by A. W. Mykel
“Wait a minute, Irv. I have another question,” the President interrupted again. “What about Pilgrim and Badger? Where are they now?”
“Both are safe. They are in the United States and currently unassigned. SENTINEL has been monitoring them without their knowledge since the killing. We are now working to determine which of the four British suspects is our leak.”
“Will the British believe us if we find out who is guilty and inform them?” the President asked.
“Uncertain. If we tell them, and they don’t believe us, then we’ll be held responsible if anything happens to him. The Russians will probably knock him off at that point and make it look like we did it. They’d have a lot to gain by making us look bad over this. They’d also be removing an agent who would be of no further use to them with his cover blown.
“Our best bet in this case would be to make certain of our facts and arrange our own ‘special action’ for him. It will all appear quite natural.”
The President remained silent for a while. It bothered him to talk away a man’s life so matter-of-factly. It seemed very wrong, against his nature, but he knew it was necessary. This one man had just dealt away three very important lives and jeopardized the country’s greatest secret. The greatest advantage of SENTINEL lay in the fact that it was a secret. The proverbial ace in the hole, but with the magnitude of a royal flush. “Give me some more facts on the killing,” the President said.
“Spartan was shotgunned three times at close range, while he was on the toilet. He was blown to bits. Scotland Yard is completely baffled by it. There was very little to go on.”
“What was he doing in England?” the President asked.
“He lived there. He had just returned from a mission when he was hit,” Honeycut replied.
“Will his cover hold up to their investigations?”
“Yes, absolutely. They’ll learn nothing about him that we don’t want them to learn.”
“Were any other code names leaked?”
“None that SENTINEL knows of. Only the three. We’re still working,” Honeycut said.
“What about this double agent in Britain? What do we have on him so far?” the President asked.
“Well, Mr. President, you may remember about nine years ago that a convicted Soviet double agent, Lionel Duncan, escaped quite spectacularly from prison in England. He had been a member of a highly placed four-man cell that the British had broken wide open. They were operating right inside British Intelligence, right under their noses, each in a highly responsible position. Anyway, he simply climbed over a wall with help from the outside. He got clean away and showed up in Moscow four months later. The Russians made a big thing of it.”
“Yes, I remember it. It was quite embarrassing for the British. Go on,” the President urged.
“Immediately following his escape, a ‘fifth man’ theory was put forth by the British. It was American opinion that either the British helped plan and execute the operation as part of a complex and secret swap, or that a ‘fifth man’ did exist. One of our four suspects could be that ‘fifth man,’ ” Honeycut explained.
“Be absolutely certain of your facts, Irv. Then do what you must,” the President said in a voice just above a strained whisper. He cleared his throat and said, “How could they have identified Spartan from just a code name?”
“Unknown at this time, Mr. President. But SENTINEL will be projecting theories on that shortly. All we know right now is that they had his code name, and he’s dead. We’ll have the answers before too long,” Honeycut assured him.
The President sensed that Honeycut had more to say and waited.
Honeycut’s voice lowered, losing some of its gravel. “There is also some valuable information missing. Division Two got in there after Scotland Yard finished up and couldn’t find it. Either Scotland Yard has it, or the Russians do…or it’s still there, and we just missed it.”
“What information?” the President asked.
“We’re not entirely sure. Spartan obtained it on his last mission. It was an unexpected discovery. He had been assigned to a ‘special action’ in Madrid. He found it after completing his assignment. He was killed before it could be delivered. All we know is that it was of a vital nature.”
His voice became tense. “We have to go back in there to find it. I’d like to send Pilgrim and Badger in to look for it.”
“Why them? Their covers may be blown wide open,” the President said.
“That’s precisely why, Mr. President. They’ve become expendable. If they find it, we win. If they don’t, and they get killed in the attempt, the leak ends with them. A neat dead end,” he explained.
“And if they get taken? We stand to lose a great deal more than we already have,” the President said.
“No, sir, that won’t happen. They’re the two best agents that we have. They’ll succeed if anybody can. If they don’t, they’ll never be taken alive. SENTINEL can see to that.”
“How?” the President asked.
Honeycut paused again. His voice became low and tense once more. “Their implants are explosive. SENTINEL controls detonation.”
The President let out a heavy sigh. “Do they know this?”
“No, Mr. President, they don’t,” Honeycut said dryly. “Not all SENTINEL agents have explosive implants. These were added only within the last two years. Both Pilgrim and Badger had received the newly designed implants. All agents are scheduled for changeover within the next twelve months.
“Regardless of what the Russians may already know, Mr. President, we must get that information back.”
The President paused. “Very well, Irv. Do what you have to do, you have complete authority. Is there anything else?”
“No, Mr. President. You have it all for now.”
“Fine, Irv. Let me know when you learn more.”
“I will, sir.”
The phone clicked down and went dead. Honeycut replaced his phone in the cradle and thought for a few moments. He knew that that information had to be retrieved and examined for content. It was vital.
“SENTINEL,” his coarse voice called.
The white light on his SENTINEL console went on.
“Yes, Mr. Honeycut,” the soft voice of SENTINEL responded.
“I want you to call in Pilgrim and Badger for assignment. Have them meet in Chicago at twenty-one hundred hours, central time, this evening, at the usual place. Stagger their arrival by fifteen minutes. Badger first. I’ll give them this one personally.”
“Working,” the voice said. The light on the console snapped off.
FIVE
As if sent by God, a leader emerged in a troubled Germany to touch the hidden depths of the Aryan soul. With his magnetic oratory and explosive themes, he began to awaken the German Siegfried.
The people shared with him an almost pathological love of Germany. There has never been a clearer and more convincing identification between a nation, its heroes, and its plan.
He was their Messiah—and the people followed.
Entry No. 7 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
The Impala stopped in front of the old house. As Justin got out of the car, he could see the living room curtains pull open, then close again. He looked at the old mailbox on the fence post as he moved around the car toward the walk. The mailbox had been there for as long as he could remember, always neatly painted to match the color of the house. The large, distinct block letters announced that this was the residence of the Leon Chaple family. Justin had grown up in the house. “Hi, son,” a voice said from the porch.
“Hi, Pop. How are ya feeling?” Justin asked, walking up the steps of the porch.
“Oh, pretty good, I guess,” his father answered in that tone that meant, “Not so good, really.”
Leon Chaple was a bull of a man, stoic and strong. Justin could never remember him showing pain, not even the time he cut the end of his thumb off on the radial saw many years ago, or following his open-
heart surgery the day after Justin’s son, Michael, was born over four years ago. Indeed, the man seemed oblivious to pain—except when his wife had died a few years back. That was the only time Justin had ever seen him cry.
They were very much alike, father and son. Both were over six feet in height, lean, and strongly built.
“Your uncle Tom just sent me enough pills to last me six months,” his father began. “He sent some of that new medicine that I told you about, the one that I wear on my chest. It makes me feel pretty good since I started using it, but it goes through the absorbent paper and wrecks all my undershirts,” he complained.
“Oh, shit,” Justin started, “what in the hell do you care about a few undershirts? The stuff makes you feel good, so don’t complain. I’ll buy you all the undershirts you need—”
“No, no, I don’t need anything, I can buy my own when I need them,” his father protested.
His father was on complete disability now. The operation had successfully corrected three of the arterial obstructions with bypasses, but a fourth could not be repaired. His situation was greatly improved, but not to the point where he could go back to the rigors of a daily working routine.
The disability checks weren’t very large, and he hadn’t saved much money before the attacks started. But Justin had made arrangements with his father’s bank to keep his account above a certain level by transferring funds from a special account that Justin had set up in that bank without his father’s knowledge. Justin made sure that his father was comfortable and lacked for nothing.
“What did Doc Marsh say about your last visit?” Justin asked.
“He says he wants me to go back in for more of those tests. I think they want to operate again,” the old man answered.
Justin could see the disappointment in his father’s eyes, also the fear. Fear was another thing he had never seen in his father’s eyes until the eve of the open-heart surgery. Bypass procedure had been improved since the first operation, which made the uncorrected obstruction now operable—but with risk.
“Well, if that’s what it takes to make you better, Pop, I’d have it done,” Justin advised.
His father shook his head. “No, I won’t go through that again. I’ll live out what time I have left like I am. I’ll take my chances. They’re not going to cut me like that again.”
Justin knew better than to argue with him. He knew that, when the time came, his uncle Tom would talk him into doing what was necessary. He always listened to Tom.
“What’s new in the insurance business?” his father asked, to change the subject.
“Oh, not a hell of a lot,” Justin answered.
“Catch any crooks?” his father asked.
“Yeah, got one the week before last. One of our own representatives was trying to defraud the company out of a hundred and fifty thousand bucks. But we got him.”
“They give you a raise for that?” the old man asked with a smile.
“No, Pop,” Justin laughed. “It’s all part of the job.”
“That’s a lot of money, son. You should have told them you wanted a percentage.”
“Can’t do that, Pop. I get a straight salary. It’s my job to catch people that try to steal from the company,” Justin explained.
“You should get a percentage,” the old man insisted. “That’s dangerous work. Someone could try to kill you to avoid being caught,” he said.
“No, it’s not like that, Pop. These people aren’t usually dangerous. They’re smart, but not dangerous. When they’re caught they just give up. My life has never been in danger.”
The old man just shook his head. His son had always been a sensitive, gentle boy. He never accepted the fact that people could really hurt one another. He was too trusting and too naive for his own good. He just hoped he would never get hurt because of it.
“Well, you just be careful, anyway. You can never tell how people will react to being caught. I believe that anyone can be dangerous when they’re scared,” his father said.
“Okay, I promise I’ll be careful, Pop. But don’t you worry. I can handle it,” Justin assured him.
“How’s your son? Do you get to see him much?” the old man asked.
“He’s fine. Starting to grow like a weed. He’s gonna be tall like you. Even looks like you a bit,” Justin said.
Justin’s father smiled proudly.
“I get to see him on most weekends that I’m not away on business,” Justin continued. “Sue’s pretty good about that.”
His father could see a sadness in his son’s eyes. Justin and Susan had been divorced for over a year now, and he had never gotten over missing his son.
“How’s he feel about his new father?”
“I’m his father,” Justin snapped.
“I know that, son. What I meant was, do they get along?”
“Yeah,” Justin said, looking out across the front yard. “Jack’s good to him. He’ll be able to give Mikey a lot of the things that I couldn’t, I guess. At least he’ll be there a lot more than I was,” Justin said.
The pain of what had happened was inside him again. It always came back when he thought about it and what she had done to him, about what had caused it, and what it had cost him. It tore at him like a steel claw in his gut.
The divorce itself hadn’t been traumatic, only losing little Michael. The marriage had deteriorated steadily over its last two years. But he had never thought that it had gone that far, until he had caught them together.
It crushed Justin. His wife…Susan…screwing with that son-of-a-bitch. She had hurt him grievously, slicing his pride irreparably. It was over after that; there was no going back.
Justin’s father studied the expression on his face and knew that the time had come to change the subject once again.
“Come on, son. Let’s go inside for some coffee. I just put a fresh pot up before you came.”
As they sat drinking the hot coffee, Justin could hear the windchimes on the back porch. He remembered how, as a little boy, he would listen to them, as he lay in his bed at night. He always seemed to notice them most when something troubled him. He would listen to their gentle tinkling sounds. They would soothe him, and his troubles would melt away into sleep. That was probably the thing he remembered most about the old house—the windchimes. They soothed him again, as the painful memories of the incident and his loneliness for his son faded to their sweet music.
“How’s Barbara?” his father asked, breaking the lull. Barbara was Justin’s new girlfriend. The old man had met her several times and liked her very much.
“She’s fine, Pop. She always asks about you. She wants you over for dinner real soon. I can bring Mikey over, too, if you’d like. That way you’d get to spend some time with him,” Justin said, smiling again.
“I’d like that,” the old man said. “She’s a fine young lady, son. You thinking of marrying her?” he asked.
“I’m not ready to get married again, Pop. Not yet, anyway. I’ll let you know when I am,” Justin said.
“Well, I hope it’s soon. A man needs a good woman, and I hope that, when you’re ready, it’s her. She’s one of the finest young ladies I’ve ever met.”
“I think so, too, Pop,” Justin said. His thoughts went to Barbara.
She had a more subtle kind of beauty than Susan’s. Susan’s beauty was nearly disarming. Barbara was on the thin side, her figure delicate, but adequate. She had the kind of shape you could easily overlook, until you saw her on the beach in a revealing bikini. Then she became easy to appreciate.
She was Midwest-born and raised, but after college she had come East, to pursue a career as a free-lance writer with the eventual goal of working into novels, when her finances permitted such long-term commitment.
As a free-lancer, she had been an immediate success and, somehow, after reaching that point of financial strength, never quite started work on that first novel. Few writers could have made it so well or so quickly, but her talent was natural, and her
intuitive selection of subject matter put her a cut above the rest.
They first met about a year before Justin’s divorce. It was at a party thrown by a mutual friend. She was immediately impressed by him. He was handsome, stylishly dressed, well-mannered, and had obvious good taste in women—he was with Susan, who was one of the most striking women Barbara had ever seen. Most of the men at the party were dumbstruck by Susan and followed her around the room with their eyes almost the entire evening. The fact that she was never more than a few feet away from Justin the whole time said much for him. Barbara was definitely impressed.
They met again twice after that, once at a party (this time no Susan), and again in a coffee shop at one of the large indoor malls in New Jersey. It was there that the friendship was born. They walked and talked and spent nearly five hours together, roaming in and out of the stores. They learned a lot about one another and their attitudes on life in general. Justin asked her out, and she accepted. Their friendship developed quickly after that. Then the thing that made Justin a part of her life happened.
While in the shower, she had discovered a small lump in her right breast. Panic-stricken, she went immediately to her doctor. He scheduled her to go into the hospital three days later, for surgery to remove it.
She needed desperately to reach out. And it was Justin who was there.
There had been terror in her eyes when she told him. Partly from the fear of what could lie ahead, but also from the fear of face-to-face rejection. She couldn’t have taken that.
His response was a tenderness she hadn’t thought him capable of. He held her gently, kissing her lightly and telling her that everything would be all right. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here,” he had said, as he wiped the tears away.
He spent countless hours with her during those three days. His confidence was so strong that it couldn’t help but spread her way. She was greatly comforted as she entered the hospital. He spent every moment that he could with her, until the nurses all but dragged him away. He’d be there through the night, he told her, and he’d be there when she opened her eyes.