The Windchime Legacy
Page 3
The winners sit in judgment over the losers; the losers are the criminals of war. They answer to a “justice” set forth by the victors and swing from the gallows of righteousness built by the hands of men whose side God was on, by hands guilty of the same necessities of war for which we hung. Had we won, they would have swung from our gallows.
Forget what happens in war. War is ugly for both sides. Everybody does a lot of killing and the dead feel no pain.
Entry No. 5 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
The situation in Paris remained clouded. Starling had been unable to learn anything about the investigation that Trushenko had started. There were no leads to follow; everything was being done in complete secrecy. All he knew was that Trushenko’s men were busily digging out the mysterious facts. Something would break soon. It would have to.
Chakhovsky was beginning to feel that his suspicions were correct and that Trushenko had found out what he feared. If that were the case, there would be little he could do in behalf of his own defense. He wasn’t guilty of a major crime against the state but, in its own way, one much harder to forgive.
It was fortunate, he thought, that he was now in Paris, for he knew this city better than any other in Western Europe. If he were in Moscow when this happened, there would be little hope of escape. He began to formulate a plan of action, expecting the worst.
In Moscow, Trushenko was working late into the night in his office. He was just getting ready to go home for the evening when the phone rang. It was his man leading the investigation. He reported that Illya Bodonov had been located and was under observation. Bodonov was residing in Kiev, living with his unmarried sister. Trushenko’s pulse quickened at the news. He knew that Bodonov was the connection between Chakhovsky and the crimes that he was looking for. Once he had Bodonov, he could break him and get a full confession, implicating Chakhovsky. With that in hand, he’d have the bastard at last.
“Bring him in,” he snapped. “Take him this evening when everyone is asleep. I want it done quickly to minimize awareness of his being taken.”
“What shall we do with the girl?” his man asked.
Trushenko thought for a few moments. Then he said, “Take her, too. She may be valuable in obtaining the confession. Do not let him know that she has been taken.” Then he hung up the phone and sat fully back in his chair. He sat for a few moments, then swung his chair around to look out into the night; a smile crossed his face.
“Soon…soon, my dear Dmitri Chakhovsky. Very soon now.” It was 2:00 a.m., and the streets were dark and silent in Kiev. The only sound was the icy March wind, as it whooshed through the streets in chilling gusts. Two large, black cars pulled up in front of the building in which Bodonov and his sister lived. A third car stopped about a hundred yards behind, hidden in the shadows from the moon’s light.
Four men emerged from the first car, three from the second. They were careful to leave the doors partially open to avoid any sound.
Looking like carbon copies in their long dark coats, the seven men moved silently up the steps to the entrance of the buildings. The entire neighborhood was still and sleeping. One man stayed by the entrance just inside the doorway. Another stayed on the first-floor landing, and a third man stood on the landing of the second floor. The remaining four moved down the second-floor hallway, toward Bodonov’s apartment.
The night arrest is a common practice of the Russian state police. It has numerous important advantages both physical and psychological. Everyone in the target apartment is thrown into a sudden state of shock and terror. They are not inwardly prepared for violence and will always be weaker than the police, who will not hesitate to use it. Also, the “object” of the arrest is placed in total confusion. Dragged from the warm safety of his bed, he is clouded and unaware of what is happening to him. Neighbors and residents of surrounding buildings are often completely unaware of the arrest. If they are awakened, they often will not know who or how many were taken.
The men took their practiced positions in front of the door, as one man produced a key. It had been fitted and tested earlier in the day while the apartment was empty. He inserted it slowly, twisted the lock, and swung the door open. They silently filed in and walked to the one double bed in the small studio apartment.
The light on the table was snapped on. Bodonov awakened with a start. He was grabbed and dragged naked from the bed. Before he could utter a sound, he was struck hard on the side of the face by a large, hamlike fist that sent him sprawling across the floor. The fist was followed by a heavy-booted foot, which kicked him in the stomach and then again in the kidneys. He writhed in pain and lay helpless on the floor.
Bodonov’s sister sat up startled and frightened. The blanket was ripped from the bed, revealing her naked body. She was young and beautiful, with large, milky-white breasts and silk-smooth skin. One of the intruders pointed a gun at her and ordered her to stay put. She complied, as tears began to well up in her eyes.
The leader of the group grabbed her by her long, black hair and dragged her from the bed to the floor. He viciously yanked her up to her feet, causing her to let out a whimper, and pushed her hard against the wall.
“Are you the sister of this man?” he asked with a stern, authoritative voice.
“Yes…yes…yes,” she gasped.
He looked at her body. “Do you always sleep naked with your brother?” he asked.
She did not answer. She was terrified and could not think. She looked into the dark, sadistic eyes, saying nothing, fearing for her life.
He squeezed her breast, twisting it. “Do you always sleep with your brother like this?” he asked again.
She whimpered again, raising herself to her toes in an effort to reduce his grip. She still did not answer.
The man grabbed her face in his hand and turned it to him. They were eye to eye. “Your silence has given the answer,” he said. He let go of her breast and turned to her brother.
Two of the men pulled him to his knees, one of them yanking on his hair, bending his head back so that his face looked almost directly up to the ceiling.
The leader walked over to him and stared into the face.
“You are Illya Bodonov.” It was a statement, not a question.
Bodonov said nothing, just looked into the menacing eyes. He was still trying to grasp what was happening.
“You are under arrest for crimes against the state,” the leader said flatly.
“What crimes? I have done noth—” His words were cut off by another vicious yank of his hair, bending him back further, to the point of extreme pain.
“You will be taken for questioning. Get up and get dressed. You have two minutes.”
He was yanked up to his feet, still in great pain from the brutal kicks that the other men had delivered.
“You,” the leader said, pointing to the girl, “help him. Be fast. We must leave.” He motioned her with a wave of his arm.
She hurried to her brother to help him stand. He was in obvious difficulty from the pain. She helped him to the dresser, where he supported himself as she handed him clothes hurriedly. Then she went to get his bag, to put extra things in.
One of the men stopped her.
“I’m going to get his bag. He will need extra clothes,” she explained. “Is it permitted?”
The leader nodded and motioned to let her go.
She took the bag and tried to think. What will he need? What is allowed? What should I give him?
“Hurry. You take too long,” the leader commanded.
She was confused, no longer aware of her nakedness. She began throwing extra clothes into the bag. An extra sweater, a pair of pants, some underwear, warm socks, and work shoes. She looked nervously around the room. She went to the bathroom and threw in a towel and a bar of soap. She reached for his lather cup and brush, but the man holding the gun stopped her.
“Razors are not allowed,” he said coldly. His eyes were staring holes into her body.
“Time is up, we must go,” the leader barked.
Bodonov had finished dressing in a heavy sweater and pants, warm socks, and boots. He looked at his sister in disbelief.
She ran across the room to him and threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him hard on the mouth.
“We must go,” the leader yelled, as he grabbed her arm and tried to separate her from her brother. She would not let go.
She held on, sobbing now, as her eyes met his. Bodonov was silent. His eyes searched hers with finality. They said everything there was to say—I am no more.
The leader yanked again, she held on. He reached out and grabbed her breast and twisted brutally, at the same time yanking her long hair. She fell to the floor; he kicked her hard on the buttocks. She fell flat, sobbing. They left, the door closing behind them as they dragged him out of her life. She turned and stared at the door, unable to comprehend what had just taken place. It was so sudden. There were so very few words.
Illya Bodonov had reached the breaking point in his life. In a few startling moments, his world had been shattered by the words: “You are under arrest.” When that door was slammed shut, his life was left behind it. He was led down the stairs of his home for the last time.
Within moments they were in the car, Bodonov in the back with men on either side, the leader in the front. The second car followed as they drove off. The streets were still silent and dark; the only light shining came from Bodonov’s window. It was a beacon bidding him farewell.
As the car rounded the corner, the leader rolled down the window and tossed Bodonov’s bag out onto the street. He turned to face the prisoner.
“You won’t be needing that,” he said.
After the first two cars disappeared into the night, the third car pulled up in front of the building. Four more dark-coated men emerged and approached the building.
They had come for the girl.
FOUR
It began in a Germany left spiritually destroyed and upside down by World War I. The country was torn and battered by inflation and unemployment. The staggering cost of defeat weighed heavily. It was a time of social desperation, economic ruin, and mistrust for a government that had betrayed the people. The threat of violent revolution was in the air. The people were filled with an unidentifiable fear and gripped by a mood of despair, hatred, and anger.
The time was ripe in Germany. Only the seed was needed—and a leader.
Entry No. 6 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
His eyes were tired and aching from the long hours at his desk. He sat back in his chair, rubbing the weariness out of his eyes with his fists. It had been over forty-eight consecutive hours of work, translating and encoding his discovery. At last it was finished.
He pushed his chair away from the cluttered desk and walked over to the large bookcase built into the study’s longest wall. He held the book in his hands and let his eyes play across the volumes of his huge library. It was all there now, safe for later discovery, should anything happen to him. And it was a good bet that something would before too long. His discovery made him a dangerous man. He knew it, and he knew what must follow. That was why he used what little time he had left to code the journal into the volumes of his library. Now, with the information safe and the original journal burning in his fireplace, he could concentrate on staying alive. He guessed that he had a few days left, before they came. He placed the last book on the shelf in its proper place.
He felt the cramps rising in his intestines. He had been plagued by diarrhea since he realized what he had uncovered and recognized the terrifying significance of it. The discomfort suddenly grew severe, and he hurried to the spare bathroom located right off the study.
He had been in such a rush he hadn’t turned on the light. Only a few feeble rays emanated from an old night light always left on in that room. A few additional rays leaked in under the door from the old fluorescent lamp in the study. He sat enveloped in the soft semidarkness, then reached back and flushed.
As the gushing sounds faded and the tank filled noisily, his eyes caught a break in the light coming in from under the door. Somebody was out there and doubtlessly knew where he was, from the flush.
He instinctively reached for his left armpit, but the Walther wasn’t there. He hadn’t put it on in two days. Not a mistake, really, he usually didn’t carry a piece in his own house. But it would cost him today. He had guessed wrong on the time he’d have.
His eyes quickly scanned the room looking for a weapon. His mind raced frantically. Grabbing his belt buckle so as not to make a sound, he began to rise slowly. If he could get to his straight edge razor, he’d have a chance to surprise his unexpected visitor as he opened the door. He could see the two distinct dark bands of shadow cast by the intruder’s legs. He was in front of the door.
It was the last thing he saw.
There was a blast. Bits of the door exploded inward as the load of the shotgun hit him squarely in the groin, knocking him against the toilet tank behind him, slamming his upper back and head against the wall. He bounced back slightly and sank onto the toilet seat just as the second blast splintered its way through the door, hitting him in the chest. The force of the blast jolted him backward and slightly upward into the tank again. Then he sank once more onto the toilet seat, sliding off to the left until the wall stopped him.
The door swung open.
His assassin put in another load and discharged it directly into the head, rendering it a bloody stump. Blood, bone, and brains were splattered about the small room. The killer regarded the efficiency of his work for a few moments, then went back into the study to begin his search.
The air in Irwin Honeycut’s office was electric. Reports had been flashing in hourly since the killing. This was not the first SENTINEL agent to die in the line of duty, but he had been the first to be killed by an assassin sent specifically for him. His cover had been blown. The entire agency, as well as SENTINEL, could have been compromised.
Honeycut sat behind his desk in the elegant office. He had been appointed by the last President to head the ultra-secret program and its equally secret intelligence agency. Honeycut had been the program’s director from day one.
The President had been wise in his selection of Honeycut. He could run any company or organization in the world, if he wanted to, such was his combination of talents. A rare acumen for business and political situations backed by cold logic and unerring judgment had earned him a reputation as a man who was never wrong. Fiercely aggressive and competitive, he attacked every problem with computerlike accuracy and bulldog determination. He got results by being demanding and using people to their fullest potential, and he was an uncanny judge of men.
Honeycut had been phased out of public life into semiretirement by a phony hypertension condition. As a cover, he ran his own business consulting firm on a part-time schedule. He kept occasional contact with his former colleagues just often enough to make it look good. They were important sources of information and helped to keep the cover intact. No one ever suspected the power that he controlled.
He drummed his fingers impatiently, waiting for SENTINEL to complete the connection to the President’s direct line. The connection could not be made unless the President was in the Oval Office alone, out of earshot of all White House staff and visitors. The automatic taping devices in the office were fed false signals to record a typical sound of the President at work at his desk. No trace of the conversation would be recorded.
The entire security system of the White House had been secretly redesigned by SENTINEL. Sensors watched and listened from every corner of the building. Automatic defense systems were also secretly installed and were under SENTINEL’s control. No one was aware
of these devices except the President, his SENTINEL advisory staff, and people possessing SSC-7 security classifications in the SENTINEL program.
The fingers drummed.
The phone rang.
“This is the President speaking,” Honeycut heard, as the phone came to life.
“This is Irv, Mr. President. I’ve got more facts for you on the Spartan killing,” he said in his graveled voice.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Irv. I had the ambassador from Nigeria in here. I cut it as short as I could, without being rude. We’ll have privacy until I notify Ronni. Will twenty minutes do it?”
“More than enough, Mr. President,” Honeycut replied.
“Give me the facts, Irv,” the President said.
“It was definitely an assassination, Mr. President. It was deliberately brutal and messy for our benefit, to drive the point home. They wanted to be sure that we knew it was an assassination.”
“Who are ‘they’?” the President interrupted.
“The Soviets. We’re pretty certain of it,” Honeycut answered.
“How do you know that? And how was his cover blown?” the President asked. “Your agents aren’t even known to our own CIA, FBI, or the Pentagon. They appear on no intelligence computer file in the world.”
“That’s not entirely true, Mr. President,” Honeycut corrected. “As you know, according to agreement, we inform the British of intelligence activities carried out within their legal borders. We also supply code names of the agents involved. They do the same. Without this mutual agreement, our trust in one another would be undermined and our necessary cooperation would be greatly hindered. We gave the code names of our agents, but listed them as special CIA or NATO intelligence operatives.
“SENTINEL has determined that three code names were leaked to the Soviets by one of four top British security personnel. Only those four people had access to that information. All three of these agents had been assigned to British operations within the past year. They are Spartan, Pilgrim, and Badger. We are—”