by A. W. Mykel
The nearest thing to Justin’s reach was the heavy, yellow ashtray. He picked it up and began a savage pounding at Ten Braak’s head. He struck and struck, over and over and over, until he could no longer raise his arm. His exhaustion was complete, all energy spent. And Ten Braak was dead.
He unlocked his legs and rolled off the body, kicking Ten Braak’s lifeless form away. He lay on his back, sucking in air.
His right hand felt along the garrote, until it came to the slip lock. A moment later it was released. He pulled the wire painfully out of the deep cut across his hand.
He began to retch from the exhaustion and the near strangulation and dryness in his throat.
Everything began to close in on him. Little streaking stars formed before his eyes, as a swirling black pool began to engulf him.
He lost all sensation of pain and sense of time. He fell deeper and deeper into the darkness in a graceful slow motion, tumbling downward into the void.
And then they began.
The windchimes.
They had come to protect him, to sing him gently to sleep with their soft tinkling music.
They always came when he needed them. He was safe now. He could sleep.
THIRTY-ONE
Colorosa’s brilliant plan went into effect. His words fell on disbelieving ears when he said it would cost us nothing but time. But we had learned to trust his judgment and to believe in him.
There was no doubt in my mind that Colorosa was the man of the future for the plan. Everything about him was right.
He made good on all of his promises.
We were all saddened by the death of Titus in Spain. It was sudden and unexpected. His health had been excellent.
A new Titus was appointed. I did not trust him.
Entry No. 60 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
SENTINEL had continued its monitoring of Justin’s implant from the time he left the scene of Ten Braak’s trap. The second that the attack had started, it dispatched the nearest teams to Justin’s assistance. It had also dispatched the Division Two team on standby in New York and a medical unit.
The first team to arrive came smashing through the door barely fifteen minutes after the struggle had begun. They had been advised that Justin had survived the attack, but was badly hurt. They came in ready for Ten Braak, too, just in case he hadn’t been stopped. The second they entered the bedroom, all questions regarding Ten Braak were answered.
“Holy Christ,” the team leader said when he saw the room. He went immediately to Ten Braak’s body. “Look at that fuckin’ mess.”
There was no doubt about it, Ten Braak was as dead as he could get. His head was smashed in on the right side like a crushed watermelon. Brain matter was visible through the crushed skull. There were two bloody holes where his eyes had been, and his face looked like it had been hit by a steel mallet from Justin’s devastating kicks.
Justin was unconscious on the floor near the foot of the bed. His face, neck, and chest were smeared with blood from the gash over the eye and the hand cut. He had bruises all over the body from Ten Braak’s savage blows, and his upper forehead and face had several lacerations from the missed eye strikes.
The second agent brought in a damp towel from the bathroom and began wiping Justin’s face.
Justin winced slightly and opened a puffy eye.
“You had some party here, my friend,” the agent said.
Justin nodded weakly.
It was obvious what had saved his life. From the cut across the palm and the blood on Justin’s body, it was easy to see where his hand had been.
Pilgrim had not only had the disadvantage of being surprised, but had had only one arm to use. He had no clothing on to absorb or slide away the blows, either. And he had still beaten Ten Braak to a bloody pulp. It said a lot for the man lying on the floor before them.
A second team arrived, followed shortly by Division Two and the medical unit.
Justin’s wounds were temporarily packed, and he was rushed out to the mobile unit, which was virtually a small hospital on wheels. The minor facial wounds were closed as they moved him to a private facility not too far away. He was given an injection to make him sleep.
Every inch of him hurt from the battering he had taken. The drug began to take its effect, as a jumbled picture played in his head. He saw Fanning standing in the flames, Ten Braak’s relentless charges, the surprising speed and strength of the fat little man, the blood, the pain, the fear…and the windchimes.
They had begun in his head again. He wondered where they were coming from. It didn’t really matter. They were there, and that’s all that counted. They were soothing him, wrapping him in their protection. Nothing could penetrate them now. He welcomed them and let them carry him into sleep. Their soft tinkling music swept him gently away.
SENTINEL knew that Justin would sleep as long as the wind-chimes sounded. It coaxed him into a peaceful, forgetful rest.
Irwin Honeycut was up early at Alpha. He was reviewing Division Two’s report with Elizabeth Ryerson in the situation room of the complex.
Honeycut worked methodically through the reports, despite his being upset over losing Badger. Agents of Fanning’s skill and loyalty weren’t easy to come by. But that was over now. There was no going back.
“Division Two found Ten Braak’s film copy, just as SENTINEL had projected,” Honeycut said. “It was found in a metallic cylinder in the excrement that was released during the struggle. All twenty-four schematics were on it.”
“Nothing regarding the missing page?” Elizabeth asked.
“No,” Honeycut replied. “There was no trace of it on the film.”
SENTINEL had sent a Division Two team into Bridges’s apartment. They had found no evidence to indicate that Justin had found anything in his search. They did find what they were after, though. The ribbon had been removed from Bridges’s typewriter and scanned by SENTINEL. It learned exactly what had been typed on the sheet.
“Do you think that Pilgrim found it at Ed’s place?” she asked.
Honeycut thought for a few moments before answering. “No,” he said. “I don’t think that he did. Even if I’m wrong, he wouldn’t know what it meant, without seeing the whole file.”
“Unless he gets his hands on that journal,” Elizabeth said.
Honeycut frowned deeply. That journal still hadn’t been found. The twenty-fifth page would mean a lot with that information thrown in. “Well, he doesn’t have that. We’re sure of that much,” Honeycut said. “Phoenix is our immediate concern now. That journal will have to wait.”
SENTINEL had made tremendous progress with regard to Phoenix. Its estimated probability for success in catching him was now ninety-five percent.
Phoenix’s pattern of being where he was least expected gave strong argument to SENTINEL’s projection. Other alternatives were being considered, but SENTINEL’s bet was on Wednesday’s flight to Paris.
Every available agent had been dispatched to O’Hare, and three had even been booked on the flight. They would not attempt to take him at O’Hare. They didn’t want to chance his getting away or dropping the film where it could later be retrieved by other Soviet agents. On the plane he’d have nowhere to go, they would control all factors after it was airbound. SENTINEL had already prepared a plan.
“We’re going to make it out of this okay,” Elizabeth said with confidence.
“I think we might,” Honeycut said. “But I’ll put that in the bank when we have Phoenix and that film in our hands.”
Wednesday came to Chicago, and SENTINEL was ready. Agents had been assigned to watch every ticket counter from the glass-enclosed overhead walkways. They held stopwatches and check sheets, as though conducting time-efficiency studies, a common practice at O’Hare.
Extra agents had been placed at the TWA ticketing counters, as Caneway had been booked on TWA Flight 802, departing at 4:35 p.m., nonstop for Paris.
Terminal entrances and security che
ckpoints were also being watched. Anyone spotting Phoenix would signal via eustachian implant tone.
The taxi pulled up in front of the TWA sliding doors. Alexi Kuradin sat in the back seat, confident that his disguise would pass. He was certain they would never expect him to show up for this flight, even if Awadi’s body had been found.
The cab stopped at the curb, and the driver came around to the passenger’s door. He signaled to a skycap before opening the door.
Kuradin reached out, the cabby gently taking his arm to help him out. The skycap walked up to lend assistance.
“Thank you very much,” Kuradin said softly.
“You’re welcome, sister,” the cabby said to the old nun standing before him.
“Will you need a wheelchair?”
A disguise was to be expected, but no one looked twice at the nun. Kuradin’s appearance had changed completely. He looked two inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier. His eyes were now dark brown and his hands were covered with black knit gloves. The missing left pinky was accounted for with a cleverly shaped stuffing. The small digit looked as though it were daintily bent.
It seemed like an eternity to Kuradin, as he was wheeled through security to the gate area. But even in slow motion time passes, and he made it through their watch undetected.
The wait for boarding to begin was almost unbearable. He continually threw short glances across the gate area over the top of his Catholic Digest magazine, looking for observing eyes.
At last the announcement was made, and within moments Kuradin was being wheeled on board the roomy 747. He had specified a window seat over the left wing, to enable him to hide the finger between himself and the cabin wall. He would not eat the in-flight meal, so he could keep the glove on at all times. To attempt to eat the meal could reveal the missing digit. To try to eat it with the gloves on would seem strange. He was taking no chances.
Kuradin continued to pretend to read his magazine, watching the faces of the boarding passengers. He was still safe. Every second that passed made him feel more secure. He was going to make it.
Within twenty minutes the boarding was completed. The doors on the big plane were closed, and it was backed away from the dock.
Roger Caneway had not checked in for the flight. But this was not disturbing to SENTINEL. It was not expected that he would board as Roger Caneway. SENTINEL expected a disguise but as yet had not found him.
SENTINEL ran through the entire list of passengers before hand, and all had checked out. This was also expected, Phoenix had covered all bases quite well up to this point. There was no reason to expect less from him now.
Thirty minutes later, the plane roared off the runway and lifted gracefully into the sky. Alexi Kuradin let out a relieved sigh, as the ground disappeared below the fluffy white clouds. Paris was about eight and a half hours away. Once down in Paris and off the plane, he’d be safe and well-protected. It would finally be over, and he could go home.
But Flight 802 would never reach Paris. SENTINEL’s plan would soon go into operation. Phoenix was on that plane. SENTINEL was certain of it. Failure to recognize him did not alter SENTINEL’s opinion, and Phoenix would be stopped—of that much, SENTINEL was sure.
Justin was up now and moving stiffly about the small room like a caged animal. Everything hurt. The pain from the three cracked ribs had been reduced by the tight binding. The knee was tender, where Ten Braak had hit it, and Justin’s feet were sore from the savage barefoot kicks he had delivered to Ten Braak’s face and head.
It had taken a total of fifty-four stitches to close Ten Braak’s handiwork, most going into the badly cut left hand. Fortunately, most of the stitching had been done while he was still unconscious.
His head was clear now, and he remembered the windchimes again. He wondered if they had been in his head, or whether SENTINEL had played them for his benefit.
One of the disturbing things about the implant was that, after you grew used to it, it became difficult to distinguish thought from reception. It wasn’t like actually hearing all the time. Usually, direct communication came across as sound, but there had been times when data was supplied which seemed more like thought than communication. He wondered how many thoughts had not really been his own, but had originated from that other intellect. It was a discomforting possibility. Was he programmable, responsive to signals believed to be his own thoughts? He didn’t like it.
SENTINEL had updated Justin on the situation. He had been briefed on Division Two’s findings in his apartment. SENTINEL had also filled him in on what had happened in Beloit and what it projected as Phoenix’s plan. He had also been told about the Phoenix England connection.
BEEP! His implant sounded.
“How are you feeling, Pilgrim?” Honeycut’s voice asked.
“Great,” Justin responded. “I’m ready to get out of here. What’s the situation?” he asked.
“Flight eight-oh-two is in the air. We haven’t confirmed Phoenix as being on board, yet. But SENTINEL still projects that he is. We’ve put three agents on the plane to help make an identification,” Honeycut told him.
“What now?” Justin asked.
“We’ll be bringing the plane down in about ninety minutes,” Honeycut said. “Do you feel well enough to travel?”
“I’ll run all the way. Just point me in the right direction,” Justin answered.
“I thought you’d want to be in on it,” Honeycut said. “The plane will be coming down in Newark. The teams previously assigned to assist you in finding Ten Braak will be in on this with you. A car will be brought around to take you to the airport when you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now,” Justin said.
“Not just yet, you’re not,” Honeycut said. “Dr. Waith wants to take another look at you first. He’s the man who sewed you up.”
“I’m really okay,” Justin insisted.
“I’m sure you are. But let’s let the doctor have the last word on that. You’ll also be assigned a new partner to temporarily take Badger’s place,” Honeycut said.
A silence followed. Justin’s mind flashed back to the incendiary trap Ten Braak had set. It again registered fresh in his mind what had happened to Fanning.
He remembered Fanning’s words when they had first been teamed up. “Don’t make friends in this business,” he had been told. “It makes your job, and staying alive, a lot easier.”
But a strong mutual respect had grown between them. It led to a friendship that neither man mentioned, but both had felt it. There would never be another Badger.
“After you’ve been checked out,” Honeycut said, breaking him from his inner thoughts, “you’ll go to Newark to take charge of the operation. It’s important that Phoenix be taken alive. Is that clear?”
There was a short silence.
“Yes, sir,” Justin answered. “We’ll take him alive.”
Justin normally would not have even been assigned to this job. But he had seen Phoenix close up and had gotten the best look at him. He had seen his eyes. A person can cover himself with makeup, but the eyes remain the same. The color can be changed with contacts, but the shape, movements, and language remained unchanged. Always.
“You’ll be notified when it’s okay to leave,” Honeycut said. The transmission was ended.
A few moments later two men entered.
“I’m Dr. Waith,” the taller one began, “and this is Rainmaker, your new partner.”
Justin cast an assessing glance at the new man who was to be his partner. He was shorter than Fanning by about three inches. His hair and eyes were dark, the facial features round and soft. He looked like a gentle man, not someone in this line of business. But looks were deceiving. Ten Braak hadn’t exactly looked like a terror, either.
“Pilgrim,” Justin said, extending his hand.
“How do you do?” the shorter man said.
They locked hands in greeting. Still assessing.
Rainmaker matched the steellike grip of his new partner. He ha
d been briefed on the events that started with the Spartan killing. He had a respect for Pilgrim. The cold, hard set of Justin’s eyes made Rainmaker slightly uneasy. He knew what this man was capable of.
“I want to look at that hand before you leave,” Waith said. “Is there much pain?”
“None,” Justin lied.
Waith unwrapped the hand and looked at the stitched wound. “Had a devil of a time putting it back together again,” he said. “Nasty wound. You’ll have to take great care not to reinjure it, if you want full use of it again. I’ll give you a shot for the pain. It might not hurt you now, but it will later,” he said.
He prepared the injection and put it directly into the hand. Justin did his best to show no reaction.
“That’ll last several hours. Take these when it begins to hurt again,” he said, handing Justin a bottle of pink and gray capsules. “Take one every four hours or as needed. No drinking while you’re on these,” the physician warned.
Justin looked at the pills and put them into his pocket.
“Keep the hand in a closed position. And, for God’s sake, don’t do anything to reinjure it.”
“You can count on it,” Justin said.
The pain began to subside from the injection as Waith rebandaged the hand. When it was finished, Justin dressed in the clothes provided.
Rainmaker then handed Justin his Mauser and pit holster. The pit holster also caused discomfort as the Mauser nosed down onto the injured ribs. But it was bearable, and Justin said nothing.
Within a few minutes Justin was ready, and the team headed for Newark International Airport.
It was a quiet ride. Rainmaker threw several glances at his silent partner. He could read the face. Justin was getting ready, psyching himself up. There was a certain look of satisfaction across that face, as if he thrived on the moment.
Flight 802 was cruising smoothly along in calm airstreams. A good tail wind had them slightly ahead of schedule, despite the delayed takeoff. The big 747 was just heading out over the ocean, after passing over the East Coast, when the pilot’s earphone crackled.
“TW eight-oh-two, this is Newark control. Acknowledge.”