the general mood of the morning.
Behind her, Amherst Gordon was pacing slowly back and forth, his cane tapping against the flagstones. Connie had to clamp her lips together to keep from issuing a sharp cease-and-desist order.
Last night Michael Rome had supplied the Peregrine Connection with another link in a chain of suppositions that tied a street drug called Dove to a very sinister destabilizing situation in the Caribbean. The Falcon still didn’t know how everything fit together, but he’d immediately checked Gilbert Xavier’s grant proposal with the National Institutes of Health. The chemist had been working on a psychoactive drug derived from swamp plants, which he hoped would benefit certain psychotic patients. Could that research have been the genesis of Dove?
The Falcon’s brow wrinkled. Xavier had disappeared about nine months before Dove hit the streets. Aubrey Ballin had worked for him at Chartres University, and his sister thought someone had helped him OD on Dove to get him out of the way. Too bad Ballin was in no shape for a coherent conversation.
The Falcon shook his head. This whole business was certainly a tangled skein. While he waited for the secure phone to ring, the lines of an obscure Wordsworth poem had been running through his head. He couldn’t quite remember the whole thing, but it had to do with plucking a flower from a crannied wall and marveling at how deep the roots went. Michael Rome down in New Orleans had figuratively plucked the flower, and it looked like the roots went all the way back to the Blackstone Clinic on Royale Verde.
The Falcon sighed and turned toward his assistant, realizing that he’d made a decision. “I’d like you to initiate ’missing relative’ procedures with the American Consulate on Royale Verde.”
“Then you think something’s happened to Jed?”
“I don’t believe he’d miss a check-in to go sunbathing on the beach.”
“Pour yourself a cup of tea, and I’ll take care of it.”
Gordon pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. There was nothing he could do now but wait.
An hour and a half later Connie confirmed the bad news.
“A man answering Jed’s description rented a boat last night at a marina several miles from town. It hasn’t been brought back and the owner’s turned in a police report. The motorbike he rented is also missing. To make matters even more interesting, someone from the Blackstone Clinic paid Jed’s bill and cleared his belongings out of his hotel room.”
Gordon swore. “Jed wouldn’t pull a disappearing act without letting us know. He’s definitely in trouble. You’d better find out who the CIA has down there.”
“You’re going to bring them in on this?” The Falcon’s assistant knew he used that agency’s network only as a last resort.
“Since time is of the essence, I’m afraid I have no choice.”
After consulting the appropriate computer data base, Connie turned back to her employer. “They have an undercover operative who’s an out-island tour guide on Jamaica. His name is George Holcroft.”
“Nothing closer than Jamaica? What kind of show are they running down there, anyway?”
“You remember Congress cut their funding for covert operations.”
The Falcon grunted. “All right, Holcroft will have to do. Patch me into the satellite link.”
Ten minutes later the circuit was in place.
George Holcroft had been making final arrangements to take a group of oil company executives on a deep-sea fishing expedition when the secure phone rang. He swore. When the agency called, he had to drop everything else. Fishing was probably off the schedule for the day. “Yes?” he asked settling his short, compact frame back into his desk chair.
“This is XP 251.” Gordon could hear the man on the other end of the line mentally snap to attention.
Holcroft checked the circuit authentication monitor—it really was XP 251! He’d been with the CIA for twelve years and he’d never received a call from that super-secret installation. You had to have fifteen limited-access clearances, which he didn’t possess, to even know where it was. But he did know that when you received an order from XP 251, it was to be carried out expeditiously. “What are your instructions, sir?” he questioned.
“We have a possible flap on Royale Verde. It looks as if one of our special operatives, a man named Jed Prentiss, is in serious trouble. He hasn’t reported back from a recon mission to the Blackstone Clinic. This morning one of the staff paid his hotel bill and claimed his belongings.”
“Blackstone. The place is about as secure as Fort Knox. It’s a licensed mental hospital run by Dr. Jackson Talifero. Under local law, he can hold anybody he wants for observation indefinitely.”
“And he’s operating pretty openly on this. The man must be damned sure of himself.” Gordon’s brow wrinkled. There was no use sending Holcroft into the same trap that had snared Jed. “Do you have any reliable sources of information at Blackstone?”
“I had one man. He hasn’t had much to say lately. But news does travel around the island.”
“Mmm. Well, it’s urgent that I find out what happened to Prentiss. I want a report from you by twenty-one hundred hours.”
The agent glanced at the wall clock. That wasn’t a hell of a lot of time, considering it took over an hour to get over to Royale Verde by boat.
“I’ll get right on it, sir.” After he signed off, Holcroft finished buttoning his print shirt, pushed a hat over his short curly hair, and headed for the marina.
* * *
F
ELIKS
G
ORLOV PUT DOWN
his Havana cigar and took an appreciative sip of Madeira. Leaning back in the luxurious velvet wing chair, he looked around in approval at the expensive works of art casually displayed on the walls of Jackson Talifero’s living room. Despite the austerity of the Soviet way of life, Gorlov was a man who enjoyed comfort and opulence. The Blackstone Clinic had both of those in abundance. After his initial visit to the clinic, Talifero had invited him to move out here from Queenstown and he’d accepted. Of course, some people might not like being confined to the grounds of a mental hospital—no matter how plush. But even that had its advantages, the Soviet KGB agent had discovered, when the director of the clinic was as resourceful and progressive as Jackson Talifero in providing personal services to honored guests.
Gorlov took another sip of the strong, white drink. Naturally, all of his assignments weren’t quite this pleasant. His last diplomatic posting to Madrid had almost cost him a one-way trip to Siberia. He’d been caught dabbling in some private drug deals. But he’d managed to turn the discovery to his advantage by claiming he had intended to remit the bulk of the proceeds to the state all along. The ploy had worked better than he’d dared to hope, possibly because the top boys in the department had been busy with more pressing matters. One of his colleagues in Madrid, a major in the KGB named Aleksei Rozonov, had defected, and a lot of effort had gone into minimizing the damage.
Gorlov himself had laid low and ended up with only a minor reprimand for exceeding his authority and also with quite a bit of secret respect for his resourcefulness. He’d also attained the status of a bona fide KGB drug expert—which was why he had been selected for this particular mission.
He’d spent several days going over Talifero’s reports on a new drug called V-22, street name Dove. It had remarkable properties and a huge potential for illegal profit. What’s more, Talifero had no qualms about turning the destructive force of the drug on his fellow Americans. It would wreak havoc in every U.S. city where it was distributed. That was just the sort of double punch that Moscow liked to throw.
* * *
B
LACKSTONE’S DIRECTOR
entered the room and Gorlov glanced up.
“Sorry I had to leave you for a few minutes,” Talifero apologized. “I needed to look in on a new patient who’s recovering from a cerebral accident. He’s extremely disoriented and the staff wanted some guidance on appropriate medication.” He had no intention of explaining that his men had caught a suspected American agent sneaking on to the grounds.
“Oh, that’s quite all right. I was enjoying your art collection.” And your wine and cigars.
The doctor smiled expansively. Out of the corner of his eye he took in Gorlov’s carefully slicked-down hair, expensive dinner jacket, and black patent leather shoes. With difficulty, he repressed a guffaw. The Russian looked as if he’d stepped out of a 1930s gangster movie. But he needed to play the congenial host with this man and, in fact, handling Gorlov wasn’t all that difficult. You simply had to play to his vanity and his singular tastes.
But the Russian was part of a much larger problem that was threatening to get out of hand. What if he couldn’t fulfill his bargain with the Kremlin after all? That would mean the end of his political aspirations and maybe even his life. Very few double-crossed Moscow and lived to tell about it.
“I’m sorry your chemist has been so busy. I’m really anxious to meet him,” Gorlov remarked.
Talifero chuckled and shook his head as if they were discussing a very intelligent but recalcitrant child. “You know how these dedicated researchers are. He’s just about to make a critical breakthrough on his latest project, and he won’t be interrupted. But I think I can get him to give us some time in a few days.” Crossing to the sideboard, he picked up a crystal decanter and poured himself a generous glass of island rum. “And when do you expect my shipment of merchandise?” he inquired, changing the subject.
“It’s already arrived in Cuba. I can guarantee delivery here a week after we have your first payment.”
“That should be very shortly. You understand it takes a little bit of time to get that much capital together.” Privately he was wondering if he could use his paintings as collateral on a loan—at least until the pipeline to New Orleans was operative again.
Until Gorlov had shown up unannounced, he’d counted on more time to get Xavier back and the drug production going again. And he’d thought the dozen people combing New Orleans would have been able to unearth the little twerp by this time. Now he had to rely on that bitch Moonshadow. He didn’t dare think about what would happen if the woman couldn’t accomplish that vital task for him.
After taking a stiff swallow of the rum, he turned back to his guest. “But let’s not talk about business any more this evening. I’m sure you’re tired of reading status reports on V-22. I’ve arranged a demonstration that will give you some ’hands-on’ experience of what the drug can do.”
Gorlov’s eyes lit up. Ever since he’d first read about Dove and Jackson Talifero, he’d been looking forward to just such an opportunity. He knew quite a bit about the effects of various psychoactive substances. As part of the training for his higher-level job, he’d spent a month on the staff of a secret facility where dissidents “volunteered” for drug experiments. The doctors there were a bunch of typical Soviet prudes. They didn’t care whether they destroyed people’s minds, but they observed all the proprieties while it was happening. He knew from his dossier on his host that Talifero didn’t have any such proletarian qualms.
“As you’ve undoubtedly read, on certain types of psychotics V-22 has a very rationalizing effect. But on other individuals it sweeps away inhibitions while stimulating strong sexual cravings.”
“Yes. I’d be very interested in seeing that.”
“Well, I was about to administer the drug to one of our females. There are two possible candidates—both quite attractive, by the way. Perhaps you’d help me decide which one should receive our special attention tonight.”