The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  The car had been quietly checked out, as Kuradin slept the night before. Not too much turned up. Kuradin had carefully wiped away any traces of Ten Braak in the car. A few fibers had been found, but these wouldn’t be sent into the lab until the clothes on Fromme could be checked. That meant the following day.

  One important mistake had been made by Division Two, however. The portable transmission unit by which they could send in fingerprint patterns had been taken back by the main party. That meant the loss of a day in checking out Fromme’s prints. A very costly day.

  Visiting hours were nearly over at Beloit General Hospital when Dr. Awadi came walking into Kuradin’s room. This meeting was unscheduled. Awadi was in obvious distress.

  Fortunately for Awadi, Kuradin’s roommate was out in the solarium with his wife. Awadi closed the door and began a nervous rattle of words, which Kuradin could not understand through the accent.

  “Wait a minute, slow down,” Kuradin said. “Now start from the beginning.”

  “The lab. It has been knocked out,” Awadi said, his accent still distinctly hard to understand. “We can’t get the film processed. The one in Milwaukee is out, too. What are we going to do?” He was nervous and flustered. Too nervous, Kuradin thought. That was one of the problems with using sleeper agents. There was little to go on with regard to their performance under stress. There was no history to go over in selecting them. Awadi was border line; the slightest pressure would break him wide open.

  Kuradin thought calmly. Both labs out. He hadn’t anticipated that one. It was a good chance that if those labs were out, so were others. What to do?

  He was in a position he had wanted to avoid. In chess it is called loss of tempo, or giving up the advantage of being one move ahead. But, as in chess, it is possible to regain the tempo. But how? He carefully considered his problem.

  “Can you get access to the dark room in this hospital?” Kuradin asked finally.

  “Yes, but I don’t know how to develop film,” Awadi said. “It would be useless for me to even attempt it.”

  “I don’t want you to develop it,” Kuradin said. “I want you to remove it from the cartridge and prepare it for implantation into my scalp, just as you were to do with the microdots. We’ll have to make it as small as possible and put it into a protective container of some kind. Can you do this?” he asked the bewildered Indian.

  Awadi checked Kuradin’s scalp around the lower region of the head, where the hair was still thick. “Yes, it can be done if the film and its container are small enough. It wouldn’t even show, except for maybe a small scab for a few days. But, if it is not small enough…” The Indian began to pace as he thought. He took a stick of gum from his pocket, nervously unwrapped it, and threw it into his mouth. He discarded the balled-up wrapper.

  Yes, that’s it! Kuradin thought, looking at the balled-up wrapper—the foil.

  “Use aluminum foil to encase the tightly rolled film. It should be small enough,” Kuradin said.

  “Foil alone might not be enough to protect the film,” the Indian added.

  “You could be right,” Kuradin mumbled and thought frantically. “There must be more, something else with it.”

  “Of course, in the dental laboratory,” the Indian said suddenly. “The foil ball could be encased in the amalgam used for frontal fillings. It would provide a perfect protective barrier.”

  “Excellent!” Kuradin said. “Can you prepare the film tonight, to implant it in the morning?”

  “Yes. The dental lab is closed in the evening. I could get in easily and take the materials I will need. It could be ready by morning,” the Indian said.

  A moment later Awadi was on his way to the dark room, to prepare the foil capsule.

  The plan would not be thrown too far off, Kuradin thought. The implantation of the microdots was to have been his failsafe contingency, should he be killed or succumb unsuspectedly to his condition before returning to Russia. Travkin was aware of this. All attempts would be made to recover his body should that happen. Even his death could not stop the plan.

  Almost as quickly as it had been lost, the tempo was regained. Only one slight modification would have to be made to account for Awadi’s weakness.

  TWENTY-SIX

  A Vorsitzende (chairman) was appointed to each of the steering centers, and a code name was assigned to that chairmanship. The code name stayed with the responsibilities, even if the person changed.

  In Argentina there was Shaman, Titus in Spain, Colorosa in the United States, Constantine in South Africa, and Falke in Germany.

  The first steering center to drop out of our consideration was Germany. Falke had divulged certain facts of Raptor to close friends and members of Odessa. Falke, along with those people he had told, was neutralized by an action group of Raptor.

  It was decided to drop Germany from the list, because of the presence of so many old Nazis and Odessa activities.

  Entry No. 42 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  New York City had become the center of the search zone for Otto Ten Braak. The information picked up from Moscow indicated that he was to make contact there on Tuesday with a known agent.

  The easy way would have been to trail the contact to the meeting, then nab them both. But it was possible that no meeting was scheduled to take place, that the information was to be dead-dropped to the contact. Either way, it was essential that they find Ten Braak as quickly as possible, to get him while he still carried film—if he was carrying it, as SENTINEL projected.

  The fact that Ten Braak was in New York already had been received with great interest. SENTINEL, while monitoring all police frequencies nationwide, had picked up the news of the spider’s body being found. The method of kill confirmed that it was Ten Braak who had done it. The New Jersey State Police had labeled it a murder/hijacking. That told SENTINEL how Ten Braak had gotten to New York from Wisconsin.

  Three SENTINEL teams had been dispatched to New York, to assist Justin and Fanning in their search. One team would be assigned to each of the Soviet safe houses determined by SENTINEL as probable refuge for Ten Braak.

  Some of SENTINEL’s manpower problems had been solved when NATO and the CIA acted on the leak from Moscow of Ten Braak’s being in New York. They didn’t know why he was in New York, but had reasons enough of their own to justify taking him or stopping him if they could.

  SENTINEL could monitor the progress of these other agencies and get the closest team on the spot quickly, should they find him first. Once there, they’d step in to stop Ten Braak if it became necessary. All SENTINEL agents had been issued authentic identification credentials of these other agencies involved, as well as FBI identification, to help gain authority if dictated by the situation.

  The search for Ten Braak was beginning to tighten already.

  Regarding the unknown agent, every available SENTINEL operative had been pulled into the United States. Their first task had been to knock out the processing labs used by the Soviets. Once this was done, Division Two personnel were drafted into observing the lab sites. The SENTINEL agents were then dispatched to various parts of the country that SENTINEL had determined probable points of destination for the unknown agent. But a very important clue came in, which gave SENTINEL valuable information. Contact had been attempted at the Madison and Milwaukee labs.

  This told SENTINEL three things. First, the agent had not left the area of the Bridges contact. This was unexpected. Second, the film had not been processed yet. And, third, the agent would probably stay put until an alternative was figured out. All three were vitally important, but the last one was the one that would increase SENTINEL’s odds for success.

  SENTINEL’s theory behind knocking out the processing labs had been to buy time. Its aim was to create confusion and to force the unknown agent to improvise on the set plan. Every decision that SENTINEL could force on the agent increased the chances of finding him.

  The reasoning behind this was sound. The
agent had the advantage of tempo, but the disadvantage of human judgment and error.

  SENTINEL reasoned that, even allowing for a very high intelligence quotient, the best mind may be capable of choosing correctly as often as eighty percent of the time under high-stress circumstances. But being correct eighty percent of the time was, more importantly, being wrong the other twenty. SENTINEL now estimated its probability for success at thirty-five percent, based on the fact of the attempted contact with the processing labs. That was considerable progress, all things considered.

  So, it all narrowed down to two areas of search now, Ten Braak in New York, and the unknown agent somewhere in southern Wisconsin or northern Illinois. SENTINEL teams were reassigned, based on those facts.

  David Fromme again came into consideration.

  Ten Braak had walked into Hackensack after abandoning the truck. He proceeded to the bus terminal on River Street and took a bus into New York City to the Port Authority terminal on Eighth Avenue. From there he took a downtown subway to Fourteenth Street, then boarded a crosstown bus to Third Avenue. He walked the remaining distance south toward his East Village destination.

  He checked into the Paradise Hotel on Third Avenue. This was a run-down flophouse and Soviet safe house not on SENTINEL’s list. He signed the register as Victor Mueller and paid for four days in advance. He took a sixth-floor corner room overlooking Third Avenue.

  It was a flea-bitten place, a single, dreary room with its own small, smelly bathroom off to one corner. It had two windows, one on the Third Avenue side and the other leading to a fire escape facing a side street. This provided him with an emergency escape exit, just in case he should need one. The hallway outside his room was dimly lit in the evening and had a window about fifteen feet past his door. It led to the same fire-escape platform that his window did. He could spray the entire hallway with gunfire from that hallway window by climbing out onto the fire escape. It wasn’t ideal, but it could have been worse.

  He spent the late afternoon planning his defenses and finishing up the sandwiches and beer he had bought on his way to the Paradise. He would not budge from that room until his contact was to be made on Tuesday. All his needs would be provided for him.

  He turned in early that evening, as the search for him concentrated on the Lower East Side. As long as he didn’t show his face, the search for him would be a long and difficult one. And then taking him would be its own special kind of hell.

  The phone in room 115 of the South Beloit Holiday Inn rang. The real David Fromme answered it on the second ring.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Mr. David Fromme?” the soft voice inquired.

  “Yes, this is David Fromme,” he answered. He waited through the silence. “Who is this?” he asked.

  There was only silence.

  “Who is this?” he asked again.

  The phone clicked. The connection had been broken.

  The crystal intellect began racing. Something was wrong! That was not the same voice that had spoken as David Fromme when interviewed by Pilgrim and Badger the day before. The voice print was completely wrong.

  This was clever and unexpected. The second agent had never even left the scene. An imposter had now taken his place.

  The phone rang again.

  “Yes,” Fromme answered.

  “Pay phone, lobby,” came the response. It was a different voice than a moment ago.

  The phone clicked dead before Fromme could say anything.

  He went immediately to the lobby. He was observed by Division Two. It was now confirmed—this was not the same David Fromme that had left earlier that morning in the same blue Dodge Monaco.

  He went to the pay phones and waited.

  A second man entered the lobby and took a seat with a clear view to the phone. He took a pen out of his pocket and rested the hand holding it on the knee of his crossed right leg. He sat looking down at the partially completed crossword puzzle of his newspaper. The pen pointed directly to the phone.

  The center phone rang.

  Fromme picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear. “Yes,” he spoke into it.

  “This is Phoenix. I have instructions for you,” Kuradin said.

  “Wait,” Fromme said. “How many times did you call me?” he asked.

  “Once,” Kuradin answered. His instincts jumped.

  “Somebody called me just moments before you did,” Fromme told Kuradin.

  “What was said?” Kuradin asked.

  “Whoever it was asked for me by name. Then said nothing.”

  “Did you answer?” Kuradin said.

  “Yes,” Fromme replied.

  “What did you say?”

  “Yes, this is David Fromme. Then I asked who it was, twice.”

  Kuradin was silent. This was trouble. He guessed that he had three more minutes of safe conversation before a trace could be made. He thought quickly.

  “Just listen,” Kuradin began. “A slight change in plans has come up. Proceed to point A tomorrow at noon. Cactus Flower will be waiting for you there. You will execute plan Blue. That’s plan Blue, do you understand?”

  Fromme flushed. “No,” he said.

  “Plan Blue,” Kuradin repeated.

  “No, I won’t do that,” Fromme said nervously. “You can’t ask me to do that. I won’t—”

  “You will,” Kuradin interrupted forcefully.

  “Listen, I’ll do anything else you tell me to, but not that. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the—”

  “You’ll do whatever you’re told to do. Or else,” Kuradin threatened.

  “But you’re asking me to—”

  “Do it! Or the next time you see your wife and children will be at their funerals. Is that clear?” Kuradin asked.

  Fromme’s eyes widened in terror. He began to sweat and shake. “You…you wouldn’t do that. You couldn’t. You—”

  “Tomorrow, rendezvous A, noon, plan Blue.” The phone clicked dead.

  The man sitting over his crossword puzzle had heard the entire exchange. The pen aimed at the phone was a powerful miniature sound-scavenger, capable of picking up the slightest sounds at one hundred yards. It was fed into the small flesh-colored earpiece. It was also relayed to SENTINEL.

  Fromme closed his eyes and leaned his damp forehead against the cool metal of the pay phone. He knew they would do what they threatened. He had no choice but to do what he was told. Tomorrow he would have to kill a man known to him only as Cactus Flower. That man was Dr. Kantilal Awadi.

  He hung up the phone and glanced nervously around the lobby. The man with the pen pretended to make some entries into his crossword puzzle.

  Fromme walked out of the lobby on shaking legs. He had never killed a man before. His weak legs carried him back to his room. How could they do that? he wondered. It didn’t seem possible. He was one of their own.

  The man with the paper waited about five minutes, then left, returning to the room that the Division Two team occupied.

  The call was too short to get a trace on it. But SENTINEL had learned five more very important facts: the voice at the other end of the line was the same voice that had spoken to Pilgrim and Badger the day before; his code name was Phoenix; another agent, code-named Cactus Flower, was involved; the plan had been changed, probably as a result of the Madison and Milwaukee labs being knocked out; and Cactus Flower was probably about to be killed.

  It was also obvious that Phoenix would connect the first phone call to trouble. That meant another decision to make. The odds of success were going up rapidly.

  Kuradin broke into a cold sweat. It was going all wrong. The plan was falling apart all around him. The sleeper agents were unreliable; SENTINEL had advanced faster than he imagined it could; and his contingencies were fast going down the drain.

  He thought about the phone call. What could it mean? He wasn’t sure. He pressed his brain hard in search of an answer. Then he had it. A voice print. He hadn’t expected that, either.

&nb
sp; Damn! He had used the phony Phoenix cover too soon in the conversation. A stupid mistake. If SENTINEL was that careful to call Fromme back to check the voice print, it was a good bet that it had listened in on the whole conversation. It knew about Cactus Flower and what was in store for him. It also knew roughly where Kuradin was, or, more importantly, where he wasn’t.

  They’d follow Fromme tomorrow, to try to stop the killing. Then they’d take Awadi and break him wide open. The implant had to be put in tonight.

  He’d have to skip over the next contingency and move to the following one. That meant leaving Beloit two days early. There was no other choice.

  Kuradin headed for the dental lab, where Awadi was just finishing up his work with the tiny film capsule.

  Kuradin was nervous. He knew what had to be done, and it frightened him. He had never killed a man before, either.

  SENTINEL had also learned something much more valuable than the facts from the last few minutes. It had determined more than a speech pattern; a thought pattern was emerging.

  The tempo had been lost!

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Argentina, it had been hoped, would be the site for the birth of the new Reich and the new Fatherland. It is rich in resources, and all of South America possesses very impressive potential.

  But the potential never developed in the years after the war. It is inhabited by a backward people, too prone to corruption and political revolution. It failed to develop industrially and economically as hoped. We poured a fortune into it, trying to help it develop. It will, eventually, but in a time frame outside of our plan.

  Shaman was quietly neutralized, his holdings and organization redistributed to the remaining steering centers.

  Entry No. 46 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  The implant was completed. Awadi dabbed at the tiny, circular wound with a cotton ball soaked with two percent hydrogen peroxide solution.

  He gently brushed the hair over the incision and backed away to look at it. “It looks very good,” Awadi said in his spiked accent. “It will not show.” Awadi had done a most impressive job with encasing the film. Its surface was nearly glass smooth. The implantation had been done neatly, quickly, and with very little pain.