by David Wind
“That’s right,” Chapin said, “I haven’t changed. Work on that one while you make the call.”
Sanders stood hesitantly. He studied Chapin a moment longer. “The message is that you have the chess piece he made a commitment over and that you have information about Joel Blair and about the deaths of Mathews’ wife and son, right?”
“Close enough,” Chapin agreed.
Sanders gave him one more searching gaze before walking to the phone. Following Sanders with his eyes, Chapin saw the Secret Service man’s lips moving and knew he was talking to one of his men. Chapin also knew that if Mathews turned his request down, Sanders would arrest him or shoot him on the spot. That was the risk. He accepted it as being worthwhile. He kept watching Sanders as the man picked up the phone, dropped a quarter, and dialed. He saw him speak, wait, and then speak again when the call was transferred to the room.
The call took less than two minutes. When Sanders hung up, he didn’t turn back immediately; rather, he stood facing the phone. Chapin was sure he was giving the man outside instructions.
Then Sanders returned to the table and sat across from Chapin. “He’ll see you.”
“I thought so,” Chapin said, not allowing his relief to show. “I have to make a call.”
“No, you’ll do nothing except come with me. You can make all the calls you want later.”
Chapin shrugged. “If that’s what you want. But tell me what room Mathews is in.”
“Why?”
“So I can get there after you’re dead.”
“What?”
“If I don’t make the call, the minute you and I step outside, you’re dead. Am I being clear about that?”
“You’re alone,” Sanders argued.
“That’s your decision to make. Someone did give you a note, didn’t they?”
The look of uncertainty grew on Sanders’ face, yet his voice held no doubts. “Kevin, I know you. You’re bluffing.”
“Tom, let me make the call. If you’re right, then it means nothing. If you’re wrong, then it keeps you and your man outside alive. Fair enough?”
The indecision passed, and Sanders said, “Do it.” Chapin went to the phone and, using his body as a shield, dialed the Executive House. He asked for Brannigan’s room. When she answered, he said, “I’m on my way to see Mathews.”
“He didn’t arrest you?” Brannigan asked, surprised.
“Just be available in case I need you. Okay?”
“No problem. I’ll be in the press room.”
Hanging up, he returned to the table, placed five dollars on its Formica top for the check and the tip, and said, “Let’s go.”
Outside, Sanders looked around. He held back his smile and pointed to a rooftop across from the coffee shop.
Sanders followed his finger and nodded once. “Nice position,” he said, waving over a dark gray Dodge.
Chapin and Sanders got in the back. Chapin caught the nine-millimeter on the front seat, next to the driver. The driver blended smoothly into the traffic and headed toward the Executive House. Chapin watched the driver’s eyes on the rearview mirror. The man was nervous and wary, but did nothing other than drive.
When they reached the hotel, Sanders got out first, and motioned for Chapin to follow. Once out of the car, Chapin glanced around. Everywhere he looked were Secret Service men.
Between the time Sanders had made his call, and they had left the coffee shop and walked to the car, the driver had alerted the entire team. None of that would matter, Chapin told himself, as long as Mathews believed him. If Mathews didn’t believe him, then Chapin would have to find a way to get out, and find a new life for himself, elsewhere.
Sanders and Chapin went across the lobby to a waiting elevator. Two Secret Service men stood at the elevator. Sanders motioned Chapin in, and followed him. The two agents joined them.
One of the nondescript men pushed the twelfth-floor button. As the elevator started up, Sanders began a full body search.
Chapin held still until Sanders lifted the passport from his pocket. Chapin snapped it out of Sanders’ hand. “No,” he said, holding Sanders’ eyes with his. “This isn’t a weapon, and you don’t want to know the name on it.”
The two agents had drawn their weapons at the action. Sanders waved them off and stepped back. The elevator reached the twelfth floor, and the door opened. Chapin saw two more agents waiting for them.
With Sanders on his left, Chapin started out. The two agents fell in behind him. The ones in the hall led the procession. As he walked down the hall, he looked to his right at the press room and the reporters milling about the doorway.
He wondered if Brannigan was in there with them, as she had said. Belatedly, he wished he had told her to stay off the floor. If he needed to get out quick, there could be trouble. He didn’t want her in the middle of it.
When they reached the last door in the hallway, the two agents in front stepped to the side. Sanders went to the door, knocked once, and entered. Chapin followed, closing the door behind him, and keeping the other agents out.
Robert Mathews stood as Sanders and Chapin walked to him. “Sir, this is the man who I spoke to you about.” Chapin felt as though he were under a microscopic examination as Robert Mathews stared at him. Then Mathews exhaled.
“Tell me exactly why I should be seeing a man who my government says is a traitor and a murderer?”
Chapin studied the man closely. He looked into Mathews’ blue eyes, trying to see past the surface and into the man’s soul itself. He didn’t know exactly what he saw in those eyes, but something within them pushed him to speak. “Because governments and the people in the governments make mistakes. Because you want your queen back, and because I think you’ll also want to know why your wife and child were murdered.”
Mathews didn’t react to the statement. He simply stared at Chapin. “Can you prove that?”
“Absolutely.” Chapin said simply.
Mathews sighed. “All right, Mr. Chapin, I’m listening.” Some of his tension lifted. He looked at Sanders. “Private, Tom, that was the deal.”
Sanders turned to Mathews. “He’s unarmed. But he is as deadly with his hands as he is with a weapon. Only then did Sanders retreat across the room, sit in a chair, draw his nine-millimeter Browning, and set it on his lap.
Ignoring the agent and his pistol, Chapin turned back to the vice president elect, who said, “While Tom was bringing you here, another of my guards briefed me about you. But I’d like to hear about you from you.”
“I’m not important. You are, and Daniel Etheridge is,” Chapin stated before launching into a low-voiced and urgent dialogue covering most of the things he’d learned and been through in the past few weeks.
When he finished, he sat back and said, “And now, Mr. Mathews, my life is in your hands.”
“Tell me about the ‘accident’,” Mathews said.
Chapin studied the man. “A Soviet agent drove the truck that struck your wife’s car. From what I’ve been able to work out, you were supposed to be the target. But, you were called back to work.”
“Yes,” Mathews said, his eyes going distant. “I sent them ahead. I was planning to join them on the next flight. How do you know it was a Soviet agent?”
“When Joel Blair died checking on the man, his editor who is an old friend of mine, Ed Kline, asked me to check on Blair’s death. Kline believed Blair died because of his investigation of you.”
Mathews’ face reflected a genuinely startled surprise. “Why would he think that?”
“He had his reasons,” Chapin said without elaboration. “But when I started doing my investigation of Blair’s death and learned the man Blair had been checking on was the truck driver responsible for the deaths of your family, I started checking on him myself.
“Using a CIA researcher, I had James Smirley’s fingerprints run and matched with every print on record. We found a match with a KGB agent who was thought to have been recalled to his homeland before yo
ur family died.”
“This man. Who is he?”
Chapin read the hatred in Mathews’ eyes. It was a cold anger, made so by the distance of years from the deaths of his wife and child. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.”
“Are you sure?”
Chapin nodded. “Yes. He died in Switzerland, four days ago. I killed him.”
Mathews blinked once. “Good.”
Chapin liked his reaction. It was honest. But now he had to ask another question. His stomach knotted with anticipation. His heart rate increased. “Sir, did you know you had a twin brother?”
Mathews’ eyes widened in surprise. “You know about that?”
Chapin nodded.
Mathews swallowed. “It seems to be my lot in life, losing my family. I only wish he had lived.”
“He died? When?”
“That same day.”
“How and why? There’s no mention in the records. Why isn’t there?”
“For political reasons. How much of the story do you know?” Mathews asked.
“The official version, from the army records.”
“That’s the right version, as far as it goes.”
“And how much more is there?”
“Not much. After the ‘Madman’ took my brother, the doctor who remained alive delivered me. My mother was in a very bad way. The bullet that killed the doctor passed through him and hit my mother.
“After delivering me, the obstetrician tried to save my mother’s life. He couldn’t. The shock of the bullet and the trauma of the caesarian was too much for her system. She died an hour after I was born.”
Mathews paused to wipe a hand across his eyes. When he lowered his hand, he met Chapin’s curious gaze. “Uncle Walter had come too shortly after he was hit. He left the hospital, and chased the ‘Madman’ and my brother. He caught up with them at an old Army airfield a few miles away.
“The ‘Madman’ was in the plane, and the plane was taxiing. Uncle Walter had to make a decision. He made it, thinking about my father, and his country. He shot the plane’s wing tanks, and blew it up as it took off. The ‘Madman’ and my brother died in the explosion and crash.”
“Why didn’t he report the incident?”
“To protect me, I guess, and to keep a lid on everything. Remember, nothing about the incident got outside of Army Intelligence. They were afraid it would create too much of a fear factor in having it known that a Soviet agent had kidnapped an infant, and the infant had died. It would have fueled the wrong fires. It was the beginning of the ‘Cold War’ and we might have seen the start of very hot war.”
Chapin thought about it, and saw the logic. It wasn’t what he would have done, but at the time, the threat of a nuclear war was more than just a threat; it was possible, given the right circumstances and the lack of knowledge as to what would really happen if nuclear weapons were used. The kidnapping and death of a child could be a very strong stepping stone toward that war.
“So the false report—the non-report—by Hirshorne was done for the best interest of the country and not to hide something.”
“Exactly. The purpose of the report was to protect the country.”
“You trust Hirshorne?”
“Implicitly.”
“Was it because of him that you entered politics?”
“Hardly. Uncle Walter did everything in his power to keep me out. When I was young, he showed me by example how hard the life of a politician is. No, Mr. Chapin, Uncle Walter wanted me to have a different life. A corporate career or one with the State Department, like his. He spent a year trying to talk me out of entering politics. When they offered me the V.P. nomination, he pleaded with me to turn it down. Once I accepted it, he stood fully behind me.”
“I see,” Chapin said, losing yet another possible path to finding Sokova.
“Now I need to know something. The proof you have that my family was murdered. Can I get it?”
“Yes. But you’ll have to wait until after you are sworn in and become the vice president. Then speak with the deputy director Central Intelligence. Ask the DD to have Ann Tanaka give you the Sokova file.”
“Will the reason be in the file?”
“The reason?” Chapin asked, puzzled.
“The reason why my wife and son were killed.”
Chapin saw the pain in Mathews’ eyes. “No,” Chapin said. “No one believes me, except for a few people who don’t count. You see, I am certain this Soviet mole, Sokova, wanted you dead before you could run for office. This mole believed you would interfere with his plans, and he had to terminate you.
“I also think that what happened in the past, when you were born, was coincidental and does not involve Sokova.” Mathews again looked across the room at Tom Sanders. Then he focused his attention on Chapin. “I have no right to ask this of you, given your present predicament, but I need to know if you’re right. It’s important to me to know if they died because of my ambition.”
Chapin understood. “I’ll do my best. And,” he added, standing, “I’ll return your queen at the first chance. Blair would have wanted it that way. You won your wager, sir. And I will have Ed Kline fulfill Blair’s part of the bet.”
Mathews smiled and rose. “Thank you. I just wish he was alive. I liked Blair. He had guts enough to say what he believed and to stick to it.”
“He did,” Chapin agreed as Mathews extended his hand. Chapin took it and shook it firmly. Then, releasing Mathews’ hand, he turned toward the door.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sanders stand. The nine-millimeter Browning was still in his hand, and aimed at Chapin.
“Put that away,” Mathews ordered. “Mr. Chapin is free to go.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Sanders said.
A shiver plowed along his spine He faced Sanders fully. “What are you doing, Tom?”
“My job. The charade is over, Chapin. You’re under arrest. Put your hands on your head.”
Chapin took a half step forward. On both sides of the room, doors burst open, and five more agents came in. All held their weapons on him.
“Take him!” Sanders shouted.
Looking only at Tom Sanders, Chapin slowly put his hands on top of his head.
Chapter Twenty-four
Trapped and desperate, Chapin looked for an avenue of escape. He read the confusion and surprise on Mathews’ features and knew the vice president elect had nothing to do with Sanders’ unexpected move.
Chapin gauged the distance between the door, the closest Secret Service man, and himself. The distance was too great, the chance of escape too slim.
“I order you to put down your weapons!” Robert Mathews demanded.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Tom Sanders said. “I am following the orders of the president himself.”
Something inside Chapin snapped. He stared at Sanders and lowered his hands to his sides. “I trusted you, Tom, because I thought I knew you. But you’ve changed enough to not listen to your instincts. Can’t you see that you’re giving them what they want?”
“Enough!” Sanders shouted, his face shaded with anger. “Dammit all, Kevin, give it up. It doesn’t play anymore. You fucked up big time. You turned and you gave up your entire apparatus. Nothing you can say or do will change that.”
“You’re wrong, Tom. And that’s the shame of it. But I can’t let you stop me.”
Sanders’ eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “No more stalling. Put your hands back on your head. Connor,” he said to the agent closest to Chapin, “take him.”
Chapin had only one advantage. He didn’t think anyone would shoot with Mathews standing so close to him.
Moving fast, he lowered his hands, whirled toward Mathews, and reached for the vice president elect.
Too fast for the agents to react, Chapin’s arm went around Mathews’ neck, pulling Mathews back to him. The soft flesh of Mathews’ throat was in the crook of his right arm. His right hand was set inside the crook of his left arm. His left hand caught the bac
k of Mathews’ head and held it firmly without applying any pressure.
All it would take was a sharp increase of pressure and Mathews would be dead. He turned them both and faced Sanders. “You move, you kill him.”
<><><>
Leslie Brannigan paced the pressroom and listened to the mundane conversation from the few reporters who had decided to stick with Mathews for the rest of the day, in hopes of an impromptu press conference.
Most of the reporters were the married ones who did not party. Leslie knew a few of them, none very well.
The moment she had hung up from Chapin, she had come to Mathews’ floor and the pressroom. Ten minutes later, she had seen Chapin and five Secret Service men walk down the hallway.
Her stomach turned into a twisting mass of knots while she waited for him to come out. Finally, the waiting was too much. She went to the doorway and, leaning against the frame, looked down the hall.
The tension in her stomach became painful. Something was wrong. Usually there were three agents in the hall: two by Mathews’ door and one at the elevator. But there wasn’t a single Secret Service man in the hallway. What had happened?
She left the pressroom while no one was looking and walked toward Mathews’ suite. She expected an agent to appear and stop her at any second, but none did.
When she reached Mathews’ door, she leaned her ear against it. She stiffened suddenly at the sound of Chapin’s voice.
“Put your weapons down,” Chapin said, staring at Sanders.
“We can’t. Jesus, Kevin, give it up now and I promise I’ll stand with you throughout everything. No one will terminate you. You’ll have a real trial.”
“No I won’t, Tom, but not for the reasons you think. No one in this country, and certainly not the Soviets, will let me stand trial. I know too much about too many things.”
“I’ll guarantee it,” Sanders promised.
Chapin believed that Sanders meant what he said, just as he knew that Sanders could not understand what was really happening, but it didn’t matter.
“Tom, I want you and your people to put your pieces down, now.” He saw the hesitation in Sanders’ eyes—the doubt that Chapin would really kill Mathews. “Don’t make me do it.”
