The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  The big government jet had been on the ground for almost twenty minutes. It had taxied to an isolated part of the unused runway and shut down its engines.

  The Russian plane was already on the ground and sat waiting several hundred yards away.

  The sky over Dieppe was gray, and a heavy rain was falling, driven by cold, gusting winds untypical for July.

  Justin put down the towel and walked over to a small table. On it was a narrow flat case. He opened it.

  Inside was a Colt Trooper MK 111 .357 magnum. It was a big weapon with a four-inch barrel; forty-one ounces of blued steel, capable of scoring a kill with even a leg or arm hit, due to the tremendous hydraulic shock effect on the body. The extra hitting power of the magnum would come in handy if it came down to needing it today.

  Justin strapped the pit holster on and swung out the cylinder, to make sure the weapon was fully loaded. Then he slipped it gently into the holster. It was heavy, but fit comfortably.

  He looked out the small window as he put on the vinyl rain jacket. He could see men approaching and spotted Robert Morsand immediately. The big man at his side he recognized as Bud Kodek.

  He recognized only one man from a second pair approaching from further back. It was Arthur Edgar, with the State Department.

  Justin made one last check in a wall-mounted mirror to be sure the Colt didn’t show. Satisfied, he left the cabin, passed through another compartment, and into the main cabin, where Kuradin sat handcuffed to one of the military police who had made the trip from St. Simon’s Island.

  Morsand and Kodek stepped briskly into the driving rain.

  “Any bets that it’s Chakhovsky?” Kodek said.

  “I hope to hell that it’s not,” Morsand returned.

  “Was Platt able to give you anything further on Limpoulous or this guy Chaple?” Kodek asked.

  “Nothing worth a shit,” Morsand answered. “But I didn’t expect it. The State Department has stepped into it. It’s their show. We’re only here for appearances,” he said.

  “Is Platt pushing the investigation?”

  “You can bet your ass he is. Executive order or not, he’s got trusted people working on it. He wants answers, and so do I,” Morsand said.

  “Is everybody in position?” he asked Kodek.

  “We’re all set. We’ll get pictures of everybody on both sides. The sound team is set up to record the entire verbal exchange from the time both sides head out to the meeting point,” Kodek told him.

  “Good, now let’s see some faces,” Morsand said, as they reached the stair ramp to the plane.

  Justin heard the hurried steps on the metal stairs. Then Morsand came through the open door into the main cabin, Kodek right behind him.

  Morsand’s eyes shot immediately to Kuradin. Combined relief and disappointment swept through him. He had almost expected to see Chakhovsky.

  After a long stare, he fixed his eyes on Justin.

  Justin looked back calmly.

  “You Chaple?” Morsand asked.

  “Yes,” Justin answered politely.

  “Robert Morsand,” the introduction came, hand extended.

  Justin accepted it.

  “This is Bud Kodek.”

  The two shook hands.

  Morsand looked around the cabin quickly, saw the door to one of the aft cabins, and looked back to Justin.

  “Would you come with me, please?” he said.

  The two men walked back into the cabin, and Morsand closed the door behind them.

  “Sit down, Mr. Chaple,” Morsand directed.

  “No thanks, I’ll stand,” Justin said.

  Morsand looked into the cool eyes for a moment. Too controlled, he thought.

  “Just how do you fit into this?” Morsand asked.

  Justin didn’t answer for a moment. He knew that Morsand knew next to nothing about him.

  “You must have a dossier on me. You probably know a great deal about me and a hell of a lot more about this than I do,” he said.

  “Suppose you just tell me everything that you know,” Morsand said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Morsand, I have nothing to say to you,” Justin said, turning toward the door.

  “Wait a minute, you,” Morsand said, reaching out and grabbing Justin’s shoulder.

  Too quickly, Justin spun to face him, the eyes ice, ready.

  He calmed himself quickly, but Morsand had already seen it.

  “There’s nothing to say,” Justin repeated calmly.

  “Your ass! I want to know about Limpoulous, who he is, and what all this has got to do with you,” Morsand said.

  “I know him, that’s all,” Justin said.

  “What’s his real name and what was he doing in Russia?” Morsand quizzed.

  “I thought you guys were supposed to know everything about everybody. You tell me,” Justin said.

  “Just answer my question,” Morsand fumed, his index finger pounding into Justin’s chest.

  In an instant, Justin had Morsand’s wrist in his viselike grip.

  “Save that crap for someone else,” Justin told him and pushed the hand away.

  “You’ll tell me what I want to know or I’ll start an investigation on you that will teach me more about you than you know yourself,” Morsand threatened. “More than you’ll want known,” he said.

  Justin smiled. “Go suck an egg,” he said, turning once again for the door.

  “You son-of-a—”

  The door opened from the outside, and Arthur Edgar stuck his head in.

  Justin used the interruption to leave.

  Edgar stepped in, closing the door behind him.

  Morsand stood facing the smaller, portly man with the shiny bald head.

  “What’s this all about, Morsand?” the State Department official asked.

  “It’s between him and me,” Morsand replied.

  “You were told to ask no questions,” the smaller man said. “Not to talk to Yarin, Limpoulous, or Chaple before or after the trade. This isn’t your show. It’s a State Department matter. You’re only here out of protocol, because the arrangements were through your office.”

  “Don’t give me that shit,” Morsand said. “You can bet your left nut that I’m going to find out what this is all about. This is my turf. What goes on here I know about, or I get mighty sore.”

  “You’re a fool, Morsand. An Executive order has been given to Platt, to discontinue all forms of investigation into this matter. It doesn’t concern you—”

  “Save it, because I’m not listening. There’s something going on, and I’m going to know about it.”

  Edgar looked at Morsand. He knew no more about it than Morsand did. He wanted answers, too. But an Executive order was an Executive order.

  Morsand was a valuable man, and Edgar didn’t want to anger him any more than he had to.

  Edgar looked down, thinking.

  “I know very little, myself,” he began. “But I promise you, Bob, that whatever I learn will cross your desk. That’s the best I can do right now,” he said.

  Morsand nodded reluctantly. “All right, but I want answers soon. Or I’ll find them myself,” he said.

  “You’ll get them, I promise you. Officially, you’re supposed to be in charge of this affair, at least for the record you are. Outside of this room, only you and I will know that it belongs to State. We’ll be responsible for whatever happens today. Now you better go out and take charge,” he said.

  “You go ahead. I have to cool off a little,” Morsand said. “Give me a few minutes.”

  “All right. We’ve got about fifty minutes, yet. Take your time,” Edgar told him and went to the door.

  “Tell Kodek to come in here, would you?” Morsand asked.

  Edgar looked back at him for a moment and raised a finger. “Remember, between you and me. Kodek knows nothing.”

  Morsand nodded, knowing that Kodek already knew.

  Edgar nodded and left the cabin.

  A few moments later Ko
dek stepped in.

  “What did Edgar have to say?” he asked.

  “Same old shit that we knew before we got here. It’s our show, but it isn’t,” Morsand said. “Ask no questions, just sit and watch, and pretend we’re telling everybody what to do,” he said, the anger still in his face.

  “Business as usual?” Kodek asked.

  Morsand smiled. “You’re learning.”

  Over an hour passed before the party began to file out of the plane. The rain had eased, and only a light drizzle filled the air.

  From the far side of the runway, well concealed in the trees, a shutter snapped, as each face showed in the open doorway of the plane. The high-powered lenses took incredibly close-up pictures of everyone, special attention being given to Justin, Kuradin, and Dr. Waith.

  The wheels had begun rolling for Robert Morsand.

  About sixty yards from the plane, three cars had pulled into position, parked one behind the other in a straight line.

  A hundred yards out, another line of cars was parked, behind them the Soviet plane. The Soviet party had not yet disembarked.

  Dr. Waith and Justin stood off to one side, away from everyone else. Kuradin sat with the guard in one of the cars.

  Waith looked around, to be sure they were out of earshot. Then he reached for Justin’s left hand and looked at the thin, straight scar across it.

  “It healed well,” he said. “Any problems using it?” he asked.

  “Works fine, Doc. You did a great job,” Justin answered.

  Waith smiled.

  “He’s been through hell,” he said, looking across at the Russian plane. “After you’ve confirmed Eagle’s identity, check behind the right ear, to see if there are any signs of surgical procedure.

  “Our monitoring tells us that the implant is still in place. But there was a six-week period when contact was impossible. We must ascertain whether, during that period, they located it, removed it, then put it back. It’s a possibility,” Waith said.

  Justin nodded.

  “You know, if anything should go wrong and Eagle is not handed over, it’ll be an even worse hell for him?” Waith said.

  Justin nodded. “I know. That won’t happen. I won’t let it.”

  “As long as you understand.”

  “Don’t worry. I understand,” Justin assured him.

  Morsand walked over to Justin. He stood next to him, pipe in his mouth, looking out at the Russian plane.

  “It’s about a hundred yards to their cars,” Morsand began. “That’s a long walk in the open,” he said.

  He didn’t have to tell Justin. He had been staring at that no-man’s-land for many long moments. That wasn’t the place to be if the shit started flying.

  “Exchanges like this are funny,” Morsand began again. “I’ve seen them blow up like a time bomb. If anything happens while you’re out there, just hit the deck and keep Yarin low. Don’t try to run, because you’ll be handcuffed together, and dragging him will only make you a good target. Don’t undo the cuffs if you have to hit the deck, keep the cuffs on him to prevent him from running. And stay down.

  “I don’t expect anything like that to happen,” Morsand continued. “Most trades go off smooth as silk. But if it shouldn’t, you’ll know what to do.”

  “I’ll know what to do,” Justin assured him.

  “They’re coming out,” Kodek shouted, raising a pair of binoculars.

  Morsand and Justin moved closer to Kodek. Waith went to the car that Kuradin was in.

  “Who do you see?” Morsand asked.

  Kuradin was helped out of the car.

  Kodek looked through the binoculars at the people emerging from the Soviet plane.

  “There’s Yentik,” Kodek said. “I can see Sharkenko, and it looks like…Olganskaya, and…wait a second…” He whistled. “That’s Krykov there, too!”

  Anatoly Krykov did not come from Moscow for a nobody. Morsand looked long and hard at Kuradin, wondering.

  The Russian names meant nothing to Justin. He watched passively.

  “Are you sure that’s Krykov?” Morsand asked.

  “Positive.”

  Morsand looked back to Justin. “You can relax. There won’t be any trouble,” he said.

  Justin looked at him quizzically.

  “That man just starting down is Anatoly Krykov. He works for Leonid Travkin directly. There won’t be any trouble with Krykov here,” he said.

  “That’s good to know,” Justin said. Until they find out that the microdot implant isn’t there, he wanted to say.

  “That must be Limpoulous,” Kodek said. “He’s big, real big. And he’s cuffed.”

  He handed the glasses to Justin. “Here, take a look.”

  Justin took the glasses and raised them, adjusting them to his eyes.

  It was Pappy, all right, and moving mighty slow, being helped down the stairs. It hurt to see him that way.

  “It’s him,” he said, handing the glasses back after a few more moments of verification.

  “All right, let’s get ready,” Morsand said.

  He pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He put one cuff on Justin’s left wrist and handed him the key. “Unlock it only after you’ve made positive identification,” he instructed.

  Justin nodded.

  Kuradin was brought over. He was uncuffed from the guard and cuffed to Justin by the right wrist.

  “They’ll raise a white flag when they’re ready. We’ll do the same. One minute later, they’ll raise a red flag. You’ll start when we raise ours. You’ll meet in the middle, make your identification, then turn Yarin over to them. Come straight back as quickly as possible,” Morsand said.

  Justin nodded. As quickly as possible was right.

  Kuradin’s nerves were like live wires. He was a hundred yards away from success. It had seemed like it would never come. But it was finally at hand. He had played the endgame brilliantly. One move left to play in the game, then it was checkmate.

  Richard Wyatt walked into the intensive care unit at the Dials Cardiac Clinic.

  Dr. Becker Dials was hunched over Dmitri Chakhovsky.

  “Is he coherent, yet?” Wyatt asked.

  “Semi,” Dials answered.

  “They’re ready to go, on that trade,” Wyatt said. “Can he answer one question?”

  “You can try,” Dials told him. “I think he’ll hear you okay, but I don’t know if he’ll understand what you’re trying to ask him. His mind works in Russian and it may be too clouded to translate readily,” he said.

  “We’ve got to try,” Wyatt said. “Do we have an audio setup to SENTINEL in here?” he asked. “Maybe we can get SENTINEL to talk to him in Russian.”

  Dials walked a few steps to the SENTINEL computer console and pushed the white button.

  “Yes,” the soft voice responded.

  “SENTINEL, we need some linguistics assistance. In Russian,” Dials said.

  “Ready,” the voice sounded.

  The white flag went up on the Soviet side. Kodek held up a white flag as well.

  “One minute,” Morsand announced.

  Wyatt leaned over the bed, close to Chakhovsky’s ear. “Dmitri…Dmitri,” he said softly.

  The Russian’s eyes opened weakly, fluttered, remained open slightly.

  “SENTINEL, ask him if he can hear and understand what’s being said to him,” Wyatt directed.

  SENTINEL asked in Russian.

  There was no response.

  “Louder,” Wyatt said.

  SENTINEL repeated the question, in a louder voice.

  Chakhovsky nodded slightly.

  “Good. Good,” Wyatt whispered. He took out a photograph of Kuradin from an envelope and held it up in front of Chakhovsky’s face.

  “SENTINEL, ask him if he recognizes this man.”

  SENTINEL complied.

  Chakhovsky squinted through blurred eyes for several long moments.

  “More light,” Wyatt directed urgently.

  “Do y
ou recognize this man?” SENTINEL asked again in Russian.

  Chakhovsky looked at the picture and nodded.

  “Red flag. Let’s go,” Morsand said.

  At the same instant that Justin and Kuradin began walking slowly from the line of cars, Steve and his escort emerged from the Russian line. Steve moved slowly, aided by the escort.

  “Ask him if this man is Phoenix,” Wyatt instructed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dials said, “what more proof do you want?”

  Dials’s statement and SENTINEL’s question were made simultaneously. The question was lost in the confusion.

  “Will you shut up,” Wyatt fumed. “SENTINEL, ask the question again,” Wyatt rushed.

  “Is this man Phoenix?” SENTINEL repeated.

  Chakhovsky blinked and looked again.

  SENTINEL repeated the question.

  Chakhovsky shook his head, no.

  Wyatt’s nerves nearly exploded out of his body. Dials’s mouth fell open.

  All concentration in the situation room was shattered by the sudden alarm bell and flashing yellow alert.

  Honeycut’s heart nearly leaped out of his mouth when the alert sounded. He jumped up and raced to the control panel, to push the button acknowledging awareness of the yellow alert, silencing the piercing bells.

  “Who is this man?” SENTINEL asked automatically.

  Chakhovsky whispered something.

  Wyatt couldn’t hear it.

  “Centaur,” SENTINEL translated, having picked up the whispered response through its filters.

  “What can you tell us about him?” SENTINEL asked.

  Chakhovsky whispered again.

  This time it was more audible as the room was in utter silence, waiting for SENTINEL’s translation.

  “Photographic memory,” SENTINEL announced.

  BEEP!

  BLEEP! Justin responded.

  “Pilgrim,” SENTINEL’s soft voice began, “you must not make the trade,” it said.

  BLEEP! BLEEP! Negative, or explain further.

  “We have just learned that he is not Phoenix. He is a memory expert with total recall. His code name is Centaur. He has all of the schematics in his head. He must be stopped.”

  BLEEP! Affirmative.

  “It is imperative that you stop Eagle, as well,” the voice said.