The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  “He looks terrible,” Justin said.

  “It happens rather quickly,” Dials said. “He had been taking a remission-maintenance drug similar to one we use, called asparaginase. It’s a modified form of ours, actually. A bit more effective. Most of these drugs become ineffective, though, as the body builds up a resistance to them. Then it’s out of remission and more drugs.”

  “When can he be debriefed?” asked Wyatt.

  Dials threw an incredulous look at him. “You never give up, do you? That man is dying in there. Maybe, if we can turn him around, you can talk to him. But you’re not getting close to him until he’s stable. I don’t want any of your repeat performances with this one,” Dials said acidly.

  “Yes, well you keep him alive,” Wyatt said. “That’s your job. Mine is to get information out of him.”

  “When he’s ready, not before.”

  “Listen, you,” Wyatt shot out. “You don’t know what the fuck is going on, or how important my talking to him is. He was carrying film that—”

  “It’s already been found,” Dials said triumphantly. “Thanks to your young friend here,” he said, thrusting a thumb in Justin’s direction.

  Wyatt and Justin gave him confused looks.

  “That little elbow you used to coax his face into the wall—it opened a tiny wound on the back of his head.”

  “I remember the bleeding,” Justin said.

  “Yes, well we checked that out, too,” Dials continued. “We found a small implant beneath the skin. Division Two opened it and found the microfilm.”

  “He’s still got to be debriefed. Copies could have been made, and other people involved,” Wyatt persisted. “He still could tell us something.”

  “Well, he’s not going anywhere. When he’s stable, you can talk to him all you want to,” Dials said to him.

  “What are his chances?” Wyatt asked.

  “Short-term, pretty good. We’re pumping him full of platelets and white cells. The bleeding is slowing down. As long as he doesn’t reject the platelets, we should bring the hemorrhage under control. The white cells will help fight infection. That’s also why he’s in the laminar-air-flow room. We’ve put him on gut-suppression antibiotics, to reduce the possibility of infection from his own waste products. An infection of any kind could kill him.”

  “And when the bleeding stops?” Wyatt asked.

  “We’ll keep giving him the platelets and white cells for a little while and then start him on an advanced drug protocol, to try to get him into remission again.

  “We’ve got a few new drugs to try on him. The first is one called D-eighty. It’s dynamite on those leukemic cells, but most people have severe allergic reactions to it. We’ll try to desensitize him, then put him on a program. The side effects of the drug will be hell, though. He’ll be quite sick until he obtains remission. Then we can drop the levels back, to reduce the side effects, while still keeping his condition under control,” Dials explained.

  “And if he can’t be desensitized?” asked Wyatt, concerned that he might never get to talk to the Russian.

  “We’ll try something else. You’ll have time to talk to him once the bleeding stops, though. You can do it over that phone in his room, or we can install a sterilized speaker system, so that you can talk to him from outside of the room. We can install closed-circuit TV, too.”

  “And how long will he live if he goes into remission?” Wyatt asked.

  Dials shrugged. “I would guess, with all things considered, that we might be able to get him into remission twice before his system just collapses under the strain. I’d say six months at the most.”

  Wyatt nodded and looked at the milk-white face of the Russian. The lips were black, with dark rings surrounding the eyes. The packing around the nose was blackened from the blood. The man looked like the image of death.

  “If you really want to help, we can use your platelets,” Dials said to the two men.

  “What’s his blood type?” Wyatt asked.

  “It doesn’t matter with platelets,” Dials said. “Anyone can accept platelets from anyone else. We simply hook you up to a separator and separate the platelets, plasma, and white cells, returning the rich red cells to your body. You won’t be weakened by it, and we can essentially take eight units of platelets from a single donor,” Dials explained.

  “Okay,” Wyatt said. “Anything to keep him alive until I can talk to him.”

  “Good. And you?” Dials asked, looking into Justin’s eyes.

  Justin looked back into the room at Phoenix’s pathetic form. He couldn’t care less if the man died, as long as he was debriefed. “Yeah, okay. Count me in, too.”

  It was strange how, only a year ago, he had tried to kill the man he was now giving platelets to. He had come close to doing it in England. He would have done it again only the day before, if Honeycut hadn’t told him to take Phoenix alive. That was one man Justin felt destined to kill, and here he was helping to save his life.

  But Honeycut had been right. It was important to keep Phoenix alive—at least for the time being.

  “Yes…yes, Mr. President. That’s right, sir. They all did a wonderful job,” Honeycut said, into his special direct line to the President.

  “Yes, sir…we got it all, sir. They didn’t get a thing. It’s over, Mr. President. You can rest assured that no further danger exists.”

  “Pilgrim? Yes, he’s still got that vacation coming that we promised him,” Honeycut said, then continued listening.

  “Yes, Mr. President. I’m sorry that Badger didn’t make it through, too. He was a good agent. One of the best.”

  Honeycut gave an annoyed look of, “Come on, get the hell off the phone, already.”

  “Yes…yes. Thank you, Mr. President, I will. Good-bye, Mr. President,” he said finally, putting down the phone.

  “Jesus Christ, he was happy enough to eat shit,” Honeycut said.

  “He has good reason. It’s over,” Elizabeth Ryerson said.

  “For him it’s over. Not for us. We’ve still got that twenty-fifth page and a journal to worry about.”

  “There was no twenty-fifth page on the microfilm or on Phoenix,” Elizabeth said.

  Honeycut shook his head. “We’ve got to find out if he knows about it.”

  “Why should it matter?” she asked. “We’ve got him, and he’s not going anywhere with it. He can’t hurt us at all, even if he does know.”

  “We never found the page,” Honeycut began. “It’s out there somewhere. So is that journal. Together they represent a lot of trouble,” he said.

  “I think you’re worrying too much,” Elizabeth said. “By itself, the sheet means nothing. If anybody’s going to find that journal, we are. No one else even knows it exists.”

  “Wrong!” Honeycut said. “Pilgrim knows about the journal. And I don’t know what to make of that trip to Bridges’s apartment. He worries me. He’s smart. Too damn smart and independent—like Spartan was. He needs watching. I’m going to keep him under close watch on that vacation,” Honeycut said.

  “What do you think he could possibly do? We have complete control over him with that explosive implant,” Elizabeth said.

  “I just don’t trust him. He’ll be at St. Simon’s Island until Saturday morning. The stitches will be taken out then, and he’ll be taking that vacation. He’s been told that his implant will be deactivated until he returns. He’s been given a call-in number just in case he needs us for anything. He’ll call when he returns.”

  “You’re not really going to do that, are you?” she asked.

  “Of course not. But it may make him a little bit more daring if he thinks we will. If he’s got any ideas, we’ll move. But I think that I’ll keep Rainmaker close to him, just in case.”

  “What if he spots him? He’ll know something’s up,” Elizabeth said.

  “I said close to him. He’ll be kept out of sight, but close enough to get in quickly if it becomes necessary. Another agent, Gemini, will be ha
ndling the up-close observation. Gemini is a master at observing without being discovered. We’ll know everything he’s up to.”

  “Do you really think he’ll go after the journal?” she asked.

  Honeycut’s eyes narrowed into a pensive squint. “I think you can count on it.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  At a time when we thought our wildest dreams had been realized, Colorosa presented us with yet another surprise. Our power and scope of control had been increased beyond all imagination.

  The news was unbelievable. He arranged the most incredible demonstration we had ever seen.

  The plan could have been completed on that day, but Colorosa presented us with a better way. A way in which control would come naturally, completely, without resistance. Only our patience was required.

  Entry No. 73 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  Just as Leonid Travkin had predicted, Ivan Melnik again scanned the Phoenix file. When he left KGB headquarters that evening, Krykov’s men began setting their trap to catch both him and Limpoulous.

  Melnik sat nervously, waiting for Limpoulous to arrive. The time passed slowly, almost to the point of pain. Each meeting became a bigger risk. He knew he could not continue the Phoenix tape scans without eventual detection. And meeting in this place was the biggest risk of all.

  This was where it had all begun. In the apartment of Melnik’s homosexual lover.

  About ten months ago, his lover had started a second relationship without Melnik’s knowledge. When he was finally told, it came as a painful, crushing blow. The betrayal was unbearable.

  A few weeks later he met the secret paramour. It was Vytas Limpoulous. Limpoulous was a big, handsome man. It was easy to see how it could have happened. At first, Melnik had vented his hurt and humiliation on Limpoulous, but the Greek’s charm soon had melted all that away. It wasn’t long before a three-way relationship started. It became a comfortable triangle of love and deep affection—that is, until Limpoulous told Melnik what he had to do to keep the arrangement from coming to the attention of the Individual Division.

  Melnik had been set up. Eagle had been sent specifically to compromise him into acting as a double agent. Melnik knew what would happen if the Individual Division found out. He had no choice but to go along with Limpoulous’s wishes.

  They no longer met as lovers after that, and never at the apartment. The meeting place was always different, carefully selected by Limpoulous.

  Melnik was now alone in the apartment. His lover had been told to keep himself busy until later in the evening. He had no knowledge of the arrangement that Eagle had worked out with Melnik.

  On the street below, Eagle approached with great caution. Everything looked all right, but his instincts jumped in warning. Melnik had learned more important information concerning Phoenix that the agency needed. Without Dmitri Chakhovsky’s help in identifying Phoenix, a final source of confirmation was essential.

  Eagle took one last look around and went into the building.

  Krykov’s men would wait for a few additional moments, then move into position to set the trap.

  The elevator moved swiftly upward. It stopped on the fifth floor, and Eagle stepped out. He walked the short distance to the apartment door and knocked out the prearranged code.

  The door opened. He stepped in.

  Without a word, he walked quickly across the room to the window. He moved the curtain back slightly and looked down to the street. He saw the quick, precise movements of Krykov’s men, as they got into their ready positions. There was no doubt that all escape routes would be covered. The game was up for him.

  “You were followed,” Limpoulous said calmly.

  Melnik’s face went white. He rushed toward the window to look out, but Eagle stopped him.

  “We have only seconds before they come for us. You must tell me what you know, quickly,” Limpoulous said.

  BLEEP! He contracted his eustachian implant, to alert SENTINEL Control to the coming message.

  BEEP! SENTINEL Control was ready.

  Melnik was flushed with fear. He could only stare into the eyes of Limpoulous.

  “Vytas…I…I didn’t—”

  “It’s okay, Ivan,” Limpoulous said, placing his hand gently on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I know it’s not your fault. But you must tell me, quickly. There’s little time.”

  Melnik blinked. His eyes began to dampen. A heavy lump formed in his throat from the fear of the moments ahead.

  “Phoenix…Phoenix has been captured,” he said, swallowing hard. “The operation was code-named SENTINEL. It has failed completely. Phoenix was the last hope.”

  “Is that all of it?” Limpoulous asked.

  “Yes,” Melnik answered.

  “I will leave quickly. If I can get to another floor, you may still have a chance,” the handsome Greek said.

  BEEP! Message received.

  BLEEP! BLEEP! The eustachian tones signaled danger, capture imminent.

  Limpoulous touched Melnik’s cheek softly and walked toward the door. He opened it just in time to see the elevator doors open and four KGB men step out.

  Eagle slammed the door shut and locked it. He spun to face Melnik.

  “Vytas, I am—” Melnik’s words caught in his throat, when he saw the silenced automatic in Limpoulous’s hand.

  THUD! THUD! The weapon spoke quietly.

  Melnik crumpled to the floor. He was beyond all fear now.

  Suddenly, the door splintered open.

  THUD! THUD!

  The first Russian through the door went down.

  THUD!

  A second man was knocked backward into the hallway.

  Eagle raced for the kitchen. No shots were returned at him.

  THUD! One more at the door to keep them out.

  As he got into the kitchen, he saw a figure outside the window, standing on the fire escape.

  THUD!

  The figure went down behind the splintering glass.

  The clip in Eagle’s gun was empty, the slide locked back.

  POP! POP! Two sounds came from the splintered doorway behind him.

  The sedative darts bit into his back. He dropped to his knees, the gun falling from his hand. He wobbled stiffly, trying to keep his balance, then fell forward onto his face.

  Eagle was taken as promised—alive. But the cost was unacceptable to Krykov.

  Leonid Travkin now had what he needed to make the last contingency work. Tradable merchandise.

  The elevator stopped at the Horizon Tower apartments in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Justin stepped out and walked down the neatly decorated hallway toward Barbara’s apartment.

  He had stopped long enough at his own apartment to check it out. It was exactly as it had been before the fight. The broken furniture and bloodstained rug had been replaced. Only Barbara’s ashtray showed any traces of its unexpected double duty. There were a few chips missing. Division Two had not replaced it, because they couldn’t find another one like it. It wasn’t the type of item easily found. Its conversational value had increased considerably—as had Justin’s appreciation for it.

  Justin rang the door bell.

  Barbara was expecting him and opened the door.

  “Long time no see—” Her sentence choked off when she saw his bruised face.

  “Oh, Justin, what happened?” she said, cupping his face in her soft, warm hands.

  “It’s okay, Jugs. Just a little car accident up in Seattle,” he lied. “I really feel a lot better than I look,” he said, entering the apartment.

  “Are you sure?” she said sympathetically.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Really.”

  “Oh, Justin, why didn’t you call to tell me? How did it happen?”

  He loved her caring ways. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry. I was really okay. I knew I was,” he said.

  She shook her head, staring up at the bruises. Her eyes began to dampen.

  “Rolled the c
ar down the side of a hill,” he said. “Took a sharp turn too fast and just lost it. Car was a total wreck.”

  “Was anyone with you?” she asked as they walked into the kitchen, her arm up over his shoulder.

  “No, I was alone,” he answered.

  He sat on a chair at the table.

  Barbara cradled his head in her arms and pulled it against her soft, braless breasts. “You could have been killed,” she said, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks.

  Her breasts felt good against his face. He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her close. He just wanted to stay there and lose himself in her softness and sweet smell, to stay there, to forget all the things that had happened in the past week.

  She sensed his need and held him, gently stroking his hair. They stayed that way for a long while in silent appreciation of one another.

  “Do you want a drink?” she asked, backing away to look into his eyes.

  “Can’t. I’m taking some pills, and I can’t have alcohol while I’m on them,” he said.

  “What are the pills for?” she asked.

  “Pain pills. For this,” he said, holding up the wrapped hand.

  She hadn’t noticed it in her shock at seeing his face. “What happened to it?” she asked.

  “Cut it wide open,” he said, tracing a line across where the garrote had sliced so deeply. “Took about forty stitches in it.”

  “Forty stitches! Oh, my God. Will you be able to use it again?” she asked, her eyes getting wet once more.

  “Sure,” he said, moving it. “Most of the stitches are inside. Fortunately, the cut wasn’t jagged. It was nice and straight. It’ll hardly show in a few months. I was pretty lucky that I had a great doctor.”

  She took the hand gently, raised it, and kissed the back of his fingers. “Forty stitches.”

  “It’s all right. It really feels fine,” he said.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask. Where else?”

  “Some on the face,” he said, waving a finger in front of the more obvious places. “Some cracked ribs and a sore knee. The rest is like gold,” he said.

  “No wonder, with those pills. You still got everything in your pants?” she tried joking.

  “Yeah, you wanna see?”