by A. W. Mykel
Honeycut nodded. “A file can be voice-print locked. Only your voice can activate it or utilize SENTINEL through it,” he replied.
“I mean absolute,” Justin repeated. “That means not even open to Executive order. Can you arrange it?”
Honeycut nodded. “I’ll arrange it. Looks like we’ll both be earning our pay around here in very short order,” he said.
“Now I’ll tell you about Phoenix,” Honeycut started. “The Soviets are holding a very important agent of ours. Eagle. He was captured the day after we apprehended Phoenix.
“Eagle was our man in Moscow who got the information vital to stopping Phoenix.
“He’s had a very rough go of it since being taken. They’ve used extensive sensory deprivation techniques in trying to break him. We don’t think he gave them anything, but we can’t be sure.
“SENTINEL managed to induce a form of sleep hypnosis on him in one of the early stages of their efforts, while we were still able to make contact with his implant.
“After that, all contact and implant monitoring was impossible. We don’t know what happened from then on.
“He’s out of sensory deprivation now, recovering from a very rough experience. No doubt, they’re trying to get him back into decent shape for the trade.”
“We’re taking risks in making this trade,” Justin said. “Phoenix knows about Alpha, St. Simon’s, and he’s seen faces, including mine.”
“Alpha is being closed down,” Honeycut said. “Even without the trade, we wouldn’t take the risk of leaving Alpha open. Regarding St. Simon’s Island, Phoenix doesn’t know where he is. He could be in China for all he knows.”
“And the people that he could identify? I’m on that list,” Justin said.
“That’s one of the reasons you’re here, too. You’ll be his escort for the trade.”
“That’ll blow my cover wide open,” Justin said, shaking his head. “I don’t like that.”
“No, your cover will emerge intact. We can’t risk showing any more faces to them. And they’ll never see yours again, because, in your new capacity, you’ll never be used in the field against them. Our only problem will exist with the CIA.”
“The CIA?” Justin repeated.
“Yes, the Soviets didn’t know how to make contact, so they went through Robert Morsand in Paris.”
“They’ll investigate me,” Justin said.
“Your cover will hold up to any investigation. We’ve no problem there. But we’ll have to be careful in the immediate future, until they believe your cover,” Honeycut said.
“And what is that?”
“You’re simply helping to identify an American citizen held by the Soviets for suspicion of espionage. The fact that you know him so well will make that believable,” Honeycut explained.
“But I don’t know Eagle. They’d find that out in a minute,” Justin said.
“What they’ll find out, in fact, is that you do know him quite well. Eagle’s name is Steven Pappachristus.”
“Pappy?” Justin gasped in stunned disbelief.
“Yes. Steve has been with the agency for over five years now,” Honeycut said.
“He can’t be Eagle,” Justin insisted. “You said that Eagle was taken by the Soviets the day after we caught Phoenix, didn’t you?”
Honeycut nodded.
“Well, I talked to Pappy a week after we took Phoenix,” Justin said. “Steve has been in Saudi Arabia for over a year now. I’ve got letters and cards from him to prove it.”
“The letters and cards you received from Steve were arranged as part of his cover. He’s been inside Russia for the whole length of time you believed him to be in the Middle East,” Honeycut said.
“I spoke with him on the phone,” Justin countered.
“You didn’t speak to Pappy, ‘little brother,’” Honeycut said. “You spoke to SENTINEL.”
“D-eighty is a derivative of a drug called daunorubicin. We were able to attain remission in Kuradin, using the D-eighty protocol as originally planned. We were lucky. We had even been prepared to use D-eighty-three on him until Wyatt’s debriefing of him was completed,” Dr. Becker Dials explained to Justin.
“And what is D-eighty-three?” Justin asked.
“D-eighty-three is a derivative form of D-eighty, which absolutely stops all forms of cancer. But we can’t use it.”
“Why not?” Justin inquired.
“While it stops cancer completely, its administration must be continued on an indefinite basis. To stop taking it causes death within seventy-two hours. In all cases.”
Justin raised his eyebrows.
“We have high hopes that our research into the enzymes of the daunorubicin metabolic pathways may lead us to discover even more effective yet less toxic drug systems to use,” Dials said, “possibly even a complete cure for cancer.”
“And what happens after he’s swapped back to the Russians?” Justin asked.
“Oh, he’ll probably retain remission for about thirty days, then he’ll go quickly. Nothing but D-eighty or D-eighty-three would achieve remission again after that. Even on a continuing D-eighty protocol, in his particular condition, I would guess only four to six months of life left for him. The time factor is practically irrelevant.”
“Does he know this?” Justin asked.
“Yes. And he still wishes to go home to die.”
“The point is that it doesn’t matter what the hell Phoenix wants,” Honeycut growled. “It’s not his decision to make. We want Eagle back, and they want Phoenix. So he goes, like it or not, live or die. It’s our decision to make.
“Eagle has an old-style implant, which is larger and more easily detectable than the newer ones like you’re wearing,” Honeycut said to Justin. “A very real danger exists that they may find the implant and remove it before we get Eagle back. With that implant in their possession, they may be able to learn enough to start intercepting our transmissions. Once they can do that, they’ll be able to locate our agents, pinpoint sensors and satellites, even transmit their own signals to jam our communications.
“It’s a real threat that can hurt us. And that’s why I want you there,” Honeycut said to an attentive Justin. “You’ve got to make sure that we get Eagle back safely…or kill him if it becomes necessary.”
Justin’s stomach sank.
“We can’t take the chance that they’ll get that implant,” Honeycut said. “We know that it’s still in place, but there’s no telling what they may try to pull off.”
“But…” Justin began.
“It’s not a pleasant possibility,” Honeycut broke in before Justin could speak further, “but it’s a necessary eventuality that we must be prepared for. Chances are that the trade will come off without a hitch, but I wanted you to be prepared mentally for what may become necessary.”
“Thanks a lot,” Justin said icily.
“The Soviets think that Phoenix will be carrying a microdot implant in his scalp,” Honeycut began again. “But that’s been found.”
“Yes, I remember,” Justin said. “The wound on the back of the head.”
“That’s right,” Dials said. “They have no way of knowing that we’ve found it. They’re playing their last trump card.”
“There will be yourself; Dr. Waith, whom, you may remember, patched you up after your little encounter with Ten Braak; two people from the State Department; Robert Morsand from the CIA; and his aide, Bud Kodek,” Honeycut said.
“When and where does the trade take place?”
“Tomorrow. In Dieppe, France. You’ll be in continual contact with us through SENTINEL during the entire operation. Just be careful around Morsand. He’s smart and picks up little things quickly.”
Justin nodded.
Honeycut placed a hand on Justin’s shoulder. “I have every confidence that the trade will go off smoothly. Believe me, we all want Steve back safely, too.”
“Tomorrow, at fourteen hundred hours,” Robert Morsand said to Bud Kodek, “Yen
tik will be in charge on their side. Technically, I’m to be in charge for us, but I haven’t got the foggiest notion of what the hell is going on.
“Platt said that all of his investigations into the matter were stopped by direct Presidential order. He got called into the Oval Office and was told straight out that the trade was to take place. Some phony crap about an American citizen being held under suspicion of espionage.”
“Who is this guy Yarin?” Kodek asked.
“No one has told me a thing about him, either—just that the trade is to take place and that Limpoulous, if that’s his real name, is to be flown directly to Washington,” Morsand replied.
“You think Yarin could be Chakhovsky?” Kodek asked.
“Might be. Platt has been burning our asses about that since it happened. I was sure that Yentik wanted to talk about Chakhovsky when he asked for the meeting. Maybe you’re right. Maybe Yarin is Chakhovsky.”
“Then who could Limpoulous be?”
“We’ll just have to wait and see. I want pictures of the whole transaction. Close-ups on all the faces. I want to hear every word that’s said when they meet for the exchange. There’s something going on that Platt wants to know about. And I’ve also got a score to settle with someone over that Chakhovsky deal.
“No one burns my ass like that and gets away with it,” Morsand said.
It was 0100 hours at St. Simon’s Island. Deep in thought, Justin sat in one of the conference rooms.
Goddamn, but I’m confused, he thought. Nothing could surprise him anymore. What a fucking week it had been. He had learned about the books in England; discovered that Fanning could have killed Spartan; located the journal, though he hadn’t gotten his hands on it yet; found out that the agency was infiltrated by Nazis; was told that Phoenix was being traded back to the Russians; also, that the man they were trading him for was his best friend, who he didn’t even know was in the agency and whom he might have to kill before this day was out, if anything went wrong.
It almost made him laugh. What the fuck could happen next. He’d probably find out that Barbara was a transsexual. He laughed an unbelieving laugh and sipped his tea.
The hot tea made him think of his thermal mug…and the ashtray; his secret arsenal of weapons.
He knew that soon he’d have to tell Honeycut about the journal and the twenty-fifth page. He felt that he could trust Honeycut. But he didn’t know who else could be trusted.
What if Honeycut couldn’t get the absolute classification? What if the top infiltrator could still monitor all of his computer utilization?
Of course, if he could get the journal from Priest before telling Honeycut, he might have the answers he needed. Maybe he wouldn’t tell Honeycut, after all, until he had it.
Then he thought about that odd message that Priest had left him with on the phone, about not visiting his brother’s grave. What did he mean? Was he saying that he wasn’t going to give him the journal because he didn’t believe the story? He was sure he had gotten through to him.
Justin heard sounds in the hallway. The doors slid open as Richard Wyatt walked in.
“Hi,” Wyatt greeted. “About ready to leave?”
“All set,” Justin answered.
“Good. They’ll be bringing Phoenix in here in a few minutes. See that he wears this hat the entire time until you have Eagle,” Wyatt said, tossing a knit cap on the table.
Justin picked it up and examined it.
“It’s to hide his head,” Wyatt explained.
“Hide his head?” Justin repeated.
“Yes, Dr. Dials wasn’t as explicit in his description of the D-eighty side effects as he should have been. Aside from the nausea and weight loss, all of Phoenix’s hair has fallen out. He’s as bald as an egg. If they see the bald head, they may figure that he doesn’t have his implant anymore and decide not to make the trade. It won’t be long now, and then this nightmare will be over,” Wyatt said.
For you maybe, Justin thought, and wondered what Wyatt’s SSC rating was—SSC-7 or better, Honeycut had said. He wondered how many people that included.
“Is your cover all straight in your mind?” Wyatt asked. “You can bet that Morsand will be suspicious about you.”
Justin nodded.
“Well, good luck then,” Wyatt said, extending his hand.
“Thanks,” Justin returned, taking it.
“I’ll be on the monitor with Pegasus. If anything at all seems out of place, let us know with a single tone from your eustachian implant.”
Justin nodded.
Wyatt nodded and left the room.
A few moments later more noises came from the hallway. The doors slid open, and Kuradin was brought in, in a wheelchair. Two armed military police were on either side of him, a third guided the chair into the room.
Justin was shocked at Phoenix’s appearance. He looked a full thirty pounds lighter, and there were dark rings around the sunken, tired eyes. His face was gray, cheeks sunken, and his nose was thin and beaklike. All of his hair was gone, even his eyebrows.
Justin and Kuradin locked eyes.
Kuradin hadn’t expected to see Pilgrim again. A slight spark of anxiety coursed through him.
“We meet again, Pilgrim,” Kuradin said, his voice tired and weak.
Justin said nothing.
“Again, and for the last time,” Kuradin said.
Justin looked at him coldly.
“I wish to thank you,” Kuradin said.
No reaction on Justin’s face.
“I heard that you gave me platelets after my capture. We now share more than a profession, it seems.”
“We share nothing,” Justin said.
“More than you think,” Kuradin spoke, his eyes still sharp and penetrating, despite his condition.
“We share nothing,” Justin repeated coldly.
“We share a way of life, one which owns us and pushes us in a changing current of fortunes. We win…we lose.”
“You lost,” Justin said.
“Yes, today I lose. Today, with no tomorrow for me.”
“It hasn’t been a total loss,” Justin said. “You’re going home—alive. That’s always a small measure of victory in this business. But don’t thank me for that. If I had my way, you’d be worm pudding by now.”
“Yes, I’m going home. Home. To my daughter and my grandchildren, perhaps. If they’ll let me.”
Justin stared with unfeeling eyes.
“You see, we have a black-and-white view of things in Russia. To err is human…to forgive is not Russian policy.”
“Put this on,” Justin said, tossing the cap into Kuradin’s lap. “And you leave it on, or I’ll see that you never make it back,” he warned.
Such hate in a man so young, Kuradin thought. He pulled the cap over his head.
“Lower, over the ears,” Justin said.
Kuradin knew why. He did as he was told.
Justin took out a small hypodermic needle and walked toward Kuradin. “Roll up your sleeve,” he ordered.
Kuradin knew they would put him out, so he would not see any of the surrounding area on the way to the first plane. He rolled up his left sleeve.
Justin dabbed the spot on the arm with an alcohol swatch and jammed the needle in.
Kuradin winced from the deliberately crude action.
Justin withdrew the needle and dabbed the area again.
The room began to spin, and light closed in quickly from the outside into a narrow circle. Kuradin’s head swayed, then fell to the right.
“Get him out of here,” Justin said to the guards.
Kuradin had come to to the sounds of the swishing jet engines over mid-ocean. He sat absolutely still, keeping his eyes closed. He was going home!
His mission was nearly over. A few more hours, and it would be history—and Russia would have the computer.
He had played the endgame skillfully, maintaining that delicate and valuable tempo that invariably proves to be the winning factor in the very
close game.
He let his muscles and mind relax.
There was no more to do but to take the last steps across an empty runway. The last steps to safety and winning. The last steps home.
In the lower levels of the Dials Cardiac Clinic, a nurse adjusted the drip rate of one of the intravenous hookups running into Dmitri Chakhovsky.
Suddenly, the still hand moved.
The nurse looked down with a start as the arm raised off the bed, then fell back.
There was a moan, then the eyes blinked.
They opened weakly, blinking again, to try to clear the blurred image in front of them.
The nurse pushed the call button.
A team rushed into the room.
Thirty minutes later Becker Dials was on the phone to Honeycut.
“Yes, what is it?” Honeycut graveled out.
“Irv, this is Buck. Get down to the ICU right away. Chakhovsky is coming out of coma.”
Honeycut sat up sharply. “Notify Wyatt and Dr. Ryerson, immediately. I’ll be down in two minutes. Can he talk?”
“Not yet, but I think he’ll be able to in a few hours,” Dials answered.
“Will he be coherent?”
“There’s no telling at this point. All vital signs look good. I’d say that there’s a good chance that he will be.”
“I’m on my way.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Colorosa visited me today. I told him about Titus. I think he believed me. He said he would take care of the matter.
I am ready to die, but Colorosa tells me that I will live forever. He says there will be monuments all over the world in my name. That I will hold a high place in history.
Colorosa has done more…more than all the wars put together to achieve our moment in history.
He is a great man, and through him I have seen the next…Führer. So soon in time, another has come with greatness beyond belief.
Entry No. 81 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
Justin ran the cool, damp towel across his forehead and eyes. It felt refreshing. He hadn’t slept at all since leaving St. Simon’s Island.
His brain had sliced away at the facts and available bits of information, sorting them, reassembling them, trying to make a clearer picture of the incredibly jumbled mess.