by David Wind
When she hung up, she said, “He’s off tomorrow, but he’ll be in Chicago the day after tomorrow. Then he goes to the West Coast—L.A., San Francisco, Washington State, and Oregon. After that, he’ll take a few days off and spend them at his ranch. Where do we go? Chicago or L. A.?”
“Chicago,” Chapin said, smiling. “You should have found out where he’ll be staying.”
This time Brannigan’s smile was anything but derisive. “I’ve spent the last four months living Robert Mathews. When he’s in Chicago, he stays at the Executive House. I’ll get us booked there, if I can”
“Thank you,” Chapin said.
“For what, making reservations?”
“For sticking it out.”
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
Again, she met his open gaze, and slowly nodded. As he looked into her eyes, he let his instincts take over.
“Okay, Leslie Brannigan, what I’m about to tell you will sound like a fantasy. If you repeat it to anyone, even Ed Kline, you will end up sounding like a fool. For me, the reason I’m in Canada now, began in Sortavala, in the Soviet Union, about the same time Joel Blair was interviewing Robert Mathews.
“Ed Kline has always been right. I am with the CIA. In fact, I was the control agent for a specialized team dealing exclusively with the Soviet Union.”
Chapin talked for a half an hour. Not once did Leslie Brannigan look away from him. He told her about Sokova, explained the entire situation without naming specific people in the CIA and as he wound down, said, “Joel Blair was killed because he was getting close to learning that the truck driver was not who he claimed to have been. Joel Blair was also about to learn that Robert Mathews’ son and wife had been murdered.”
“Oh, God,” Brannigan said, her voice coming out low and tight. “Why?”
“I believe that Mathews was supposed to have been in the car with them. But he was called back to handle an emergency. He sent them ahead.”
Brannigan’s chest rose and fell rapidly. Her eyes went everywhere, settling on nothing. “I... I don’t understand.”
“Sokova is a master strategist. The entire operation is like a chess game. Sokova has set a plan, a convention, into motion. He’s planned every move, worked out every contingency; he even forecast the viable candidates for the time in which he intended to go operational. Robert Mathews was one of the candidates he knew would be involved.”
Chapin paused. This was the first time he was putting into words the thoughts that had been working their way through his mind. “When Sokova determined Mathews would be running, and would be elected, he saw it would interfere with his plans. At that juncture, he decided to eliminate Mathews.”
Brannigan studied him. “Yes. At the time, the Soviet Union was pushing its brand of world-dominating communism Mathews is so opposed to—but Sokova failed. Which, according to your theory, would disrupt his plan and knock it out of the box.”
“No. I said that Sokova was a strategist, and his plan followed a chess game convention. There is always a contingency for a failed gambit.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Brannigan stood and began to pace. “Etheridge. That must be it. Sokova will use Etheridge.”
“How? And, if that was the case, why get rid of Mathews. Sokova has to be good enough to know Mathews would have been nominated to vice president, not president.”
“Of course,” Brannigan said suddenly. She stopped pacing and moved back to Chapin. “Conjecture: Sokova could have his man moved in as vice president, and then have Etheridge assassinated. Then his man becomes president.”
“Thin,” Chapin said.
“As thin as the rumors that Kennedy’s assassination was home-grown and designed to put Johnson in the seat? Think about it.”
Chapin was already doing that. As the deeper implications of her words sunk in, he found himself nodding. “Let’s kick it around. If he could still do it, how would he do it? First, he would assassinate Mathews and maneuver his man into the V. P. slot. Then he would have Etheridge assassinated, and his man would then become president.”
“Still sound that thin to you?” Brannigan asked.
He had to admit the idea was gaining traction. “But it means a lot of violence. It won’t be easy.”
“But it can be done.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “it can be done.” Was that Sokova’s plan? Somehow, Chapin doubted so. “Let’s say your assumption, your theory, is what Sokova intends on doing. First, we have to warn Mathews. Do you think he would listen?”
“Perhaps. But you would have to be convincing enough to get by the listening part and into the realm of believability.”
“I’m not worried about Mathews believing me; I’m worried about staying alive long enough to talk to him.”
Brannigan lifted her hand, about to make a dismissing motion. “I didn’t think about that. How will you do it?”
“With your help. First, have Ed, or someone at the Courier, arrange for our rooms in Chicago. The reservations have to be verifiable by the paper. Then get us a flight to Chicago. We want to check in tomorrow night.”
“There will be Secret Service people with him. Won’t they recognize you?”
“When I want them to.”
<><><>
“You are sure it is he?” Sokova asked.
“Yes. He was spotted at the airport. He registered at the Inn at the Park, under the name Lucien Monach. He just left for the airport again.”
Sokova stared at his left hand. The news was not good. Yet, he would make the best of it. “This has gone on for long enough. I want him taken out as soon as possible. I want him dead!”
Sokova slammed the phone down, his anger getting away from him. He leaned back in the chair and took several slow deep breaths. When he was calm, he nodded.
Chapin was proving to be better than expected. He could not permit it to continue. Chapin had to be eliminated. No further hindrances could be tolerated.
He was prepared to move up the timetable by two months—if his people failed to stop Chapin. Once he had accomplished the second phase of the plan, the rest would follow as he had ordained it.
The increased pace was risky, but necessary to prevent anyone from learning the conclusion of the Sokova Convention.
Sokova stood and walked around the desk. He went to the window and looked down at Washington DC “Soon,” he whispered. “Very, very soon.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Chicago, Illinois
Chapin stood near the rear of the auditorium. His Washington Courier press credentials clipped to his left breast pocket. Brannigan was at his side. He’d spent the last half hour being impressed by Robert Mathews.
The scene of Mathews’ speech was at the old National Guard Armory. Introduced by the mayor, Mathews was talking to a large audience comprised of county and political leaders.
During the speech, Mathews touched on civil rights, equal rights, and education. A considerable amount of sensitive subjects for the first thirty minutes. From the moment Mathews took the rostrum, the man’s words and the authority behind them had affected Chapin.
As Mathews talked, Chapin found himself drawn to the physical presence and force of the man. In person, Mathews was more handsome than on television or in the papers because of the physical aura surrounding him.
Watching him, Chapin intuitively knew Mathews was the stuff of which legends, and presidents, were made. Now he better understood the hoopla surrounding the man. He could see how Sokova, predicting that Mathews would one day run for the high offices, had decided to terminate Mathews before he stepped into the political ring.
“He is amazing, isn’t he?” Brannigan asked, as if she were reading his mind.
“Yes,” Chapin agreed, watching Mathews slam his hand on the wood of the lectern to make a point. The microphone picked up and amplified the sound.
Chapin scanned the auditorium a
gain. When Mathews had arrived, Chapin marked his Secret Service escorts. There were five men inside. He didn’t know how many were outside.
Stationed at strategic points within the armory, the secret service agents would watch everyone and everything. Two stood behind Mathews as he spoke, two more at the exit door ` behind the rostrum. From his experience, Chapin knew two more were at the front door, and at least three outside.
Chapin had not known any of them, and none had identified him. Thanks to Brannigan, recognition would be hard. Before leaving Canada, Leslie Brannigan had helped him dye his hair a dull red. The change in hair color was startling, but in itself did not make much of a difference until he had dyed his eyebrows to match. The red eyebrows had done the trick, along with the judicious use of dark eye shadow beneath his eyes.
The door opened behind the rostrum. One of the Secret Service men stiffened, and then relaxed when the newcorner stepped through the door. The effect on Chapin was just the opposite. Chapin went ramrod tense at the recognition of the newest player.
His mind leapt back in time to the rain forests near the Cambodian border. He had gone on an unauthorized rescue mission and taken five men to find two. The two men had been part of his special unit and were separated from the main body earlier in the day.
Ordered to hold his unit in position, he had complied by leaving eighteen of the twenty-three men in place. Then Chapin and his hand-picked team had gone back and had found the two missing men: one carried by the second. One was dead, the other wounded. The man carrying his dead friend had been Tom Sanders, the same man who now stood near the Vice President elect.
It had been a long time since he’d seen Sanders. They’d left Nam within a month of each other; both had chosen to stay with their government. Chapin opting for The Company, while Sanders had gone Secret Service.
Watching Tom Sanders, Chapin thought that he might now get a chance to get to speak with Mathews. He opened the small notebook Brannigan had given him along with his press credentials.
He wrote a quick note, tore the sheet out, and handed it to Brannigan. “Do you see the man who just walked to the base of the rostrum?”
Brannigan nodded.
“His name is Tom Sanders. Give him this.” He handed her the folded note.
She looked inquisitively at him, but remained silent.
“It may be our pass in to Mathews. But make sure only Sanders gets it.”
“All right.”
“I’ll be outside.” He left quickly.
What he was attempting was less of a gamble than trying to bluff his way into Mathews’ presence by claiming to be a reporter. Still, the risk in letting Sanders know he was in Chicago was enormous. If Sanders called in the troops, Chapin would never be seen again.
Yet, he had to believe Sanders would abide by the debt he’d called in. He might be using up the last favor anyone in the American intelligence services owed him, but the risk was worth the time saved. He didn’t think Sanders would turn him in, not at least until he spoke with Chapin personally. He owed Chapin too much—his life.
All he had to do was convince Tom Sanders that he was not a traitor, and he’d get in to see Mathews.
Chapin spent another forty uneasy minutes waiting for Leslie Brannigan. When Brannigan finally met him, she nodded quickly, saying, “A half hour. He seemed upset.”
Chapin took her arm and quickly guided her to the parking lot where they’d put the rental car.
With Brannigan driving, and after paying the parking attendant for the car, Chapin gave Brannigan directions. It was important for him to get to the meeting place before Sanders.
Brannigan dropped him off ten minutes later. “I’ll meet you at the hotel room. Wait there for me.”
He closed the door and waited for Brannigan to drive away. When she was gone, he adjusted his sunglasses, glad that the day was bright and sunny so he did not look out of place.
Walking slowly along State Street, toward the coffee shop, he looked around, alert. He didn’t think there had been enough time for Sanders to set a trap, but he needed to make sure. Ten minutes before the appointed time, and when he was satisfied there was no one waiting for him, he entered the coffee shop he had designated in his note to the Secret Service man.
The timing was good. The coffee shop was getting busy, but there were several booths still free. Chapin took a rear booth and ordered a cup of coffee. There was a Sun Times on the seat next to him. He picked it up and set it on the table.
After the waitress served his coffee, Chapin stood and went toward the bathroom.
He knew the coffee shop from an assignment he’d been involved in seven years before. The FBI had invited CIA to join an undercover operation involving a Navy contracting company. Chapin had been the undercover man. He had spent five weeks in Chicago. This coffee shop was where he’d eaten breakfast every day.
The rear door of the coffee shop was next to the men’s room. Chapin checked the lock on the door. It was unlocked. That was what he needed to know. If he had to, he could get out the back. The door opened into an alley.
Returning to his seat, he glanced at his watch. Eighteen minutes had passed. Something would happen soon.
Six minutes and seventeen seconds later, Thomas Sanders entered the coffee shop and looked around. Chapin waited to see if Sanders would recognize him.
Sanders looked the same as he had in Nam. He was tall, blond, and very handsome. The only difference between now and then, Chapin thought, was in the deeper cut and proliferation of wrinkles around Sanders’ blue eyes. Other than that, the man was the same.
When Sanders’ eyes skipped by him, Chapin raised his hand in signal. He saw Sanders’ face go tense before the man started toward him.
Arriving at the table, Sanders sat. He glared angrily at Chapin. “You son of a bitch. Where the hell do you get the balls to ask me to meet you? What makes you think I won’t blow you away, right here, right now! Or do you think you’re safe because of what happened in Nam?”
“Tom—”
The Secret Service agent shook his head, cutting Chapin off. “I sure as hell hope that you’re turning yourself in to me because I can’t think of any other reason for your contacting me.”
“Don’t be an ass. Tom, you know I would never turn.”
“I don’t know shit about you now. I used to think I knew you better than anyone else—that was over twenty years ago. People change.”
“Change yes, but do what they say I’ve done… No.”
“I’m supposed to take your word for that, am I?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Chapin exhaled loudly. Both his hands were on the table, palms down. “I’m unarmed, Tom. If I were guilty, would I be unarmed? I need your help. I need you to do your job, nothing more, nothing less.”
“My job?”
“Your job,” Chapin repeated. “Will you at least listen to me?”
He saw conflict in Sanders’ eyes. His old friend wanted to believe him, but the trained agent within would not.
“Convince me, Kevin. And it had better be good.”
“Robert Mathews’ life is in danger. Is that good enough?”
“Go on.”
“Several weeks ago, I lost my most important double agent within the Soviet Union. He was killed trying to give me information about the upcoming election. This man discovered a long-range Soviet plan to take over our government. It involves the current election, Robert Mathews, and Daniel Etheridge. I think either one or both of them will be assassinated so a Soviet-controlled mole will eventually wind up as the president of the United States.” He saw pity solidify in Sanders’ eyes, and heard it in the man’s voice when he said, “Oh, Sweet Jesus. You really have flipped all the way out. Kevin, the political bullshit is over. There is no more world conquering left for the Soviets.”
Anger flashed. He quelled what he could of it. “Damn it, Tom, what I’ve just told you is the truth. There is a highly placed mole who has
engineered everything that has happened to me, and what will happen to our president and vice president elect, unless you do something to prevent it.”
“And what would that be?”
“Arrange a meeting between myself and Mathews.” Sanders’ eyes narrowed. He snorted. “So you can ice him? Get real.”
Chapin sat back and stared at Sanders. The man who once was his friend, was his friend no longer; he believed the lies. “I was counting on you, Tom, but you’re not the man you used to be. You’ve taken yourself to the edge, and then backed off. It’s too bad that by doing your job, you are going to kill the man you are supposed to keep alive.”
Pausing, Chapin shook his head slowly from side to side. “So be it,” he whispered. “But, you are going to do one thing, whether you like it or not. You are going to deliver a message to Mathews. When you do, I believe he will agree to see me.”
“Really.”
“Yes,” Chapin said with a studied casualness. “Tell Mathews I have the chess piece he made the commitment over. Tell him that I must speak to him about Joel Blair. Tell him it involves his wife and child.”
“You can’t seriously think I’d say that.”
“You damn well will!” He leaned forward. “My life is hanging like a fucking thread in the wind. If you don’t do this, I might as well walk into Langley and let them cut my throat. If I do that, it seals the death warrant on either Etheridge or Mathews, or both. When that happens, it will be too late to do anything about it. Now, do you take a chance on me, or do you take a chance on the Soviets. It’s your call!”
“Kevin...” Sanders said ineffectually.
“When Mathews agrees to see me, I will go in weaponless. You and your team can search me. Strip search, if you want. You can be present through it all, and armed.”
“And how do I reach you if he agrees to see you?”
“You don’t. You’re going to call him now,” Chapin said, pointing to a pay phone on the wall.
Sanders smiled. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? You always have the angles figured.”
