COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

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  Chapin sat alone at a back table in the deserted CIA cafeteria. He had one more meeting before he went home.

  “What the hell did you do this time?” came a gruff voice.

  Turning, Chapin looked up at the tall, bespectacled, and overweight bear of a man who had spoken. The embodiment of Jason Mitchell was anything but regulation CIA. Yet, in his prime, Mitchell had ranked among the best in the world.

  Smiling, Chapin met his friend’s questioning gaze openly. “Nothing.”

  “Kevin,” Jason Mitchell said as he sat next to Chapin, “your ass is in a sling a mile wide and a kilometer deep. You went into Russia without sanction, you got caught, and you caused a fucking uproar so hot the microwave sending units almost melted. Don’t give me this nothing shit. I ran Ruby One before you, remember?”

  Chapin nodded. Mitchell, ten years older than Chapin, had a wife, and two children—one in high school and one in college. Mitchell had asked for a stateside assignment and, because of his record, had been assigned as the Ruby One operations analyst coordinator. Chapin had taken over from Mitchell as control leader.

  “You never let me forget it,” Chapin said, his expression deadpan except for the humor in his eyes.

  Mitchell’s features shifted. A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Rumor has it that you’re in for some heavy on-record disciplinary action. Was whatever you went in for that important?”

  Chapin looked at his friend and saw the deep concern mirrored on his face. He knew Mitchell was one of the few people he could trust; he had been doing just that since three years after he’d joined The Company, which was why, when he’d gotten across the Finnish border and made it to the safe house, he’d used the secure line to call Mitchell and ask for a favor.

  “I don’t know, yet. But it could be very important. What about that installation in the Pamirs?”

  Mitchell’s eyebrows arched. “When you called and said it was a hush-hush installation, I took it for granted that it wasn’t the satellite tracking station complex or the military defense network setup. And that, my friend, is about all there is, except for one small complex that no one has any information on.”

  Chapin stared at Mitchell. “And?”

  “And nothing,” Mitchell said with a shrug. “No one knows what it is. It’s in a spot that’s almost impossible to view. Only a small part of the complex is visible. The rest is hidden within the overhang of the mountains. The Pamirs are not an easy range to see in,” he added unnecessarily.

  Chapin stared past Mitchell. “How long have we been monitoring it?”

  Mitchell shrugged. “It was first spotted by the old U2 flights. We keep it updated with spy satellite photos.”

  “What do the photo analysts say?”

  Mitchell moistened his lips with his tongue. “None of them are willing to say anything definite.”

  “There’s nothing in our files?”

  Mitchell shook his head. “It’s a mystery, Kevin, and from your reaction to it, a damned big one, I think.”

  Chapter Seven

  It was nine o’clock by the time Chapin pulled the car into his reserved space. He was bone tired and looking forward to a hot shower and a long night of uninterrupted sleep.

  He got out of the car, locked the door, and started toward the parking lot entrance of his condominium building. Fifteen feet ahead of him, a woman finished locking her car door, and started toward the building.

  By the time the woman reached the door, Chapin was only a few feet behind her. She wore a light coat, and searched through her bag for her keys. Her shoulder length blonde hair fell across her eyes, and she flipped her head to the side to clear her vision.

  “Let me,” he said, reaching past her to slip his key into the lock just as she pulled out her own keys.

  She glanced at him hesitantly before stepping aside. “Thank you.”

  Chapin opened the door and waited for her to go ahead. Once she was inside, he entered and closed the door behind him, making sure that the lock clicked into place.

  She walked across the small lobby, pressed the elevator call button, and turned back to Chapin with a shy smile. As he went toward the elevator, he studied her. He hadn’t seen her before, but that meant nothing. Although this was his permanent address, he only lived here a few weeks a year.

  The woman had a classic face with well-defined cheekbones and a generous mouth. Her features were set just right. Her soft hazel eyes were almond shaped, her skin evenly tanned. He guessed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

  Chapin looked at the indicator above the door. The light was still on the second floor. “I guess someone’s holding it up.”

  “Probably,” she agreed. “At least it’s only one floor up.”

  Nodding, he went to the stairway door and held it open. The woman went through first.

  The stairwell had barely enough light to let him see the steps. He looked up and saw the light on the mid-level landing was out.

  The woman was on the first step. She glanced over her shoulder at Chapin. “I wish they would put better lighting in.”

  Chapin agreed.

  She reached the mid-level landing and waited for him. When he reached her, he nodded for her to go ahead.

  He heard something behind him, and recognized the sound of rubber soles on the cement stairs.

  Turning, he saw a man halfway up the stairs. The man wore a stocking mask. Then the woman let out a startled gasp. Chapin half turned and saw another man in a stocking mask on the stairs above them.

  Both men held pistols. Chapin recognized the nine-millimeter Brownings.

  “Don’t move,” said the man near Chapin.

  The one on the upper stairs edged toward the woman, who was trying to shrink back. “The purse,” he snapped, holding out his free hand and wiggling his fingers.

  “No, please,” she whispered, pulling her purse against herself and shaking her head.

  Chapin’s muscles tightened spring-like and ready to uncoil. He watched them carefully, his mind cleared by the adrenaline pumping into his system. The woman backed against the wall; her eyes wide and scared.

  “Your wallet,” said the man as he came level with Chapin. “Now!”

  The second man grabbed for the woman’s purse. He caught the strap and yanked it to him. The woman fought him, holding onto the purse, and hugging it to her chest.

  The man released the strap and raised the pistol. The woman half fell backward against the wall.

  “Give it to him,” Chapin snapped harshly while he slowly drew out his wallet and held it up.

  The man by Chapin took the wallet and backed away. The second man pressed the barrel of the Browning to the woman’s head.

  The woman opened her purse quickly. “Please, don’t take my purse; take my money,” she pleaded, still hugging her purse to her.

  Chapin saw the man’s hand tense, his trigger finger go taut. “Give it to him, God damn it!” Chapin shouted.

  The man leaned forward, grabbed the strap, and ripped it out of the woman’s hand.

  “No!” she screamed, and started toward the man.

  The mugger stopped, raised his gun arm, and was about to hit the woman when Chapin launched himself.

  The mugger shifted and swung, clipping Chapin across the temple and sending him to his knees.

  Pain lanced through his head. Stunned, he hit the cement hard. More pain jolted through his knees. He was unable to move for the few seconds it took the thieves to race down the stairs and out of the building.

  A moment later Chapin struggled to stand. He felt the woman’s hands go under his arms in an effort to help him up. He stood slowly and shook her hands away, as a new wave of dizziness washed over him. He grasped the railing and waited for it to pass. He knew the head blow wasn’t bad, but his tired body wouldn’t allow him to recover quickly.

  He looked at her. Her eyes were fear glazed. “What the hell were you trying to do? Get us both killed?”
he shouted, anger propelling his words harshly.

  “I...”

  “Only a fool argues with a pistol! When someone holds a weapon on you, lady, you do what you are told!”

  Chapin quieted as his anger ebbed. He turned to the stairs and felt his legs go out from under him. The woman was next to him instantly. She helped him up. This time Chapin didn’t push her away.

  “I’m sorry, I really am.”

  Chapin grunted and started up. When they reached the first floor, they went out to the elevator, which, as Chapin had already guessed was free.

  They went in together. The woman pushed the button for the fourth floor. “I am sorry for your getting hurt,” she said, gently turning his head to look at the spot where the pistol had hit him. She touched it, and he winced with the sharpness of the pain.

  “I’m fine,” Chapin said.

  “You’ve got a cut. At least let me treat it for you.”

  Chapin stared into her eyes and nodded.

  They got off the elevator on the fourth floor. Chapin let her take him to her apartment, where she led him to the kitchen.

  Pointing to one of four cane chairs surrounding a white Formica table, she told him to sit down and that she would be right back.

  Chapin complied, glad to be off his feet. While she was gone, he glanced around. The apartment was two floors down, in the same line as his own, and identical to his. The kitchen was large with white cabinets and white counters, the floor blue ceramic tile, and the walls covered by a floral paper in blue and white.

  “My name is Abby Sloan,” the woman said, returning to the kitchen with a bottle of peroxide and several gauze pads.

  She’d shed her coat, and was wearing a pale green linen suit and ivory blouse. She deposited the items on the kitchen table and opened the peroxide.

  She lifted a gauze pad and poured some peroxide on it. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

  When she patted the cut, Chapin winced again.

  She repeated the process twice more. “I don’t think you need a bandage. Do you have a name?”

  “Kevin Chapin. Why did you fight the two men?”

  Abby Sloan went to the chair across from Chapin, sat, and twined her hands together before saying, “You were right; I acted stupidly. But with good reason. I had gone to the bank this afternoon. To my safety-deposit box. I have an affair coming up, and I wanted to wear something special.” She paused and made a dismissing motion. “My...My grandmother had given me a very special ring and bracelet. I…” Emotion choked off her words. She turned away, but not before Chapin saw the tears in her eyes.

  “They were irreplaceable,” she finished.

  “Your life is more valuable than jewelry.”

  Turning to him, Abby Sloan smiled hesitantly. “Rationally, yes. But I guess I didn’t react rationally. I couldn’t just let them take my purse.” She exhaled and stood. “And we should call the police.”

  “Yes,” Chapin agreed, although he knew the police would be unable to do anything. Muggers were rarely caught—there were too many crimes happening in DC for the police to take time chasing down unknown assailants.

  True to his thoughts, an hour later a bored and curly-haired police sergeant by the name of Kirby Brooks finished writing the description of Abby Sloan’s stolen jewelry and said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Sloan, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope. Without an accurate description of the two men, there isn’t much likelihood of capturing them.

  “Chalk it up to experience. And, in the future, if you have to take the stairs, don’t if there are lights out.” Sergeant Brooks took out two cards, handed one to Abby and the other to Chapin.

  “Call me tomorrow and I’ll give you the case number. Your insurance company will need it. Don’t forget to cancel your credit cards and to notify motor vehicle about your driver’s licenses.”

  “Is that all you can do?” Abby asked.

  “I’m afraid so, Ms. Sloan. Good night.”

  After the policeman left, Abby turned to Chapin. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “It isn’t, but there really is nothing we can do.” Chapin stood and moved toward the door.

  “How is your head?”

  “It’ll be fine after I get some sleep.” He opened the door and started out. Abby followed him into the hall.

  “Kevin, thank you for what you did downstairs.” He gazed into her eyes. They were warm, open, and friendly. “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you—will you be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. Go back inside. Good night, Abby.”

  “Good night.” She stepped back into the apartment and closed the door.

  Chapin stared at the door, a picture of Abby Sloan staying with him for a moment. Then he went to the elevator. When the door closed, he pushed the down button instead of the up.

  Ignoring the hollow echo in his ears, he got off on the second floor and went to the staircase. The police had already screwed the light back in. He walked down slowly, looking for anything and finding nothing.

  He went down to the first floor, and to the door. He looked at the doorframe to see if the muggers had forced it open. They hadn’t.

  Chapin went outside, letting the cool late October breeze wake him a little. He stared at the parking lot exit, wondering if the muggers had gone that way. An internal instinct told him they hadn’t.

  He looked to his left, at the hedge-lined cement walk, and moved in that direction. He studied the ground carefully. He found pieces of evergreens broken off in several spots.

  Knowing two men running side by side could do that, he kept walking until he turned the corner of the building, where he found himself facing the main street.

  Certain they would have parked their car nearby, he walked toward the street. Just before the narrow walkway met the full sidewalk, and from the corner of his eye, he caught a sparkling reflection coming out of a hedges.

  Bending, he separated several of the small branchlike leaves, and was rewarded with the glitter of a silver buckle.

  The light from the overhead street lamp had hit the buckle of Abby Sloan’s shoulder bag strap. He reached in and pulled out a dark gray purse.

  Opening the purse, he found what he expected. Nothing. He shook his head and started to close it, when he saw a thin outline against the inside fabric. He touched it and felt something hard.

  He moved until he was directly under the light. Then he looked in the purse again. There was a thin nylon zipper. He opened it and fished around in the inner pocket.

  Chapin smiled. The night hadn’t gone completely bad. He’d found Abby Sloan’s ring and bracelet.

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  Gazing out the window at the nighttime vista of Washington, Sokova spoke on the phone. Twin red dots glowed at the base of the receiver. No one was monitoring the call, and the scrambler was working perfectly.

  “Yes, you may tell them everything is under control. Chapin has been contained, and is being watched. There has been no evidence, so far, to indicate he learned anything of importance, but we will continue to monitor him.”

  Sokova paused to listen. When the speaker finished, Sokova said, “Of course I realize the danger Chapin represents, but if we act too soon, we risk making ourselves vulnerable. Do nothing unless I tell you. Is that understood?”

  When Sokova received the reply he expected, he glanced at the digital clock on his desk. He had been speaking for three minutes.

  “Do not call me again. If I need you, you will receive word from me.”

  Sokova hung up and looked out the window. His mind accelerated, and he worked on calming himself. He’d spent too many years to let impatience dictate his actions now.

  Unknown to the agent whom he’d just spoken, Sokova had already set several plans into motion, one of which he had activated as soon as he knew that Chapin had been recalled.

  The contingency actions were overlapping measures to watch and determine what Chapin knew, what he might find out, and what actions they judged him capable of ta
king.

  Chapin himself would decide the alternatives. At the least, Chapin would be discredited. At the worst, Chapin would be terminated if he had learned enough to interfere.

  Sokova looked at the newspaper on his desk. The Washington Courier was open to a second-page story. It was the obituary of reporter Joel Blair and told of his tragic accident in Tennessee.

  According to several witnesses, Blair’s front tire blew out, and the car went out of control, rolling into a large tree. Blair had died of a broken neck, sustained even though he had worn his seat belt.

  Sokova closed the paper. With Blair disposed of, there was only Chapin to concern him. And Chapin was in no position to harm Sokova or the plan he had originated and orchestrated for over four decades.

  Sokova’s smile was dark and malignant. In three months, the last component would be in place. In six months, the consummation of his master plan would take place.

  In twelve months, without the knowledge of the American people, the United States would be firmly under the control of the Soviet Union.

  Chapter Eight

  Wednesday

  Chapin parked the car and shut off the engine. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the support.

  It had been a long and wasted day. Most of the morning taken up by his physical. The rest spent in personnel and administration, explaining how an experienced field agent got himself mugged and his wallet stolen.

  Then he’d had lunch with several of the agents in residence, all of whom expressed sympathy at his recall. After lunch, he’d closeted himself in his newly assigned office and analyzed the twenty-three usable photographs The Company had of the unknown installation in the Pamir Mountains. None of the photographs offered any conclusive proof that there was a secret installation in the Pamirs.

  The earlier pictures, taken by the U2 flights, were primitive in comparison to the modern satellite photos. But even with the new technology, all he could make out of the installation was a small building set at the side of a mountain. With no distinguishing features, none of the analysts had ventured a guess as to the structure’s use.