Chapter 15: Tampa Tramp Trap

“Boston Corbitt was the man who killed John Wilkes Booth,” I told Billie as we waited in a borrowed sports coupe. I wore clothing resembling the soda jerk calling himself Roger Lee—and a dozen other names. “The name Alex Hidell is a familiar alias, used by ONI operatives. That Roger Lee was quite the Who’s Who. Now we have his Boston Corbitt apartment keys. I wish we had a third person.”

“It can’t be that simple,” Billie said. “Just walk in, search the apartment, walk back out.”

“If I expected trouble, I wouldn’t go there.” Roger Lee’s house was isolated, an excellent safe house. We didn’t see any vehicles on the road, either parked or moving.

“You gave me a second gun,” Billie said. “I’m dressed like a tart. We’re going to look for what, exactly?”

“All documents. Spy gear. Mail. Whatever we can get. Ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to be, Jackie.”

We parked in Roger Lee’s carport and walked in through the kitchen door. Flesh-colored thin leather gloves would leave no identifiable fingerprints. We stepped inside, turned on the kitchen lights, and began searching the two-bedroom bungalow. There was almost too much stuff. I filled a brown paper grocery bag. In a closet were several rifles leaning against the wall. We searched in silence, but I noticed the caliber and serial numbers of the rifles. Dare I take one? There were maps in several cities, marked up. Lists of contacts. It was almost too good to be true.

“OPEN UP!” an amplified voice said. “THIS S THE FBI!”

All the windows lit up. How did I miss this trap? The front and kitchen doors were kicked in and men in suits flooded the rooms. Billie looked to me and I raised my hands. In seconds, we were handcuffed and patted down. They took Roger Lee’s switchblade, his sap, and my Ruger off me—but overlooked the flat little Mauser in the small of my back and two other knives. We had official ID that the agents took.

“You aren’t Boston Corbitt,” one of the agents said. “Who are you?”

“My badge is in my shirt pocket,” I said. “Buster Majors, Army Intel. We were following up on a Cuban spy.”

I gave the man an identity phrase that was supposed to be a get out of jail free card. It didn’t work. Billie was going by the name of Agent Wendy Bridges and had Army Intel credentials, too.

“You’re both coming to headquarters with me.” None of the agents bothered to identify themselves, didn’t even acknowledge the recognition phrase. In Europe that would have been sufficient cause to kill my way free at the first opportunity. Billie also retained her Colt Cobra. At that moment the phone rang and was snatched up by the agent who had announced that we two were going to headquarters with him. “Hello! Who is this? Hello?”

“El Tee,’ I warned Billie, “we need to get on the floor and pray.”

“What’s going on?” one of the agents demanded as Billie and I sank to the floor.

“Some bastard on the telephone said that we had ninety seconds.”

“Ninety seconds for what?”

“What are you two doing?”

“Taking cover,” I answered. It was about to become the worst shootout in FBI history, making the Little Bohemian disaster look successful. “You don’t think that the Army would send us in without cover, do you?”

For the FBI a Browning Automatic Rifle or a Thompson was a machine gun. For me, machine guns were belt-fed and crew-served, mounted on vehicles or a tripod. I wondered if a bazooka or two was aimed in our direction. Or I could have had an over-active imagination.

“Boss, there’s a goddam tank out here!” a voice shrill with tension announced.

A loudspeaker announced “THUNDER.”

“The countersign is ‘ball,’ Have someone –”

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

The phone began ringing.

“I SAY AGAIN—THUNDER!”

One agent snatched up the phone and shouted “BALL!” into the mouthpiece.

“PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN,” the loudspeaker blared. “BRING LIEUTENANT BRIDGES AND SERGEANT MAJORS OUT THE FRONT DOOR!”

Minutes later, Billie and I were seated in an Army ambulance. Someone brought a sack with our property in it. The handcuffs had been removed before we were sent out front. Now we were under guard in the back of an ambulance with two grim-faced soldiers armed with silencer equipped M3 submachine guns. Somehow, they had missed the extra pistols we hid. The ambulance started and bounced down the street. Minutes later we were at the garage where we had left Roger Lee or whatever his name was.

“Sir,” I inquired, “what went wrong?”

“Not a damned thing, Jackie,” Major Blake was pleased with himself. “It worked out perfectly. You restrained yourselves, we moved as soon as the G-men stormed the house. We had been in position before I phoned in a tip. That’s why you were delayed. We had to give the FBI time to scramble every available agent. This gives you a window. Mister Oxblood will brief you on your next mission. Coffee?”

“You two could be my own daughters,” Mister Oxblood was the large man who spoke to Billie. I don’t know how we managed to survive that botched encounter. “Anyway, we’re going to pull a dawn raid on another compound in Tampa. You two are going to rescue someone. Study these photos. She is one of our agents. Get her out of there. Don’t break anybody you don’t have to.”

Her name was Angie. I drove up, a borrowed “grease gun” with silencer in my lap. The gun was cocked with the ejection port cover closed and the magazine removed. As soon as I stopped, Billie dismounted and walked up to Angie’s apartment. I shoved a magazine in the M3 and kept watch, panel truck in gear, engine running. Billie returned with a gray-haired woman and a suitcase. They boarded through the back door, and I drove off when the door closed. Minutes later, we were on a secret military installation. One of the gate guards verified my identity and I was directed to an aircraft hangar.