The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  In an instant he had sprung at her, grabbing her by the hair, and had twisted her down onto the floor. Her robe fell almost completely open, held only by a loosely knotted terry-cloth belt.

  “How long did you wait before you ran yourself and your wet panties over to that stiff-pricked dentist of yours? And, go ahead, tell me how you can’t forgive me for not picking up a phone. I had no choice—you did. You can’t forgive me for something I couldn’t help? What about what you did? That’s forgivable? Come on, tell me about waiting and forgiving,” he said, as he twisted her to her back.

  “No, Justin. Please, don’t. You don’t understand what it was like for me,” she said, nearly hysterical. “You were always gone. I never knew where or for how long. And…and, even when you were home, there was a part…a part of you—”

  He yanked on her hair again and tore her robe completely open.

  She was sobbing, frightened.

  “Justin…Justin, no…listen…please, listen to me.” Her voice was trembling, the words rushing out quickly. “There was this side of you…a side that I didn’t know. And it became the bigger part of you. You became distant and indifferent to me. I needed warmth, love, and understanding. Jack was there—”

  He jerked on her hair violently and straddled her, staring menacingly into her eyes. All of his pain, all of his pent-up feelings and anguish were at the surface, all of his frustrations and passions were ready to break loose.

  “I…alwa…always loved you,” she said, tears streaming. “Even when I went to Jack, I loved you, Justin. You never really let me into your life, Justin. There was always a dark side that you kept from me, that was untouchable. You left me so alone, so terribly alone. I had to reach out to save myself. I had to save myself.”

  The anger left his eyes; doubt and confusion remained. A hollow ache filled him again. He saw it all, all the unreal pieces of his life since joining the agency.

  “But you left me nothing,” he said. “You destroyed my pride, my life, and my family. You just took it all and gave it to him. My whole life—my wife, my house, my…my son.”

  My son. And what did I do to save it all? he thought.

  Was she right? Did a dark side of him exist that shut her out of his life? Had he brought it all upon himself? Or…or was it the agency, the profession?

  “Susan, I…I…” He was groping. The thoughts wouldn’t form, the words wouldn’t come. It was all one jumbled, nightmarish kaleidoscope of visions: Susan and Jack fucking, Barbara, Michael waiting, the agency, the killing, and the strange pleasure it gave.

  He stared into her eyes.

  “I love you, Justin,” she sobbed. “Oh, I love you so much.”

  He stretched his body across hers. They were charged with a passion more intense than they had ever known in one another. They became lost in one another’s desperate, urgent desires, oblivious to everything around them. There was no past, no future…just now!

  Justin was tucking in his shirt when the tone in his implant sounded.

  He could not respond verbally, so he forced a long contraction of his eustachian tubes, which run from the throat to the ear.

  BLEEP!

  The tiny microfilament contacts implanted there had sounded a single tonal response, indicating that he was receiving SENTINEL’s transmission but was not alone and could not verbally acknowledge at that time. There was no danger of Susan hearing any of the transmissions, because the communications implant utilized a direct neural link to the auditory system. They could be cheek to cheek, and she wouldn’t hear the slightest sound.

  “Pilgrim, you are needed at once. Can you make Newark airport within the next sixty minutes?” the pleasant voice asked.

  BLEEP! A single tone—affirmative.

  “Tickets will be waiting for you at the United counter. Bring nothing. Everything will be provided. SENTINEL Control out.”

  Justin looked at Susan. She was lying back on the bed, still naked. They had taken their act to the bedroom.

  “I came by to see if it would be all right with you if I kept Michael for an overnight this Saturday. How about it?” Justin asked.

  Susan was roses and honey. She’d have given him anything at that point.

  “Sure, it’s okay. What time will you come for him?” she asked.

  “Oh, about one o’clock, I guess,” he replied.

  “Fine.” She smiled. Then she suddenly remembered something. “Oh, wait a minute. You’ll have to get him back early on Sunday. By…let’s see, um…six thirty. Jack is taking him to the last Ranger home game of the season.” That would leave the two of them alone for hours, she thought.

  A slight twinge shot through Justin’s gut at the mention of Jack’s name.

  He had planned to have dinner for his father Sunday evening. Moving it up to about two in the afternoon would pose no problem.

  “Fine.” He nodded. “Barbara and I are planning to have my father over for dinner on Sunday. We’ll just move it up a little,” he said.

  Barbara. The twinge was in Susan’s gut now. She had forgotten about Barbara. During the last hour, there had been only the two of them. It drove home the point that Justin wasn’t hers anymore. She wanted him more than anything at that moment.

  Justin finished dressing and put on his jacket. He walked out of the bedroom toward the living room.

  Susan jumped up, wrapped her robe around herself, and ran after him. She followed him to the front door.

  He began to open the door when she reached up and closed it. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

  After they parted lips, she looked into his eyes for a long moment. “We’re the same people we were seven years ago, Justin,” she said, referring to the time when they had gotten married and were so much in love.

  Her message was clear. What had happened in the past with Jack, together with the things that had caused it, didn’t really change them. She was the same Susan. He the same Justin. They still loved one another. She wanted him.

  Jack had only been a tool that supplied the things she felt she needed—constancy, warmth, understanding, and sharing. Jack was always there and was really good with Michael—but he was no Justin.

  He let his eyes sweep across the living room and the parts of the house that he could see. He saw so many things: the little china figurines he had given her one Valentine’s Day, the Hummels she had wanted so badly, the pieces of Lennox he had surprised her with two Christmases ago, the tiny handmade glass miniatures on the bookcase, and a hundred other things. They were all memories, happy ones. But only one memory stayed in his mind, the one that hurt so much and supplanted all others—her and Jack.

  He shook his head. “No, Susan. People change. We’ve changed. We’ll never be the same people we were. Changing is a necessary part of our survival.”

  He cupped her chin in his hand and gently touched his lips to hers. He opened the door and left.

  She watched with moistening eyes as he walked away. It was then that she realized she could never remember seeing him look back when he walked away. Her eyes flooded—she would never have him again.

  Justin swallowed to relieve the pressure in his ears as the plane descended on its approach into O’Hare. He thought about what Susan had said and about changing. In some ways, what she had said was true. Certain things in people never changed. With Susan, for instance, there would always be another Jack as soon as she got to feeling lonely and neglected again. Justin was filling that role for her now, just as Jack had before. And he knew that he would probably be half mystery to anyone who got close to him, half white, half black. Nobody would ever know both sides.

  Somewhere he had let his life cave in on him. Parts of it could never be salvaged—but some parts still could, if he was careful to avoid the same mistakes. It was still possible to find happiness, to build a life with Barbara. But one important step had to be taken or they would never stand a chance. He had to leave the agency—at once, before it swallowed him completely.
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  He would give them this mission as his last; he owed them that much notice. But there would be no more after this. He would tell Pegasus today.

  He felt good about his decision. He also felt nervous about telling Pegasus. But his own life was more important than the agency. He could pull himself together and start building a life for himself and Barbara. He could also be a better father to Michael.

  He was getting out now—if they would let him.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” Honeycut’s voice began. “We have another little job for you. Paris, this time. You could expect to be back by Friday evening.”

  Justin breathed a relieved sigh. He didn’t want to stand up his son again.

  “You’ll be going after a Soviet defector by the name of Dmitri Chakhovsky. There will be copies of his dossier on the plane for you. The CIA is now holding him in a safe house and is trying for a move on Friday. Robert Morsand is in charge of the operation. You’ll find a dossier on him, as well. There are also floor plans of the safe house that Chakhovsky is being held in. The CIA time schedule is available to you, as well as the names and photographs of all of Morsand’s men who are involved in the operation, with their specialties noted.

  “You will also find an envelope containing photographs and dossiers on the Soviet personnel known to be engaged in the hunt for Chakhovsky. They will use every effort to stop him. We don’t have the identities of all of the hunt squads out for him, so be careful. They’re very efficient. You can bet that their best have been called in for this one.”

  The two men listened, as Honeycut filled them in on the rest of the details, including why Chakhovsky was wanted by the Soviets and why he must not be allowed to be taken by the CIA. They were to use any means necessary to get him, or to kill him if the situation looked impossible.

  “Our objective is to make each side think that the other has him. You’ll be in the middle, so protect yourselves. We want Chakhovsky in our hands—or he is to be stopped. Consider those orders as coming directly from the White House. You are to use any means possible. You have complete freedom.

  “The Lear is at Meigs, fueled and ready. You will make a stop in Reykjavik to pick up another passenger. SENTINEL Control will give you the details on your flight over. Are there any questions?”

  Justin thought about telling Pegasus about his intended resignation, but somehow it didn’t seem right to bring it up now. An important mission like this, the stalker, everything that had happened—it would make it seem like he wanted out for all the wrong reasons.

  He decided to wait until after the mission.

  “I have one more bit of news for you, gentlemen,” Honeycut announced. “We’ve identified Spartan’s assassin. He’s in Madrid under close surveillance. A team has been dispatched for him. You need not be concerned about him further.”

  A wave of relief shot through Justin. The stalker was gone. Their theory was probably right. He must have followed Spartan back and killed him, then beat it straight back to Madrid with the information.

  “What about the journal?” Justin asked.

  “Nothing, yet. We’re following up on your theory, as well as waiting for one more try at Spartan’s house. We’ll be sending an entire Division Two team in by week’s end. It’s not as important right now as what you have to do, though. You’ll get complete backup and supportive effort from our agents in the Paris area. SENTINEL Control will coordinate their efforts to yours as needed.

  “Are there any last questions?” Both men remained silent.

  “Good luck, then, gentlemen. Bring him home.”

  “You can count on it,” Justin said.

  The phone box clicked off.

  Fanning took out two of his fine cigars and tossed one to Justin. “No place like Paris in the spring,” Fanning mused.

  An hour later, the Lear was roaring down the runway at Meigs Field. They were Reykjavik bound. Fanning was whistling again. This time it was “April in Paris.”

  THIRTEEN

  The German High Command issued orders to hold all captured Russian territories at all costs. Despite the immense hardships, our magnificent troops held, and the poorly coordinated Russian offensive was stopped.

  Another German push was started with the coming of warmer weather, but we found the resistance stubborn and more tenacious than in our initial drive of a year earlier. It cost us our most valuable possession, one we could not well afford to lose—time. Another deadly winter set in, and with it came a second relentless Russian offensive. In February of 1943 our 6th Army consisting of over 300,000 men was totally annihilated at the gates of Stalingrad.

  Entry No. 22 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  Late afternoon, Moscow: Vasily Trushenko stood before the desk of an angered Leonid Travkin. The official versions of the Bodonov confessions had only just reached his desk. Travkin’s face was crimson. His hands trembled with rage. He tried desperately to remain calm and in control. He wanted to reach out to wring Trushenko’s neck.

  Trushenko was calm and sure of himself. He had it all in black and white, and Chakhovsky had cemented his guilt by running. It was perfect.

  Travkin stared long and hard at Trushenko. The obvious triumphant demeanor only made Travkin angrier. It had been an out-and-out revenge tactic that could well blow the whole plan for Alexi Kuradin. The plan had already started. Kuradin was gone, he could not be reached with the news of Chakhovsky’s disappearance. It would not be possible for Kuradin to learn of this until it was too late. Centaur had to continue, or lose the chance to get the information.

  “Do you have any idea what you have done?” Travkin asked in a controlled voice.

  Trushenko wasn’t going to be pushed around. He had waited too long to nail Chakhovsky. He didn’t care whose favorite son he was. “I have exposed a criminal of the state, a man whose perverted sexual crimes have made him a serious security risk to this country. He is the worst kind of criminal to inhabit the earth—a pedophile—a deviate of the worst and lowest degree.”

  “That remains to be proven,” Travkin said. “But that is not what I refer to. Continue, please. Enlighten me as to your act of patriotism,” he said acidly.

  Trushenko thought for a moment. “I…I am not sure I know what you mean. I have gathered conclusive evidence that he is guilty of th—”

  “Where is he?” Travkin roared out, slamming a hamlike fist to his desk. “Where is your criminal?”

  Trushenko refused to be bullied. He had irrefutable proof of his charges. “He has gone into hiding. It should serve as an open admission to his—”

  “Where is he hiding?” Travkin interrupted loudly.

  Trushenko stared into Travkin’s eyes. “I don’t know. But we are searching for him now. It is only a matter of time until he is found.” His stare was even and cool. He refused to show even the slightest signs of trepidation.

  “You don’t know,” Travkin echoed back at him. “And why has he gone into hiding?”

  “Because he is obviously guilty of the charges brought against him. He chose to run rather than face certain conviction for his crimes,” Trushenko answered coolly.

  “He chose to run.” Travkin frowned. “When were the charges officially filed?” he asked.

  “They were submitted two days ago, officially reviewed and filed yesterday,” Trushenko replied.

  “And when was Chakhovsky discovered missing?”

  “Two days ago,” Trushenko answered.

  “Two days ago. In fact, before the charges were officially filed through your office. Who discovered his absence?” Travkin was getting closer to his point. His tone became calmer, more confident.

  Trushenko noted the change in the tone. He knew what Travkin was coming to, but it wouldn’t change the fact of Chakhovsky’s guilt. There was no escape for Chakhovsky. “A team from the Individual Division was dispatched to locate and observe his movements. It was they who determined that he was not in the south of France as he was supposed to be.
”

  “That means that he was actually missing two days earlier than was reported—or could have been missing two days earlier, does it not?” Travkin was about to pounce.

  “It could mean that,” Trushenko said, not willing to openly concede the possibility.

  “You dispatched a surveillance team before the charges were officially presented,” Travkin continued.

  “That is correct. It was entirely within my power to do so. It was only an observation team, not one sent to secure him for return to the Soviet Union. I did not go beyond my authority in doing this. I need no higher approval to send out a surveillance team. It was their purpose to watch him and to report on his movements until the charges could be officially reviewed by your office and his return requested.” Trushenko had been careful to stay within his authority. He was safe. “I have done nothing wrong,” he insisted.

  “I will tell you what you have managed to accomplish,” Travkin began. “You have single-handedly jeopardized the most important intelligence operation that this country has ever undertaken. You have done that.

  “You have sent one of our most important intelligence officers into hiding and have pushed him into attempted defection.”

  Trushenko became flushed. What intelligence operation? He didn’t know what Travkin was referring to.

  “You have jeopardized our entire Western European intelligence system. And you have put your existence on the line,” Travkin hammered.

  Trushenko was shaken. His face turned crimson, his confidence sagged, his legs grew suddenly weak. He sat down. His face began to drain of color, like a thermometer suddenly thrust into a freezer. His life on the line?

  “If Chakhovsky successfully defects, you will have put the Soviet Union on the brink of a war it may not survive.

  “Dmitri Chakhovsky is not an ordinary Soviet citizen of small consequence. You did overstep your authority by initiating an investigation of him before submitting proposed charges to this office,” Travkin dug into him.

  “Did you think that a man of his power and influence was without friends? He knew what you were doing every step of the way. You let him plan carefully for his escape by not informing us of your proposed charges and investigation. We would have recalled him and detained him in Moscow before the investigation, to prevent his running. He would have then been presented with the charges here in Moscow while in our custody.”