by David Wind
Sanders pulled out a Photostat from the papers and offered it to Mathews. “Perhaps this is why.”
Mathews looked at the sheet, and his face tightened. “You think he was checking up on James Smirley?”
“From what I put together, it’s exactly what he was doing.” Sanders paused. “If I may say, sir, I think Kline may be justified in his thoughts.”
Mathews finished reading the report he had memorized four years earlier. He remembered Blair’s questions about the deaths of his wife and son. “To have been investigating the truck driver...Why?”
“The car he was driving had less than a thousand miles on it. A tire blew out. It happens, but not very often. The car went into a skid. A second tire blew out, causing the car to overturn. I can buy one new tire going, but two? That stretches plausibility.”
“Are you saying someone may have killed him?” Mathews asked, his eyes narrowing.
“All I’m saying is two blowouts on new tires is extremely unusual. I’m saying he died investigating you. I don’t like the coincidence between the two facts.”
Mathews held Sanders’ gaze for several seconds. When Sanders started as the head of his Secret Service team, he had watched the man carefully. Over the early weeks, Mathews had grown to respect and trust Tom Sanders. He had no reason not to continue.
“I gave Joel Blair a chess piece when he interviewed me last Sunday. Was that with his personal possessions?”
Sanders looked over another piece of paper. He shook his head. “No, sir. He had one overnight bag, a mini-cassette recorder, and four notebooks, three hundred dollars in cash, several credit cards, and these reports.”
Sanders handed Mathews the copies of the reports on himself and his family. Mathews looked at them, and back at Sanders. “He was thorough. Do you think he was murdered?”
Sanders shrugged. “I’d need a reason to think that. Investigating you isn’t a reason.”
Mathews stared at Sanders. “How can you be so sure?”
Sanders didn’t smile. “I checked, sir.”
<><><>
Chapin stood on the balcony wearing only a bathrobe. He did not feel the chill evening air; he felt only the mire that was his mind. In his bedroom, asleep, lay a woman he knew he could spend his life with. She was passionate, sensitive, and intelligent: she had come into his life at the wrong time.
Throughout the day, he’d sensed Abby waiting for him to talk about the future. He had wanted to, but had been unable. How could there be a future with her, when he had no idea if there was a future for himself?
He’d spent all of his adult life as a soldier and an espionage agent. While he knew what the world was really like, he didn’t know if the world he had been overseeing had a place in it for him.
The agents he had known who had retired had done one of two things: Either they disappeared from the world community, or like Jason Mitchell, went inside the bureaucracy. Those who had disappeared had found a place to go where they could ignore the world and live within whatever peace they could find.
Chapin shivered and went back inside. He closed the door behind him and went into the bedroom. Abby was lying in the center of the bed. When he neared the bed, she turned to him.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Nodding, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her. “I have a lot on my mind.”
“Me, I hope.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes.”
She smiled tentatively and reached up to stroke his cheek. “Kevin, a week isn’t a very long time. But it’s been long enough for me to know how I feel. I love you. I think you know that.”
Chapin caught her hand and squeezed it. “It’s funny how things work out. Yes, I think I know how you feel, because I feel the same way. I don’t know when I realized it, but I do.”
He lowered himself and took her in his arms. They kissed deeply and passionately, and as they kissed, he settled next to her.
Their passions mounted, and somehow, Chapin’s robe was gone. The soft moonlight coming in from the window seemed to set Abby’s body aglow. He traced the lines of her form with his eyes and hands and mouth until he could no longer control himself.
He entered her swiftly, and she clung tightly to him. They moved in unison, their bodies blending in a harmony rarely achieved.
Then, as he felt his desire reaching upward, she stopped him, turned them, and rose above him. Their eyes locked as she lowered herself on him. They moved slowly when they joined again, looking deeply into each other’s eyes until their desires crested, and their passions eased.
Abby resettled herself next to him, molding her body to his and resting her head on his chest. He caressed the smooth skin of her back, and realized that the moist warmth he was feeling was that of her tears pooling on his chest. He held her close for a long time, until she fell asleep again.
Sleep, for Chapin, was elusive. Through the slowly passing night, he wrestled with his thoughts and wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life by letting Abby go to France.
When the sun finally rose, and the bedroom filled with light, Chapin was still trying to understand why he was letting her go.
At ten to eight, the phone rang. He picked up the receiver without letting go of Abby. It was Ann Tanaka.
“Kevin, I’ve got all the information. I found a match on Sokova. I don’t know if it will help, but it’s there.”
“Thank you, Ann. I’ll be in around noon.”
He hung up and turned to Abby. Her eyes were open and sad. “I didn’t want it to be Monday. I thought if I slept hard enough, I would wake up, and it wouldn’t be today.”
He kissed her eyes. “As soon as I’m caught up with my work, I’m coming to Paris.”
She smiled. Her eyes roamed the contours of his face. “Don’t take too long…please.”
He reached for her, kissed her, and the phone rang again. He lifted the receiver and said hello.
“Kevin, I need to see you right away,” said Jason Mitchell, his voice tense and strained.
“What?” Chapin asked, the skin at the back of his neck tightening.
“Not on the phone. Come to my house.”
“As soon as I can.” He hung up feeling his friend was in some kind of trouble.
He looked at Abby and saw that her eyes had widened, and tears were forming. “I’m sorry Abby.”
She shook her head and tried to smile. “My plane leaves tomorrow morning. Will I see you before then?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried at it. “Maybe it’s better this way. At least, there won’t be any drawn-out goodbyes. But it hurts, Kevin. It hurts.” He drew her close and folded her in his arms. He held her until there was no more time.
Chapter Fourteen
Parking in front of Jason Mitchell’s two-story, red brick, white clapboard house, Chapin left the car, and went up the cement walkway to the front door. The lawn was still thick and green, and the bushes lining the walk neatly pruned.
He liked the aura emanating from his friend’s home. The feeling reinforced the part of his life he had been missing since he’d left home for Nam. Mitchell’s home represented something more than a simple house and much more than just a place to live in.
The screen door was closed, but the regular door was open. He knocked and waited. When there was no answer, he opened the door and went inside.
“Hello,” he shouted.
When there was still no answer, he shouted out Mitchell’s name.
“In here,” he heard Mitchell call.
Following the voice, Chapin went down the hall. At the end, he turned and entered Jason Mitchell’s den.
He found Mitchell sitting on his recliner. He had a light blanket covering him from the waist down. A floral cup rested in a white saucer on a snack table next to the chair.
Mitchell’s face was tense.
“What?” Chapin asked.
“Close the door.”
Closing the door, Chapin moved closer to Mitchell. “I’m waiting.”
“I can’t go to New York.”
Chapin’s first thought was that Mitchell had gotten a case of the jitters after being inside for so long. “Talk to me, Jason.”
“It’s not what you think,” Mitchell said, smiling bitterly as he flipped the blanket off his legs. Chapin watched the movement, and the results.
Mitchell’s left leg, from just below the knee to the ball of his foot, was in a plaster cast. Five pale toes were the only flesh visible. “What happened?”
“I broke it last night.” Mitchell shook his head. “Jesus, Kevin, I don’t know what happened. I had a couple of drinks, woke up about two, dried out as can be. I was going to the kitchen for some water. I didn’t bother to turn on the light—shit, I’ve owned this house for eighteen years.”
Mitchell paused. He snorted contemptuously. “I forgot I have a dog who likes to sleep at the head of the stairs. I ended up on the bottom. Clara took me to the hospital. I got home a half an hour before I called you. I sent her to work so we could talk.”
“The general’s going to love this,” Chapin said, wondering how they would get Merchenko now. He studied Mitchell’s eyes, looking for signs of meds. His friend’s eyes were clear.
“Kevin, we’ll lose Merchenko if we don’t get him tonight. If he has too much time to think, he won’t come over.”
“Maybe that’s better.”
“Bullshit! Don’t you want to know who the leak in Ruby One is? Don’t you want to know who fingered Davidov and yourself? I do, goddammit!”
“Easy,” Chapin said, laying a restraining hand on Mitchell’s chest. “I’m still not sure Merchenko isn’t a plant.”
“Dammit, Kevin, the only way we’ll know that is if we get him. You’ll have to take my place and go to New York.”
Chapin felt the words hit home like a bullet. “The DD said that?”
Mitchell shook his head. “He doesn’t know. Kevin, the general will send one of those new fair-haired boys. When Merchenko spots him, he’ll turn back. He’s never met you, but he knows you as well as you know him.”
“It’s risky, but not impossible.” Mitchell was right, too. If Merchenko saw someone he didn’t know, or know about, the man would never come over.
“A lot less risky than sending someone who Merchenko wouldn’t recognize. Kevin, what the hell do we have to lose?”
Chapin knew Mitchell was right. If he was wrong, and Merchenko was a true defector, then they would blow the opportunity to find the double in Ruby One. And Chapin was very much aware if he took in Merchenko, he would have an added bonus—time to talk to the man about Sokova.
“Just one problem. How do we pull it off? This isn’t a one-man operation. We’ve set you up with backups and report-in procedures.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Mitchell said. “You go to New York on my schedule and using the plans we set up Saturday night. I’ll go to Langley when it’s too late for them to do anything and explain it to the DD. The plan we set up will work regardless of who goes after Merchenko.”
“I’m on detached duty, Jason. A fact the general wasn’t hesitant to point out.”
“What choice did he have? He couldn’t assign you to go after Merchenko. But I don’t think he’d stop you once you’re on your way.”
Mitchell laughed, and then his face went tight with pain. “We both know he’d rather have you there than me. I was a good field man, once: You’re better.
“You can’t go into Langley until just before the meet with Merchenko.”
“I know. I’m supposed to call in every hour until the meet.”
Chapin nodded. In circumstances like this, the report-in procedure was designed to give the field agent any last minute updates or plan changes. “How do you cover us with the backup?”
“It’s Jack Backman. There’s no change from the way we set it up. He waits for the call. If the operation is on, and remains the same, it’s Blue Sky. If you have to change it, it’s Red Sea followed by the information. Backman will follow you to the safe house in Pennsylvania.”
“He knows the location?”
“He’s used it before—same situation.”
“Okay,” Chapin said as he began to pace. “You’ll have to call from here, every hour. At ten-forty-five, you arrive at Langley and tell them about the change. If you get there any earlier, they’ll call it off.”
Mitchell nodded. Then he shook his head. “No, not from here. My daughter will be back from school at two, and Clara will be home by four. I don’t want a houseful of people around. I told Clara I might not be here when she gets back. She wasn’t happy about it, but she understands my job, no matter what condition I’m in. We’ll leave now. Take both cars. We’ll go to a motel. I’ll call from there. It’s safer.”
Chapin thought about it. Mitchell was right. You keep business and family separate. It was the only way to survive when you had a family. “Let’s go, then.”
Mitchell stood. He grimaced and waved away Chapin’s extended hand. Chapin followed him as he walked slowly toward the front door.
Chapin walked with him to The Company car parked in the driveway. Once Mitchell was settled behind the wheel, Chapin asked, “What motel?”
“There’s a Holiday Inn between here and Langley. That should do.”
“You sure you can drive?”
“I don’t drive with my left leg. Let’s go, Kevin.”
He went to his car, started it, and watched Mitchell back out of the driveway. He had a sudden thought, painful. He was about to do what he’d done a week before. Only this time he was doing it in America, not Russia.
<><><><>
Chapin was uneasy as the plane backed away from the gate. He had decided against the five-hour drive to New York. He’d left Mitchell at the Holiday Inn, and had gone back to his apartment. There, he’d changed into a suit and packed his CIA issued Go bag.
Built into the bag’s bottom was a special alloy case, coated with an x-ray reflective material, which gave off a flat image.
Designed to hold the weapon, he’d dissembled his nine-millimeter Browning and put it into the recesses in the bottom of the case. He’d placed the loaded clip in its spot.
After closing the bag, he’d walked through the apartment, checking the windows and the thermostat. Although he’d planned to return tomorrow, twenty years of habit was hard to break. Whenever he left on a mission, he followed the same procedure. He never knew when he would be back, and he didn’t like to leave anything to chance.
When he finally finished, he’d locked the apartment and went down to Abby’s floor. He’d rung the bell and waited. There was no answer. He would call her in Paris, when he knew what his future would be.
Then, rather than take a flight from National or Dulles, and risk a chance of someone spotting him, he’d driven to the Baltimore airport, and bought his ticket.
Chapin set aside his thoughts of Abby as the plane raced down the runway. The eighty-minute flight from Baltimore to Newark would give him a chance to think, and that was exactly what he needed to do.
There were too many pieces to the puzzle, and he wasn’t sure if the pieces were from one puzzle or two: Joel Blair’s death while investigating Robert Mathews was part of the puzzle; Mathews’ family was another part of the puzzle; and, Sokova’s plan was at the very core, as was the upcoming election, a week from this Tuesday.
Chapin’s thoughts twisted and churned, and by the time the plane landed in New Jersey, he was no closer to putting the puzzle together than he had been when he’d boarded the plane.
Once on the ground, Chapin rented a nondescript Chevrolet and drove to Manhattan. When he reached the Upper East Side, and found a rare parking spot on East End Avenue between Eighty-fifth and Eighty-sixth streets, it was seven o’clock.
Shutting off the ignition, he walked to York Avenue, and went into a deli. He ordered a roast beef on rye and a large coffee. He brought hi
s dinner back to the car, where he ate and watched the meet area.
By ten o’clock, the streets were almost empty. The people who had been taking their nighttime walks along the promenade and through Carl Schurz Park had gone home. A few late dog walkers randomly went about their business. One man, not seeing Chapin, let his dog make on the street, and then pretended to scoop it up as he looked about for any witnesses.
Chapin shook his head at the pettiness of the act and waited for the man to turn the corner. When the street was empty again, Chapin opened the door and got out.
His stomach tightened, and a shot of adrenaline went into his blood. He pictured Merchenko as he had been in the last photograph Chapin had seen. The man had a round face, small dark eyes, and widespread ears. His hair was of medium length, and his chin had a scar that ran from beneath his lip to the base of his throat.
Merchenko’s dossier noted the scar was a souvenir from an MI-5 operative whom Merchenko had taken out ten years before, in East Berlin.
Merchenko was a tough man, and his defection still bothered Chapin. The job,” he whispered to himself.
He turned and went to the phone booth on the corner and called Jack Backman. He gave him the Blue Sky signal and hung up abruptly.
He crossed the street. The meeting was set for eleven, on the southern end of the park’s promenade. After crossing the street, Chapin walked slowly in the opposite direction, along East End Avenue until he reached the upper entrance to the park. He passed the guardhouse of the mayor’s residence, taking note the policeman on duty was reading a paperback.
Entering the park, He followed one of the cement paths. The temperature was edging into the low fifties. He was comfortable in his suit jacket. He felt the secure weight of the Browning on his left side.
Walking slowly through the park, Chapin let his inner senses, more than his eyes tell him if anything was wrong. He sensed nothing.
He crisscrossed the park twice, taking a half hour to do it. Then he went to the promenade. Going over to the metal and cement balustrade, he leaned against the railing and looked both down river and up.