COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  “Retina pattern,” Chapin stated, knowing better.

  “If they have one on record, and if it hasn’t been switched. You were the one who mentioned that to me,” she reminded him.

  He stared at her, accepting the fact that Sokova had already switched the personal records that would contain any possible retina identification.

  “So how do we stop the assassination?” Ben-Moshe asked for the third time since he and Chapin returned from the Mossad meeting.

  Brannigan poured fresh coffee. “There has to be a way. Maybe by getting the president to change the location of his speech.” She hesitated a moment. Her eyes went from Ben-Moshe to Chapin. “Why is he speaking in so open a place?”

  Chapin smiled. “It’s the final move of Sokova’s convention. He has put the king into the check position and is about to mate him. I’m sure the location of the speech was worked out with Mathews as well. He probably suggested to Etheridge that he make the formal meeting with Japan’s new prime minister a highly publicized event.”

  Eli Ben-Moshe nodded sharply. “He would not have done it himself. Most likely he put the idea into a subordinate’s mind, and when it was brought up, Mathews pushed hard for the outdoor location.”

  Brannigan’s brows furrowed. “Even so, how do we stop it?”

  Moving his chair from the table and standing, Ben-Moshe responded with “That is what we have to determine. For now, I must go home. I will see you both later.”

  When he was gone, Brannigan brought Chapin another cup of coffee. After handing it to him, she turned and leaned against the railing next to him. “All right, now please tell me what’s going on.”

  He looked into her eyes, and saw his face reflected back at him. He took a sip of coffee and turned to the blue waters. “As Eli said, the Israeli agent who was inside the Kremlin was killed yesterday, after sending out the report.

  “It is the Mossad’s opinion that the KGB does not know he sent the report, since it was sent two days ago. Therefore, Sokova will not know his assassination date has been compromised.”

  “Which means?” Brannigan pushed.

  “That we have one very small advantage. But it will be hard, if not impossible, to stop him.”

  “Any real ideas?”

  He smiled and looked at her. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Not yet. Not until I’ve worked it all the way through in my head. If I think it’s viable, then we’ll talk it out.”

  “Okay,” she said, with a simple understanding of what he needed. “When do we go home?”

  “Next week.”

  <><><>

  Sokova leaned back in his chair. The night was clear, as clear as his mind. Steam coiled lazily from the surface of the teacup near his left hand.

  He was tired, but refused to give into the physical demands of his body. He had worked too hard to rest now. In two weeks he would have all the time in the world to rest. In two weeks, the culmination of his plan would come to fruition.

  Then, without the citizens of America knowing what was happening, the country would change. The change would be slow, so slow that it would lull even the most suspicious of minds, until it was too late.

  At that point, his real name would become part of history. He would be a hero; a name remembered forever as the person responsible for uniting the world, and placing it under the rule of the only form of government insuring there would be no more wars and no more strife.

  Sokova stood and came from behind the desk. He went to the window and looked down at Washington, as he was so fond of doing. He smiled benevolently, watching the headlights of the cars streaking along the blacktop streets.

  The phone rang. He recognized the ring of his special phone. He walked to the desk, and pressed the speakerphone button. “Yes?”

  “I am leaving for Costa Rica tomorrow. I am to present a formal proposal to the O. A. S. I will go directly to Los Angeles when I return to the States.”

  “Good. It is better you be away before,” Sokova said thoughtfully.

  “I believed so as well. Will you be in California with me?”

  “No, Robert, I must remain behind. It is best that way.”

  “I understand,” Robert Mathews said.

  “But I will see you afterward, for the oath of office. How is everything else? There are no problems we have not foreseen?”

  “None. Everything is under control. I look forward to my return.”

  “As do I,” Sokova agreed before saying goodbye and hanging up.

  He stared at the phone for several minutes afterward, thinking about the early years, and of how he had planned, almost spontaneously, the entire convention. From the moment he’d learned about the birth of twins, he had sent word to have the infant removed from the Madman, who had taken him.

  From the very beginning, they spoke only English around the infant, calling him Robert, even then. He was destined to become Sokova’s greatest asset.

  As a child, allowed to grow naturally, raised by a Midwestern American couple—loyal party people who had chosen to leave America and come to the Soviet Union.

  It had taken the first few years of the young boy’s life for Sokova to plan out the entire convention, to insure the twins were indeed identical, and to chart its results. When he was certain of success, he’d gone to his mentor, and had offered his completed plan.

  It had been only a formality, naturally, and when he received the expected approval, he had ordered construction begun in the Pamir Mountains.

  Three years of work had followed before the child moved into the installation. To guarantee secrecy, they only used workers from the surrounding area. To keep the secrecy contained, they permitted no one to leave—those who did, were never seen again.

  The secret of the installation remained intact for thirty-six years. Its discovery by Chapin had come too late to prevent Sokova’s original plan from reaching its expected conclusion.

  In fact, Sokova thought, Chapin’s death in Wyoming, had moved him closer to the completion of the plan.

  “Two weeks,” he said aloud, to the capital of the United States.

  <><><>

  Eli Ben-Moshe, Leslie Brannigan, Duvid Lumel, and Chapin had been sitting in the living room of the safe house for almost an hour.

  Chapin had listened patiently to the different the plans the Israelis proposed, and rejected each of them unequivocally. The last plan was to bring Chapin to America and to Langley, under Mossad protection. Chapin and the Mossad would force the director to see and hear all the proof Chapin and the Mossad could produce.

  “No,” Chapin reiterated. “Sokova would learn of it. He has his people everywhere. Whatever we do must be done without The Company’s knowledge.”

  Lumel shook his head. “Impossible.”

  Chapin fixed Lumel with a penetrating stare. “Nothing is impossible. Look at what Sokova has done.”

  Eli Ben-Moshe leaned forward. “Duvid, let him speak. Kevin.” Ben-Moshe turned from Lumel to Chapin. “What do you suggest.”

  He kept his voice low and thoughtful. “I believe with the help of two or three good agents, we can stop the assassination. If we do that, and show that the assassin is a Soviet agent, we will be able to expose Sokova and the Soviet raised Robert Mathews.”

  “There are a lot of variables in your idea,” Duvid Lumel said.

  Chapin didn’t look at Lumel; he looked at Leslie Brannigan, who held his gaze steadily and gave him silent encouragement. “Yes, there are a lot of ifs.”

  “These agents you need,” Eli Ben-Moshe asked, “where will they come from?”

  Chapin allowed himself a fleeting smile. “The Mossad.”

  “No!” Lumel snapped quickly. “Chapin, if something goes wrong, and you are found out, it would be a political disaster to have Mossad agents discovered to be in collusion with you.”

  “I understand, of course. But what would be better: to risk much in order to save everything; or to lose America because of that risk?
”

  “You are all forgetting something,” Leslie Brannigan said, speaking for the first time. “Israel has no choice in this. You must do whatever is necessary to prevent the assassination, no matter what the eventual cost might be, politically, and you know that.”

  “Do we?” Lumel asked.

  Brannigan glanced at Chapin, who gave her an imperceptible nod. She stared back at Lumel. “Yes, you do, because if America falls under their domination, the State of Israel will cease to exist.”

  A heavy silence hung over the group after Brannigan stopped speaking. Chapin leaned back, watching the interplay of expressions between Lumel and Eli Ben-Moshe.

  Finally, Duvid Lumel shifted and said, “How do you propose we stop the assassin?”

  Chapin didn’t smile with victory; he bent forward eagerly. “We go to Los Angeles. We scout the area, and we find the places where an assassin would spot himself. And then we wait until we can take him out. We keep him alive, at all costs, so that we have absolute proof of the Sokova plan.”

  “How many agents will you need?”

  “Whatever it takes. Four might be enough.”

  Ben-Moshe nodded. “We’ll have to get permission, but I think that will be the easiest part. Stopping the assassin will be harder, and keeping him alive will be the hardest part.”

  “It has to be done. There is no alternative,” Chapin said. “So far,” Ben-Moshe corrected. “Only time will tell us if another alternative presents itself. When do you want to go to the States?”

  “I want to be in Los Angeles a week before the speech.”

  “That part will be the simplest. But I don’t know if a week is not too long a time for you to be exposed. When we decide on the time, we’ll fly you and the team in on a diplomatic visa.”

  “Directly to L.A.?” Chapin asked, accepting the possibility he would have to conform to their timetable.

  “It would be best.”

  “I’m going as well,” Brannigan said.

  Chapin turned to her, about to tell her she should stay in Israel. But when he saw the look in her eyes, he simply smiled and said, “Of course.”

  <><><><>

  Ann Tanaka stared at the decoded message. Her hands shook, and her mind began to race. The message, intercepted by a Ruby One operative in Moscow, was five days old. It was from the Mossad, to one of their agents inside the Kremlin.

  The message told Tanaka where Chapin was and what he was doing. It also scared the hell out of her.

  The message directed the Mossad agent to find out more about an operation code named Sokova. But, there had been no reply from the agent since the arrival of the orders.

  That in itself worried Ann Tanaka. As the chief analyst for Ruby One, she knew all the patterns of the various intelligence agencies within the Soviet Union. The Mossad never contacted their agents directly, unless they considered it an extreme emergency.

  Which, Tanaka realized, meant Chapin had convinced the Mossad Sokova existed.

  She thought about the last time she had gone to General Audoban and had brought up Chapin’s innocence. His rebuke of her efforts still stung her.

  She thought about the general, about Chapin, and about Robert Mathews. Then, with the message in her hand, she left her office and went to the deputy director’s office.

  She waited in the outer office, until the DD could see her. When she entered, she went to his desk, put the message in front of him, and said, “The Israelis believe Chapin. Perhaps it’s time you did as well.”

  The general read the message and looked up at Tanaka. “It is still not enough proof.”

  “At least call the Israelis.”

  The general pushed himself back from the desk and stood. He walked to the window, and motioned Tanaka to come over to him.

  When she stood next to him, he motioned at the neatly landscaped grass and shrubs. “I love this,” he said, making an all-encompassing gesture toward the land outside the window. “Our country and what it represents.” The deputy director paused for a moment. Tanaka listened to the sound of the general’s breathing, until he finally broke the silence. “Ann, I understand what you are saying, and what you are trying to do. And it is commendable. But we have no choice in this.”

  She stepped back from him, staring with disbelief. “How can you just sit still and let Sokova win.”

  The DD didn’t look at her; rather, he continued to gaze out the window. “Because if Chapin is right, and this agent—this mole he calls Sokova—truly exists, then he is the most powerful man we have ever had to face. And, if we tried to find out who he is, he would know instantly, and would turn the tables on us, again.”

  The deputy director paused, and then looked at Ann Tanaka. “And if that is the case, rather than a scenario set up by Chapin himself for some convoluted reason of his own, we have no choice but to leave things just as they are, and let Chapin and Sokova play out their hands. And under no circumstance are you to interfere or take any part in this.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Los Angeles, California

  The hotel room was large enough for the five people to sit comfortably. A blown up aerial photograph was on the table: three points circled in red.

  Chapin stared at the large photograph of the area he and Ben-Moshe had already scouted carefully from the ground. “Those three buildings are primary sniper locations. They’re all within a thousand yards of the ceremonial site. Killable distance for either a trained sniper or a computer assisted shot. Jesus Christ, why couldn’t they talk him out of this?”

  “If they had,” Ben-Moshe said, “then we wouldn’t have a prayer of stopping it. This one,” he said suddenly, pointing to one of the three red-circled buildings.

  Chapin studied the building, looking for whatever it was Eli had seen. The building was higher than the other two, and off to the president’s left side. The line of sight to the stage was perfect for a sniper, because the bullet’s trajectory would bypass the battery of microphones set up at the speaker’s place. But one of the other two buildings to the right of the stage offered the same benefit.

  He concentrated on the photograph, thinking about the angle and the target. It took a few more seconds, but the reason for Ben-Moshe’s choice finally came. The president had a habit of turning his head to the left whenever he ended a sentence. It was a movement he had seen on every videotape they had watched during the past week. “Yes, it will be that one,” Chapin finally said.

  “The two of you,” Brannigan said, pointing first at Chapin and then at Ben-Moshe, “have been going over those photographs since they got here this afternoon. And for the last two days, you two have been walking the streets near the stage. What are you going to do?”

  Chapin shook his head. “That’s what we are trying to evaluate.”

  “No,” she said with a sharp shake of her head, “you’ve already evaluated the situation. Now it’s time to put into words what has to be done.”

  Chapin knew she was right. He had been avoiding this moment since leaving Israel and arriving in Los Angeles as a member of an Israeli diplomatic party. He looked at Ben-Moshe and the two agents the man had brought with him. Then he turned back to Brannigan.

  “It will be a two-phase operation. To begin with, we must locate and stop the sniper before he has a chance to shoot the president. The second phase of the operation is the backup protection. There has to be someone on the platform with Mathews and Etheridge—someone who can act and protect the president should the first phase fail, if we’re wrong about the location of the sniper and we miss him.”

  “Who goes on the stage and how is it accomplished?”

  Chapin smiled. “I go, maybe. I’ll have to call Tom Sanders,” Chapin said, looking at Brannigan.

  “Remember Chicago,” she warned him.

  “I do. But I also remember Wyoming. Sanders is one of the good guys, even if he doesn’t act it all the time.” Chapin went to the phone and picked it up. He looked at his watch. It was four-thirty in
Los Angeles—seven-thirty in Washington.

  “Who are you calling?” Ben-Moshe asked.

  “Tanaka,” he said, dialing. The phone rang three times in Ann Tanaka’s home before she picked it up. “Ann, it’s—”

  “I’ve been waiting,” she said before he could identify himself.

  He felt relief. She had asked him no questions. “I need a face-to-face with Tom Sanders of Secret Service, tomorrow. Ann, no matter what he says, tell him to think back to the last time he saw me, and to what I asked him and said to him.”

  “I’ve been...” she paused, and Chapin heard the hesitancy and the conflict within her voice.

  “Ann, please.”

  She exhaled loudly. “I’ll do what I can. Do you have a number for me to call you?”

  “No. I’ll call you back tomorrow morning.”

  He hung up, turned to the others, and said, “Now, we wait.”

  <><><>

  Chapin stood on the hotel balcony. The City of Angels was living up to its name. There was a special beauty here; almost alien in the way the lights twinkled from tall buildings to the smaller houses, which spread out in a sparkling panorama.

  Brannigan came up behind him and wound her arms around his midsection. The warmth of her against his back felt good.

  “It’s almost over.”

  “I know. And in two more days and with a little more luck, you’ll be free.”

  “We’ll be free,” he corrected her, turning.

  She looked up at him, and then caressed his face. Her palm skimmed over the tightly trimmed beard. She smiled at him. “You look like an Israeli.”

  He returned the smile. He had grown a beard during the months in Israel, and the dark tan he sported had been more than enough disguise to get him back into America as part of the Israeli diplomatic mission to the United States.

  “Two more days,” he repeated before he drew away from her, and then led them both inside. He noticed the late news was on.

  “What’s bothering you?” Brannigan asked.

  “The failure factor. If we miss, it’s all over. No second chances. Sokova wins, Mother Russia wins, and everyone here loses.”