by David Wind
“The truck driver who killed Mathews’ family was named James Smirley,” Kline went on, his voice forced and staccato as if afraid Chapin would stop him. “But there’s a coincidence about him that doesn’t sit well with me. Blair’s researcher checked out Smirley while Joel was enroute to Tennessee. Smirley died four months after the accident.”
“What makes that so coincidental?”
“He was in his mid-thirties, and died of a heart attack. Truck drivers are usually in better shape than that.”
“Usually.” Chapin kept his voice even.
“Also,” Kline went on, “Blair called me from Tennessee. He was excited. He told me there was something wrong with James Smirley and no one in his hometown of record knew him. The last thing he told me was that he was going to check out the company Smirley worked for.”
Chapin picked up the silver chess piece. It was exquisitely made. “Ed, I’m in the middle of something very important, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Kline gazed at Chapin. “Please, Kevin, nothing is as important as this. It’s not just Joel Blair’s death. It has to do with the man who may very well be the next vice president of the United States, and conceivably president. I...” Kline’s hands balled into fists; his knuckles turned white. “Kevin, I’ve never violated our friendship by asking you for any favors from ‘inside’. But this has to do with more than friendship. I need you to do this.”
“And I need coffee.” He hadn’t meant the words to sound cold or callous; he needed a minute to think.
In the kitchen, Chapin poured two cups, black. He didn’t pick them up; he just stared at them. Kline was asking him to use the CIA to investigate the death of a reporter and to investigate a candidate for vice president. Such an action could not only jeopardize his career; it could stop him from finishing the job he’d begun when he’d gone into the Soviet Union to get Davidov.
He picked up the coffee and returned to the living room. After he handed Kline a cup, he studied his friend. They had known each other since their freshman year at Cornell. They had roomed together, hung out together, and had been there for each other over the years. Chapin had no brothers, a few friends, but mostly acquaintances. Kline was one of his few, and important, friends.
“No promises, Ed. But I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Nine
Thursday
Empty coffee cups, crusts of toast, and pieces of Danish littered the conference table in the Washington, D. C. headquarters of the Etheridge/Mathews campaign. Daniel Etheridge sat at one end of the table. Flanking the presidential nominee were his topmost advisors. Robert Mathews sat on the opposite end with his advisors.
The meeting had been on since seven, and had covered a variety of topics pertinent to the remaining days before the general election, with one notable exception—Etheridge’s Soviet statement of the previous night. Then, with all other business concluded, Robert Mathews brought out the issue of Etheridge’s surprise statement.
Everyone looked at each other, waiting for someone to carry the ball. Finally Etheridge leaned forward and locked eyes with Mathews. When he spoke, his voice was low, but the power within it could not be mistaken. “It’s water over the dam. We had to go with public opinion, Robert. Public opinion said a more open line of communication with the Soviets is what the people of our country want.”
“I understand public opinion, and I understand how it can mold us, or we can mold it; what displeases me most is not the announcement, but how it was done. We had agreed that anything to do with Soviet policy would be discussed prior to public disclosure,” Mathews held the presidential candidate’s gray eyes in a steady and unyielding gaze. “Neither one of us can afford to be vulnerable at this stage in the campaign.”
“I couldn’t reach you to tell you. We had to move on it, and I made the decision to do so.”
Walter Hirshorne cut in. “Gentlemen, I think we should keep our minds focused on the remaining days rather than ponder on last night.”
Hirshorne turned to a thin man seated halfway down the conference table. “What do the polls show?”
Thomas Kirkland, the Etheridge/Mathews team campaign manager flipped a page on his yellow pad. “We have a five-point lead over the incumbents, which is a point more than yesterday.”
“That’s answer enough,” Etheridge said, “if you believe in polls. But, it has been my experience that polls are only a reflection of the general mood. Polls do not elect you, votes do.”
“For obvious reasons,” Hirshorne said, his tone sonorous as he glanced first at Robert Mathews and then at Daniel Etheridge, “I have tried to stay away from an active position in this campaign. But I will give you this piece of advice. You are not the incumbents; and, many people prefer the status quo to change, as long as there have been no scandals or just bad politics from those currently in office. The fact you should carry uppermost in your minds, is the need to convert apathy from the public into an active desire for change. From the moment we leave this room, the two of you are to go out and start campaigning as if the election is lost.”
Hirshorne stood. He raked his eyes across every face at the table until he settled his gaze on his adopted son. “You go to the people. Use the media and use public appearances to talk about what you want for the country. Don’t go on about what the incumbents are lacking, and don’t let yourselves be trapped and diverted into saying what the media wants you to say. Talk about the progress you foresee; talk about your visions of the future. Make the people want you to lead them. You, not your ideals or ideas, you!”
Hirshorne stopped suddenly. He turned his upper torso toward Etheridge and, pointing a knotty index finger at the man, said, “Daniel, you were handpicked by the party and groomed for this race for the last eight years. You’ve been led along the path to this very spot; however, no one and nothing can get you the presidency unless you make the people out there want you. Your qualifications are the best. You have the ability. You have to make them want you to govern them.”
“Are you saying last night’s announcement was a mistake?”
“No,” Hirshorne said in a level voice. “It wasn’t wrong at all, not given the current atmosphere and the administration’s continual sidestepping on Soviet issues. What you have to concentrate on now is not your policies but your self-image. You’ve spent ninety percent of the campaign detailing your policies and issues. Now is the time to spend the last bit on yourselves. When someone likes you, they rarely concern themselves with policy.”
“And you, Robert, should be doing the same thing. Stop going off about communism, and start talking about yourself and what you want to do for the people as their vice president.”
Mathews’ strong jaw jutted forward. “It’s not my personality I want elected; it’s what I represent.”
“We’ve been over this a hundred times. Robert, people are deaf to words unless someone whom they want to listen to says them. If they like you, then they like your ideals and policies. If they don’t like you as a person, then nothing you can say or do will matter.”
“Walter, I understand, but I don’t believe the people are so dense. If I did, I wouldn’t be here. The people I’ve talked to listen to me. They hear what I say, and they believe me. No, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to change what I’m doing now.”
“And I agree,” Etheridge said. “Nevertheless, there must be some compromise. Robert, I’ve never deluded myself about my electability. I’m sure I can make a good showing on my own, but with you, I know I’ll do better. We need each other. I represent the established political power and thinking; you represent the future of our party’s politics. Walter is right. You have to win over the doubters with your personality, not your ideology. You must use your strength, your personality, your drive and your youth.”
Mathews looked from Etheridge to Hirshorne. Both men’s eyes reflected the same thing. He looked at the others at the table, and saw them all nod.
“All right,” he said, his words reluc
tantly coming. “But I won’t sidestep issues either.”
“No one’s asking you to sidestep,” offered Thomas Kirkland. The campaign manager stood and walked to the window. He opened the blinds and pointed outside. “The issues have been discussed, hashed over, and picked apart for months. Now the people have only one thing to concern themselves with—whom to vote for. The people respect strength, they respect power, and they respect self-confidence. If you don’t give them all three, you won’t have any issues to address because you’ll be in the past tense. And that,” Kirkland added while suddenly dropping the blinds, “is politics.”
Etheridge cleared his throat. “Now, we have some other items that need to be discussed, and—”
Hirshorne stood. “You will have to excuse me, I have an appointment.”
After Hirshorne left, the meeting went on for another half hour, the talk centering on the media blitz that would hit the country between now and the elections.
When the meeting broke up, and several of the people began to talk to each other, Robert Mathews went to the window and looked out at Washington. He wondered if his campaign team was right, and he had misread the people he’d been seeing and talking to for the past months. Did they really only care about the image of the office he was seeking?
“Mr. Mathews.”
Mathews turned to see who had spoken. It was Tom Sanders, the head of Mathews’ Secret Service team. He held a newspaper in his right hand. “Yes, Tom?”
“Some bad news. Joel Blair is dead.”
Mathews blinked. “How?”
“A car accident. He was in Tennessee.” He handed Mathews the morning edition of the Washington Courier.
Mathews read the story quickly. When he looked up, he stared hard into the eyes of the Secret Service agent. “Get everything you can. I want to know what happened.”
When the man left, Mathews turned to the others. “Joel Blair, one of the reporters who has been with me, died on Monday.”
“What happened?” Etheridge asked.
“It was an automobile accident. Dammit! He was a good man.” Mathews turned to his press secretary. “Find out when the funeral is. I want to be there.”
<><><>
“I despise election years,” the deputy director Central Intelligence said, turning from the window to look at Chapin. “The people in power are frightened and make ridiculous demands on those below them.”
“I take that to mean that there will be disciplinary action against me.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. The director and I made our decision. As far as anyone else is concerned, you’ve been replaced as control of Ruby One and placed on detached assignment. Kevin, I don’t know who on the Hill is after you, but I refuse to have one of my people made the subject of a vendetta. Have you picked up anything on this installation in the Pamirs?” the DD asked, switching direction abruptly.
“Nothing. I spent yesterday afternoon and this morning going over all the records. There isn’t the slightest clue.”
“Which means what?”
Chapin hesitated before answering. Usually, the general accepted his feelings. He wasn’t sure if he would on this. “There are very few things within the Soviet Union that we haven’t been able to get at least a small hint about. Yet, we know almost nothing about this installation in the Pamirs. If I hadn’t gone into Mother Russia, we wouldn’t even know this installation concerned us.”
“If it does.”
“It does!” Chapin said in a very low voice. He stood, nodded to the DD, and started out. “I’ll be using Jason Mitchell on this.”
“Don’t let him wander too far from Ruby One. They need him, too,” the DD warned.
Rather than going to his new office, Chapin went to Mitchell’s. When he sat across from his old friend, he shrugged.
“That bad?”
“Detached duty, but no suspension.”
Mitchell slouched forward like a bear studying a honeycomb. He patted Chapin’s thigh and smiled. “It could have been worse. You’re overdue for a vacation anyway.”
“Not likely. Jason, I mean to find out what’s going on in the Pamirs. And I have to find out if they’ve got a mole working on the Hill.”
Mitchell exhaled sibilantly. “Fairy tales. Everyone is always looking for their own Kim Philby.”
“No,” Chapin said quickly. “Not a Philby. Not someone who is looking to send information back, but someone who is here to manipulate us.”
Mitchell shook his head hard. “Into what, Kevin? Jesus, you and I have been over this ground a hundred times in the last four years because of the leaks in Ruby One. But to think that there’s a sleeper so high up he has access to The Company as well as the White House is just plain crazy.
“I also believe that most of the stories about moles and infiltrators are the product of a man who makes a mistake. We don’t have any tools to blame for a bad job, so we shout mole.”
“Is that what you really think?” Chapin asked, his voice going tight. “Are you saying that when the KGB took Sorensen during a routine run, it was because he was sloppy? What made that run any different than the first eleven? Nothing! Someone gave him up. A leak put him into Vladimir Central Prison.”
“A leak or a double agent, yes, but not a mole who has been planted years before. It just doesn’t work that way. It would be too risky for the operation. Someone who has been raised in this country can’t be indoctrinated into the Soviet mind frame at the same time.”
“Jason—”
“Let’s shit-can this one for now, okay?” Mitchell said. “I have some news on Davidov’s wife.”
Chapin sat straighter, his attention focused totally on Mitchell’s words. “Go.”
“I got a message ten minutes ago from Malkin. He’s working the ‘room’ at the Moscow embassy. Titania Basilova was released from KGB detention last night. She is well, looks healthy, and is at home again. Thank God, she didn’t know anything.”
Chapin nodded as the relief washed over him. Mitchell didn’t know how wrong he was, and Chapin couldn’t tell him. Davidov’s wife knew everything about her husband’s activities. She always had; but Davidov had made Chapin promise he would tell no on. And, Davidov’s death made Chapin’s promise sacred.
“What now?” Mitchell asked.
“Find out what that installation is all about. If we can do that, then perhaps we’ll also find out if we do have a mole about to turn us all into good little Nikitas.”
With that, Chapin left Mitchell’s office, got a hot cup of coffee, and went to his new office, four down from Mitchell. He sat down at his desk, and sipped the coffee. He felt strange, closed in, and impotent. He was used to space and the freedom to roam.
However, here, in Langley, and in DC as well, he sensed being watched. This was different from being on an operation; this was home, and he should be able to relax. At least he was better off than Davidov.
Chapin forced his thoughts from the maudlin, to focus on his newest problem, Ed Kline.
After Kline had left his apartment, he’d read the accident report, and listened to Joel Blair’s tapes. Chapin liked the tone of Blair’s voice, and the sharply worded comments the dead reporter had made.
He’d also listened carefully to the Robert Mathews interview and Blair’s comments afterward. Chapin understood why Blair believed something was missing, something that was suspicious about Mathews, but he didn’t necessarily agree with the reporter.
No, what intrigued Chapin was the coincidence of two accidents in the space of three days. Chapin did not believe in coincidences. Coincidences, he had learned over the years, were very rare; planned occurrences were more the rule.
The matter of the semi-existent James Smirley bothered him as well. Although Kline had nothing but his notes of the phone call from Blair, what Blair, through Kline, described was the MO of an intelligence operative or a professional hit man.
Chapin knew there was little he could do about that, except to have the man checked
out.
The intercom buzzed, and Chapin picked it up.
“Kevin, I’m free,” said Ann Tanaka.
“Two minutes.” He hung up the phone, gathered the papers Ed Kline had given him, and left his office.
Six minutes later, he sat across from Ann Tanaka, a thirty-seven year old Japanese-American computer research specialist. Recruited from the Los Angeles Police Department, Tanaka was one of best, if not the best researchers in The Company.
She was tall, five-foot six and a half inches, with porcelain-smooth skin and deep black, almond-shaped eyes. Her shoulder-length hair was black and unbroken by any hint of gray.
After listening to her apologies for what was happening to him, Chapin said, “I need your help on something personal.”
Her brows drew together.. “If I can, you know I will.”
Chapin handed her the accident report on Robert Mathews’ family, along with the other information that Ed Kline had given him. “I want to know about this man. Everything you can find on him.”
“Everything is a lot.”
“I’m not so sure there will be much.”
She gazed curiously at him for a moment, and then glanced down at the papers. He did not miss the flicker that crossed her features an instant before she looked back at him. “Kevin, I can’t dig into a candidate’s file. Not now. Not at this stage of the election process, and not without the proper authority.”
Chapin nodded. “We’re not looking at the candidate, only the person who killed his family. Ann, this is between us, no one else at all.”
She was used to special requests from Chapin because they paid off for her and for the agency. “I thought you were on detached duty.”
