The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  Kuradin gently moved his fingers over the small lump. It felt much smaller to the touch than he imagined it would. The actual size of the little capsule was only about one-eighth of an inch in diameter. It could be felt but hardly seen, even if the head were to be completely shaven.

  Awadi gave it one last inspection. He was satisfied with his work.

  Kuradin climbed off the small examination table in the closed clinic. A wave of nervousness began to roll through him. It was now time to finish the evening’s scheduled work.

  “You must help me with one more thing, now,” Kuradin began. “A message has been dropped for me in the morgue. I’ll need your help in finding it,” he lied.

  “Now?” Awadi asked. It was nearly 1:00 a.m.

  “There may be too much activity in that area of the hospital to do it safely tomorrow. There is also the possibility that someone may discover it accidentally before we get to it.”

  Awadi nodded. “Yes, but you had better get your clothes on. I can tell the attendant that you are here to identify a relative.”

  The Russian returned to his room and dressed quickly. Then they made their way to the basement level, where the morgue was located.

  The entire hospital was on reduced night staff, and the hallway lighting had been dimmed, in an effort to conserve energy. The basement hallway leading to the morgue and autopsy room was very dark, much darker than the rest of the hospital. Perhaps it was the foreknowledge of what was about to happen, or the fact that that area of the hospital was reserved for the dead, but to Kuradin the sounds of their footsteps seemed to bounce off the cold walls in haunting echoes. It was an uncomfortable place for the living, and Kuradin was growing nervous about his next task.

  Kuradin perspired nervously as he watched Awadi. This man was living out the last moments of his life. Kuradin knew from the dossier that Awadi was married and had two children. He would never see, hold, touch, or kiss them again. Every step he took was one closer to his last. Kuradin wondered how many steps a man took in his lifetime or how far he walked. Does he ever realize which step is his last? Or which blink, or meal, or kiss ends the accumulated total in his life?

  Kuradin thought of his own family. He wondered if he would ever see them again, or whether he was himself on the way to sharing a similar fate as Awadi. How many steps were left in his life? he wondered. Who would walk with him to his death?

  They reached the morgue and found the attendant’s desk empty. Awadi shaded his eyes and peered into the corpse room through the observation window. The lights were out in there, and the room was empty, except for the dead.

  “Where is the attendant?” Kuradin asked.

  “I don’t know,” Awadi replied.

  “Let’s go quickly, before he returns,” Kuradin urged.

  They entered the dark corpse room through the heavy metal doors. The dim light from the hallway poured weakly through the observation window, casting an eerie blue-gray light across the doors of the vaults.

  There were three rows of six compartments each—a sobering sight. This was where all life ended up sooner or later, like a piece of meat in a refrigerator.

  “Where is it?” Awadi whispered.

  “Second vault from the end, second row,” Kuradin answered.

  Awadi walked over to the second vault from the closest end. He opened it and pulled the slab partway out. There was a small corpse on it in a white tie-sheet. A child.

  Kuradin shook his head. “No, it should be empty. Maybe the other side.”

  The physician walked across the room passing through the narrow shaft of light. Kuradin followed him. He held a small thin ampoule in his hand. One end of the ampoule was solid and formed a handle for the tiny poisoned scratch pin.

  The tall Indian opened the door. There was no body in this one. He pulled out the slab.

  Kuradin used the sound of the slab’s rollers to cover the low snapping sound of the glass.

  “Where?” Awadi asked.

  “In the back,” Kuradin answered.

  Awadi bent forward and leaned into the small vault. It was the perfect time to strike, but Kuradin hesitated. Now! Now! Before he turns, his mind shouted to the hand holding the scratch pin. But the hand did not move. He was reacting as most men would when confronted with that moment of deliberately taking a life. He waited too long.

  Awadi had pulled the slab all the way out. “It is not here,” he accented, and turned to face Kuradin. “It must be inside another vault. This must be the wrong one.”

  No, it’s the right one, all right, Kuradin thought. He had lost all chance of surprise. Looking into the dark, inky eyes of this human being was making it more and more difficult. Do it, his mind commanded.

  “Are you sure it was the second…” Awadi saw the pin. “What is that?”

  Kuradin didn’t answer. He thrust the pin forward at Awadi’s chest, but the Indian saw it coming and managed to avoid the deadly instrument. It finally dawned on Awadi why they were in the morgue and why the slab had to be empty. It was for him.

  “What are you doing?” he croaked out loudly.

  The loud voice bounced off the walls in sharp echoing tones. The loudness disturbed Kuradin.

  “Be quiet,” Kuradin hissed. He stood between Awadi and the door. He moved slowly at the Indian, forcing him against the pulled-out slab.

  “You cannot do this!” Awadi spurted out. “No! Somebody help me,” Awadi screamed.

  Kuradin had to move quickly. The sounds could probably be heard all over the lower floor. He lunged forward to strike once more.

  But again Awadi was quicker. His fear had quickened his reactions, and the surge of adrenaline provided surprising strength as he slapped the wrist aside and slammed his attacker into the vaults. He broke for the door.

  Kuradin crashed heavily against the closed vaults, then dove desperately after Awadi. The pin bit into the side of the right knee. The leg continued forward taking that last step, then Awadi crumbled to the floor. He looked in stunned disbelief at Kuradin, as his life ebbed quickly from his eyes. He knew he was dead—and then was. It was over.

  The short struggle had taken Kuradin’s mind off the thought of killing. It had happened automatically. The body did what had to be done without conscious direction from the brain.

  He fought desperately to control his heavy breathing. He listened for footsteps or voices, but there were none. The body had to be hidden. Quickly.

  Kuradin got to his feet and examined Awadi’s body. He did not try to rationalize what had happened. He had seen men die before and had even ordered them killed. That’s the way it went in this business. He would not let it rip at his conscience. That thing in front of him was no longer a person, just something that had to be hidden. The only life involved now was his own.

  Kuradin grabbed Awadi by the ankles and dragged the body across the floor. As he passed through the shaft of light coming through the window, he heard a sound, then saw an attendant and a nurse step in front of the window. He froze, then very slowly let go of Awadi’s feet and backed well into the darkness. Awadi’s body lay partially in shadow; the shoulders, arms, and face grotesquely illuminated in the grayish light. Kuradin did not move the body, for fear of the movement catching the attention of the two people.

  The nurse was very upset and was crying. The attendant tried comforting her but wasn’t very successful. They spoke in vaguely muffled tones that Kuradin could not make out. He had no choice but to wait it out.

  The nurse stood directly in front of the window, facing in. With the light coming from the outside of the morgue, Kuradin was sure she couldn’t see him. If she looked down, though…

  She spun to face the attendant. They were arguing. It seemed to last forever. Then, finally, the nurse walked off in a temper. The attendant shook his head and sat at his desk, right outside the door.

  Kuradin moved in the darkness to the body and slowly pulled it out of the light without making a sound. Then he moved to where he could watch the atte
ndant. If he didn’t move soon, he’d have to be taken care of as Awadi had been. Then Kuradin realized that he didn’t have the pin. It was somewhere on the floor.

  He strained but couldn’t see it. He wasn’t about to get on his hands and knees to feel for it, either. That’s what is known as making “the last mistake.”

  He had no other weapons, and the attendant was big. He’d have to look for the pin.

  Just then, the attendant got up from his desk and walked off briskly, in the same direction that the nurse had gone.

  Kuradin watched him pass by the window. A moment later he was stuffing Awadi’s body into the vault. It was a tough job for a small man like Kuradin, but the necessity was greater than the disadvantage of his size, and it got done.

  The slab rolled in, and the vault door closed. He stared at the number of the door. Eleven. That was all that a man was reduced to. A number. Kuradin guessed that he had only moments left. The attendant would be returning soon, and then he’d be trapped in there. He left without looking for the pin.

  He walked quickly down the hallway to a stairwell, went up the stairs to ground level, and left the hospital. The night air was cool and felt good in his lungs, and his knees soon stopped shaking as he walked, leaving the hospital and what had happened behind him. There was enough ahead of him to worry about, as he went on to the next phase of his steadily crumbling plan.

  Monday morning brought with it another beautiful springlike day in New York. A gentle wind danced in warming gusts, as large fluffy clouds drifted lazily in a bright blue sky. April’s showers hadn’t arrived yet, but were forecast for the middle of the week.

  A gentle tapping sounded on a sixth-floor door in the Paradise Hotel. The raps came in the proper sequence, so Ten Braak moved for the door instead of the window. He held a stout automatic against the door as he opened it just a crack. It was his breakfast.

  A tall, skinny man entered the room. The sudden smell of stale farts and Ten Braak’s gamey odor stopped him momentarily. He nervously looked around the room and handed Ten Braak his meager breakfast, consisting of a large styrene cup of hot black coffee and a hard roll with butter. There was also a Daily News.

  There was a look of urgency on the man’s face; Ten Braak took its measure immediately. “You got trouble, my friend,” the man said, as he continued to look around the room. “They’re lookin’ for you. They know you’re in New York, and they’re lookin’ hard.”

  “How many?” Ten Braak asked.

  “A lot. CIA, FBI, and NATO, too. I don’t know what you done, but the faster you get outta here, the better I’m gonna like it,” he said. “I don’t want this place gettin’ shot up. You got that?”

  Ten Braak narrowed a stare at the man. He’d enjoy taking this creep out. He turned away from his excited informant. He paced slowly, thinking and looking around the room.

  The man was getting more nervous. He didn’t know if Ten Braak’s silence was a hint for him to leave or not. After waiting a little longer, he moved for the door.

  “Wait,” Ten Braak said, “I will need some things.” He walked over to his jacket and took out a small pad and a pen. He walked around the room, looking at outlets and switches. He stopped directly under the central light fixture. It was an ancient affair with six bulbs. It was controlled by the light switch by the door, as was the outlet on that wall. He studied the fixture briefly. Then he made some notes on the pad.

  He walked to the door and opened it, examining the frame. He closed the door and made some additional notes. There were two other lamps in the room. These were also examined. Next he went to the window leading out to the fire escape and examined it as well. He jotted more words on the paper.

  Ten Braak read the sheet over again and handed it to the man. “You will get all that is on this list by noon,” he said in his thick accent.

  The man peered through the dirty scratched lenses of his wire-framed glasses. “This is dangerous stuff,” he said.

  “Can you get it all?” Ten Braak asked.

  “Yeah, I can get it. But there ain’t nothin’ in this deal about this place goin’ up. I’ll get it for you, but you ain’t keepin’ it up here,” he insisted.

  “It is not for use here,” Ten Braak lied.

  “Yeah, well it better not be, ’cause out you go if you think so.”

  “I will also need a car. Can you get one?”

  The man thought for a second. “Yeah,” he said, nodding his head, “I can get one. It won’t be fancy, but it’ll run,” he answered.

  “Good. You will have everything by noon,” Ten Braak said.

  “It’s gonna cost money,” the man said.

  “How much money?” Ten Braak asked.

  “Eight hundred.”

  It was robbery, and Ten Braak knew it. But everything has its price when you need it. Besides, he still had Ross’s cash.

  He went to the flight bag, opened it, and took out a stack of bills, then counted out eight hundred dollars into the man’s waiting palm.

  “And four more for the car,” the man said, his greed now showing in his smile.

  Ten Braak counted it out, watching the beady little eyes smile. It wouldn’t cost more than a couple of hundred to get the whole works.

  The man stuffed the bills in his pocket. “I’ll take ya to it when I got it all together,” he said.

  Ten Braak smiled at him. “That will be most satisfactory.”

  “And I’ll see what else I can find out about the people lookin’ for ya.” A second later he was through the door.

  Ten Braak thought about this latest wrinkle, as he mangled the roll and wolfed it down with huge gulps of the hot black coffee. It didn’t take him long to figure out that he had been set up.

  It all became a little clearer to him now. A man in his line of work knows when his situation is becoming unfavorable. Little things give the signs when “retirement” is not far off. The assignments, the pay, the class of accommodations, many little things. They all began to warn him that it was drawing near.

  Perhaps it was his age, or because they felt he was no longer in his prime. In any event, he had seen it coming. He was leery of every assignment, fearing that it could be the setup.

  When this one was given to him, he began to feel that maybe he was wrong and that his imagination had been working overtime on him. This was the most important assignment to ever come along. Only the best would be selected. It paid like a slot machine, too. But now he saw it for what it was. He was the bait, expendable, to guarantee the other guy getting out. It was still a good deal, though. It was a good way to go, if you had to go. This was top honors. He’d be remembered as the one that made it work. He’d go out on top and in style.

  But he could be even better remembered, if he got back with his information. Then there would be no question as to who was the best. It needed no proving in his mind, but, once they knew it, any question of an early retirement arrangement would be out.

  The contact was probably a setup, too. He decided not to make it. He’d play out the string as far as he could, to buy the time for Phoenix to get out. Then he’d figure his commitment to the operation fulfilled. After that, he’d follow his instincts and get himself out of the country and back to Russia with the information. They’d shit green when they saw him walk in with it.

  He’d give them all something to remember Otto Ten Braak for, including this SENTINEL agency that Phoenix had briefed him on. There would be no doubt in anyone’s mind who was number one when this thing was over.

  David Fromme had driven past the rendezvous point four times already, and Cactus Flower still hadn’t shown up. It was twenty minutes past twelve already. Something had gone wrong.

  He glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw something that bothered him. The same Chevy Impala had been behind him on his last pass of the arranged meeting place. It suddenly occurred to him what was happening. He was being followed.

  His mind raced as he began to perspire nervously. It became o
bvious. His refusal over the phone had sealed his fate. They considered him weak and were going to remove him. They’d probably already taken out Cactus Flower. That’s why he had never showed.

  It was time to blow out of there. Now. He took the first immediate left and sprinted the Dodge Monaco up the block.

  The Impala stayed right with him. That clinched it. He began to fly.

  The two SENTINEL agents in the Impala stayed right with Fromme. “SENTINEL Control, this is Sigmund,” the driver said. “Blue Dodge Monaco is running. We’ve been made!”

  “Apprehend the subject,” came the soft reply. “Take him alive if you can.”

  The chase led quickly out of the city. Fromme did not know the area well and just scorched along the country roads. He peered nervously into the rearview mirror at the unshakable Impala. Fromme removed the .38 and placed it on the seat beside him. Killing to stay alive was a different thing.

  The Impala pulled out and roared up alongside the Dodge. The agent in the passenger seat signaled Fromme to pull over. Fromme’s response was to steer into the Impala, in an attempt to force it off the road.

  The Impala dropped back. The passenger window rolled down, and the agent readied his gun. Sigmund gunned it up close to the back of the Dodge and pulled out enough to give his partner a clear shot at the rear tire.

  It was a close and easy shot. The blown rear tire sent the Dodge into a violent fishtail. Fromme couldn’t control it and veered off the road, skidding a short distance and smacking heavily into a tree.

  The Impala skidded to a halt not far behind it. Sigmund’s partner emerged from the car and raced to a position about ten feet off the right rear fender. He raised the gun into firing position, to cover Sigmund’s approach.

  Sigmund approached cautiously, gun drawn and ready. Fromme was not visible. Sigmund’s partner moved in a wide arc to the opposite side of the car, keeping the gun trained and ready.