The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  TWO

  We recognized as early as 1941 that defeat lay ahead; we never told the people. In preparation, we created the Niederlage section, whose task it was to work out detailed plans for overcoming the impending catastrophe. Elaborate plans were made for a quick comeback. Over 120,000 false identities were secretly prepared. They were eventually placed everywhere, in what became the world’s greatest deception.

  But there were some of us who knew that the defeat would be crushing and complete. There would be no quick comeback. So, under our guidance, a special branch of Niederlage was established and issued a top secret directive bearing the highest authority. They were to plan for total defeat.

  Defeat did not have to be the end of everything.

  Entry No. 2 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  Chicago: Dr. Edward Bridges sat hunched over his elegant desk, as the clock on his office wall swept away the final minutes of the work day. His round, stubby fingers assaulted the cellophane wrapper on one of his cheap White Owl cigars. Moments later he was well back in the deep comfort of his chair, soft clouds of smoke rising into the air above him.

  This was his time. The office door was closed. He was alone, shut off from the world around him, safe from intrusions and unhappy realities, as his mind played through pleasant fantasies full of accomplishments and rewards that he could never realize as a man. He was handsome in these dreams, strong and thin. And the women, the beautiful women…

  An ash fell from the tip of the cigar to his enormous stomach. He brushed it away, finding himself back in his surroundings. He spun his chair around to face the large magnetic organizational board behind him. It detailed the structure of the Alpha branch of SENTINEL. To the world outside of this complex, it was known as the Aztek Corporation. But it was a great deal more than that, more than anyone could have ever imagined.

  His eyes moved to the left of the organizational board, to the sliding door marked SSC-6 ADMITTANCE ONLY. Access to the room behind it was limited to personnel of that security classification or higher. Behind that door was the inner office of Dr. Edward Bridges, an inner sanctum of power, the keys to his future. Behind that door were the thick volumes that detailed every facet of SENTINEL.

  He had helped to build it, to make it what it was. For this, he had been well paid and was made the number-two man in the technical side of the project. He lived in relative comfort and style, enjoyed his work, and was one of the best in his field. It was a formula for success. Yet he was not a happy man.

  Dr. Edward Bridges was thirty-eight years old, grossly overweight, balding, and getting uglier by the minute. He was unmarried, with no prospects of that changing. He didn’t deceive himself about his chances with women. But this job was his equalizer. Through it he overcame the handicaps of his ugliness, and his loneliness didn’t matter. At his job he was superior, better than the pretty boys who had the things he lacked but not his intelligence. Yet, he was deprived of the credit and recognition due him, as the man responsible for the overwhelming success of the SENTINEL program. It was Elizabeth Ryerson who got all of the credit.

  The bitch, he thought. It would serve her right if he left. They’d all soon realize just how important he had really been to the program and how much she actually needed him. They’d see that he was the real talent behind Elizabeth Ryerson, the one who made her look good in the eyes of the big shots.

  Like everyone, Bridges was wrought with the failings that make men human. His biggest was that he constantly overestimated his own capabilities. That he was a genius in computer science was never contested, but he was no Elizabeth Ryerson. Bridges could quickly master any system and become fluent in its complex technology, but he lacked one very important factor—imagination. Like an artist who could duplicate the greatest masterpieces but never paint one of his own, Bridges had little sense of creativity. He confused his ability to understand the systems with the talent to create them. He was constantly left with the impression that he could have done the whole thing himself, if he had only thought of it first.

  Bridges chewed savagely on the cigar as he slid back into his surroundings once again. He was worked up now and needed to calm down. The nervous sensation was beginning to climb again in his gut, as the prospects of his plan filled his head. The decision had been clearly his to make. There was no moral guilt or the slightest feeling of obligation to them. It was their lack of recognition that had given him the right to make the choice. It was academic in his mind—if they didn’t appreciate his talent, somebody else would.

  He stubbed out the cigar and reached for the top sheet of his memo pad and tore it away. He stared at the name he had unconsciously scribbled across it. Carson Ross.

  Ross was a fucking scab, he thought, but he was also the man who could make the plan work. He shredded the piece of paper, dropped it into the waste basket, and looked up at the clock on his wall. It was 5:25. He had been lost in thought for over a half hour. It was time to go home.

  He rose from his chair and walked around the desk to the dark wooden coatrack. He put on his suit jacket, then labored in getting his tentlike overcoat on over his massive form. He walked to the door, opened it, then turned to look slowly around the room, as if it were for the last time.

  Not yet, he thought, and then wondered what he’d feel when he took that last look. After seven years, only a few seconds to drink it all into his memory, that final image to stay in his mind forever.

  Forever.

  Forever only happened in fairy tales. He shut the light behind him as he left the room.

  Bridges thought it sheer beauty how he had gotten his plan into motion. He had been putting SENTINEL through routine problem drills when he popped in the question asking SENTINEL to list the names of any suspected Soviet agents associated with the list of societies and organizations that he had supplied. Included in that list was the Uptown Games Club, to which he belonged. The name Carson Ross had come up.

  Bridges knew Ross by sight and was aware of the reputation that preceded him as a poor payer of his markers, as well as other gossipy tidbits, including rumors of his bisexuality. It was common knowledge that Ross lived off a fat allowance from his father, who was one of the owners of the club. He had been sent to the very best schools all across Europe, but somehow never managed to stay in any one for too long. It wasn’t known whether he ever obtained a degree or not. If he had, he never used it. Life for him was one big paid vacation, and the club had become an important part of that lifestyle. He frequented it on a regular basis, in hopes of supplementing the income from his father that never went quite far enough. That was how Bridges had snared him—at the backgammon tables.

  Most club regulars refused to play Ross because of his poor payment habits. And, although he considered himself a pretty good player, he was at his best only mediocre and usually ended up on the losing side of things. He had been known to pass bad checks on occasion, which his father made good to the members holding them. It was only the influence of the father that kept him from learning some rather difficult lessons.

  Bridges’s strategy had been simple. Beat the pants off Ross early to get the stakes up quickly, then let him win big. It was a modest investment as far as Bridges was concerned. And one thing was certain—as long as Ross considered him a good pay day, he’d have as much of Ross’s time as he needed. So far, he had used that time well to plant his seeds of interest during their many nightcaps following the backgammon sessions. Ross was only too glad to buy the drinks, as long as Bridges cared to drink them; it was Bridges’s money he was being generous with. But, after the first few times, he would have happily spent his own, just to learn what he could about Bridges’s line of work. The realization had occurred early to Ross that Bridges’s work involved classified matters; something to do with computer systems for the various US intelligence agencies. Beyond that, Bridges would say no more, other than to imply that he was unhappy there.

  It didn’t take Ross’s greedy litt
le brain long to size up the potential. If what Bridges said was true, this guy could lead to a much larger payoff than a few hot rounds of backgammon.

  Bridges walked into the club, checked his coat, and went immediately to the lounge. It had almost become a regular thing, like a ritual. They’d meet, talk, have a drink or two, play back gammon, then drink themselves into oblivion. But tonight was to be a little different. It was Ross who came with a plan.

  Bridges spotted him at the usual corner table. Ross was a tallish man, blond, artificially good-looking, possessing an overbearing and rude personality. He was an easy man to dislike, and Bridges found no difficulty in doing so.

  Ross looked up as Bridges took a chair at the table.

  “Hey, here’s the happy loser,” Ross said with his plastic smile.

  “Shit,” Bridges grunted, “he’s not going to be the loser tonight. He’s going to pick your pockets clean.” He smiled, meaning it.

  “We’ll see about who picks whose pockets.”

  Ross caught the attention of the waitress. The two men fell silent as she approached the table to take their order.

  “Give me a Jack Daniel’s and water,” Ross said and looked to Bridges for his choice.

  “I’ll have a Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks, please.”

  The waitress jotted their requests down and wiggled toward the bar.

  “Speaking of rocks, how do you like the set on that?” Ross asked, tipping his head toward the waitress.

  “Yeah, nice tits,” Bridges said, watching the wiggle closely.

  “Good piece of ass, too,” Ross added. “I had her when she first came to the club a few months ago. A real moaner. Could go all night too.”

  Bridges smiled weakly. He really didn’t like this son-of-a-bitch at all. He looked back at the girl and wondered how a fine-looking thing like that could hit the sack with a shit like Ross. He had probably hit her with the “my daddy owns the club” bit.

  “Have you had dinner yet?” Ross asked.

  “Nope. I was just going to have a bite here at the club,” Bridges answered.

  “You mean you eat the garbage they serve in this place?” Ross asked.

  “Yeah, why? There’s nothing wrong with the food,” Bridges returned.

  “No, except they got niggers cooking it. You eat here often?”

  “No, only when I come to play,” Bridges replied.

  “Shit, no wonder you lose. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you join me for dinner tonight? My treat,” Ross offered. “I’ve got reservations at Kinzie’s. It might even change your luck,” he said.

  “Kinzie’s? Sounds great. You’re on.”

  The first part of Ross’s plan had just been completed.

  He had received instructions from his contact, Ringer, to determine the seriousness of Bridges’s discontent and to probe the possibility of his going to a “more appreciative” employer. The whole affair had been received with the utmost interest in Moscow. The initial report from Ringer had quickly channeled its way up to the desk of Andrei Ulev, the director of Intelligence, North American Division. One hour later it was on the desk of Leonid Travkin, the director of the Soviet KGB. It was not often that leads with such promise developed so quickly, especially from minor sources as in this case. The potential, if it truly existed, was bait that could not be resisted.

  Class III investigations were ordered on both Dr. Edward Bridges and Carson Ross. Within forty-eight hours, enough information was available to indicate that Dr. Bridges could be for real; his background was certainly right for it.

  Instructions were issued to Ringer and were passed on to Ross, via a prearranged dead drop at the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue. Ross was also advanced five hundred dollars to cover his expenses. If Bridges’s sincerity was in doubt, Ross was to attempt to compromise him, thereby forcing his cooperation. Ross’s bisexuality made the method plain. Ringer would monitor the entire exchange, to help determine if that method would be necessary.

  The waitress returned with their drinks. Ross gave her a knowing wink. She ignored it and put the drinks on the small napkins bearing the seal of the club.

  Bridges noticed her slightly disgusted expression and eyed her lovely body as she walked away from the table. He tried to imagine her underneath him, her legs up over his shoulders, moaning and sighing as he rhythmically pumped away at her. What he wouldn’t give…

  One hour later they were being led to their table at Kinzie’s. They ordered drinks and made small talk, carefully avoiding the subject of their mutual intent. After a second round, they went out to the selection counter and chose their steaks, made a stop at the salad bar, then returned to their table.

  Ross toyed nervously with his salad, as Bridges dove into his hungrily. Ross’s obvious anxiety made Bridges certain that this night bore special significance to his plan.

  “Ed…” Ross began, “the other night you said something to me about being unhappy with your work. Why do you stay there?” he asked.

  Bridges looked up, chewing. “You’ve got it wrong, Carson,” Bridges said, pausing to observe Ross’s reaction. He carefully measured the sudden change in the facial expression.

  Ross’s stomach dropped. Maybe he had contacted Ringer prematurely.

  “It’s not that I’m unhappy with the work,” Bridges began to explain. “I really enjoy my work. It’s the place…or maybe I mean the people. You see, I’m good at my job, and I love working with computers and doing things that only a handful of people in this whole world can do. But I don’t get the recognition that I deserve there. I’m number-two man. And I’m better than number one. It’s my work that makes the program go. But it’s only the bottom line that those sons-of-bitches on top look at, you know? And that doesn’t have my signature on it, so, as far as they’re concerned, it’s number one who does it.

  “It gets you when you see a thing like that happen and you can never see it getting any better. I’m on a dead-end street. And I know that I’m too good at my work to let this happen to me,” Bridges explained.

  Neither man paid attention to his salad now. They were locked in each other’s intentions.

  “Why can’t you just get another job somewhere else?” Ross asked.

  “It’s not that simple,” Bridges replied, shaking his head. “My work is classified top secret. My work is involved with the very heart of the systems. They’d never let me leave.”

  “But, surely, if you agreed never to divulge any of this information, they’d let you go. I mean, how could they not?” Ross asked.

  Bridges looked at him through a squint. “When I accepted the job, I knew what was involved. They made it all very clear right from the start. I don’t have any choice but to stay where I am. It’s that simple.”

  Ross shook his head in mock puzzlement. “It’s hard to imagine anything being that important,” he said.

  “It wouldn’t be if you knew the systems I work with,” Bridges tossed out. “That computer is so advanced that you wouldn’t believe half of what it could do, if I could tell you. You’d say, ‘Bullshit,’ and laugh in my face.”

  “Oh, come on,” Ross said. “How much more can one computer do than another? I mean, there are some pretty advanced computers around today. What makes this one so special?” he asked.

  “I could answer that in one word, Carson. Then you’d understand.”

  “Well?” Ross said, waiting for that one word.

  Bridges shook his head, smiling. “That’s where the line is drawn, my friend. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to tell you that.”

  He could see the disappointment on Ross’s face.

  “After that tremendous buildup, you’re going to leave me hanging?” Ross asked incredulously.

  Bridges just smiled as the waitress approached their table with two fantastic-looking steaks. But neither man seemed interested. They waited until the waitress left, then made a few weak tries at the meat.

  “Well, what if you could find someone to work for?”
Ross began, breaking the silence. “I mean, what if there were somebody who could offer you a job to do what you do now and was willing to make you the number-one man?”

  Bridges laughed. “Where? I told you, this work is classified. There’s just no way, Carson. They’d never let me leave.”

  “Well, what if it were possible?” Ross persisted. “If they did let you go? Would you go to work for these other people? I mean, if there was someone else?”

  “If they’d let me go, and there was somewhere else, where I could use my experience—and run the show, I think I would. But that’s just never going to happen, my friend,” Bridges replied.

  “Well, never say, ‘Never.’ You can’t tell what the future will bring,” Ross consoled.

  “What kind of stakes did you have in mind for tonight?” Ross asked, getting off the topic. He had learned what he wanted to know.

  “Ten a point?” Bridges asked.

  “You’re on.”

  The Soviets had a complete transcript of the conversation at Kinzie’s on Ulev’s desk within the next twenty-four hours. Ross had completed his instructions to the letter. The compromise was judged unnecessary by Ringer, based on his observations at Kinzie’s.

  Ulev thumbed through the pages on his desk, reading them over and over. Then he picked up the phone and ordered a Class I investigation of Dr. Edward Bridges—no facts to be left out. They must know everything about the man that there was to know.

  Ulev picked up the papers and headed for Leonid Travkin’s office. The entire operation would be looked upon with the utmost importance. It was evident that what they had here was even greater than face value had indicated. Leonid Travkin would be most pleased.

  THREE

  What is history but uninterrupted warfare recorded in retrospect by the winner. With their perfect 20–20 hind sight they proclaim the inevitable victory over the forces of evil. Yet, good and evil are relative things in history. The role of evil is the price paid for catastrophic failure. And this is not wrong, for the losers are the weak, and the world belongs to the strong.