by David Wind
“I am, Ann. This is personal, all right?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Doubt remained in her eyes. “All right.”
After leaving Ann Tanaka, Chapin went over to research and development, where he cornered Sol Kornberg, the head technician.
“Oh-oh,” Kornberg said the instant Chapin entered. “It’s persona non grata himself.”
“Hello to you, too,” Chapin said with a smile as he shook the short, thin scientist’s hand. “How’s Marilyn?”
“The same. Shops all day, complains all night. I don’t like what I’ve been hearing about you.”
“Don’t listen. Sol, I need a favor.”
“If I can,” Kornberg said, picking up Chapin’s serious tone and dropping his usual friendly banter. “Are you okay?”
Chapin gave him a half smile. “I’m here and not there.”
“Yeah, you have a point. What do you need from me?”
Chapin fished in his jacket pocket, pulled out the mangled mini-tape, and held it out. Kornberg glanced at the tape. “What’s that?”
“That, my friend, is exactly what I want to know.”
Chapter Ten
Chapin turned from his window, and from the nighttime vista of Washington. He glanced at the form nestled beneath the down comforter on his bed.
Abby Sloan’s blonde hair fanned out upon the dark blue of the pillowcase. In sleep, her face was gentle. The even rise and fall of her chest pushed the comforter lazily up and down. It was a lovely and peaceful sight, he thought, a sight he rarely was treated to.
He left the bedroom and went into the living room. His thoughts mixed, his emotions unsettled. He had not planned on seeing Abby tonight. He had come home at nine, after having dinner with his lawyer, Keith Brassard.
One of Chapin’s field agent instructors had taught him, when he had first joined The Company, that when your occupation keeps you away from home for months, and at times for years, you have to trust the day-to-day personal details of your life to another. Keith Brassard was his ‘other’. The lawyer handled all of his personal business, from paying rent to monitoring bank accounts and investments, and every and any minor items in between. When Chapin came home, he called Brassard.
The two men had served together in Nam: Brassard had been The Company adjutant. They had formed a warm friendship, and when Chapin had decided on his future, he had called on Brassard, who had become an attorney following the war.
They had spent a two-and-a-half-hour dinner at Ernie’s, in Georgetown, going over the last four months of Chapin’s investments and paperwork, as well as enjoying each other’s company.
When he arrived home, he had spread out the papers on his kitchen table, and started to go over his stock portfolio.
Ten minutes later his doorbell had rung, and he’d found Abby Sloan standing in the hall.
“Am I intruding?”
Chapin met her steady gaze, and intuitively knew the night would not be lonely. He’d invited her in. After gathering up the papers and putting them into the manila folder, he’d made drinks.
“This is a surprise,” he’d said after the silence had dragged on.
“Not unpleasant, I hope.”
When she’d spoken, Chapin sensed an undertone of doubt within her words. He’d smiled. “Just the opposite.”
“I...” Abby had begun, and then stopped. She’d turned from him and glanced around the apartment. “I’m not very good at this. I just wanted to see you again.”
“I’m glad you did,” he’d said, truthfully. He’d thought about her, on and off, during the day. His thoughts had been pleasant.
She had turned back to him, her eyes expectant, yet afraid at the same time. Her mouth had parted slightly, showing a thin line of white teeth, and her full lips were moist and desirable.
Chapin had put down his drink and taken the two steps necessary to reach her and pull her into his arms. They had kissed, clinging together for a long time. When they’d finally parted, Chapin had taken her glass from her, set it on the table next to his, and led her into the bedroom.
Chapin shook his head. What had happened earlier that night had been so unexpected it left his emotions in a state of turmoil.
Their lovemaking had started passionately, yet in the midst of passion, a gentleness had overtaken them and turned the moment of passion into something more.
Afterward, they had lain together without speaking. They had held each other, and he had breathed in her unique scent. Sometime later, they’d made love again. This time passions had controlled everything, and their lovemaking had turned so intense that all outside of the bedroom had disappeared. In the afterglow of their second lovemaking, Abby had fallen asleep.
Chapin glanced at the coffee table and the two drinks, barely touched, that still sat side by side. A sense of confusion mounted within him at the unexpected intrusion of emotions he had schooled himself against.
It had been a long time, years, since he had allowed himself to feel anything for someone. The life he had chosen was not conducive to long-term relationships, and he did not think that Abby Sloan would accept anything less.
There had been other women, and years before, there had been one special woman. But that relationship had been doomed from the beginning because of who he was, only he had not seen it then.
Would he do the same to Abby? He hoped not. Only two days had passed since they’d met, but something about her that made him think she was different from the other women he’d known. He also knew this was the wrong time to get involved.
He exhaled slowly. He had two jobs ahead of him: The first and most important was to find the mole, if he did exist and wasn’t part of some wacked-out KGB fantasy of Davidov’s, as everyone seemed to think. His second job was to help Ed Kline, if he could.
He glanced toward the bedroom, his thoughts vacillating again. Had he made a mistake tonight? He couldn’t pretend to know. All he was certain of was that he’d let loose emotions he’d been containing for a long time.
Was that it? Was he undergoing some sort of emotional attrition? Could the factor be time? It had been a long time since he’d been able to share himself with another. And as much as he had denied the need, it had come out so strongly tonight he’d been unable to resist it, or her.
Still, Chapin knew it wasn’t fair to Abby. He wasn’t husband material, or even good lover material. His job would see to that. For him, there were no prolonged periods in America unless he retired. And retirement was not something he thought even remotely imminent. No, he understood himself well enough to know a desk job and civilian life was not for him.
Even if he and Abby were able to maintain some sort of a relationship, it could only happen within the bounds of this country. Anywhere else would be dangerous, to him and to her.
At least this wasn’t Mother Russia, Chapin thought bitterly as a picture of Davidov rose in his mind. For Davidov, loving someone had meant hurting her. Thank God, Chapin thought, Tatiana had been released and was able to return to her former existence.
Yet, there was still a specter of danger for her. At any time, proof could come about that she knew her husband had been a spy. One little slip and she would live the rest of her life in a Soviet prison.
Chapin sat up suddenly, a new thought sweeping through his head. Could Davidov’s wife know something about the installation and the Sokova plan?
No! Davidov had loved his wife deeply. To tell her anything about what he was investigating would have been inconceivable; for it would have left her open to danger.
Then he smiled. He owed Davidov. Perhaps there was a way to pay him back. Perhaps there was a way of helping Titania.
“That’s a nice smile,” he heard Abby say.
Turning, Chapin found her standing in the doorway. She was naked. Her breasts were firm and full, her waist slender. Her stomach was slightly pouty, exactly right for the shape of her torso.
The triangle of blond hair at the joining of her legs wa
s shaded dark by the curve of her thighs. Chapin’s passion stirred. She was remarkably beautiful.
“I have reason to smile,” he said, and then laughed. “That sounds like a line.”
“It sounds nice. Are you having trouble sleeping?”
He shook his head and stood. “No, I don’t usually get a lot of sleep.”
She smiled again. “Good.”
<><><>
His office door was closed, his desk empty except for a photograph of the installation in the Pamirs. Chapin called it the Sokova Site.
He studied the photo, trying to pierce the mystery of the single building. Since eight-thirty, when he’d arrived in his office, he had been on the computer, trying to find a match with Sokova, but without any luck. He’d gone back to records dating from the inception of the CIA, to see if there was ever a connection with The Company and a code name of Sokova. There had been none.
Then he’d gone through the files on moles and sleeper agents, both confirmed and theoretical. There was no mention of a Sokova, or anything like the plot Davidov had described.
When he’d talked to Mitchell, Jason had said he’d been unable to learn anything further about Sokova.
With his investigation barely begun, he had nothing but supposition and dead ends. There had to be something, somewhere. A Soviet operation, forty or more years old, could not be hidden so perfectly. It was impossible!
Chapin stared at the amber monitor for several seconds. Or was it? He hit several keys and waited. A dialogue box opened, asking for his security code. He supplied it, and letters flashed across the screen.
SPETSBURO FILE
Davidov had said that no one except members of the Central Committee could get in and out of the Sokova Site. Perhaps there would be something in this file.
Spetsburo was the Soviet’s Bureau of Special Tasks. It was under the direct control of the Central Committee of the Communist party. Spetsburo was responsible for a vast array of assassinations in the forties and fifties, but had been quiet ever since.
Could the Sokova Site be an old Spetsburo operation? It was a good thought, Chapin told himself. There had been so little continuity within the Soviet Intelligence services over the past fifty years that to have a truly prolonged sleeper operation meant it would have needed ongoing guidance outside the KGB or GRU oversight.
Chapin hit several more keys and waited. The wait was long, almost an hour, and the results were disappointing. There was no cross-reference to any sleeper operation with the code name Sokova.
Chapin stood and stretched. Another dead end? Perhaps not, he told himself. The more things he ruled out, the narrower the search field.
He was lost in thought when a knock on his door brought him back.
“Come,” he said.
The door opened, and the willowy Ann Tanaka entered. She closed the door behind her, locked it, and went to Chapin’s phone. She pressed the DND button, and the light flashed.
Chapin glanced at the phone, and the blinking Do Not Disturb button. The phone was out of service, temporarily.
“What?”
She stared at him; her dark oriental eyes were hard, her back was rigid, and her shoulders were stiff. “Are you trying to set me up?”
Chapin’s brow crinkled. “I don’t follow.”
“We do not operate within the boundaries of the United States,” she stated. “We hold no covert operation, and we goddamned well do not investigate any nominee in a presidential election!”
“So?”
She slapped down a file folder and pointed to it. “James Smirley.”
Chapin remained silent, waiting stoically.
“James Smirley fits every description we have on file of one Aleksandr Grubov, code name Blondie. Grubov is KGB, working America exclusively. The FBI’s file is extensive. They suspect him of five major hits and believe he’s the head of a special ‘wet team’ operating in the States. However, the FBI files, as well as our own, show Grubov has been out of the picture for five and a half years now. The notations in the files confirm his recall: however, he was in Wyoming, four years ago.”
Tanaka paused for a breath, and then said, “What the hell, Kevin?”
Ignoring her question, Chapin said, “Then, the Mathews accident was a cover to kill the family?” He shook his head. “Why would the Soviets want Mathews’ wife and child dead?”
“Not the family—Mathews,” Tanaka stated. “He was supposed to be with them. They had all come home from Washington. It was break time in DC. Mathews owned a condo in Jackson Hole, where they were going for a week of skiing. Before they left, Washington called. There was a crisis. He sent his family ahead, planning to catch up the next morning.”
Chapin nodded slowly. Like so many meticulously planned operations, one unexpected phone call changed everything. “So you think Mathews was the target?”
“It reads that way.”
“How did you connect Smirley to Grubov?”
“Fingerprints. In New York City, in nineteen seventy-three, a young Soviet embassy official was arrested for aggravated assault. It was a time when the NYPD was particularly frustrated by foreign embassy people committing crimes and getting off free.
“When Grubov was arrested, he was fingerprinted and booked by the NYPD before the people from the Soviet colony could get to him. In Wyoming, after the accident, James Smirley was fingerprinted by the local sheriff.”
“But Smirley was only in his mid-twenties.”
“Plastic surgery can hide years, Kevin you of all people should know that.”
Chapin nodded again. “But wouldn’t the FBI have Grubov’s prints on file?” When Ann Tanaka nodded, he said, “Then, they know about the Mathews family.”
She shook her head. “I got the prints from the Wyoming Central Police. Then I tapped into the FBI and made the match. The Wyoming police never caught it, because they determined equipment failure caused the accident. With that determination, there was no search to match the driver’s prints. A fact I’m sure Grubov knew before he terminated the family.”
“It makes no sense.” Chapin went to the phone, turned off the DND button, and dialed Sol Kornberg, only to find that the head technician had not had the time to work on the tape.
“Tomorrow,” he told Chapin. Chapin didn’t push; he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, not even inside the agency.
“Ann,” Chapin said after hanging up the phone. “You’re going to have to trust me on this. We are not involved in an operation in the States. This is personal, so far. But it may change. If it does, I promise I’ll get a green light before going further. But you have to keep it to yourself. Will you?”
Her face was reflective, her eyes probing. “This has something to do with what happened in Sortavala, doesn’t it?” The question took Chapin by surprise. He stared at her, his mind spinning off on a dozen tangents at once. “No,” he finally said. “Someone close to me asked me to look into it. A man who worked for him died when he started checking into James Smirley’s background.”
“Small wonder,” Tanaka said in a low voice. “You’ll keep me up to date?”
“This stays between us, Ann.”
“Have I ever let you down?”
“No. Can I ask for another favor?”
She arched her head back and stared hard at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Can you get me a complete file on Robert Mathews?”
“How did I know that was coming? All right, Kevin, but you tell me all, when the time comes.”
“How long?”
“By five or six,” she said before unlocking the door and leaving.
Alone, Chapin stared at the computer screen without seeing it. Ann Tanaka’s words started a chain reaction within him, and the results were just starting to come out.
He played with the basis of what the computer intelligence specialist told him. A Soviet agent had killed Mathews’ family—a man trained for assassination. Why?
Chapin drew on his memory
, bringing up what little he knew of Mathews. It wasn’t much: Mathews was a congressman of no special mention. He was a devoted anti-communist. Chapin had heard his name mentioned a few times, but could not remember any specifics.
Had the Soviet political forecasters have seen Robert Mathews as a future president or vice president? It was a sobering thought to think that the Soviets knew more about the political future of America than did the people in America.
Could they have wanted Mathews out of the way before he was even in contention?
Chapin shook his head. Not even the worst of the Soviets would go so far as killing a man whose only threat was that he might one day become president…unless there was a strong and compelling reason. What if they’d gotten word of Mathews becoming a viable candidate? What if that had somehow interrupt a long-range plan?
And, what if that long-range plan just happened to have the code name of Sokova attached to it? Could the plan Davidov uncovered be a part of the assassination attempt on Mathews?
Was it possible? Anything was possible, he told himself. If the Soviets had indeed set up a long-range plan to take control of the government, then random deaths of up-and-coming politicians had to be considered.
Chapin thought back to past assassinations. He remembered Bobby Kennedy’s death at the hands of Sirhan Sirhan—walking through the rice paddies in Nam, he had often wondered who had programmed the student. Martin Luther King’s death? There was little doubt in his mind that if King had lived, his power would have continued to grow. There were others, regional politicians, whose deaths did not make national headlines.
Was he reaching too far? Probably.
Still, if the Soviets did have a sleeper high up, and the man was indeed powerful enough to manipulate the elections, then he would have had his finger on the pulse of the political parties and would know who stood the best chances of winning the nomination and the election.
If this were possible, then preventative assassination would be a major factor of the overall plan. But in Mathews’ case, it hadn’t worked. They missed the target. A second attempt would have been too dangerous and might have given away too much information.
