COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

She was silent until…, “Meet me at ten. You know where. And, Kevin, this will be very, very expensive.”

  Hanging up, Chapin almost smiled. Until twelve years ago, Valerie Fairchild had been an agent for British Intelligence. She had retired to Paris, and set up an information shop that made her wealthy.

  Tolerated by the French because she always gave them any information that concerned them and never charged a fee, Kevin had used her frequently, sometimes for information, and other times as a setup to feed information. By and large, he had always trusted her. Now he wondered if he should.

  He had no choice. All his contacts in France were either committed to The Company or to the Soviets. He couldn’t risk talking to any of them. Valerie was his only option.

  Shaking his head at the irony, he reread the OSS report on the kidnapping when Abby came home.

  It was just after six. She was carrying a bag of groceries and the New York Times. She put the groceries down and handed him the paper.

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “How can they do this to you?” Her eyes searched his face.

  He was thankful she hadn’t asked him if the story was true, and what he’d told her last night a lie. “They think it’s true.”

  “How do we prove them wrong?”

  He drew her close, breathed in the fragrance of her hair, and lifted her face so she was looking into his eyes. “By finding the man who set me up.”

  “How?” she asked, her eyes widening with hope.

  “By going back forty years to find a woman with some answers. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”

  “Can you trust her?” Abby asked.

  “For this one time, yes. But after this, no.”

  “I want to go with you.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Not tonight. I must meet her alone.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Read the reports,” he said, motioning to the thick envelope. “Find something to help me. Please.”

  She looked at the pile, and then back at him. “I will.”

  Chapin went into the bedroom and dressed in some of the new clothing he’d purchased. Then he went into the bathroom and combed his hair, slicking it back.

  Using a makeup pencil, he sketched a scar from the bottom of his left eye to his left nostril. Then he once again put on a pair of glasses. This time with lightly tinted lenses.

  When he returned to the living room, he found Abby absorbed in the reading. He walked toward her, and just as he reached her, she looked up.

  Her head jerked back, and her eyes widened before she recognized him. “My God, you scared me half to death.”

  Apologizing, he bent and kissed her. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She stared at him for several seconds. Her eyes went suddenly moist, and she said, “Just make sure you do.”

  <><><>

  Chapin leaned against the stone face of the building. The street was quiet, the air cool. The scent of cooking still permeated the air.

  He had been watching the building across the street and the apartment on the third floor for half an hour. There had been little activity on the street since he’d arrived. An elderly couple had come out from the building. Two women had gone into Fairchild’s building. Several people had come along the street, but had passed the building by.

  A distant church clock rang out the hour. It was ten. His muscles went taut. He glanced at the third floor, and the low yellow light coming from the window. Were his instincts right? Could he trust Fairchild one last time?

  Chapin walked across the street. If anyone could help him locate Bernadette Luvelle, it would be Valerie Fairchild. He entered the building and pressed her buzzer. Seven seconds later he heard her husky voice.

  “It’s Chapin.”

  There was a hum at the door lock. Chapin pushed it open and entered the inner lobby. The building was old, but immaculately maintained. Chapin went to the stairs: He never took an elevator when meeting a contact.

  He climbed the staircase to the third floor. He pushed the door open a few inches and listened intently. When he heard nothing, he drew his pistol and stepped into the hallway.

  The carpet muffled his steps. His heart rate increased as adrenaline flowed into his bloodstream. He crossed the hall and went to the door. He knocked once and then pressed his back flush to the wall.

  The door opened. Valerie Fairchild stepped out. She held her arms out straight. Her hands were empty and turned palms up.

  Chapin moved from the wall and holstered his weapon.

  Fairchild recognized him despite his disguise. “You didn’t think I would turn you in, did you?”

  “I haven’t known what to think for quite a while now,” he admitted as he followed the woman inside. Fifty-four year old Valerie Fairchild had the body of a twenty-year-old and the face of a thirty-year-old. While he knew the face was a result of plastic surgery, he didn’t think her body was.

  “Drink?” Fairchild asked.

  Chapin shook his head.

  “As I said, it will be expensive, Kevin. Are you prepared to pay?”

  “As much as is necessary,” he told her.

  “Fifty thousand dollars, American, will do.”

  He smiled. “Not a quarter million?”

  “If I wanted the big money, I would have turned you in. This Bernadette Luvelle, I have a little, but I will need until tomorrow to get enough to help you. I traced her through nineteen forty-eight. Seven months after her sister died in a house fire, she married an Austrian by the name of Herman Lorbaugh, and moved to Salzburg. I will have the rest tomorrow,” she said with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

  Chapin understood her message. He reached into his pocket and withdrew five Kugarans and gave them to her, saying, “A deposit. You’ll have the balance upon delivery.” This time when Valerie Fairchild smiled, the smile reached her pale green eyes. “How did you get yourself into this mess?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said truthfully.

  “And one I intend on hearing, when this is over. But, Kevin, you must be careful. Everyone is looking for you. You have no friends left.”

  He stared at her. “None?”

  “A few perhaps, but you will need to force the issue. It would be best to leave everyone out of it.”

  He nodded. “You’ll have my information by five tomorrow?”

  “By five,” she agreed.

  “I’ll be here.”

  “No. Call me at the regular number. I will tell you where. And be very, very careful. I do not like the things I have been hearing.”

  Chapin started to say something, stopped and said, “Why are you doing this?”

  “It is what I do. I supply information.”

  Her words didn’t sit right with him. There was something else behind her eyes. What? “Why give it to me? Are you going to sell my whereabouts to them after I’ve paid you?” She met his stare, and held it for a full second before replying. “Kevin, I left my home because my ideals changed and my beliefs altered by what I had been asked to do time and time again. When I learned about what was happening to you, I sensed something was not right.”

  Fairchild shook her head slowly. Her hair flowed and shimmered with the movement. “I know you, Kevin Chapin, and I do not like the stench of this operation against you. And while I do sell what I can for profit, I do not sell the lives of my friends.”

  He relaxed a bit. He had known Fairchild for many years. The only information she gave for free was to the French, and although there was no money exchanged, there was still a price paid. Fairchild had always maintained one rule. She never, ever, gave information away, even to a friend.

  He closed the distance between them and drew Fairchild close. “Thank you,” he said and kissed her cheek.

  “I will have everything ready for you by tomorrow.”

  <><><><>

  The blond-haired man knelt on the stones of the roof and watched the apartment. His headphones attached to an audio pick-u
p directed at the third-floor window.

  He had a perfect picture of the two people through the powerful scope of the weapon and, when he saw them embrace, he tensed.

  When Chapin released Fairchild and stepped back, he fired.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapin’s reactions were instinctive. As soon as the glass shattered, he sidestepped and drew his nine-millimeter. There was no sound of a gunshot and he knew the sniper had used a silencer.

  The second and third shots came so quickly he hadn’t taken two steps when Fairchild’s beautiful face exploded in front of him. She staggered into him, knocking him to the floor.

  He threw her off, rolled toward the window, and came up on his knees. Glass crunched beneath the material of his pants. Ignoring sharp glass, he peered over the sill, looking up at the roof across the street.

  Nothing.

  He waited another quarter minute. When there were no more shots, he stood. Then he saw a shape dart across the roof.

  He fired four quick rounds, knowing he missed his target, but had chased him away.

  He went back to Valerie Fairchild and knelt by her side. The perfect body lay absolutely still. What was left of her surgically altered face was half-gone.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He reached for her, brushing the back of his fingers along what was left of her hair. A sickness burst in him: His eyesight blurred, his anger swelled.

  Standing, he looked down at his blood-soaked jacket and forced himself to stay calm and think logically. He couldn’t go into the street looking the way he did.

  He took the jacket off, went into the kitchen, and washed his face. Then he went to Fairchild’s closet and found an oversized sweater. He put it on, slipped his pistol into his waist, and looked in the mirror. The weapon could not be seen.

  He left the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. Once outside, he went to the corner, turned right, and stepped out into the street itself. He walked, waiting for a cab to come. It took three blocks to find one. He had the driver take him to the Left Bank.

  Sitting in the backseat sanctity of the Renault, his hands shook from the aftermath of the actions. He took several deep breaths, and as his body calmed, his mind went to work. Someone had had Valerie Fairchild’s apartment staked out. Someone had expected him to meet her. The only reason he was alive was that Fairchild took the bullets meant for him.

  Chapin put his emotions on hold while he monitored the traffic behind him. When he was certain no one followed, he directed the taxi to a Metro station.

  He took the Metro to the Eiffel Tower, and walked seven blocks in a random pattern until he was again certain he had no tail

  Finally, he returned to Abby’s apartment.

  <><><>

  “To think I was so close,” Chapin said in frustration. “One more day and I would have had the information on the nurse.”

  “At least you’re alive,” she said pointedly her voice low but strong.

  Yes, he thought, he was alive, but someone else had died because of him. He looked at Abby and thanked whatever powers were looking over him, that no one knew about his relationship with Abby.

  “But Valerie’s death puts me back to square one.”

  Lifting Tanaka’s reports, Abby shook her head. “No you aren’t. You have these. My God, Kevin, I had to read these twice, just to convince myself I wasn’t reading a novel.”

  Abby shook her head. Her eyes were troubled. “These are incredible. To think that if Hirshorne had been thirty or forty seconds later, the man who may be our next vice president would have grown up in Russia instead. It’s frightening.”

  “But true,” he said. He reached over to her and took her hand in his. “But Mathews didn’t end up in Russia, and he may very well be elected. At least that’s what the newspapers are saying.”

  “But if he’s involved with Sokova—” she began.

  “No,” Chapin cut in adamantly, “I don’t think Mathews was originally part of Sokova’s plan; I think that Mathews’ involvement is just the opposite. Sokova didn’t want him in the election at all. If I’m right, Mathews would represent a deterrent to Sokova’s plan, and he would have to eliminate Mathews after the election. Why else would Sokova have had Mathews’ wife and child murdered?”

  “Are you sure that’s what happened? What purpose could their deaths have served?”

  “Mathews was supposed to be with them. An emergency kept him from going with them.”

  Abby stared at him for several seconds. “You’re certain they were murdered?”

  Chapin met her stare. “Positive. I was able to get a fingerprint match with the truck driver who killed Mathews’ family. His prints were identical to those of a Soviet KGB agent.”

  Her eyes widened. “My God, Kevin, what are we going to do?”

  “Stop Sokova, somehow.” Chapin’s stomach twisted violently. Could Fairchild’s death have been coincidental? It was possible, given her line of work. But he had to believe her death was his responsibility: Fairchild, like any contact Chapin had made over the years, was being watched, or Fairchild told someone about him, or her phone lines were tapped.

  “The fact of the matter is they know I’m in Paris,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Who, Kevin, the CIA?”

  Chapin shrugged. “Possibly. But my money is on Sokova. He has sources everywhere. He’s better than I thought, much better. And he added to the entire deception by having the Soviets offer a quarter of a million for me, alive.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would they offer money for you alive.”

  Chapin smiled broadly. “By offering a reward for me, Sokova is giving the CIA the message I’m a Soviet agent, an agent who is valuable enough for the Soviets to pay anyone the same amount to keep me alive, as the CIA is willing to pay to have me killed. I need to find out what he is planning. I have to stop him.” His words turned into a litany echoing through his head.

  “You can’t stop him yourself, not when everyone in the world is looking for you,” Abby reminded him.

  “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  Standing, Abby went to Chapin. She stroked his cheek with her fingertips. “Yes, you do. I can set up a meeting with the ambassador. You can tell him what you know, and he will help.”

  He caught her hand and held it tightly. “It doesn’t work that way. Sokova’s trap prevents exactly what you’re suggesting from happening. I’ve been labeled a traitor. If I as much as show myself near the embassy, I’ll be killed.”

  “I can get the ambassador to meet you somewhere else.”

  He thought about Valerie Fairchild. “What would happen if I met the ambassador in some out-of-the-way place, and either during or after the meeting he is assassinated the way Valerie Fairchild was? No, it would be a mistake for me, and it would get you into this situation as well. Abby, I have to do this without help.”

  Stepping back from him, she stared up into his eyes. “Without my help as well?”

  Chapin moistened his lips. He searched her face, reading the hurt written on it. “I don’t want you hurt because of me.”

  The skin around her eyes tightened. Her lips grew taut. “That’s what you don’t want. What about what I want, Kevin? Why don’t you ask what I want?”

  “I can’t let you be exposed to the danger shadowing me.”

  “Really? How are you going to stop it? I love you, Kevin. One way or another, I’m going to be hurt. If you walk out on me, I know I’ll never see you again. If I go with you, at least I’ll have you for a little while. How can you stop Sokova by yourself? You can’t go out in public for fear of being spotted. You need me, Kevin. You need me to help you.”

  She took a shuttering breath. “And if I do go with you, and I help you enough, and we have a little luck, we may just be able to clear you, and make a life for ourselves.”

  Chapin watched her face throughout the dialogue. His emotions welled upward. When she fell silent, he ignored the tears tracing paths down her cheeks
and drew her to him.

  He held her tightly, and kissed her. Within the warmth of her mouth was the bitter salt of her tears. He released her and stepped back.

  He knew what she had said was true, and if he had any real hopes of making it through this, he would need help. There was no one he could trust any longer except for Abby.

  He nodded. But his original thought about her stuck with him: Abby’s anonymity would not last. Eventually, someone would spot them together and make a connection. Could he let her do that, in the name of love?

  He turned back to her and shook his head. “I love you, Abby—”

  “Don’t say anything else, because it won’t matter. If you tell me no, I’ll just follow you.”

  “I don’t want you sucked in any deeper.”

  “And I don’t want you dead. Kevin, you can’t win this argument. Don’t try.”

  She faced him, arms akimbo and tightly balled fists resting on her hips. Her eyes were hard. Her lips set in a thin line.

  He couldn’t argue with her. He knew he needed her help. He could only hope he wouldn’t destroy her because of who he was.

  He exhaled sharply. The sound hung in the air. “Pack a suitcase and call in. We’re leaving now.”

  She blinked. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She closed the distance between them and went into his arms.

  <><><>

  Salzburg Austria

  On Friday afternoon, Chapin pulled into the Hotel St. Germaine, in the old and beautiful city of Salzburg.

  The hotel, although not well known to tourists and definitely not on the main routes, was a four-star hotel with excellent service and wonderful old rooms.

  They were given a suite consisting of three large rooms furnished with antiques.

  He looked out the window. It had been almost two years since he’d been in Austria, and a year longer since he’d come to Salzburg. The weather was the same as it had been on his last visit—cold and damp.

  The rain had started just after they’d left France and entered Germany. Chapin had taken a circuitous route, leaving Paris and driving to Amiens, where he rented a new car using his Australian papers. From Amiens, and after Chapin was certain that they’d not been followed, they’d driven to Germany, reaching Stuttgart just before nightfall.