COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set
Page 42
What the hell was it?
Chapin opened his eyes and stared out the car’s windshield. He saw nothing as his mind worked. Jason Mitchell had given him every bit of information The Company had on the installation. It was pathetically little: the photographs, of course; and an analyst’s opinion that the complex was a training site for something unspecified.
According to Ruby Red, it was a training site for the overthrow of the American government. Chapin took the keys from the ignition. How could one small building be for something so big? Was the real installation inside the mountain?
Then Chapin wondered if this installation was indeed a training sight, and with everything that had happened to the Communist bloc countries recently, would the Soviets really be contemplating a covert operation to overthrow the U.S. government now?
He looked at the passenger seat and at Abby Sloan’s purse. He had decided not to return it last night. At the time, he hadn’t been sure why. Today he knew why. He did not know Abby Sloan, and he wasn’t sure about her or the mugging.
He accepted his cynicism stoically, as he had since his second day in Viet Nam, as a twenty-two year old thrown into the middle of a bad war.
One other thought was nagging at him, from last night and through most of the day. Why was her purse in the bushes and his wallet completely gone?
He couldn’t come up with an answer that satisfied him.
At three, after finishing with Mitchell’s photographs and the analyst’s scant information, Chapin had gone to the labs and asked one of the technicians to look at the jewelry. They’d done an analysis on it, and just as Abby had said, it was old. The diamonds in the ring and bracelet were cut by a method that hadn’t been used for over fifty years.
The gold was of the highest quality and bore an artisan’s symbol. The technician believed the bracelet had come from Western Europe, possibly pre-World War II Germany.
“Lucky,” Chapin said aloud as he picked up the purse. Abby Sloan was lucky that the muggers had been in a hurry, and pulled the contents of the purse without stripping its lining. The same thing could be said for his wallet. The thieves were in a hurry and had simply pocketed the wallet for later inspection.
Chapin left the car and walked to the entrance. He unlocked the door and, as he entered, let his right palm graze across the fabric of his jacket. Through the material came the reassuring touch of the butt of the nine-millimeter Beretta automatic he had requisitioned before leaving for the day.
He pushed the elevator call button and glanced at the door leading to the stairs. The small window showed the lights were all on in the staircase.
When the elevator came, he took it to the fourth floor, and went to Abby Sloan’s door. He knocked twice.
“Yes?” he heard her say a few seconds later.
“It’s Kevin Chapin.”
When the door opened, Abby Sloan was gazing at him, her expression one of question. She wore a cocktail dress, and had her hair up. Her makeup was smooth, even, and understated. He liked it.
Chapin extended the gray purse.” Take a look inside.”
Taking the purse, she opened it quickly. An instant later, her head snapped up. Her eyes were wide with surprise. “How?” she asked, shaking her head with disbelief.
“Chance. I found it late last night. I didn’t want to wake you,” he said, allowing himself the white lie.
She took out the bracelet and held it up. Then, delicately and reverently, she picked up the ring and slipped it on her finger.
“I never thought I’d see them again,” she whispered. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Are you going out?”
Her brows knitted together. She shook her head.
Chapin smiled. “You’re very dressed up for a night at home.”
Abby looked down at her dress, and then at him. She made a dismissing gesture with her hand. “There was a State Department affair today, which was the reason I took the jewelry out of my safety-deposit box.”
Nodding, Chapin remembered their conversation from last night. “In that case, join me for dinner.”
Her expression changed to disappointment. “Thank you, Kevin, but I’ve been on the go since seven this morning. And I’ve about had it with people.”
She paused, and then smiled. “What would you say to dinner here?”
“That would be nice,” Chapin said simply. “Let me go upstairs and change my shirt. I’ll be down in ten.”
<><><>
“It’s hard when things don’t work out the way you want them to or plan them to,” Chapin said as Abby poured more coffee.
They were in the alcove dining room, where they’d been for almost two hours. Abby had cooked two steaks to medium-rare perfection. They’d shared a bottle of a good cabernet, and finished with a salad dressed with fresh lemon juice.
“It was a hard lesson to learn, but in a way, it was good for me. It made me understand that the only person who is truly responsible for me, is me,” Abby said, her eyes distant.
“They don’t teach you that in school,” Chapin agreed. “So, after your marriage broke up, you went back to teaching and...?”
“Became very bored with life on the collegiate level. I think academia wore out with my marriage. Two years ago I went Civil Service and was accepted into the State Department as a translator. I’ve been in France for the last year and a half.”
“Did you like it?”
“France?” she asked, cocking her head slightly to one side. “I loved France. I missed home. Eighteen months is a long time. I turned thirty in France. That was frightening.”
“Why?” Chapin asked, studying her carefully.
She gave a little mew with her lips. “Paris isn’t just the City of Lights; it’s also the city of eternal youth. The French have made a ritual of beauty and of staying young. I became an old lady there.”
Chapin couldn’t help his laugh. “To begin with, thirty is young… From my point of view, I think most twenty year old women would give their eye teeth to look like you do right now.” As he studied her, he knew he was speaking the truth.
Abby’s eyes turned serious. “Do you think so?”
“Yes.” There was a prolonged silence until Chapin shifted in his chair. “So, what’s next with State?”
Abby shrugged. “I’m on unattached assignment right now, in the pool. When a visiting dignitary comes, whoever’s language is needed, is called upon.”
“And your specialty is French.”
“And Russian. I translate French to English and vice versa, Russian to English, and French to Russian and back. Not very exciting, but the travel is nice.”
She picked up her cup and sipped her coffee. When she put the cup down, she fixed Chapin with a deep and steady gaze.
“Can we talk about you for a while?”
“There’s nothing much to talk about,” Chapin said nonchalantly.
“Are you a spy?”
Smiling, Chapin shook his head. “Everyone asks that after I tell them I work for the CIA. No, I’m just a GS 16 civil servant. My title is analyst.”
“That sounds interesting. What do you analyze?”
“Various things,” he replied, his face and voice suddenly stolid.
“Which is the equivalent of saying you’re not at liberty to discuss it.”
It was his turn to shrug.
“I understand. Kevin, how long have you lived at the Markham?”
“A couple of years.”
“Do you know my uncle, Michael Horton?”
“Should I?”
“This is his apartment. He lives in California, but keeps the apartment here for business trips.”
Chapin shook his head. “I’ve never met him.”
Abby pushed her chair back and stood. “Would you like a cognac?”
“Very much.”
She led him into the living room and motioned toward the beige kidskin couch. He went to it while she opened the wall-unit and took out two snifters.
“Kevin, would you mind if I turn on the news?”
When he shook his head, Abby picked up the remote control and pressed a button. The television came to life instantly, and the picture centered on a robust TV anchorman discussing the recent slowdown of major crime in the DC area.
“That won’t last,” Chapin commented.
“Are you always a pessimist?”
“Aren’t you, especially after last night?”
“No. She took a drink of the cognac. “Something good always comes out of something bad.”
“What good came out of last night, the fact that you got back your jewelry? No, it shouldn’t have been taken in the first place.”
“Actually, I was thinking about you.”
Chapin’s snifter was halfway to his mouth when she’d spoken. His arm halted. Wisely, he said nothing.
From the television, the anchorman’s tone changed to one of urgency. “Tonight,” the well-dressed newscaster with sparkling blue eyes and perfectly applied makeup said, “Presidential candidate Daniel Etheridge announced at a dinner reception in Los Angeles that, if elected, he intends to expand America’s foreign policy toward the Soviet Union by offering an even broader opening of the doors toward economic exchange between Russia and America.”
“When questioned after the dinner,” the anchorman continued as a backdrop showed a photo of Etheridge and running mate Robert Mathews, “Etheridge talked about possible methods of increasing economic exchange. He was deluged with questions of how running mate Robert Mathews, a vocal anticommunist, felt about his announcement.
“Etheridge said they have discussed this quite extensively, and that if it is good for the country, Mathews would work whole-heartedly with the Soviets. And, after these brief commercials,” the anchorman said, “we’ll be back with the weather.”
“That would be wonderful,” Abby said.
“What would?”
“A more open exchange. I could make a fortune translating for businessmen.”
Chapin looked at her, unable to tell if she was being serious. “I think it would be a mistake.”
“Why?”
“Because we have enough problems with the Communist bloc countries. We don’t need to get them any farther enmeshed in our overall economy than they are right now.”
“Are you an anticommunist?”
Chapin exhaled sibilantly. “No, I’m a pragmatist. And a tired one at that,” he added as he put the snifter down and stood.
She rose with him, and they walked to the door.
“Thank you.”
“I enjoyed myself. Kevin...” she stopped talking when they reached the door and gazed up at him. “Will we do this again?”
He gazed down at her, almost falling into her eyes, and nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”
<><><>
The buzzing reached into his head, tearing away the dark shroud of sleep. He sat up, blinking and wondering who wanted him awake. The red digital letters on the clock read five-zero-five.
He left the bed, went to the front hall, and pressed the intercom button. “Yes,” he growled.
“Kev, its Ed Kline.”
Startled by the name, he pressed the front door button. He couldn’t imagine why Ed Kline would want to see him at five in the morning.
Chapin returned to the bedroom, slipped on a pair of jeans, and was back at the door in time for Kline’s knock.
When he opened the door and saw his old friend, it took him aback. The normally fastidious Kline had a two-day growth of beard. His eyes had the dark half-moon circles of someone who hadn’t slept for quite a while. His clothing hung limply on his thin frame, and his short wiry hair was disheveled.
“You look like shit,” Chapin observed.
“I feel like it, too. Thanks for not chasing me away,” Kline added as he walked past Chapin and plopped himself on the couch. He placed his cordovan attaché case on the floor.
“I’ll make some coffee,”
“I’m not drunk,” Kline stated.
“I didn’t say you were, and I’m still going to make coffee.” In the kitchen, Chapin turned on the automatic brewer he’d set up before going to bed. The red light on the coffee maker’s base came on. He stared at it, trying to remember the last time he’d seen his college roommate.
Three years ago—three years since they’d spent any time together. They’d had dinner in Georgetown, and talked until after midnight.
Returning to the living room, Chapin knew instinctively, whatever had brought Kline to him was more than just a minor problem.
Chapin found Kline sitting on the couch, staring at a large chess piece he held between thumb and forefinger. When Kline looked up, he gave Chapin a half smile. “Kevin, I need your help—professionally.”
Chapin, masking his surprise, sat next to Kline. Not once since Chapin had joined The Company, had his friend asked him for help, or even any inside information. Kline, as a newspaper journalist, and later as an editor, had known better than to infringe on their friendship in that manner.
Only once, in fact, had Kline even alluded to the fact he knew Chapin to be a CIA operative. That had been after Nam, when they had been having drinks and dinner—more drinks than dinner. Kline had been more than half-serious when he had ventured that knowing Chapin’s record in Nam, the only position Chapin could possibly hold in the real world would be that of agent provocateur.
“What kind of help?” Chapin asked, pushing away the past.
Kline set the chess piece on the marble coffee table and shifted uncomfortably. “Kevin, I’ve never asked what exactly it is you do for the CIA, but I think we both agree I’ve always known. If I’m right, I have to ask you for a favor. If I’m wrong, then I’m making a major fuck-up and it won’t matter.” Kline swallowed forcefully. He didn’t speak again; rather, he gazed into Chapin’s eyes and waited.
How do you balance friendship with your job? Chapin asked himself. The possibility that he might have to do so had always been a specter in his thoughts, but never a reality. He gave a mental shrug. “Talk to me.”
Kline nodded. “Two months ago, I gave an assignment to a Joel Blair, one of my reporters. He was the most talented up-and-corner I’ve ever worked with. He had an instinct for a story, a knack of being able to find things that everyone else overlooked. He died Tuesday in Tennessee.”
Chapin stared at Kline, keeping silent and waiting. Chapin knew death wasn’t a stranger to Ed Kline. The man had spent two and a half years in Viet Nam, first as a soldier and then as a reporter. No, this death was something special.
“Two months ago, Blair started a new assignment. It was simple. He had a subject, and he was to find out everything there was about him. We already knew the surface of the man; we wanted deep background, the kinds of things one doesn’t like having known.
“For almost six weeks, Joel drew a blank. He ran around the country looking for his story, but got nowhere. Last Sunday, he started to get somewhere. He didn’t know what he had learned, if anything, but when someone tried to send him off the side of a mountain, he knew he’d hit pay dirt.”
Chapin, listening to Kline carefully, did not miss the fierce emotions underlying the editor’s words. “Who?”
Kline shook his head. “He didn’t know. He was in Wyoming, driving to his motel. For the last few weeks—according to his reports—he’d been suspicious of being followed. Then, on Sunday afternoon after he had finished an interview, a pickup truck cut him off and forced him from his lane, across the oncoming lane, and to the edge of the mountain. The only reason the car didn’t go over was because it got hung up on the guardrail. He ended up with some bruises and a mild concussion.”
“Why didn’t whoever tried to run him off finish the job?”
Kline nodded. “According to Joel’s report, a sheriff’s deputy was on patrol in the area, and was com
ing up the mountain at the same time as Joel’s accident. Whoever tried to kill him left before he could finish the job.”
“Did the deputy see anything?”
“No. Joel never mentioned his suspicions. When he filled out the police accident report, he said someone cut him off and left it there.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons: He didn’t want whoever it was to think he knew; and because of the subject of the story.”
The reasons were plausible. But Chapin thought it was the way a trained agent would think, not a reporter.
“Two days after the accident, Joel was in Tennessee to dig up some more background on his subject. He died there, the same day.”
“How?”
“In another automobile accident. His neck was broken, even though he was wearing a seat belt.”
Chapin stared at Kline. “Who was your reporter’s subject?”
Kline’s eyes locked on Chapin’s as he said, “Robert Mathews, the candidate for vice president.”
Chapin exhaled slowly. “Do you think he killed your reporter?”
“I don’t know who killed Joel, which is why I’m here. Kevin, Joel went to Tennessee to check out the truck driver who killed Robert Mathews’ family four years ago.”
“Was there a coroner’s report on Blair’s accident?” Chapin asked.
Kline shook his head. “It was reported as ‘death by automobile accident.’ I’ve been in Tennessee for two days. I just got back tonight. I didn’t go to my office; I went home, did some thinking, and came here. Whoever killed Joel never had the chance to get his tapes. I think they would want them, and I don’t think the Washington Courier is the place to keep them.”
Kline paused, lifted his attaché case, and put it on the table. Opening it, he took out three Sony mini-cassettes, several sheets of paper, and a fourth cassette. Kline stared at this last cassette for several seconds. The case was shattered, the tape almost shredded.
“This was in his car. I think he was recording when he died. There were several witnesses. They all agreed he died when the car flipped. I think that’s why his things were still there when the police came. His murderer couldn’t search the car with other people around. In fact, one of the witnesses said the first man to reach Joel told the others he was dead. Then the man left to call the police. He never came back.” Chapin nodded. It was the right move for a professional. Kline lifted a tape marked number two. “This tape will explain the chess piece. It’s Robert Mathews’. Mathews gave the piece to Joel after they made a wager. Listen to the tape. The first and third tapes are Blair’s notes. The second tape is an exclusive interview with Robert Mathews done just before Blair’s first ‘accident’.