by David Wind
Although he’d found the tap, it was worthless knowledge. There would be no way to trace it. He ripped it off the box, snapping the wires free, and put it in his pocket. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Kline took the lead. When they reached the first floor, Kline went into the living room and stood amidst the crates and cardboard boxes Blair’s family had filled with his belongings, in preparation for selling the house. Earlier, when the two men had first come into the house, they had found that all the boxes had been ransacked. “Well?” Kline asked impatiently.
Chapin took out the transmitter. “A wireless transmitter set into the phone lines. Whenever the phone was used, incoming or outgoing, the conversation would be recorded somewhere within a two-block radius. The transmitter is untraceable. There are thousands like it sold every year.”
“So it means nothing,” Kline said angrily. “Just like this house being ripped apart—nothing.”
He understood his friend’s anger and helplessness. “No. It means they watched constantly Blair— his every move was monitored.”
“By Mathews?” Kline tone and face were eager.
“I doubt it. Ed, it wasn’t Mathews as far as I can tell.”
“Then, who?”
Chapin shrugged. “I can’t say.”
“Don’t give me your classified spook shit, Kevin.”
Chapin’s lips compressed. “Was there anything missing when you went through his things?”
“How the hell would I know what was missing, if anything was; this was his home, not his office. He’d been on the road for six weeks. He’d come home twice in that period—both times when Mathews was in Washington.”
“What about his mail?”
“His parents have it. If there was anything I needed to know, they would have told me.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Chapin said, not trusting his cursory search for bugs.
“I want to talk.”
“Not here.”
They went to a small bar on Wisconsin Avenue. Chapin led Kline to a back booth, where he ordered a vodka and a scotch, neat, for Kline.
When the drinks came, Kline spoke. “What happened to Blair?”
“I think that without knowing it, Blair stumbled onto something far more than what he was looking for. And that something is what got him killed.”
“Then, you believe me…he was murdered?”
“Yeah, I believe you,” Chapin said before taking a deep pull of the vodka.
“But you don’t think it was Mathews. Why?” Kline held his glass but did not drink.
Chapin shrugged. “It would be political suicide.”
“Perhaps he was afraid of what Blair was learning.”
“Or perhaps it was someone else who was afraid of what Blair was doing, or what he might eventually discover that involved Mathews, but in a far different way than either he or you think. Tell me about Mathews. Why do you think he isn’t what he says he is?”
“I don’t. I just wanted to know—wanted the public to know if he was as good as everyone is making him out to be, which was what I’d assigned Joel to do. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Why was he focusing on the deaths of Mathews’ wife and son?”
“He was looking into every angle, every part of Mathews’ life. He had his researcher get a full bio on Mathews’ wife a few weeks before his interview with Mathews.”
Chapin picked up his drink, raised it to his lips, and put it down untouched. On the tapes, Blair had said he believed someone was watching and following him. It started a few days before his interview. Could his researching the deaths of Mathews’ wife and son been the catalyst? Perhaps, Chapin thought.
“Did he find anything in the wife’s background?”
Kline shook his head. “No. She was his college sweetheart. Good family background. Her parents were fourth-generation Americans from California. Scandinavian stock. What about the truck driver?”
It was Chapin’s turn to shake his head. “Bits and pieces. Nothing concrete yet,” he lied, not yet ready to share the information he had gained. “Ed, I want all of Blair’s notes from his time with the campaign. All of them.”
“I’ll have Joel’s researcher put the whole package together. I’ll get it to you tomorrow,” Kline promised as he stared at Chapin. “Kevin, we’ve known each other a long time. You know if I give you my word, I won’t break it. Tell me what’s going on. It won’t go any further.” Chapin wanted to tell him, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t his training alone that kept him silent; it was also his fear that if Kline knew what he was working on, it would expose Kline to pointless risk.
“If and when the time comes, you’ll know. Don’t ask me anything else, Ed.”
“All right,” Kline said in acceptance. “Where do we go from here?”
“I’m going home. I have a date tonight. Send me Blair’s papers. I’ll call you when I have something worthwhile.”
<><><>
“You are sure?”
“Yes” came the hollow voice.
“Very well.” Sokova pressed the button to end the conversation. He sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Chapin was not giving up. He was pursuing Sokova now, which was unfortunate. Chapin would have to be taken care of.
Sokova looked out the window. The night was cloudy and overcast: the lights of Washington reflected from the clouds, giving the night a hazy glow.
Sokova concentrated on his problem. Chapin had knowledge of a long-term operation going on. Chapin had somehow connected the elections to the operation, probably because of something Davidov had said. And the CIA agent knew about the installation in the Pamirs. No, he only knew there was an installation, but nothing about it yet. However, if he was able to get General Audoban interested, he might gain more information. even though it was unlikely, the risk was unacceptable.
Sokova exhaled heavily. He had to be careful. Chapin was good; but, he was better. He would not allow the man to interfere with his plans, not this close to attainment.
Chapin was having no real success yet. There was a strong possibility that he would falter. Sokova had to weigh the odds: If he acted too quickly, he could tip the scales against himself. If he waited too long, Chapin might find him.
All the years of careful planning, silent guiding, monitoring, and covert manipulations were finally coming to fruition He Would not take the chance of one person destroying everything he had worked for.
Sokova picked up the phone, started to dial, and stopped. Not yet. He would wait another day.
One more day and he would know if Chapin was a factor. If Chapin showed himself to be gaining, he would order Chapin’s termination.
Chapter Twelve
The evening had flown by quickly and pleasantly, as far as Chapin was concerned. He and Abby had gone to dinner, where he’d listened to anecdote after anecdote of her career with the State Department.
When they reached his apartment, and he’d poured two glasses of wine, he realized he hadn’t thought about Sokova once, which was a surprising turn of events for him, and he smiled.
After she took a sip of wine, her expression changed. “What’s happening to us is what they call a whirlwind romance, isn’t it?” She put her glass down and stepped closer to him.
He held his suddenly tense smile and nodded.
“Is that why I’m feeling so mixed up?”
Looking into her light eyes, his emotions began to vacillate. He wanted to say something to make her feel less anxious, but he couldn’t think of anything.
“I guess I’m being pushy,” she continued, “but I can’t help it. All of this is very sudden. I was as unprepared for you as I was for those...thugs. And, it’s been a while since I’ve felt what I am feeling right now.”
Abby paused and looked out the glass sliding door of Chapin’s dining room. “I know that it’s too soon to be talking like this, but I received notification of a new assignment today.”
Chapin closed his eyes for a
moment, sensing bad news coming. “A good one?”
Abby turned to face him. Her eyes searched his face. “It could be. But I don’t know whether I should accept it. It’s a long-term assignment, in Paris.”
“When do you have to make your decision?”
“If I accept, I leave Tuesday morning.”
“And you want to know about us.”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible. “We started something, and I want—” She broke off what she was about to say and shook her head.
Chapin reached toward her and, taking her hand in his, said, “If what we have is going to last, then it will. Whether you’re in Paris or DC, the future will take care of itself.”
“What, kismet? If it’s meant to be, it will be? That’s not reality, Kevin. Relationships don’t work unless you do. I’ve had first-hand experience in that department.”
Chapin started to speak, but Abby stopped him. “No, this is wrong. I should have kept my thoughts to myself.”
“Which would have accomplished nothing. Abby, my job takes me away, frequently. And right now, I can’t give you any answers about us other than to say you’ve become very important to me.”
She squeezed his hand. “That helps. At least I don’t feel like an ass. If I take the assignment, what will happen to us?”
“Whether you take it or not, something good, I hope,” Chapin ventured. “Abby, in the past week, my life has changed. Part of the change is you; part is my work. Right now, I couldn’t even begin to say how I feel and where I think my future lies. I’m involved in something very important at work and...”
“You can’t make a commitment yet.”
He looked at her for a long time . “No, not yet.”
She exhaled and smiled. “Wow, you certainly don’t pull your punches. I respect that, Kevin, more than you can know. So, where do we go from here?”
His eyes slid toward the bedroom.
<><><>
Chapin woke with blocked sinuses. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rain. Washington and rain always jammed his sinuses. He slipped out of the bed and into the bathroom.
He closed the door, turned on the light, and pulled out a bottle of antihistamines. He took one tablet, and shut off the light. He went back to bed, doing his best not to disturb Abby.
A few moments later his sinuses started to clear. Just as he was falling asleep again, Abby turned and press herself against him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“I’m going to Paris.”
He stared up at the ceiling, a strange numbness centering in his head. “I thought you would.”
She put her hand lightly on his chest; her fingertips played with his hair. “Kevin, I want to spend as much time as I can with you before I leave. Am I being selfish?”
“No. We’ll put the time to good use.”
“Thank you,” she said, rising above him.
He drew her down and kissed her deeply, wondering why things happened the way they did.
<><><>
Ann Tanaka sat across from Chapin. They had been in his office for two hours, going over the various reports and getting nowhere.
Walter Hirshorne’s file was immense. Chapin had read the parts of it that Ann thought relevant. The man’s abilities and achievements amazed him.
Hirshorne was the son of an ambassador, and a Yale graduate. He had spent large portions of his life in various parts of the world and, after graduation, had practiced international law. He’d spent several years in London, prior to World War II. When war in Europe broke out, Hirshorne came home to campaign for America to prepare itself for war, and to come to the aid of the Allied countries.
Just before Pearl Harbor, he’d joined the Army. Following basic training, Hirshorne was commissioned a second lieutenant.
Assigned to counter intelligence, he rose through the ranks quickly. When the Army formed the Office of Strategic Services, they appropriated Hirshorne. Halfway through the war, Hirshorne reached the rank of colonel, and became the second in command in the European theater.
Along with the Hirshorne data, Ann Tanaka included the CIA file on Michael Mathews, Robert Mathews’ father.
Michael Mathews had known Hirshorne since youth and they’d attended private school and college together. Mathews had been with Hirshorne from the start of the war, and rose with Hirshorne in the OSS. Mathews, Chapin read, had been one of the most effective agents in the OSS, and later in the CIC. Because of his determination and abilities, Michael Mathews was given the assignment to recover certain highly classified stolen files.
Recovering those files had been Mathews’ death warrant.
“I find it interesting that he adopted Mathews. He wasn’t a family man,” Ann Tanaka commented.
Chapin pointed to the report. “Mathews wasn’t a strange child in an orphanage. He was Michael Mathews’ son, Hirshorne’s lifelong and closest friend. If I read this right, Hirshorne took responsibility for what happened to Mathews, and accepted his unspoken responsibility for raising Mathews’ son.”
Pausing, Chapin drained the remains of cold coffee from his cup. “Don’t forget Mathews and Hirshorne grew up together. They came from old money and blue blood. No, I don’t find it unusual or interesting that he adopted Robert; Hirshorne has always been a man who accepts his duties and responsibilities. Don’t forget, most of the ranking people who entered espionage were people of means and patriots.”
“Which is why they called the old OSS, the Oh So Social,” Tanaka said with a smile.
Chapin rifled the edges of the Hirshorne report. “This is all we have?”
“There’s more. I tried to access it, but it was flagged and came up ‘Eyes Only—Director.’”
Chapin smiled. “That would be the files dealing with the origination of the CIA.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“So would we all. Does Mathews have any other relatives?”
“No. Both sets of grandparents died. Mathews’ father was an only child, and his mother’s brother died in the war. There are distant cousins, but that’s all.”
Chapin leaned back in his chair, his frustration edging up. “What about John Rasmussen, Smirley’s front man?”
“No such person exists.”
Chapin stared past her. “I had that feeling. What else?”
“Lynn Mathews’ background was normal.”
“Etheridge?”
“Nothing. He’s a career politician through and through. He attended Penn State and Harvard Law. He enlisted in the Army, and served on the adjutant general’s staff. After the war, he was a six-term congressman, and a three-term senator.”
Tanaka paused. “He’s served on just about every committee possible, and sat the longest on the Joint Intelligence Committee. He’s always been a straight shooter, friendly to the services and to ‘The Company’. But he isn’t above doing political favors for those who work with him.”
“In other words, a regular politician.”
Tanaka’s head bobbed once. “With a good grasp of international politics and an amazingly good head for it.”
“No negatives?”
“Except for being a politician? Not really. Our analysts think if he’s elected, there will be more support for the Intelligence services and a stronger foreign policy.”
“What are their odds of him winning?”
“It’s a toss-up right now.”
“What about you?”
Tanaka gazed at him. “I’m not committed, yet.”
Chapin smiled. “Good answer. Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“All right. Have all the old OSS files been entered into the computer?”
“Supposedly.”
“How big a job is it to search for one name in those files?”
“I won’t know until I try.”
“Sokova. Look for it. Also, see if you can find the original CIC report on Michael Mathews’ death and Robert
Mathews’ kidnapping.”
When Tanaka rose, Chapin did also. “Ann, thank you.”
Tanaka looked at him. “Don’t forget your promise, when the time is right....”
“I won’t,” he said, knowing that by that time, Tanaka would have accurately figured out what he was doing.
Alone, he returned to Hirshorne’s file, and to the early years. He reread it, looking for something and finding nothing. Then he did the same with Mathews’ file.
The combination of the two men was political dynamite. With Hirshorne behind Mathews, Mathews had seven decades of the most astute political mind in the country at his disposal. Any plan the Soviets had hatched would fear a president and vice president with an advisor holding the stature and power of Walter Hirshorne.
That had to be the reason why they’d tried to terminate Mathews. He saw no other explanation. Who did that leave?
Chapin set aside the reports on Hirshorne and Mathews and looked at Etheridge’s file. Was Etheridge part of the Sokova plan?
It was possible…but how? Etheridge was as clean as Mathews. Every part of his life was documented and cleared.
When Chapin finished the file, he began on Etheridge and Mathews’ advisors.
Three hours later, he had two things to show: a headache and another dead end. The FBI, the Secret Service, and even The Company had cleared everyone in the files. None was a security risk; all had clean records.
Chapin slammed his fist on the desk in futility. Who is Sokova? Who?
The phone rang. He snatched it up. “Yes?”
“The players are in motion,” Jason Mitchell said. “We should hear something by next week.”
Just in time for the elections, Chapin thought.
<><><>
The doorbell rang. Chapin closed the folder and answered the chime’s call.
As promised, Abby Sloan had arrived. She smiled, kissed him, and swept inside. When she reached the living room, she brandished two tickets. “At the risk of sounding immodest, the Bolshoi!”
Chapin went to her and embraced her. “Those are rarer than ten carat diamonds.”
“Unless you have connections. Interested?”
“In you, therefore in ballet.”
