by A. W. Mykel
“But he is guilty,” Trushenko began. “There can be no doubt of this. It is a matter of record now that—”
“That he is missing, and that you are to blame,” Travkin growled at him. “That is the only matter of record now. And he is missing because of your stupidity and your petty attempt at revenge.
“We have dispatched ten teams to locate him and to stop him. If he succeeds in going over, you will sit in Kutz’s chair in his place. You will be taken to within an inch of your life and then you will be shot.”
The sweat rolled down Trushenko’s face, and he shook uncontrollably. “I…I knew nothing of an intelligence operation. I…I—”
“You know nothing, period. You are a stupid fool,” Travkin said.
“But the charges?” Trushenko mumbled feebly.
“They mean nothing in the face of what you have created. Chakhovsky must now be stopped. Regardless of the outcome, your future is ended. Your only chance of remaining alive is if he is stopped. And even then, you may still regret the life that awaits you.” Travkin pushed the intercom button on his desk.
Three guards entered the office. Trushenko turned in his chair. He wanted to throw up.
“Take him away. Hold him in close security until further notice. That is all,” Travkin said gruffly. He picked up the reports of the charges and began leafing through them. He did not look at Trushenko, as he was led from the office. He did not see the words on the sheets before him. He could only see Alexi Kuradin—Centaur—unaware of what had happened and what it could mean. Unaware of how tenuous his situation had just become, indeed, how grave it could become for Russia, herself, if Chakhovsky were not stopped.
Dmitri Chakhovsky carried a wealth of information in his head. Much of it would be damaging if Chakhovsky succeeded in defecting to the West. But there was one piece which, in the wrong hands, could prove to be fatal for Russia’s future: He knew Alexi Kuradin—and his secret.
It was late Wednesday evening in Chicago when Dr. Edward Bridges’s phone rang in his apartment. He reached it on the second ring.
“Bridges,” he said, tense, anxious.
“Pay phone. Playboy Club. Ten minutes. First booth.” The phone clicked dead.
This was it! The call!
He lived only minutes’ walking distance from the Playboy Club. He hurriedly put on his coat and rushed out of the apartment. He checked his watch. 9:33. The voice said ten minutes.
His heart pounded as he left his building and walked quickly up the street. This was real. It was going to happen, just as he’d planned. He checked his watch again and increased his pace.
Minutes later he was walking into the Playboy Club. He looked at his watch. It was 9:42. He hurried to the phones. There were three on the wall. “First booth.” From which side, right or left?
A man was on the phone to the far right. Oh, God, let it be left.
BRRRING!
He leaped for the phone on the left. He waited for a second ring.
BRRRING!
“Yes,” he said, picking it up. He was nearly out of breath. His heart pounded in his ears so loudly that he was sure he would be unable to hear. “This is Bridges,” he said, pressing the phone hard against his ear.
“Hello, Dr. Bridges. How are you today?” a calm, low voice asked.
“Fi…fine.” He swallowed dryly. His legs began to shake nervously. “Fine, I’m fine.”
“That’s good, Dr. Bridges,” the voice said. “Can you have your information ready by Friday night? Answer yes or no.”
“Ye…yes. No problem,” he said.
“Only yes or no, Dr. Bridges,” the voice insisted.
“Yes.”
“That’s good. You will have it ready by Friday evening then. You will drive to South Beloit. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Good. There is a Holiday Inn in South Beloit at the intersection of US Fifty-one and Seventy-five, off I-Ninety. Is that clear so far? Do you think that you could find it?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, Dr. Bridges. You will take a room there in your own name. Do not use your telephone to make the reservations. Make them for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings. Do you have all that?”
“Yes, three nights.”
“Yes, or no, Dr. Bridges. Only yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“You will be contacted there.” The phone clicked dead.
“Wait a minute. When? Which day?” He looked around to see if anyone had heard.
Nobody. Good, nobody was watching him. He hung up the phone. It was going to happen. Friday was his last day!
Oh God, he was happy—and he was scared. He needed a drink. He left the Playboy Club and almost ran home.
He poured himself a tall scotch, dropped in some ice cubes, and took a long pull on it. Whew! That was better. He had to think.
The false trail. He had to leave a false trail for SENTINEL to chase. Saturday. They’d probably contact him on Saturday, he thought. Good. Good. His mind was racing. The reservations. Got to make the reservations. He picked up the phone.
No, you jerk, he thought. Don’t use your phone. Remember what he told you? Pay phone. Downstairs in the lobby. There’s a pay phone down there.
He put down his drink and raced out of the apartment again.
As he entered the lobby, he began to settle himself. His brain slowed down, and he began to collect his thoughts. Now let’s take first things first, he thought. The false trail, that was important. His mind moved slowly, deliberately. He picked up the phone book and went to the yellow pages.
He threw two dimes into the phone, got the dial tone, and dialed the toll-free number. The dimes shot back.
It rang several times.
“Thank you for calling Avis. We feature Chrysler products. This is Donna. Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to rent a car. For Friday night in Chicago, to be picked up at O’Hare.”
“Yes, sir. At O’Hare, Friday evening. Is that this Friday, sir?”
“Yes, this Friday.”
“Okay, and what type of car would you like?”
“Uh…something full size, I guess.”
“Full size,” she repeated as she punched the information into the computer. The sounds were just barely audible in the background.
“And what time will you be picking it up in Chicago?” she asked.
“What time…uh…about seven. It might be a little after, I can’t be sure.”
“What is your flight number?” she asked.
“Uh…I don’t…why do you need my flight number?” he asked.
“That’s so that we can hold your car for you in case your flight is delayed for any reason. Do you know the flight number?”
“Um…uh, no, I don’t, I’m afraid. If it’s important that you have it, I could…”
“No, it’s not essential. What city will you be flying in from?”
He thought for a moment. “New York.”
“That’s sufficient. I’ll need your name and Avis Wizzard Number, if you have one.”
“No, I don’t have a Wizzard Number. My name is Edward Bridges.”
“Okay, Mr. Bridges, can I have a company or home address?”
“Yeah, uh…it’s the…Chemtech Corporation, on Madison Avenue, New York City,” he invented.
“Do you have a phone number where you can be reached?”
“Yes, I do…it’s…” He looked at the number on the pay phone. “It’s seven-nine-one-three-two-four-two.”
“New York, that’s area code two-one-two, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Will you be returning the car to O’Hare?”
“Yes, on Monday morning.” From Moscow, he thought.
“Will you be paying with an Avis credit card or some other major credit card?”
“No, I’ll be paying cash.”
“Okay, Mr. Bridges, you’ve been confirmed for a full-sized car in Chicago, to
be picked up at O’Hare on Friday. Can I help you with any other reservations?”
“No, that’s all. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for calling Avis.”
Bridges hung up the phone. He threw the dimes back in. He dialed information and got the number of the Holiday Inn in South Beloit.
He dialed the number, adding the 815 area code. There was a ring. The dimes shot back once again.
“Please insert seventy-five cents for the first three minutes.”
Bridges dug into his pockets. With the twenty cents that the operator had just returned before coming on, he had exactly the right amount. He dropped in the change, the various bongs, clinks, and clangs sounding in his ears as the coins dropped.
The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang.
“South Beloit Holiday Inn. Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to make—”
“Please hold one second.” The operator was gone.
“Hey…” he began to protest.
He shook his head and waited for the operator to come back on. He drummed his fingers and began to congratulate himself for his quick thinking in setting up his decoy. It would really put a monkey wrench into the works.
The waiting continued. He began to become concerned because he didn’t have any more change. He looked at his watch and tried to estimate the time he had spent waiting.
“Thank you for holding,” the young voice said.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’d like to make reservations for this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.”
“I’ll connect you with reservations.”
Ah shit! He was getting pissed now. It would be Saturday before he got the reservations made at the rate he was going here.
He was waiting again. He looked at his watch. The three minutes were almost up. The operator would be back on asking for more money any second now.
“Reservations. Thank you for calling Holiday Inn. This is Tom. May I help you?”
“Yeah,” he said a little bitingly. “I’d like to make reservations for this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights.”
The connection broke for a brief instant as the coins dropped all at once. Time was up. The operator did not cut in.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end said at the interruption.
“Yes, I’m here,” Bridges said.
“Okay, this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Can I have the name, please?”
He said in your own name! “Bridges. Edward Bridges.”
“Will it be a late arrival? After six, sir?”
“Yes, it will be.”
“We can guarantee that for you then. Can I have the name of your company or a home address?”
“Sure, it’s the Chemtech Corporation, eleven hundred LaSalle Street in Chicago,” he lied.
“Is there a home or business phone where you can be reached?”
“Yeah, it’s area code three-one-two, seven-nine-one-three-two-four-two,” he said, again giving the number of the phone he was calling from.
“Thank you, Mr. Bridges. You’re all set for this Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings. You have a guaranteed late arrival. Thank you for calling Holiday Inn.”
“You’re welcome,” he returned, then hung up the phone.
All set! All he had to do now was go into Alpha on Friday and take out his information. That part would be a breeze.
He had gotten up and left the phone booth, and was heading back to his apartment for a few drinks to celebrate his imminent good fortune, when the phone in the booth began to ring. He stopped and turned.
The phone rang and rang and rang.
A smile crossed his face. “So sue me,” he chuckled and walked back to his apartment. It wasn’t every day you got to beat the phone company.
Cold is cold, and March had been brutal in Chicago, but Reykjavik was ridiculous. Justin and Fanning had been met at the airport by the third passenger, a man code-named Striker. They accompanied him to a fairly large block structure just below ground level. A narrow flight of stairs led down to it.
“Jesus Christ, is it always this cold up here?” Justin asked, his mouth stiff from the numbing cold.
Striker smiled. “It’s almost spring here. The winters are much worse.”
Justin shook his head. “Colder than this, huh? No wonder they call it Iceland.” He blew his warm breath into cold fists.
The room looked like a bunker. It had paneled walls and was warm and well-furnished. A large bulletin board with numerous photographs pinned to it was situated along one wall.
Striker poured his visitors some rich hot chocolate. After a few minutes of defrosting, the three men got down to business.
Striker pointed to the first photograph.
“As you know from the dossiers that you’ve studied, this man is Dmitri Chakhovsky. The man next to him is Boris Fadeikin. He’s the man calling the shots in the search for Chakhovsky. Fadeikin is a clever man, and you can be sure that he’s got plenty of tricks up his sleeve.
“We’re not sure how many teams Fadeikin has out for him. We know of at least six. Control estimates ten to twelve. The Soviets are the unknown variable that we have to watch out for. They could blow it all on us.”
Striker pointed to the next picture. “This is Morsand. The man standing beside him is Bud Kodek, his number-one boy. Kodek will be running the operation for Morsand. The plan is very simple and straightforward, as you’ll see.”
He moved on to the next series of pictures.
“This is the safe house that Chakhovsky is in. They’ll be taking him out on Friday. The plan calls for a one o’clock go, but Morsand is known to move earlier than the plan states. My guess is that they’ll go about eleven.
“These pictures here are satellite close-ups of the entire perimeter that Morsand will be protecting. As you can see, it covers the entire block and all of the buildings facing the safe house. Our attention focuses here,” Striker said, pointing to the back of the safe house. There was a small courtyard behind the building, which was shared by the two buildings at either side of the subject building and the one directly behind it. It made a neat little rectangle bordered by the four buildings.
“The front of the building is too well covered to allow any chance of escape. That area would become a small battlefield in just seconds if it was tried. The weak spot is in the back, through the courtyard,” Striker indicated.
“Looks like a death trap to me,” Fanning said.
“It’s not, really,” Striker commented. “Morsand’s plan here calls for two agents in the courtyard to watch the back exit. There should be a radio man, too. But what the plan doesn’t call for, and I’m certain will be there, is a sniper. Right here,” he said, touching the roof of the building at the rear of the courtyard.
“How can you be certain that he’ll be there and not a different location?” Justin asked.
“Look at the rooftops,” Striker told him.
Justin looked. “So?”
Striker pointed to the one that he had indicated, smiled, and said, “It’s flat. So is the one that’s on the right, where the radio man will be. The others are peaked in typical old French style. Do you know how many flat-roofed buildings there are in that part of Paris?” he asked.
They shrugged.
“There aren’t a hell of a lot. That’s why this place was chosen as a safe house. It’s ideal to defend. From that rooftop, a sniper can command full advantage of the entire back of the safe house, the courtyard, and the street behind him, just by moving across the roof. One man can do the work of five.”
“Just like I said, it’s a death trap,” Fanning repeated. “There’s no getting out that way with that sniper there.”
Striker smiled again. “He won’t be there when you’re ready to come out. I’ll see to that. From here,” he said, touching a spot on a larger photograph showing a field of view covering many city blocks.
The two men looked at the spot.
“Th
at’s pretty far away,” Justin said.
“It’s not, really. It’s only four hundred yards. That’s a bell tower standing about thirty feet higher than the roof in question. It’s a simple shot, actually,” Striker said.
“That’s no simple shot, friend,” Fanning said.
“For me it is,” Striker returned.
“What if he’s not on that rooftop?” Fanning asked. “What if he’s in one of the windows of that building?”
“He won’t be. He wouldn’t be able to cover the street behind him effectively. That part of the perimeter must also be secured,” Striker explained.
“But what if he is in a window?” Fanning pushed. “You’ll never be able to get him.”
“If he is in a window, then you will have been right before—that courtyard will be a death trap. But he will be there,” Striker said confidently.
“Yeah, well even if he is there, four hundred yards is a long way to shoot. We’ll be just as dead if you miss. I don’t like it through the courtyard,” Justin said.
“Like it or not, it’s the only way out of that perimeter,” Striker said.
Justin shook his head, as Fanning frowned pessimistically.
“He’ll never hear the shot that kills him,” Striker said. “Neither will the radio man. After the two by the back door are taken out, you’ll be able to beat it across the courtyard and between the buildings to the street at the rear of the perimeter. That’s where the pickup will be made. One of you will drive the car. The other gets Chakhovsky. Getting two of you into that building would be next to impossible. One of you has a good chance.”
Fanning pulled out a quarter. “To see who drives. Winner gets the car. Call it!”
He flipped the coin upward.
“Heads,” Justin called.
The coin hit the carpeted floor and bounced. It came up tails.
Fanning smiled and shrugged. “Some days are better than others.”
“Thanks a lot,” Justin said.
Striker walked back across the room to a long, neatly kept workbench. On it was a stand supporting an odd-looking rifle. The two men followed him and regarded the weapon curiously.