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

by David Wind

  He shook his head. “We’ve been going in circles for an hour. Abby, I love you and I want you alive. If you come with me, the odds say you will die and I will as well. Alone, I have a chance to stop Sokova and to live.”

  “Because you won’t have to worry about me?”

  “Yes,” he said bluntly. “Abby, I’m a professional. I’ve spent my life staying alive.” When he fell silent, he stepped close to her. Taking her in his arms, he gazed into her eyes. “I’ll be back for you, Abby, I promise.”

  She blinked rapidly. He saw her swallow several times. A single tear escaped from her left eye to trail down her cheek. “You had better do just that.”

  He kissed her and, when they parted, said, “Let’s go.” Chapin had her wait inside while he checked the street. The late night was black and cloudy. Only a few stars were visible.

  He walked past the rental car, looking casually about. There were no telltale sensations of surveillance, nor anything unusual on the street. When he was as sure as he could be that no one was watching or following them, he went back for Abby.

  They walked to the car together. He tossed the suitcase in the backseat, helped her into the front, and went around to the driver’s side. Just as he was about to start the engine, he caught himself.

  He felt sweat bead across his forehead. He pulled the key out.

  “What?” Abby asked, her voice filled with alarm.

  “I forgot to check under the hood. Get out, please.”

  “Check the engine?”

  “Abby, wait on the sidewalk,” he said, his voice tight and commanding.

  She did what he asked, and when she was against the building, he pulled the hood release and went around to the front of the car.

  That afternoon, when they had arrived, the only spot available had been near a street lamp. He had not liked where he’d parked, now he was glad.

  He opened the hood and, with the light’s help, checked the engine compartment. There were no wires leading from the ignition or battery. He knelt, looked under the car. There was nothing.

  He used his fingers to explore areas he couldn’t see. When he was done, he was as satisfied as possible. He returned to the car, but motioned Abby to wait. Then he started the car. When the engine caught on the first crank, he breathed a sigh of relief and signaled Abby back to the car.

  As he pulled out of the space, she said, “You have to do this all the time? My God, Kevin, how could you stand it all these years?”

  He turned the corner. The hulking and dark shape of the Eiffel Tower disappeared behind them. “You learn to live with it.”

  He drove toward the American Embassy in silence. When they were a few blocks away, Abby said, “The elections are tomorrow.”

  “I know,” Chapin said, intensely aware that the first Tuesday in November was only a few hours away.

  “How will you get back?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” he said.

  Abby looked out her window. “I’m afraid I’ll never see you again.”

  “You’ll see me again,” he told her as he pulled to a stop before the embassy gate. Two Marines stood guard: a corporal and a private.

  He got out of the car and went around to the other side. He opened the door, helped Abby out, and then took her suitcase and put it on the ground.

  “Remember, stay here for at least two days. By then, they won’t be interested in you.”

  “What are you going to do?” She searched his face, never stopping at one spot.

  He felt as though she were drinking him in. “Whatever is necessary.” He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

  When they parted, she tried to smile, but failed. “Please be careful.”

  He nodded. “Go,” he said gently.

  He stayed where he was until she had gone up to the corporal, showed her identification, and went inside. When the iron gate closed behind her, Chapin returned to the car and drove away.

  It was time to focus the Soviets’ attention on him, and make them forget that he had spent the last few days with a woman.

  He drove carefully, always checking the rearview for lingering headlights. A half hour later, Chapin arrived at the Paris train station, purchased a ticket for Switzerland, and went to the telephone room.

  The large clock on the wall read one a.m. That made it seven P. M. in Washington. He took out a small notebook and looked up a number. Then he picked up a phone, dialed the operator, and gave the number.

  Edward Kline answered on the second ring, and gruffly accepted the collect call “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing in Paris?”

  “Leaving. Ed, how do the elections look?”

  “Leaning toward Etheridge and Mathews.”

  “Do you still trust me or do you believe what you’ve been reading?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

  Chapin exhaled slowly. He didn’t thank his friend; it wasn’t necessary. “I need your help.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ll be coming home, very soon. I want everything you’ve been able to dig up on Mathews since we last talked. I want you to get me a complete bio on Walter Hirshorne.”

  “When will you be coming?”

  “I’m not sure exactly. But I’ll come in through Toronto.”

  “I’ll have someone meet you there. Go to the Inn at the Park. The person’s name is Brannigan.”

  “Thank you, Ed.” A few moments after hanging up, he picked up the phone again. This time, when he gave the name, he used his old credit card number.

  When the call went through, he smiled. They hadn’t cut off his credit, yet. Of course not. They would have the card number flagged. Within five minutes of the call, they would have his location.

  The receiver clicked and Chapin heard the familiar voice, he smiled to himself. “Hello, Ann.”

  “Kevin?” she said in surprise

  “You’ll have to report the call, as soon as we hang up.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “As good as I can be.”

  “Grubov? Was that you?”

  “He tried to take me out, Ann.”

  “That’s what I thought. Listen, Kevin, there’s been some changes since you left. They gave me Mitchell’s job.”

  Chapin smiled. “You deserve it.”

  “But they believe you killed Merchenko in New York, and that somehow, you’re responsible for Mitchell’s death as well.”

  “Sokova is a master player,” Chapin said. “He’s only made one mistake, so far.”

  “Which was?”

  “Letting me stay alive after I got out of Russia. Ann, have you been able to check out the installation in the Pamirs?”

  “The general specifically forbade any further investigation into the Sokova plan. He said it was a ruse to keep suspicion from you.”

  Chapin squeezed his eyes shut. “Ann, somehow you have to find out about that installation. Whatever it takes, whatever favors you’re owed, use them. Find out what the installation is for, and, Ann, if they take me out, you’re the only other person who knows about this. You’ll have to finish the job.”

  “Kevin, I—”

  “Listen carefully! If you need to get me, give a message to Ed Kline, of the Washington Courier. He’ll get word to me. Take care.” he hung up without giving her a chance to reply.

  When he left the phone room, he glanced at the clock. He had three and a half hours before the early-morning train to Geneva.

  <><><>

  Sokova leaned back in the chair. Everything was moving along the proper path, except that Chapin was still alive and a mistake had been unearthed that should never have been allowed to happen in the first place.

  Bernadette Luvelle had not died as was planned in nineteen forty-seven. The man who had reported her dead had himself been dead for over twenty years.

  It was his own fault, Sokova told himself. He should have double-checked the information and made sure the woman had died as he had done with the doctor
and the other nurse.

  He accepted the responsibility for the lapse. However, the future awaited, and the future was what he was destined to control.

  But there was still Chapin, and he was dangerous. Even on the run, with every intelligence apparatus in the world looking for him, he remained elusive.

  Grubov had failed: the failure cost him his life. Now Chapin was on the loose in Europe. The only benefit being that the agent was in Europe and not America, he could not interfere.

  Still, Sokova wondered what Chapin’s next move would be? The knowledge of it was paramount. Chapin had to be contained until two weeks after the election. Fifteen days after the election, no one, not even Chapin would be able to change the results.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The train pulled into the station in Geneva. Chapin got out and looked cautiously around. He breathed in the musty and almost ancient air of the old station as he walked slowly and purposefully toward the street. He moved openly, wearing no obfuscating disguises.

  He knew the Soviet and American spotters, men, women, and even children paid to watch transportation terminals for certain people would see him. Chapin not only expected it, he wanted them to see him.

  As he walked, he scanned faces and the eyes. One man turned away when Chapin looked at him— Soviet spotter he knew.

  He continued to walk, his eyes never staying still. He didn’t spot the man working for The Company, but he knew he was here. That was all right.

  He took his time going to the street. Outside, he walked slowly and deliberately to the first cab in line. Before getting in, he said to the driver, “The St. Moritz.”

  As the driver threaded the traffic, Chapin sat sideways, keeping an eye on the vehicles behind him. He was unable to spot a tail, but he was sure there was at least one.

  Registering at the hotel, he the same Australian identification he’d used in Austria. Before going to his room, he went to the cashier and changed some of the French francs and American money into Swiss francs.

  In his room, he took stock of the situation. He had no doubt the spotters reported his presence to the Geneva station chiefs of the CIA and the KGB.

  Chapin knew both men, and knew the CIA Station Chief was not someone he could reason with: the KGB chief would be looking for a promotion.

  Chapin gazed about the room, taking in the understated and expensive furnishings. He knew Abby would like the room. He thought about calling her, but decided against it. She was safe right now. She would be even safer by morning when everyone knew he was alone.

  He looked around the room again, wondering what it would look like in the morning. How would they try to take him out?

  Shaking his head, he left the Australian identification in the attaché case, which he centered on the bed. He put the French-Canadian papers into his pocket.

  A minute and a half after entering the room, and with his cash and gold Krugarrands, he hung a “do not disturb” sign on the doorknob He was confident that no matter how big the bribe had been, no agent could have gotten to his floor in the time he’d taken to put his things in the room and leave.

  Using the stairs, Chapin descended the seven flights to the main floor, and down again, to the subbasement where he followed the maintenance corridor to an employee locker room. There, his luck held. The room was empty. He rummaged through the lockers until he found one containing clothing.

  He took out a coarsely woven wool overcoat and slipped it on. It was a tight in the shoulders, but a passable fit. The found a wool cap in one pocket. He put it on, pulling the cap down until it touched his eyebrows. He went to the rear of the hotel, climbed up one level, and exited through the delivery dock. On the street, he turned north as night settled over Geneva.

  Five minutes later, he knew he’d made it without being spotted.

  <><><>

  The sound of the brass knocker pulled her from the novel. Bernadette Lorbaugh put down the book, rose, and walked slowly to the door.

  Wondering who would be calling on her at this hour, she opened the door. Her first reaction was surprise. Then she smiled and stepped back. “Won’t you come in?”

  Then she saw the pistol.

  “No!” She stepped back, holding her arms up in a wasted plea.

  The visitor fired. The bullet struck Bernadette in the chest and sent her crashing to the floor. There was no pain, but Bernadette knew it would come soon.

  Then she saw the visitor above her, bending down and putting the barrel of the nine-millimeter pistol to her temple.

  She tried to move, to resist, but could not.

  The visitor fired again.

  <><><>

  Chapin rubbed his hands together to help rid himself of the chill. He had been standing in the dark doorway for an hour, waiting for Kosta to leave the Soviet embassy.

  Looking out at the peaceful city, Chapin accepted the irony of what he was doing and where he was doing it. Geneva was a neutral city in a neutral country. However, the very nature of its neutrality was indicative of the way the governments of the world acted. During World War Two, Geneva was the city of spies. It remained so today. There were more operatives working in Geneva than in any other city in the world. Even now, with the so-called end of the cold war, agents were everywhere within the city.

  It was a sad situation, he told himself, but one the world had to live with. He shook his head, using the movement as a means to return his concentration to the job at hand.

  Josef Kostamanov—Kosta was his CIA designation—was the ranking KGB agent in Geneva. He intended on having a meaningful conversation with Kosta and was set to do so.

  Four years ago, Chapin had been on assignment in Geneva. To complete the assignment, he’d had to chart Kosta’s movements and had learned a great deal about Kosta. While the Russian spy always took a varied route when leaving the embassy, he first had to pass the doorway in which Chapin hid.

  It was just after ten o’clock when Kosta finally left the embassy. There was an uneasy moment when another man came running after Kosta, and Chapin thought the man would return inside.

  All Kosta did was sign a paper, pat the man on the shoulder, and walk toward his position.

  When Kosta passed the doorway, Chapin saw the deep pockmarks mapping his cheeks. He waited for a count of five before following the man. When Kosta reached the corner, Chapin picked up his pace.

  The block of well maintained homes was quiet, the sidewalk empty. With the help of the street lamps, Chapin spotted a narrow alley.

  Timing himself carefully, Chapin came abreast of Kosta as the spy crossed the mouth of the alley. When he reached the agent, his weapon was in his hand. He jammed the barrel into Kosta’s side and said, “Into the alley!”

  Kosta stiffened with recognition and did what Chapin ordered. In the alley, Chapin stood with his back to the wall and positioned Kosta so the KGB agent was standing in the cast off light of a distant street lamp; Chapin held the nine-millimeter on him.

  “What do you hear about me, Josef?”

  The Soviet agent sneered. “I hear you are being hunted by your own people, Chapin. I hear that they have put a— how do you call it in American? A price on you?”

  “Bounty. As have your people,” Chapin reminded him.

  “Ya, but for your life not your death, Chapin,” Kosta said, his thick lips twisting obscenely. “You see, we have changed with peace… Too bad, ya?”

  Chapin’s eyes narrowed. His smile turned cold. He aimed the pistol at the center of Kosta’s forehead. “Josef, I want you to tell me about an ongoing operation run by an agent called Sokova.” Chapin studied the man’s eyes. There was no recognition of the name whatsoever, no telltale flicker of the eyes, no pupil dilation

  “I do not know such a name.”

  He sensed the agent spoke truthfully, yet he had to make sure. “Are you that low in status?”

  Kosta’s eyes turned cold. He smiled wide. “Fuck yourself.”

  Chapin took two quick strides forward.
He jammed the tip of the pistol into Kosta’s forehead. Then he leaned close to the Soviet’s face. “You tell Moscow I will stop Sokova, just as I stopped Grubov. You tell them, Josef, and you tell them they will not stop me any more than they did when I was in Sortavala.”

  Chapin stepped back. “Now go, Josef. Quickly.”

  Two minutes after the Soviet station chief was gone, Chapin left the alley. He hailed a passing taxi and gave the driver the address of a small hotel on the other side of Geneva.

  Twenty minutes later, and using the name Lucien Monach, Chapin was shown to his new hotel room. The room was smaller than the one at the St. Moritz, not furnished as expensively, and much safer.

  Chapin looked at the time. It was eleven-fifteen. At home, the polls would be open for four more hours. He picked up the room phone, gave the operator Ed Kline’s Washington number, replaced the receiver and waited.

  Three minutes later the operator rang back. Chapin picked up the phone, saying, “What’s happening?”

  “Exit polls and the early counting are giving Etheridge and Mathews the win,” Kline said quickly.

  “Big?”

  “By at least twenty percent, if not more,” Kline said.

  Chapin closed his eyes. “All right, Ed, have you made the arrangements for me?”

  “Just tell me when.”

  “I’ll meet your man tomorrow night in Toronto. I will register under the name Lucien Monach. Ed, have press credentials issued for that name. Now, the researcher, what’s his name?”

  “Brannigan. He’s a woman. Kevin, is it bad if Mathews and Etheridge win?”

  “I’m not sure,” Chapin replied honestly. “Ed, I’m still in the blind about most of this, but I’m getting hints. I don’t believe it was Mathews who had Blair killed. It’s someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “When I know, so will you. Tomorrow night, Ed.” Chapin hung up.

  He picked up the phone a minute later and called Swiss Air. After booking passage on the morning flight to Toronto, he undressed and went to bed. He set the alarm on his watch and put the pistol under his pillow—just in case.

  <><><>

  The DDCI picked up the phone. “Yes?”