The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  The cold, wet morning was closing in on him, smothering him. His breathing was becoming labored and heavy. His neck ached badly and the tightness in his chest had grown severe. He couldn’t breathe. He felt like he was being held under water, being drowned in that confining booth. He had to get out.

  He pushed weakly on the doors. They wouldn’t open. He was suffocating.

  No air…got to get out…get out!

  His mind began to panic. He pushed against the doors, but they seemed to be fighting back. He began ripping at them, struggling violently to get them open, to get out into the air. The booth was trying to kill him. Get out…get out…must breathe! He strained against the doors with all his might.

  Then all at once he was out. He was on his knees gasping desperately for life-giving air. The breathing was painful, a sharp, bursting pressure filled his chest. His vision was unclear and seemed to close in, leaving a tiny hole of light at the end of a long dark tunnel. He put his head to the cold, wet ground and began to breathe with slow controlled breaths, as deeply as the pain would allow. The bottle of pills had fallen to the sidewalk, and some had rolled out. He numbly reached for one and placed it in his mouth.

  It seemed like an eternity passed before the pain and suffocating tightness in his chest began to subside. The breaths came deeper and less painfully. The tunnel of vision had again begun to open. He felt drained of all strength. His head ached badly.

  He finally lifted his head off the ground and straightened up on his knees. There were people standing around him. As he looked up, they just stared at him. He got to his feet, faltered a moment, then gained control. He began to walk away unsteadily, wet from the perspiration, his legs weak, unresponding. The cold air against his face felt good. Slowly, he began to feel better and to regain his control. He looked at his watch. He would have just enough time to make it to his next checkpoint.

  He walked on. He would rest later.

  Henri had left immediately, just as he said he would. He entered the American consulate on Avenue Gabriel at 11:25 a.m. and asked for Robert Morsand. He was told to take a seat and wait until Morsand could be found.

  Finally, at 11:50, a man walked over to where Henri was waiting.

  “I am Robert Morsand,” he said in perfect French. “I understand that you wish to see me?”

  Henri looked at the well-dressed American. He was a tall, handsome man in his early forties with black hair just starting to gray. It added a touch of sophistication to his appearance. His clothes were impeccably styled and pressed, his shoes shined to a glasslike finish.

  “Yes, that is correct,” Henri answered. “I have a letter from a friend of mine that is most urgent. It must be handed only to you and is intended for your eyes only.”

  Morsand took the envelope from Henri and eyed the small dark-haired man as his fingers opened it.

  Henri began to back away as Morsand removed the letter from its envelope.

  “Wait, don’t go,” Morsand said. “Your friend may need you to carry a message.”

  Morsand was an old hand at this. He knew trouble when he smelled it. That extra sense that comes with the business was at work.

  He unfolded the paper and read:

  Dear Mr. Morsand:

  My name is Dmitri Chakhovsky. I am a member of the Soviet KGB in the Operational Division of the First Directorate of Counterespionage. Because of some recent developments in Soviet KGB policy and my open opposition to them, my life has fallen into grave danger. There is no hope of reconciliation with my superiors. I would like to make formal announcement to you of my intentions to defect to your Western nation.

  Enclosed you will find a coin on the face of which is scratched a phone number. You may contact me at that number, at twelve noon on the day that you receive this letter.

  You must call from a safe phone. The phones in your consulate are not to be considered safe.

  I thank you, Mr. Morsand. My life is in your hands.

  Dmitri Chakhovsky

  Morsand looked at his watch. It was 12:00 on the button. He spun and tore down the hallway, leaving Henri in confusion. He left the consulate and raced up the street to a pay phone.

  It was out of order.

  “Goddamn it,” he cursed and began racing up the block again.

  He reached the next phone. Winded, he checked the number on the coin and dialed it. He looked at the time. It was 12:06.

  The phone rang. It rang again. On the third ring, he was sure that he had blown it.

  “Hello?” a tired voice finally answered.

  “This is Morsand,” he said, breathing heavily. “To whom do I speak?” Morsand was speaking in French.

  “This is Chakhovsky. Dmitri Chakhovsky.” The voice answered slowly, in accented English.

  Morsand dropped into English. “When and where can we meet?”

  Chakhovsky leaned heavily against the side of his phone booth. “I do not feel it is safe to meet at this time. Henri can be trusted completely. Is he still at the consulate?”

  “Yes,” Morsand replied. “I had him wait just in case it became necessary to hand-carry a message.” He was beginning to catch his breath now.

  “That was wise. But then I knew you would be. Give him a number at which you can be reached. Give him a time as well. It must be a phone that you consider safe. I will contact you.

  “In the meantime, I am certain that you could use the time to have my identity confirmed. Be careful, we know much about what goes on in your consulate.” Chakhovsky sounded ill.

  “Are you all right?” Morsand asked.

  There was a pause. Morsand could hear some heavy, irregular breaths in the phone.

  Chakhovsky used his thumb and index finger to wipe away the tears in his eyes. “Yes, I am all right, just very tired, and…and…” He gathered himself. “You see, I love Russia. And it is not an easy thing…” His voice broke off.

  Morsand could hear muffled sobs. “I understand. Believe me, I do,” Morsand consoled.

  “Do you? I wonder if you could ever realize what it is like to do what I am doing.” He regained his composure. “I will contact you as you advise. Thank you, Mr. Morsand.”

  The phone went dead in Morsand’s ear.

  As he walked back to the consulate, he thought about what Chakhovsky had said about what he was feeling. He tried to imagine what it would be like if the roles were reversed. How would he feel? He couldn’t imagine it. That was the difference between the two countries, he thought. That could never happen to him.

  When he got back to the consulate he gave Henri specific instructions for Chakhovsky to follow. The little man noted them carefully, then left.

  Morsand remembered what Chakhovsky had said about the consulate phones, about them knowing much of what went on there. He went to the special communications room that had the direct line to Washington. It was equipped with a scrambler. This room was definitely clean. It was checked daily.

  He ordered a thorough examination of the entire building and every phone line.

  He sent his scrambled voice to Washington, advising them of the contact and all that had transpired. Then he requested a dossier on Dmitri Chakhovsky. He would need to know all that he could about him before this day was over.

  TEN

  Russia, the great Bear to the East, was our one chance against the defeat that lay ahead. A quick victory there could stun our enemies in the West into negotiating for an end to the fighting, thus giving us the needed time to rebuild our fighting strength and reserves for the total realization of our destiny. The fate of the world would lie in our outcome in Russia.

  It was a struggle of ideologies, of empire or annihilation, between two titans disputing their destinies. Only one could remain. Russia was to be utterly destroyed, as was Germany, if we lost.

  Entry No. 19 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  Dr. Edward Bridges removed his tentlike overcoat and suit jacket in one lumbering effort and hung them from a hook on
the wooden coatrack in the corner of his office. Then he closed his office door, so that his secretary would know not to disturb him.

  He went to his desk and sat heavily on the soft chair. With great effort, he bent forward, his face reddening from the strain, and lifted his left pant leg. He removed the twelve sheets of blank paper from around his shin. He sat up, placed the papers on his desk, breathed deeply, and bent forward again. Seconds later, he produced another twelve sheets of blank report forms.

  He had been carrying them both in and out of Alpha for days. The method was perfect, and he felt comfortable with it. It wouldn’t be long now, almost any day. Then he’d be doing it for real, instead of for practice.

  Bridges had begun spending considerable time with SENTINEL, going over Soviet computer capabilities. He had underestimated them somewhat. They were more advanced in some areas than he had given them credit for. They still didn’t have systems comparable to this country’s best BS (Before SENTINEL), but they were headed in the right direction and moving fast. He guessed that it might take fifteen years to reach that biocybernetic breakthrough that had enabled SENTINEL to become a reality. By then, SENTINEL would be uncatchable.

  The two countries had always been engaged in a bitter and desperate race to somewhere. The United States had always managed to stay ahead, by virtue of its significantly more advanced technology. That had been the difference in their making the breakthrough first—that, together with the intelligence of Dr. Elizabeth Ryerson. The Soviets did not have an Elizabeth Ryerson, just as they had not had an Albert Einstein. Yet their potential was far greater, because of the nature of their system. They could actively find and cut budding talent from the pack and direct it in the paths of training and development suited to their needs.

  Bridges’s musings were interrupted by the sudden ring of his phone. One morning soon that phone would ring, and he wouldn’t be there to answer it, he thought to himself.

  He picked up the receiver. “Bridges,” he said.

  “Morning, Ed. This is Elizabeth. Do you have a few minutes?” the voice of Dr. Elizabeth Ryerson rasped out.

  “You sound terrible!” Bridges hardly recognized her voice.

  “Yes, I know. I’m coming down with a case of laryngitis,” she said. “Do you think you could come down to my office for a few minutes? I want to go over that UFF sixteen-point-oh-oh-nineteen underwater sensor system that Warren is working on.”

  “Sure, Beth.”

  “Good. We’ll need to have a meeting with the department heads on the final designs for this thing pretty soon. We have to know what the changeover is going to cost us. How’s the system look?”

  “I tell ya, Beth, we’re getting better results than we hoped for. We still have to make some adjustments in the sensor screens. They’re not one hundred percent yet. When it’s finished, it should be impossible to detect, even while it’s cranking at one-hundred-percent output. It’s a great system,” Bridges said with enthusiasm. The Russians will think so, too, he thought.

  “That sounds good, Ed. Why don’t you and Warren come down to my office in about fifteen minutes. If he thinks he can have all of his reports finished by next Monday, then we’ll have the meeting then. Sound okay?” she asked.

  “Sure thing. I’ll call Warren right now. See you in about fifteen minutes.”

  “Good. Thank you, Ed.”

  “You’re welcome, Beth.” You computerized bitch, he thought to himself as the phone clicked down on the other end. “What that broad needs is a good screw to make her human again,” he muttered.

  He buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

  “Yes, Dr. Bridges,” she said.

  “Pat, would you tell Dr. Geisler to come into my office, please? And tell him to bring whatever he has on the UFF sixteen-point-oh-oh-nineteen tests,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked to his door and opened it. Another busy Monday had begun.

  Robert Morsand sat at his desk leafing through the dossier on Dmitri Chakhovsky. He was duly impressed with what he read.

  He studied the photographs. They showed a smallish man with nearly white hair, specked with strands of its former black. The hair was full and thick, combed back, almost in an American fifties style. The facial features were long and narrow, the nose large for the face and distinctly hooked at the bridge. The eyes were small and close together, deep-set and intense. The mouth was unsmiling, thin lips drawn tightly across the face. None of the pictures showed a smile.

  Morsand looked at some of the details of the dossier more closely.

  AGE: 45

  HEIGHT: 5′ 7″

  WEIGHT: 130 lbs.

  WIDOWER: WIFE, TAMARA, DIED 1966, CANCER. ONE SON, BORIS. KILLED 1976 IN SKIRMISH ALONG SINO-SOVIET BORDER.

  HISTORICAL BACKGROUND: BECAME MEMBER OF KGB, 1954; PRIOR DISTRICT LEADER KOMSOMOL IN UKRAINE; TRAINED AT KARLSHORST, 1954–55; KOCHINO, 1955–57; ASSIGNED WESTERN EUROPEAN INTELLIGENCE DIVISION, 1957; GREATLY IMPRESSED HIS SUPERIORS, WAS RECALLED MOSCOW, 1959, FOR ADVANCED, INTENSIFIED OPERATIONS PLANNING. 1961, APPEARS AS MEMBER FIRST DIRECTORATE OPERATIONAL DIVISION; BELIEVED TO BE CREATOR OF DIVISION D; MASTERMIND OF KGB. REORGANIZATION WESTERN EUROPE, 1967–70; 1971 TO PRESENT, HAS BEEN OBSERVED THROUGHOUT WESTERN EUROPE IN VARIOUS EMBASSY POSITIONS. BELIEVED TO BE FIFTH HIGHEST RANKING INDIVIDUAL IN OPERATIONAL DIVISION OF THE FIRST DIRECTORATE, WATCH DOGGING THE WESTERN EUROPEAN OPERATIONS, WHICH HE ESTABLISHED.

  Morsand read the psychological profile. The man was a rock. Why would they want to kill him? What in the hell could he have done, he wondered.

  He packed the information into an attaché case and left the office for the home of his good friend, Maurice Picou. There, he would enjoy an outstanding dinner, a satisfying pipe, and some exceptional wine. At 9:30 p.m., Dmitri Chakhovsky would call him there.

  Later that evening, Morsand was sitting alone by the phone, smoking his pipe and thinking about Chakhovsky’s call. He thought about how, in the movies, the phone always rang at the right time or the nearest clock always seemed to be in sync with the timing device on the bomb. Everyone would watch with baited breath as the seconds ticked off, the hero working frantically to defuse the device. Ten, nine, eight—which wire do I cut? Seven, six, five—the red or the blue? Four, three, two—snip. Saved the day.

  What if the clock were wrong? BOOM!

  BRRRING!

  The phone startled the hell out of him. He looked at his watch. 9:27. Not even close. No cigar.

  BRRRING!

  He picked it up. “Hello, Morsand here,” he said.

  “Hello, this is Dmitri Chakhovsky.” The voice sounded much better than it had the first time they spoke.

  “Is it safe to meet yet?” Morsand asked.

  “No, not yet. I am quite safe where I am now. I doubt they have begun looking for me yet. I would guess they will realize that I am missing by tomorrow at this time. Possibly, the next morning, if luck is with me,” Chakhovsky said.

  “They already know you’re missing,” Morsand said. “And they’re looking hard.”

  Chakhovsky was stunned. He had moved just in time. Even a day’s delay would have meant the end.

  “We’ll want you in one of our safe houses as soon as possible, so that we can protect you until it’s safe to make our move,” Morsand told him. “It’s a little different when you’re being hunted by kill teams. We’ll have to find out as much as we can about how much they know before we make the try. Maybe by Thursday or Friday, if things go well,” he said.

  “Four days! That is a long time,” Chakhovsky said.

  “It is. But every second of it is important. One mistake, and you’ll be a dead man. Trust me when I say that we know what we’re doing. We get more practice at this sort of thing than you do,” Morsand said.

  “I want you to call me at this number again at the same time tomorrow. Then we’ll get you into that safe house. They won’t get near you there.”

  “Yes, I will call tomorrow at the sa
me time,” Chakhovsky said. “Thank you…thank you.” The phone went dead.

  Morsand had established the upper hand quickly. Chakhovsky would do as he was told now. Defection is a rough business. The guys losing the goods play mean and play for keeps. More than one attempt had gone bad in the past, and Chakhovsky’s complete cooperation was required.

  Morsand was going to be careful on this one. CIA Director Shyleur Platt had made it clear that it was his job to get it done. And he was going to do just that.

  Under cover of darkness, Justin and Fanning carefully scanned the grounds one more time. Then they slid off into the night, as slowly and quietly as they had come. They left the ground sensors carefully concealed, as per SENTINEL Control’s instructions.

  They had been in the house for twenty-four hours. Every room was painstakingly searched and left as it had been found. They had not found a trace of the journal. Justin was convinced that the assassin had taken it with him after killing Spartan.

  They drove to Brighton Field and took off for Chicago, giving complete verbal reports to SENTINEL Control as they flew back. Their final conclusion was that the journal was not in the house. By late Tuesday afternoon, they were on their separate ways home.

  Irwin Honeycut sat behind his large, plush desk, poring over the pages of the report that Pilgrim and Badger had turned in. He didn’t like it.

  The information was in that house, and he knew it. If only Scotland Yard weren’t involved, he thought. Then he could get a whole Division Two team in there. They’d find it. It had to be there. There were no two ways about it—they had just missed it. Twice.

  Division Two had confirmed that the original journal had been burned, from the analysis of the ashes found in the fireplace. They were also sure that Spartan had translated it. The ashes yielded proof of this. But where did he put it, and how long before he was killed did he have to hide it?

  Honeycut knew more about the information than he had told the President or Pilgrim and Badger. He knew that it had to be found. It was a dangerous document that had to be recovered and analyzed by SENTINEL. It was important to learn exactly what it said and what had to be done about it. A lot was at stake, possibly the safety of millions and millions of people. It was Honeycut’s intent, as well as SENTINEL’s, to keep those people safe and to protect the security of the country, which ultimately ensured the security of the world. In the wrong hands, that information could put the world on a path toward an incredible power struggle, one that would lay waste to continents and slaughter millions of innocent and helpless people. That had to be avoided.