by David Wind
He grabbed his jacket and left the room. Downstairs, he walked calmly through the lobby and out into the parking lot. He looked up along Route Four. There was a gas station a block away.
He went there and into the phone booth at the edge of the drive. He dialed a special number, using his credit card again. When a nondescript woman’s voice came on the line, Chapin gave a series of code words.
The call was routed, and a moment later Chapin heard the general’s voice.
“Sir, I need to speak with you.”
“Yes,” the DD said, “I think that would be wise. Where are you?”
“That’s not important. I—”
“Come in, Kevin. Come in now so that I can help you. If you don’t...”
Chapin closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass of the booth. The general’s voice was cold and dangerous. He’d heard the DD speak like that only once before, when he had learned an agent had been turned. “If I don’t?”
“It’s your only choice. There are no alternatives.”
Chapin understood what the general was saying, but was unable to accept it. “It was a setup.”
“Just like Russia, Kevin? You might have gotten away with it if you’d let things die down a little. It was a hard pill to swallow…you, going into Russia without authorization. The results of your action cost us the life of our most important double agent inside the Kremlin. I had chalked that up to your belief that Davidov had come across something of extreme importance. But looking at what happened in a different light changes it all. Your miraculous escape from the KGB and the Soviet Army is much easier to understand after last night. It was staged, wasn’t it? The entire operation was put together just to get rid of Davidov and to keep you above suspicion.
“General, you’ve known me for a long time. If I had planned the Russian mission, it would not have ended the way it did. I’m not a double.”
“I’m afraid it won’t work anymore,” the general said, his tone unyielding, his words cold.
Chapin exhaled slowly. “What classification am I listed at?”
“Rogue T E P,” the deputy director Central Intelligence said in a clear voice.
Chapin slammed down the phone. Sokova had won. The Rogue designation meant that Chapin was a traitor who had turned on his own people. And they didn’t want him back. T E P. was his sentence: Terminate with Extreme Prejudice. He was to be killed on sight.
The bastard had done it! Sokova had put him out of the picture.
Chapin left the booth and returned to the motel. His mind spinning out plan after plan, and dropping them with equal speed.
By the time he reached his room, he knew he could not let Sokova win—it just wasn’t in his nature. He had to find a way to get to Sokova, and to get the double at Langley as well. He was certain that the double was in headquarters. What he wasn’t so sure about was if the double was also a part of the Ruby One apparatus.
He picked up the phone and dialed the desk. When they answered, he asked to have a rental car be ordered and told there was a desk in the lobby for just that purpose.
Chapin went downstairs to the rental agency desk, where he filled out the papers. He paid for the car in cash, along with the required five-hundred-dollar deposit. The rental agent, a tall and leggy brunette, took him out to the lot and showed him his car.
After taking the keys, he returned to his room.
<><><>
“Very good. Continue following your instructions. At eleven, tonight, you will meet your contact and give him the papers.”
Sokova hung up the phone. He allowed himself a brief smile. He had again succeeded when it was necessary. Chapin was out of the picture. It would take all of the agent’s resources for him to stay alive. The results had been worth the effort. In death, Merchenko had proved more worthwhile than in life.
Sokova picked up the morning edition of the Washington Post. In the lower right-hand corner were the results of two national polls and the Post’s own poll. The incumbents had dropped a dozen points behind the challengers.
Sokova nodded. It was as he’d already predicted. It would be over next Tuesday. Only a calamity of enormous proportions could stop him now, and he foresaw no such happenstance in the near future.
Next Tuesday, the world would be his.
Sokova looked at the brass and oak clock on his desk. It was nine-thirty: It read five-thirty in Moscow.
He picked up his secure phone, pressed the scrambler button, and dialed. He heard the first of seven connections clicking in. It would be well over a minute before reaching the final connection in Rome.
When the last of the electronic couplings was completed, and the call answered, it was by a voice he recognized immediately. He spoke quickly in Russian.
“Prepare the shipment for departure according to schedule. Follow the existing design as it was set out. Under no circumstances is there to be any deviation of the convention.”
After he received assurances of his orders, Sokova hung up. He was pleased. He had not panicked at the unexpected interruption Chapin forced on him; he had controlled himself and the situation.
A random thought centered in Sokova’s mind. How long would Kevin Chapin survive? He didn’t think the CIA agent would live to see the elections.
<><><>
Chapin woke with a start. He had been lying on the bed and had dosed off. He glanced at the time. It was almost five. Abby should have landed in Paris an hour ago, if her flight was on schedule.
He missed her. He hadn’t realized how much until this moment. He stopped from thinking of her by reminding himself of his situation. He needed to plan his next moves. He had been lucky so far. He had gotten away from the police; and, he was certain they would not find the stolen car for a few more days.
He had left the car in the pay section of a private garage underneath a luxury condominium. He ‘d told the attendant he was visiting a friend in the building and wouldn’t need the car for a while.
Chapin had a day or two before he had to move.
But when that day came, the chances of being spotted were high. The Company would be watching for him at every airport flying international. He would be listed with the FBI and all local police agencies. He wasn’t sure what charges would show, but whatever the charges were, they would make him a hot and dangerous criminal.
His only road for escape lay in getting out of America.
He had one advantage over The Company. They believed he was a double agent, which meant they thought he might seek asylum with the Soviets.
If they concentrated more on the Soviets, he had a better than even chance of getting out. But he couldn’t count on that.
He left the bed, undressed, and went into the bathroom. He took a shower, shaved, and dressed, after which he called Jason Mitchell’s home number. Tracy Mitchell, Jason’s daughter, answered. He asked for Jason, and was told to hold on.
When Jason said hello, and Chapin spoke, Mitchell’s voice turned to ice. “You double-crossing son-of-a-bitch! I trusted you. I believed in you, and you took me.”
Chapin accepted Mitchell’s anger as it came. When he spoke, his voice was soft and level. “It was a setup from the start. They killed him while I waited for the meet. He was in an alley, Jason. Not where we’d set up the meet. He was dead when I got to him.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Yes,” Chapin said.
There was quiet for several seconds. “Convince me.”
“I gave Backman the Blue Sky signal. Why would I want him to cover me if I intended to kill Merchenko? And when he tried to take me in, I left him alive. Why? If I’d killed him, I could have used it as a cover. I could have said that Backman was the double. That he killed Merchenko after I gave him the clear signal.”
“So far so good,” Mitchell said.
Chapin held back. “There’s nothing else: Either you believe me or you don’t. Make your decision, Jason. I can make it alone, but I could use your he
lp even more.”
“Kevin, I... Dammit, Kevin, I’ve been doing the stairs on this all day long. I don’t want to think you’re the double. But the evidence—”
“The hell with the evidence. What about me? You know me, Jason. You know I wouldn’t go over.” Chapin bit down on his lip, waiting for the judgment from his friend. It was hard to believe that of all the people at The Company, Jason didn’t trust him.
“Are you worried about your retirement, Jason? Is that what it is? Three more years and you get the pension, right?”
“Bullshit!” Mitchell snapped angrily. “Don’t use that garbage line with me.”
“I need your decision, Jason.”
“All right. But I don’t know what I can do.”
“Not a lot, but enough to help me. Everything that’s happened since I went into Russia is tied to the project in the mountains. I asked Ann Tanaka to look up some information for me. I need you to get it from her and to send it to me.”
“Will it help?”
“It may,” Chapin said truthfully.
“Then, I’ll do it. But, Kevin, I promise if I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll go back into the field and terminate you myself.”
“You won’t have to.”
“I’ll call Ann now. Where do you want the material sent?” Chapin weighed the odds; then he gave him the name of the motel.
“You’ll have it by morning.”
Chapin hung up and went to the television. He turned on the news and sat in one of the two hard-backed chairs provided by the motel. He waded through the cutesy news pieces, the weather, and the sports. Near the end of the half hour, a black reporter’s face filled the screen.
“The identity of last night’s murder victim has just been released. The police have identified the man as Alexi Merchenko, a clerk from the Soviet embassy. There has been no statement with details; however, a reliable source within the police department said Merchenko was carrying an attaché case containing a sizable amount of cash, and the possibility exists he was the victim of a blackmailing scheme. But, until the police issue a formal statement, all we have is speculation.”
Chapin shut the television off. The first part of making him into a dangerous criminal, and washing out the covert espionage part of what had happened, was already in the process.
Later, tonight or tomorrow morning, another story would be leaked, with Merchenko presented as a poor and innocent dupe who had taken sexual favors from someone.
Photographs would miraculously appear showing Merchenko and two or three other men and women doing a myriad of sexual acrobatics. In another day, they would connect Kevin Chapin with Merchenko. Chapin would have a criminal history and be accused of Merchenko’s murder. Proof would surface quickly. A nation would be on the alert for the callous murder of poor, defenseless Alexi Merchenko.
Annoyed for knowing what would happen, Chapin put on his shoulder rig, checked the magazine, and left the room. He went downstairs to the dining room, took a table by the window, and ordered steak for dinner.
He glanced casually around the dining room. It was half-filled, mostly with businessmen eating alone. The bar was busy. A dozen or so men and women drank and chatted as if there were no other place to be.
He watched the interplay of the people, wondering if he would ever have the chance to be like them. Then he asked himself if he wanted to be like them, knowing what he did about the world and the people who ran it.
Fifteen minutes later, the waitress arrived with his dinner. As he cut a piece of the steak, and saw it was as rare as he’d asked, he told himself Mitchell was talking to Ann Tanaka.
He could only pray Ann had found something to point him in the direction of Sokova.
As he chewed, he thought about Jason. Mitchell had only one strong phobia. He hated elevators. At The Company, whenever anyone couldn’t reach Mitchell, they went to the staircase and shouted his name. He usually answered.
The piece of steak in his mouth turned to poison as Chapin pictured Mitchell running up and down the stairs, upset and angry at what he believed Chapin had done. Chapin’s stomach convulsed and bile filled his mouth. The color drained from his face.
Mitchell had broken his leg Sunday morning. He couldn’t climb the stairs. And he’d told Mitchell where he was.
He put his fork down and slowly pushed away from the table. He looked everywhere, checking on the faces, looking at the eyes and seeing if anyone was watching him. He stood, shifting his weight so his right hand was free.
How long since the call to Mitchell? He looked at his watch. Forty minutes. Too long. Careful, he told himself. Spotting the waitress, he signaled her.
“I have to go,” he said, handing her a twenty and ignoring the question on her face. “Keep the change.”
He went through the lobby and out the main door. It was dark; the lights of the motel were bright. He stepped out of the direct light and made his way to the rental car. With every step, he looked around.
Reaching the rental car, Chapin unlocked it and started to get in. Behind him, across the lot, three cars sped into the driveway and raced up to the entrance. Men in suits, carrying walkie-talkies, emptied out of the car—Chapin counted ten. Five of them went inside. Two left the group and went toward the left side of the building; two others went to the right. The one remaining man stood at the entrance. He tried to act nonchalant, but his face gave him away. He was tense and ready for trouble.
Chapin wondered if he was FBI, or one of the new fair-haired boys from Langley. Not that it mattered, he told himself as he started the car, pulled out of the parking space, and drove slowly out of the parking lot.
When he was on the road, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Chapin’s stomach tightened again as a wave of nausea washed over him. It was a sickness holding his mind and body in thrall.
Damn him!
“Why?” he asked aloud. He couldn’t begin to know why; all he knew was that Jason Mitchell was the Soviet double agent in Ruby One.
It fit to a tee. The leaks had started just a little over three years ago, during Mitchell’s final months as control leader of Ruby One.
Someone had gotten to Mitchell just before he’d come back to Langley. Someone had turned his friend, and used Jason Mitchell against him.
Chapter Sixteen
She answered on the third ring, and he said, “Don’t hang up on me.”
“Don’t do this to me,” Ann Tanaka pleaded.
“Did Jason call you tonight?”
“Kevin, please.”
“Answer me. Did he call you?”
“No.”
Although he had been sure Mitchell was the double, he needed confirmation. He had it. “Ann, it wasn’t me. It was Mitchell. Jason is the double. He has been all along.”
“How can you lie to me like this? You tricked Jason into letting you go to New York because—”
Chapin spoke calmly, with the knowledge that Tanaka was above suspicion and that her home phone wasn’t tapped. “It was the other way around; Ann. Jason is the leak in Ruby One. Think about it and you’ll find all the connections. He was the only one who had access to all the data of any mission.”
Ann Tanaka hesitated. Chapin heard doubt in her next words. “I want to believe you, Kevin. But—”
“—Did you do those computer runs?” Chapin asked, changing direction.
“Yes.”
“And?” he asked, knowing that the only way he could convince her was if she had found something.
“There were things,” she admitted. “There were contradictions in the old files; and, certain unexplained happenings.”
“Ann, I’ll say it only once, and then you make a decision. You’ve known me since you started working there. Either you believe me or you don’t.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Ann, Sokova put the Merchenko defection together. He used Jason to set me up. The only way I can prove it is to find out who Sokova is and what his plan
is. I need your help to do it.”
There was a long silence. The only sound he heard was Ann Tanaka’s breathing, until: “Damn you, Kevin. If you’re lying to me it will kill me.... What do you want?”
Relief washed through him. “I need everything you’ve pulled from the computer.”
“How do I get it to you? You can’t come here. Are you still in New York?”
“Yes. But I want you to send it to a special drop,” he told her, giving her an address known to only one person in the world, himself.
“You’re doing the right thing, Ann. I’m not a double. I’ll call you when I can.” He hung up knowing that if she didn’t believe him, he had signed his own death warrant. If she didn’t trust him, Company agents would be waiting for him at the drop.
Trusting Ann Tanaka and the friendship they had built up over the years was the only chance he had.
Leaving the booth, he exited the Fourteenth Street subway station. He had entered New York City via the Path train from Jersey City, after leaving the rental car on a residential street a half mile from the train station.
Chapin figured it would take a day or two for them to find the car. By then, he should be long gone.
Taking a deep breath of cool night air, he walked down University Place toward Washington Square Park. When he reached the corner of Eighth Street, he hailed a passing taxi.
“Canal Street,” he told the driver after getting in. Seven minutes later, Chapin got out in the Lower East Side of New York.
He went five blocks, walking an aimless pattern to make sure no one was tailing him. Then he went to his destination in one of the last Jewish neighborhoods in the lower East Side.
He rang the bell of an old brownstone townhouse. The front door had a metal grate across the window. The window, covered by a lace curtain with the appearance of chintz, was fully opaque.
Exactly a minute and a half after he’d rung the bell, the curtain parted and a face peered out. Recognition came into the man’s eyes and he opened the door.
