Chester D. Campbell
Beware the Jabberwock
Chapter 1
Few lights glowed in the long dining room, giving it a subdued look similar to that on the face of the sullen restaurateur who stood beside the elegant table. Dark shadows reflected in the large, gilt-framed mirrors that lined one wall. Shattering the austere silence, a chilling rain raked the peaked roof with a blustery tirade. All in all, it struck Otto Bergen as anything but a promising afternoon.
Two imposing young men with chiseled looks watched him through dispassionate eyes, like medical students in a surgical theatre. Otto fussed about the table with nervous movements, unhappy at the tension and at being unable to do what he did best, prepare exotic dishes. In his starched white chef's hat, the plump little man resembled an Austrian version of the Pillsbury Doughboy. He brought in a large bowl of fluffy white whipped cream and a tall container of hot coffee, which he placed on a grid above a stubby candle. Its flame swayed with the sensuous rhythm of a belly dancer.
Though Bergen Haus closed on Sundays, it was not unusual to find Otto playing host on the Sabbath to arms traders seeking a comfortable but secluded spot for their negotiations. They always took advantage of the fashionable restaurant's famed cuisine. For the Israelis, the continental fare was kosher. For the Russians, vodka flowed freely. And for the Arabs, kharouf, a whole sheep on a bed of rice, provided the striking centerpiece.
Today's fare hardly resembled such sumptuous dining. Otto had no idea who these people were, only that Herr Mauser, the more slender of the two "businessmen," the one who had made the reservation, left strict instructions that today's guests wanted only coffee. Furthermore, they demanded that no one, not a soul, neither man, woman nor child, should be around when the meeting began.
"After you put the coffee out, I want you to get the hell into your office and stay there," he had ordered in a voice that threatened unspeakable consequences if disobeyed. "When we're finished, I'll knock on your door and give you the fee in cash. Understood?"
Otto had nodded with uncommon vigor, eager to get this ordeal behind him. From the unfamiliar accent of Mauser's German, he had taken the man for a resident of the former communist half of Germany. It was an area he had avoided with a passion. Much to his relief, the size of the fee more than compensated for the verbal abuse.
Mauser, a man in his early thirties with sandy hair cut military style and a disposition as changeable as a chameleon’s hue, watched the squat Austrian scurry off like a frightened rat heading for his lair. Although certain he had put enough fear in the man to quell any latent curiosity, he would keep an eye on the approach to the dining room just in case. He turned to his companion and spoke in English. His name, in fact, was Brown, not Mauser. He hailed from the cornfields of the Midwest, not the coalfields of East Germany. His language tutor had been a native of Leipzig.
“It looks like we've both got the same thing in mind,” he said. “Shall I go first?"
"As you wish," said the stocky man with a nod. His heavy coat, fashioned for the bitter winters of Moscow, made him resemble a not-so-cuddly bear. "I shall wait in the hallway."
Though his English grammar was almost flawless, his heavy accent might have been encountered in a Russian neighborhood of Brooklyn.
The American opened what appeared to be an expensive leather attaché case. In reality, it was a marvel of electronic gadgetry. He flipped the power switch and observed the dials and winking lights. As a student of the political mind rather than the intricacies of modern technology, he had only a vague notion of how the miniaturized components worked. He understood that it would detect a nearby recording machine even if the recorder were turned off, and it could pinpoint the tiniest "bugs" in existence. What he knew for certain was the organizers of this clandestine encounter intended its security to be absolute. When he was satisfied the dials showed no electronic intruders in the vicinity, he walked back into the corridor.
"All yours," he said with a nod.
The stocky Russian repeated the procedure with his own detection device, then agreed the room was clean. Together they returned to their cars, parked in the afternoon gloom beneath a canopy at the rear of the restaurant, safely out of the menacing downpour. They advised the two principals that their meeting place was ready.
A tall figure with an athletic build reached the table first. His dark hair showed not so much as a fleck of gray, though he was pushing sixty. The bland face might easily be lost in a crowd, except for the eyes, deep-set and furtive, with heavy brows. Those eyes had seen their share of the seamy machinations that took place in the invisible backwaters of international diplomacy. He stood to one side of the table and watched with suspicion as the other man entered. Though not uncommon for a veteran of the intelligence wars, his skepticism felt right on target today, considering the circumstances. He could virtually recite the other's dossier from memory, a fact that made this junket one of the most intriguing episodes of his shadowy career.
The new arrival strode quickly to the table, smiling as though at some private joke. He was a bit shorter and heavier but moved with the precision of a military background. Somewhat older, also, he had frosty white hair.
"So, at last I have the privilege of meeting the famous Foxhunter." He spoke in a casual voice, his English broadened with an accent cultivated during preparation for his undergraduate years at Cambridge. He had attended the prestigious English university just after the Great Patriotic War, as the Russians liked to call World War II, through a carefully borrowed identity.
The Russian flashed a disarming smile. "Shall I call you by your codename?"
"Whatever you wish, General." The American had a dry, businesslike voice, as chill and crisp as an October morning in the heart of Vermont maple country. That was where he had grown up. Though he hadn't lived there in years, he had lost none of his laconic New England temperament.
"Have a seat," said the General. "It appears we have Kaffee mit Schlag. I rather fancy these Austrian sweets. Sacher torte is another weakness. You might know I can't find this sort of thing at home."
They both sat. The General poured. He was a much more outgoing type than his taciturn companion. However, both men fidgeted like schoolboys on their first date, one suspicious of the other's motives, the other uncertain how his proposition might be taken. There had been no formal greeting, no handshake. It was obviously a marriage of convenience.
There were protocols available and channels to follow when men like these found it necessary to come face-to-face. It was much simpler now, in contrast to Cold War times when tedious bargaining and elaborate arrangements had preceded such affairs as prisoner exchanges. But in this instance, all normal procedures had been flung to the winds. They were invisible men at a nonexistent encounter. Only a handful of associates — those directly involved in making the surreptitious contacts and setting up the rendezvous — had even the barest inkling that anything was taking place.
For the record, both participants were in their respective hotels, resting up from lengthy and tiring flights. The hotel operators had strict instructions not to disturb them until they called for their messages.
The American had spent too many years attaching the prefix "enemy" to any discussion of the General and his cohorts. In the flesh, the old Russian sounded more like a British diplomat than one of the sputtering Soviet Union's top secret policeman, but the Foxhunter had difficulty thinking of him in any other terms.