by David Wind
“Ann,” the general said, staring intensely at her, “you’ve been with us for nine years now; for the last four years you have been the senior intelligence research analyst for the Ruby One apparatus as well as the Scandinavian section. Because of the quality of your work, we have given you a lot of trust.”
When the general paused, Ann Tanaka moistened her lips. She knew what was coming, and decided she’d best admit to what she’d done before it was laid at her feet.
“I—”
“So,” the DD said at almost the same instant that Tanaka spoke, “our first action to get things back on course is to ask if you will take Jason Mitchell’s place as coordinator of Ruby One.”
Chapter Seventeen
Sitting in an old-style enclosed phone booth at the rear of a drug store, Chapin stared at the elongated black box. During the night, he had decided that he must put pressure on Mitchell. He had to shake up Mitchell by making him think he had physical proof Mitchell was the double agent.
Stuck on the phone was a small red-and-white Etheridge & Mathews campaign sticker.
He ignored it, picked up the receiver, and dialed Mitchell’s direct extension. He used his credit card number again.
The phone rang five times and then went dead. Just before he hung up, he heard an electronic transfer. There was one more ring, and the phone answered. The person on the other end was not Jason Mitchell.
Chapin hung up. There was something wrong.
He dialed Mitchell’s home. The call was answered by a man. “Jason Mitchell, please.”
“Who is this?”
“Chuck Ryan, a friend of his,” Chapin replied warily, using a name that Mitchell would recognize. Chuck Ryan had been control agent of Ruby One before Mitchell.
Chapin sensed hesitation on the other end, until the speaker said, “I... I am Jason’s father-in-law. There’s—Jason suffered a heart attack last night. He... he didn’t make it.”
Chapin’s knuckles turned white. He replaced the receiver without speaking. “Damn you,” he whispered to the faceless man called Sokova. Once again, the Soviet mole was a step ahead of him.
There was no doubt, no hesitation in his mind Sokova had taken Mitchell out of the game. The Company would not have killed him; they would have learned everything they could, and then they would have simply put him away without a trial. No one would hear from him again, but he would be available to The Company just in case they had other questions.
He picked up the phone and started to dial the CIA’s number. He hung up before he completed the ten digits. He couldn’t risk exposing Ann Tanaka any more than he had. He had to trust she had sent the material.
Opening the glass door, Chapin picked up the brown paper bag filled with items he’d bought in the drug store, and left.
He stopped at a barbershop, where two middle-aged Italian barbers waited for customers. Taking the first chair, he asked for a short business cut. The man took fifteen minutes. The results were just what he’d hoped. A neat and close-cropped haircut that changed the silhouette of his head enough to be noticeable.
He walked the two and a half blocks to Rosenkrantz’s brownstone, keeping a careful watch on the people in the streets. When he reached the building, he was as secure as he could be that no one had tailed him.
He used the key the old man had given him, went inside, and stripped to his underwear before entering the large bathroom. He emptied the contents of the bag on the toilet seat and sifted through them until he found the tube of tanning gel.
Putting on plastic gloves, he applied the gel to his face and neck, blending it into his chest. He paid careful attention to his hairline, making sure that the gel covered his scalp for at least a half inch. He left the gel on for a third of the required time before washing it off.
The results were not a tanned face, but rather a sallow and unhealthy look. Next, he took dark makeup and spread it under his eyes. When he finished, he had the heavy dark sacks that showed a life of work and tiredness and poor diet.
Stepping back, he gazed at the results. He was pleased. His appearance had changed drastically, yet he looked the same. There were still a few things left, but those would wait until he was ready to go to the airport.
Leaving the bathroom, Chapin called Rosenkrantz’s name. The old man came out of his studio. “Good,” he said after appraising Chapin’s new visage. “Come.”
In the studio, Chapin looked at the work on the man’s table, and nodded. The passport was all but finished, as was the Social Security card, a membership card for the AAA, and two other miscellaneous pieces of identification.
“I don’t have time for a driver’s license. The picture lamination process takes too long. Sit there,” Rosenkrantz said, taking out a polaroid.
Chapin perched on the edge of a low file cabinet. Rosenkrantz took three pictures. “That will do. Go have some coffee. I’ll have your papers soon.”
While Chapin waited for Rosenkrantz, he worked on the two pair of glasses he’d bought. One pair, hornrims, were simple magnified reading glasses. The other pair, sunglasses of the same size and style, had dark plastic lenses.
He removed the right lenses from both glasses. Then he put the tinted lens in the magnified glasses, and glued it into place.
He put the glasses on and went to the mirror. A very different face stared back at him. His left eye was magnified and immense. His right eye was invisible. He wouldn’t be able to read with the glasses, but he would be able to hold off the dizziness the magnified lens would inevitably bring on.
“Wonderful,” said Rosenkrantz when he emerged from the room. “Draw everyone’s attention and make them look away!”
Rosenkrantz’s observation was accurate. The best disguises always called attention to one feature and make people see only that, rather than the person as a whole. For some people, making a physical disguise worked best—a pronounced limp and the use of a cane. Chapin preferred a change of facial feature.
By calling attention to his eyes, people would become embarrassed when they stared at him and look away. All they would remember was that there was something wrong with him. Their recollection would be of a man with one bad eye and one good eye.
Taking the glasses off, Chapin went to the table and looked at the passport. “You haven’t lost your touch, Josef.”
“I’ve done better, but these will do. Kevin,” Rosenkrantz said, stepping close to Chapin. “You must be careful. You must make sure you succeed.”
There was much he wanted to say, but nothing made it past his lips. He swallowed hard, knowing that when he left the sanctuary of this house, there would be no turning back. He would expose Sokova and his plan to take over the government, or he would die.
The phone rang, breaking the solemn mood. Rosenkrantz picked it up. He said nothing; rather, he stared at Chapin while he listened. Then he spoke several rapid words of Russian and hung up.
“That was my daughter. You are a very special man, Kevin Chapin. Last night while you and I talked here, the CIA has determined you were also in Washington, and murdered Jason Mitchell.”
<><><><>
Entering the international terminal at J. F. K. Airport in New York, Chapin looked straight ahead. He carried an attaché case in one hand, and a leather overnight bag in the other.
Rosenkrantz had given him both items. The overnight bag held random garments. The attaché case contained his papers, a note pad, and several clothing magazine brochures and advertising circulars the old man had taken from the Sunday papers.
An extra touch of perfection was in the fifteen business cards Rosenkrantz had gone out to have made. They were simple photocopy cards from a fast copy/printer store, but they added that extra little bit of believability to his cover.
Moving through the electric doors, Chapin spotted two Feds standing off to the side. He didn’t look at them; rather, he continued toward the Air France ticket desk.
Three people were ahead of him. He used the time to scan the area ne
ar him. He wasn’t looking for faces; he was looking for an aura. Operatives, policemen, and other types of agents could physically blend in with the crowd, but they were never really a part of the people surrounding them.
There were clues giving all but the absolute best of the watchers away. The eyes were never still. They went from face to face, not with a simple passing curiosity, but with blatant inspection. The eyes lingered too long on a face. Their stances were different from the civilians around them. Their stances were tense, not comfortable and signaled a readiness to move, not just walk, but pounce.
That was what Chapin looked for, and found.
He marked four men and two women as operatives. He recognized one man from Langley. The man had been out of the field for a dozen years. The general was pulling all stops, Chapin realized.
It took five minutes for the people ahead of him to finish their business. Chapin stepped up to the counter; the ticket agent smiled, but would not look into his eyes. Rather, she stared at a point above his head.
“Aaron Meyer. I have a reservation. The Concorde to Paris.”
“Name?” asked the ticket agent, lowering her head quickly to the computer screen, oblivious that he had already given her the name.
“Aaron Meyer,” he repeated patiently.
He saw her blush. A moment later, her head bobbed. “Yes, Mr. Meyer.” The ticket agent pressed several keys, and the computer chattered. “Round trip to Paris. Your flight leaves in twenty minutes. Please go directly to gate thirty-seven,” she said, handing him the ticket.
Thanking her, he held the ticket in the same hand as he held his attaché case. He paused, put down the attaché case, and slipped the ticket into his jacket pocket. As he did, he saw the ticket agent shake her head to the supervisor standing at the end of the ticket counter.
Chapin guessed the supervisor was FBI.
He didn’t allow himself to smile. He wasn’t out of danger yet, not by a long shot. But he had sidestepped two traps. The first was in the purchase of the ticket. Anyone paying cash would be suspect. He had used Rosenkrantz’s credit card to purchase the ticket over the phone. The second trap lay in the type of ticket. He had bought a round-trip ticket instead of one-way, which, if the passenger carried an American passport, would be suspect.
He glanced at the large clock set above the entrance to the boarding gates. He would make the departure gate just at boarding time. He looked down the long walkway leading to the gates.
One important obstacle remained—the x-ray and inspection station.
He walked with a steady gait, conscious of the people who gave quick furtive glances at his face. When he reached the inspection station, he placed his carry-on bag and attaché case on the conveyor. When his turn came, he held his ticket out to the guard. She looked at him, and away, motioning him through the metal detector.
Standing on both sides of the station were uniformed men. Chapin recognized two young field operatives from The Company. He had met them both several months before when he’d been back at Langley for a meeting. They both scrutinized him carefully. There was no sign of recognition from the one on the left. The second man peered at him for a moment longer before he looked away.
For just a fraction of a second, Chapin had seen a glimpse of recognition pass across the man’s eyes, then it was gone.
Chapin stepped through the archway of the metal detector, and set off no alarms. He picked up his two items and started toward the gate. As he walked away, his skin began to itch. Someone was watching him. Someone had a feeling. He knew it was the agent.
Chapin stopped, put down his attaché case, and adjusted his overnight bag over his shoulder. When he bent to pick up his attaché case, he glanced back quickly.
He caught The Company agent just turning back.
The man had had a feeling, twice; and he hadn’t pursued it. His stomach settled a little, and wondered if the man would live very long in the field. He walked to the gate, presented his ticket, and was waved on board.
<><><>
Sokova put the last sheet of paper away. “He said these reports were all Chapin had been able to obtain?”
“Yes” came the single word out of the speaker.
Sokova nodded. “You did well. Proceed to the primary sight and wait for my call.”
Sokova shut off the speakerphone with his forefinger. He leaned back in his chair. Dusk had settled over the capital. Purplish-blue clouds massed to the west, chasing the departing sun.
They didn’t catch Chapin, but The CIA designated him a rogue agent, and his effectiveness against Sokova at an end. Even if Chapin succeeded in escaping the country, he was rendered impotent.
Mitchell was dead, and although one of the KGB’s most important ties in the CIA was gone, it didn’t matter to Sokova. He had other means of knowing what happens in The Company, as it happened.
With Chapin out of the picture, there was no one to stop his final achievement. Sokova smiled. Tomorrow, an Aeroflot plane would land in Montreal. On Friday, two men from the Aeroflot flight would board another plane and fly to Calgary, where they would await the results of the election and Sokova’s signal.
And at last, the strategic convention he had devised and placed into existence so long ago would reach the conclusion he had foreseen. It was too bad that he alone, of the five men who had put his plan into existence, had survived to see it reach the conclusion he had promised.
In the final assessment, when he watched the people accept their destiny, he would stand alone as their benefactor. Smiling magnanimously, Sokova pressed the button on his speakerphone. When the dial tone came over the speaker, he pressed the scrambler button and dialed an overseas number.
“Hello?” answered the easily recognized voice.
“The target has been compromised. He is in the open. Notify all European personnel to keep watch. His next move is obvious. He must leave the country.”
“Is there anything else?”
“He is your primary responsibility. If he appears, you are to neutralize him and see to it the proper authorities are made aware of his presence. If those authorities fail to secure the proper result, then you handle it yourself.” Sokova hung up.
<><><>
“Please fasten your seat belts” came the amplified voice of the stewardess. The message was repeated in French, German, Spanish, and Japanese.
Chapin put on the distorting glasses and hooked up his seat belt. He leaned back, and looked out the window. And watched the rivets’ vibrating dance in the wing as the plane began its descent.
The flight attendant handed him a slip of paper. “Please fill this out for immigration. Have your passport ready as well,” she added in heavily accented English.
“Thank you.” Chapin took the paper and smiled.
She returned his smile without quite meeting his eyes. “Would you care for another drink?”
“Non, merci,” he said in French.
“Certainement, monsieur,” she replied, this time actually meeting his eyes and smiling.
When she was gone, he took off his glasses. The flight, as short as it had been, had given him time to think. But he could take no action until he received Ann Tanaka’s information. He needed a starting point. He needed a place to begin.
His ears blocked as the plane descended earthward. He looked at his watch. They were on schedule and would land in ten minutes.
It was eleven minutes later, not ten, when the plane landed. It taxied to its destination, and a few moments later, the passengers exited the plane.
Chapin stepped into the middle of a group heading toward the baggage claims and customs desks. Although he carried only the overnight case, he went to the baggage claim area and waited with the others. He did not want to be among the first in line at customs. He wanted anyone watching to get a little bored.
When the lines at the desks began queueing, Chapin picked one and, as he waited his turn, studied the area. He saw no extra people hanging around. There were only the
customs agents in blue-and-gold uniforms, and baggage handlers.
He relaxed. Then he stopped the foolish reaction. There was no telling who might be waiting for him. A baggage handler could be carrying a weapon. A ticket agent could finger him to a cop. even the woman sitting on a bench beneath the window, nursing what might appear to be a baby, could pull an Uzi from beneath the pink blanket and erase him like a bad drawing.
Listed as ‘Rogue’, he was an open target. Even more so than being listed rogue, Sokova had him labeled as Jason Mitchell’s murderer. There were a lot of people in The Company who liked Jason Mitchell. That move was Sokova’s crowning touch—but it was a mistake as well, because it told Chapin Sokova was afraid of him.
Afraid because Sokova believed if Chapin succeeded in discovering Sokova’s plan, he would be able to convince the deputy director there was a Soviet plot aimed at the highest levels of the American government.
The thought helped Chapin cope.
When his turn came, Chapin handed his passport to the official. The man looked from the picture to Chapin. Then he lifted several sheets of paper and began to flip through them.
Chapin caught a glance at the faces of fugitives. He looked away, nonchalantly, until the man was finished.
“How long will you be in Paris, monsieur?”
Chapin shrugged. “A week, perhaps two.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“Very well, enjoy your stay.” He stamped the passport and handed it back. He ignored Chapin’s attaché case and overnight bag as he motioned him through.
Chapin left the customs area and entered the main section of the airport. He would make it, he knew now. He had gotten through the hardest part. He had gotten out of America.
He reached up to his glasses, about to take them off, when he spotted a familiar face in conversation with a policeman. He dropped his hand and continued walking.
Louis Chalmers, section chief for the Paris station, was twenty feet away. Chapin had no doubt that Chalmers was looking for him.
While his disguise was good enough for the average person, Chapin and Chalmers had come into the agency together, and had trained together. Chalmers might see through his disguise.
