The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  “Tell me today, and you’ve got it tomorrow,” Bridges replied. “But you’ll have to get me out of the country fast. Once it is discovered that I am missing with the information, SENTINEL will track me down—and quickly. It has a highly secret security force that it would dispatch after me immediately. A very rigid security system will have to be set up for my protection, even inside the Soviet Union, until your SENTINEL is operational. These agents are extremely well-trained and can penetrate almost anywhere.”

  The Russian nodded. “I am impressed, Dr. Bridges. But there will be skepticism among my superiors. Is there any proof you can offer as to the actual existence of SENTINEL?” he asked.

  “I thought that might be necessary,” Bridges said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out an envelope and handed it to Ringer. “See that Leonid Travkin gets this. It should be all they’ll need. Is there anything else?” Bridges asked.

  “No, Dr. Bridges. I am quite satisfied.”

  “Good, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

  SEVEN

  Germany began to move toward its hour of destiny. They said we were being led by the big lie; they called us barbarians. But they lost sight of the fact that barbarism is the basis of all culture, that it is the means by which one civilization replaces another.

  It was barbarians who swarmed down in a foaming horde to fell the mighty Roman Empire. These Germanic conquerors were the forebears of our Aryan race. It became our heritage to conquer, our destiny. And that was our plan. After that, everything would be a simple matter of organization.

  Entry No. 11 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  The cold wind blowing in off Lake Michigan bit painfully at Justin’s cheeks and nose as he moved hurriedly up Monroe Street toward Michigan Avenue. He turned onto Michigan Avenue and sighed aloud at the relief afforded his stinging face, as the wind now blew gustily at his back. Each step brought him closer to the inviting warmth of the club. Finally, he was there.

  He passed through the revolving doors and checked his watch as he sprinted up the short flight of stairs. It was 9:05 a.m. He was late for his meeting. Justin passed between the two memorial columns listing those members of the club who had served in the two world wars. He pushed the up button and waited for the elevator.

  Justin’s eyes played quickly around the lobby as the elevator inched its way down to answer his call. The club was now only a shadow of its past elegance. It had really been “the place” a long time ago. The early sixties had seen the start of its decline. There was great difficulty in attracting new, young members, and the natural course of attrition was beginning to shrink the ranks of its membership. It had begun to run down physically, too, losing its touch of class.

  The elevator doors finally slid open. He stepped in and pushed the button for the fourth floor.

  After a slow, groaning ascent, the elevator stopped, and its doors slid open. Justin wrinkled his nose slightly as he stepped out of the elevator. There was a distinctive “old” smell to the place that got more and more pronounced as you went up. The smell was as much a part of the building as the stone it was made of.

  Justin walked past two large conference rooms and through the doors leading into the bowling alley. He passed between the lanes and rows of lockers and went to the back of the room, to a set of swinging doors. He pushed through them into a dark laundry area and passed by the rows of large dryers mounted into the walls. The room was still warm from their day’s toil. He could feel the humidity, and the air smelled like bleach. At the back of this area was a small door marked supplies. He passed through it and flicked on the light. The room was long and narrow, lined entirely with rows of shelves. He went to the last set of shelves and touched his watch to a light switch controlling the small overhead light. The entire wall panel swung out toward him.

  He entered a very small, claustrophobic cubicle. A small button illuminated as he entered. He touched his watch to it, and a door slid closed. The shelved panel closed tightly in the storage room, and the light went out.

  He felt his stomach rise slightly as the elevator began its smooth descent. He had no idea of how far down it went or how fast the elevator was moving. Except for the rise and fall of his stomach as it started and stopped, there was no hint of motion. It stopped, and the door slid open.

  He was met by the muzzle of a .357 Colt Python magnum, staring him square in the eye, about ten inches from his face. All he could see at first was the shiny, blued two-and-a-half-inch barrel, pointing at his forehead. Then he focused his eyes past it to its owner.

  “Someday that fucking cannon of yours is gonna go right up your nose, Fanning,” Justin said to Badger. “How the hell are ya, Ted?” He grinned, putting the tip of his index finger into the barrel, lowering it away from him.

  “Long time no see, Justin,” Ted Fanning said, as he placed the piece in his shoulder holster. He stuck out his rugged hand to Justin.

  Justin and Fanning had worked together on several tough assignments in the past. Fanning had been his first partner and had taught him much in the art of survival. There wasn’t a better man, in Justin’s opinion, to place complete confidence in. Their lives had often depended upon one another’s actions. They had been an extremely good, efficient, and deadly team.

  “What kind of trouble did you get our asses into now?” Justin asked with a grin.

  Fanning stood a little shorter than Justin. He was hard and strong, with a build like a lumberjack. His steel-gray eyes were narrow and deep-set beneath a shaggy pair of protruding eyebrows. But behind the almost Neanderthal appearance was a whip-quick mind and eyes possessing keen powers of observation. The slightly disheveled, dirty-blond hair was longish and thinning. He had a smile for his friend.

  “How long has it been, Justin? About a year, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “I think longer. Time has a way of slipping by quickly when you’re having fun.”

  BEEP! The white light on the voice-box console lit up. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Honeycut’s graveled voice began.

  The greetings were over. The two men sat in the chairs near the voice box and focused their attention on it.

  “We have an urgent assignment for you,” Honeycut continued.

  It wasn’t the usual soft voice they were used to hearing when given special assignments, but they had heard it before. The name Pegasus was given to it. They listened, waiting for the mission briefing.

  This room served as a control center for these two agents. They used only this office, no others, and had no knowledge of the locations of the other thirty-two stateside control centers. There were one hundred and twenty-two situated across the globe.

  “A SENTINEL agent has been killed,” Honeycut began. “As you know, he is not the first of our agents to die in the line of duty. But this case is an exceptional one.

  “The agent, code-named Spartan, was killed the day before last, in England. He was killed in his own home. He was a target.

  “We know conclusively that his cover had been blown, leaving the door open for his execution. And there is no doubt left that that’s exactly what it was. And that, gentlemen, is a first.

  “In addition to his murder, some vital information is missing. He had just returned from a ‘special action’ in Madrid, where he had unexpectedly found the information in question. It was a journal, handwritten in German. Spartan was fluent in German and had begun translating it, when his transmissions abruptly stopped. We figure that this was due to either implant failure or signal jamming of some kind. If the latter is true, then our worst fears may be true. The entire SENTINEL program could be in jeopardy.”

  “Excuse me, sir. I have a question,” Justin interrupted.

  “Yes, Pilgrim, what is it?”

  “Could you back up a little and tell us more about how his cover was blown and who killed him, if that’s known?” he asked.

  “Certainly. We’ve been able to ascertain that his code name had been leaked by a highly placed So
viet double agent in British Intelligence. We’ve already begun work on cutting down the possibilities of who it could be. We expect with reasonable confidence that the Soviets were responsible for his murder.”

  Honeycut went on to fill them in on the complete details of the killing. He also outlined some of the more obvious consequences facing them if the Soviets did, indeed, know about the existence of SENTINEL and the agency.

  “We’re not certain, yet, how the connection between his code name and identity was made. SENTINEL has put forth several possibilities that seem likely, but, because of a large gap in our information, we’re not certain how much is known about the agency or SENTINEL.

  “We, therefore, have a two-pronged problem. The first is trying to determine how much they really know, and the second is finding that missing information. Unfortunately, there’s not much we can do about the first at this time. But we can do something about the second, and that’s where you two come in.

  “Because of Scotland Yard involvement, Division Two was severely limited in the time they had in which to go over the crime scene. We’ve already determined that Scotland Yard doesn’t have the information. That means that it’s probably still there, and we just missed it.”

  “Or the assassin took it with him,” Justin said.

  Honeycut hesitated a moment. “Go on,” he urged.

  “You said that Spartan got hold of this information in Madrid after his ‘special action.’ Why couldn’t he have simply been followed back, killed, and the information removed? There might be no connection between the leak of his code name and that information at all,” he suggested.

  “It is possible,” Honeycut allowed. “But we feel that Spartan was aware of his impending danger and managed to conceal the information somewhere in the house.

  “In any event, gentlemen,” Honeycut went on, “you’ll be able to answer some of those questions for us. You’re going to England to find that journal.”

  “Is there anything else that you can tell us about the journal?” Fanning asked.

  “Not at this time,” Honeycut said. “Only that it’s handwritten and in German, as I’ve already told you. We should be able to tell you more before you go into Spartan’s house tomorrow night. Division Two removed ashes from Spartan’s fireplace and has just begun analyzing them. The initial results will tell us whether it is the journal or not. We know he had begun a translation of it. If it wasn’t too long, he could have finished it.”

  “Why not assign agents in England to look for the information?” Justin asked. “You could save a lot of time.”

  “Because, gentlemen…” He hesitated to focus their attention on the next words. “…your code names were leaked as well.”

  A quick, hot, nervous wave swept Justin’s face and brain. He looked at Fanning.

  Fanning looked back. It was one of the worst dreads of an agent.

  “We dare not involve any more agents than we have to,” Honeycut continued. “If your identities are known, then we lose nothing further if the worst happens and you fail. But we’re not certain that your identities are known—only your code names.

  “We have been monitoring your every move since Spartan’s killing, to ensure your safety. As usual, you will have every assistance from SENTINEL Control.

  “A specially modified Learjet has been made available to you. Badger, you’ve used it before, and we want it back, so treat it gently.”

  That remark was directed to Fanning because of his notorious reputation for losing or wrecking equipment.

  Fanning just smiled broadly. “I’ll take care of her like she was my own.”

  “That’s what we’re afraid of,” Honeycut said back. “Remember, it’s been modified for speed and distance, but it has limitations.”

  “I’ll remember. You got it back in one piece last time.” He smiled.

  “With your record, that doesn’t improve our odds. As I said, treat it gently!”

  “Like my own,” Fanning repeated.

  “The Learjet is at Meigs Field, fueled and ready to go. SENTINEL Control will give you your flight plan and answer your questions. I have every confidence in you, gentlemen. Good luck.” The white light on the console clicked off.

  The two men looked at one another.

  “What do you think?” Fanning asked.

  “It’s pretty sketchy,” Justin said, shaking his head. “If the KGB did hit him and know who we are, we could be walking our rear ends into a load of buckshot.”

  “Yeah, if they know who we are. It’s tough to figure how anyone could match up an identity to just a code name with the way our covers are protected,” Fanning said.

  “That’s why I thought he was followed back from Madrid. That wouldn’t be a hard thing to imagine. Our killer could be right back in Madrid, hiding his journal again,” Justin said.

  “Well, you’re probably right,” Fanning began. “We’ll move carefully and keep each other’s asses well-covered. I’m in no hurry to get mine blown off.”

  Justin pressed the white button on the desk console.

  “Yes, gentlemen,” the soft voice responded.

  “Who was Spartan?” Justin asked.

  “An American. His name was William Priest. He had lived in England for the past year,” the voice responded.

  “Priest?” Fanning repeated, sitting up sharply. “Bill Priest? From the old Baltimore Control Office?”

  “Yes, Badger.”

  “Shit! I knew him, Justin. We worked together a few times back in the old days, when the agency was just getting started. He was a good man. A real good man. Probably the only other man I’d depend on completely, besides you.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  “He had another code name back then, didn’t he? What was it?” Fanning asked, his hand to his forehead, thinking.

  “Tamburlaine,” the voice volunteered.

  “Yeah, that was it. Tamburlaine. Jesus, I don’t believe it. I’m surprised that someone could have gotten the drop on Billy like that. He was tough, smart as hell, too.”

  “How careful are you in your own home?” Justin asked.

  “Yeah, I get your point. I guess it’s possible. You can get careless at home,” Fanning said, pulling out a cigar.

  “Your travel kits are in the closet,” the soft voice said.

  They were provided with everything they’d need for the next three days, if that much time was necessary.

  “Road maps are on the desk, indicating directions to Spartan’s house,” the voice continued. “You will be landing about sixty miles north of London. All arrangements have been made. A car will be waiting there for your disposal.”

  Fanning lit up the big, dark cigar. He blew several clouds of smoke upward. He shook his head. “Jesus, I can’t believe it. Bill Priest…”

  “What in the hell are you burning? Smells like cow chips,” Justin joked. Justin was also a cigar smoker. It was his way of telling Fanning to give him one.

  “That’s a good cigar. Handrolled. Cuban,” Fanning defended. “Here, try one.”

  Justin took it gingerly. He examined it, looking at the band. “Never heard of it. Looks nice,” he said. It had the firmness and slightly irregular feel of a good handrolled cigar.

  He lit it up and savored the aroma of the smoke rising from its tip. “Good cigar,” he said, nodding, and put the band in his wallet for future reference.

  They spent the next hour going over the gear in their kits and reviewing the flight plan with SENTINEL Control. Then they roughed out a procedure to follow when they got to Spartan’s house.

  They completed their equipment check and procedure outline and prepared to leave. They would go up separately, Fanning leaving first. He would then pick Justin up in front of the Palmer House, and they would proceed to Meigs Field.

  They were putting on their coats when Fanning tossed Justin another cigar. “If we get the time, maybe we can pick some of these up in London. That’s where I got them. These are the last of them,” he sai
d, tapping two more in his shirt pocket.

  Fanning picked up his gear and stepped into the small elevator. “See ya up top in ten minutes, pardner.” He winked, and the door closed.

  It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Justin and Fanning arrived at Meigs Field. There was an almost complete absence of activity, and a relative stillness filled the air as they approached the sleek Gates Learjet 24D sitting enrobed in the darkness, its silhouette barely visible against the blackened background of Lake Michigan. Even the icy winds had nearly stopped.

  Justin listened to the soft muffled sounds of their footsteps as they approached the plane. There was an air of excitement filling him. His senses were coming alive with apprehension, as they did before every mission. The butterflies were beginning to build slightly in his stomach. He looked at the plane.

  The gentle reflections bouncing off its shiny surface gave it an eerie, ghostlike appearance. It was a lot smaller than he imagined it would be. Planes this small usually didn’t have the range required for transatlantic flights. Yet, despite its smallness, it looked like an animal possessed of immense raw power. Its sleek lines led gracefully back to the powerful twin engines, bulging from its sides just forward of its tail.

  Fanning stopped directly in front of the Learjet. In his eyes it was like a beautiful woman, graceful and responsive to his gentle caresses, wanting to be possessed by him, and him alone. She would respond to his every desire, to his slightest touch. She sat waiting for them. Waiting for him.

  Fanning was a born flyer. By the time he was sixteen, he had been flying his father’s crop duster like a World War I flying ace. During his college years, he had flown bigger and better planes, and he had been flying ever since. He could make almost anything he flew perform like it was on the end of a string. He had a talent for controlling machinery in motion, for gauging its power and positional orientation.

  He reached up and touched the plane, running his hand gently along her nose. “She’s a real beaut, isn’t she?” he said.

  “You bet,” Justin replied. He watched Fanning’s gentle communication with the plane. He was petting its nose, soothing it with soft strokes.