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

by David Wind

  The last words broke the spell. Sanders exhaled loudly and nodded to the other agents. “Do it.”

  When the agents had placed their pistols on the floor, Chapin started toward the door. Before he reached it, the door opened and he found Leslie Brannigan, her face taut and her skin pale, standing there.

  “Get a pistol,” he snapped.

  Brannigan looked from his face to Mathews’, and back again. “Get it!” he shouted.

  She went to the first weapon, a Beretta, picked it up, and held it out to Chapin.

  Keeping his right arm around Mathews’ throat, he pulled his left hand from Mathews’ head and took the pistol. The movement was done so quickly that he had the barrel of the Beretta at Mathews’ temple before anyone could react.

  “Get out,” he told Brannigan. “No one comes after us, unless you want this man to die,” Chapin added to Sanders as he backed out of the suite, holding Mathews before him.

  Walking slowly to the elevator, they entered the cab, and Chapin turned the key. He pressed the sixth floor button, and as the doors started to close, the Secret Service contingent burst from the suite and headed toward the elevator.

  As soon as the doors closed and the elevator moved, Chapin released Mathews. “I’m sorry, sir, it was unavoidable.”

  Mathews rubbed his throat and then smiled. “I think I understand, although I don’t ever want to be in that sort of a position again.”

  “I would never have hurt you.”

  “And I would never have stood still if I thought you would, Mr. Chapin. You weren’t applying enough pressure, and I was in the same war as you. I was trained to get out of such situations.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve read the record of your time in Nam. Why didn’t you try to get away?”

  Mathews’ face reflected strength. “Because I believe what you told me. No one, other than yourself, has ever said my family was murdered. Everyone said it was a terrible accident and felt terrible at my loss. But I knew what happened from the minute I learned of the accident. I felt it in here,” he said, slapping his chest with his palm.

  “Sir, I-”

  “No,” Mathews said with a shake of his head. “Just find out the truth and get it back to me. In the meantime, I’ll do whatever is necessary to clear you of these charges.”

  “That may be impossible, even for a vice president.”

  “I’ll do it,” he reiterated.

  Chapin sensed that if it could be done, Mathews would be the one to accomplish the feat. Chapin hit the third-floor button. “But until then, we have to get away. If you need me, call Ed Kline at...” Chapin paused. He drew the note pad from his pocket, and took a silver pen from Mathews’ pocket. Using the pen, he wrote a number on a sheet of paper, tore it off, and handed it to Mathews.

  “Call Kline at that number, give him a message, and I’ll get it.”

  “I shall.”

  “Sir,” Chapin said as the elevator slowed. “If you mention Ed’s name and mine together, you will be signing his death warrant, mine, and this lady’s as well.”

  Brannigan stepped forward. “I’m Leslie Brannigan. I was Joel Blair’s researcher.”

  Mathews looked from Brannigan to Chapin. “No one will be told.”

  “Thank you,” Chapin said as the doors opened on the sixth floor. “You need to get out here.”

  Mathews smiled and nodded. “Good luck. Let me know, when you can.”

  “I will,” he promised as the elevator doors closed. He looked at his hand, and at the pen he had forgotten to give back to Mathews. He put it in his jacket pocket.

  He turned to the panel, pressed the third floor button again, and then set the key lock so no one could interrupt the elevator.

  “What the hell do we do now?” Brannigan half screamed.

  “Try to relax,” Chapin said, ignoring the way his own nerves were jangling. “We aren’t out of this yet.”

  “No kidding,” Brannigan said dryly.

  When the elevator reached the third floor, he let the doors open. Then he pressed the lobby button and turned the key to the doors’ locked position. Once the doors closed, only a key could open them.

  The action would keep the agents busy for a while.

  Chapin grabbed Brannigan’s wrist and went toward the far stairwell. They reached it after the elevator doors closed.

  They bypassed the lobby level, and went to the parking level. But rather than take their rental car, Chapin guided Brannigan to the rear exit and to the street, where they turned the corner and started walking.

  “I can’t believe we made it,” Brannigan whispered. He glanced at her. Her face was chalky white. Her chest rose and fell, and he thought she was going to start to hyperventilate.

  He took her hand and pressed it tightly. Then a burning brand sliced through his right shoulder.

  He looked down and saw his jacket was torn and blood was starting to well up. He pushed Brannigan against the wall of the building, and stepped in front of her.

  The pain from the bullet was just starting. He hadn’t heard the shot because it had come from a silenced weapon. He looked around, desperately. Across the street, up on the sixth floor roof of another building, was a silhouette.

  Chapin raised his weapon, and the man ducked back. Chapin couldn’t fire; the noise would bring the Secret Service—but the assassin couldn’t know that.

  “Back,” he told Brannigan.

  They went back to the corner, Brannigan walking forward, Chapin backpedaling, holding the nine-millimeter in a two-handed grip and pointing it toward the rooftop. As soon as they turned the corner, they raced back to the hotel’s parking lot.

  “Why did he shoot you?” Brannigan asked when they were inside again.

  “He wasn’t Secret Service,” Chapin said as he pointed to the first car they came to. Brannigan got in, and Chapin went to the drivers’ side. The keys were in the ignition. He started the engine.

  “Who was he?”

  “KGB,” Chapin said as he put the gearshift into drive.

  <><><>

  The motel room in Greenport, Wisconsin, was the same as any other. The walls were covered with a light paper. Reproductions of famous lithographs hung on the walls, and the two full-size beds had plain bedspreads complementing the rest of the decor with the simplicity of average taste.

  The white towels from the bathroom were now red with his blood. The wound had bled profusely when Brannigan had cleaned it with peroxide.

  Thankfully, the bullet had caught the fleshy part of his upper chest and arm, just below and in front of the shoulder. It had dug a furrow in his flesh, but not entered or lodged inside of him,

  “How can you stand this?” Brannigan asked as she poured peroxide over the wound for the second time.

  He looked at her, not at the pinkish-red frothing mixture bubbling in his wound. “To use a cliché, I don’t have a choice.”

  “I don’t mean this,” she said, nodding toward the wound, “I mean the life of a spy.”

  He winced when she pressed a little too hard, and after she apologized, he said, “Because I was serving my country.”

  She stepped back, cocked her head to the side. “Apparently, they don’t want to be served by you.”

  He smiled. “So it seems.”

  “What now? I mean, am I on the most-wanted list now, next to you?” she asked, dabbing at the wound again.

  He saw that despite the light and flippant tone, she was frightened. A lonely sadness built within him, for her. He had dragged her into something she was not equipped to handle. He would have to take care of it.

  “I think you’ll be all right. What we have to do, though, is to convince the Secret Service you were not you, in Chicago.”

  “How do we do that?” she asked.

  He picked up the phone and dialed Ed Kline’s number. When Kline answered, sleepily, he said, “We’re in Greenport, Wisconsin. We’ve chartered a private flight in the morning and will arrive at the College Park airport at three
tomorrow afternoon.

  “Meet us there but, tonight, find an assignment for Brannigan that can be documented as having started two days ago. We need to have her away from Washington and from me when the feds come calling.”

  “I’ll work it out,” he said.

  “And pick us up at the airport. Private plane hangars. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Kline said.

  Chapin hung up the phone and looked at Brannigan, who was preparing the bandage for his wound. “He’ll take care of it.”

  “What about you?”

  “That’s another problem,” Chapin said in a low voice as he inspected the wound.

  Without speaking, Brannigan applied an antibiotic ointment to the bandage. Then, catching her lower lip between her teeth, she put on the bandage.

  Chapin’s breath whistled from between his clenched teeth. His muscles knotted, and sweat beaded across his skin at the intense pain from the first contact of the medicated bandage. As the pain eased, and his breathing returned to normal, he forced a smile for Brannigan.

  “You’re a good doctor. Now, why don’t you get us some food. I saw a place a few blocks down the street.”

  “How can you eat now?” she asked, her face a mask of disbelief.

  “If I don’t eat, I get weak. If I get weak, I lose. Get us some food, Brannigan. Now.”

  She started out, but Chapin stopped her. “What’s the Courier’s telephone credit card number?”

  She gave it to him and left. When the door closed, he breathed another sigh of relief. He was slowing down. The pain was intense. He took three aspirin and lay back down on the bed. The wound was a minor one, and would not affect him in another day or so, unless it got infected. That was his biggest worry. For now, it was just painful.

  He’d partially lied to Brannigan. He wasn’t hungry, and missing one meal wouldn’t weaken him that much. He needed to be alone, and to call Paris.

  He picked up the phone, dialed the operator, and placed the credit card call to the American embassy, only to find that Abby had returned to her apartment.

  He dialed the number, and she answered on the third ring. “Hi,” he said.

  “Thank God,” he heard her whisper, and felt himself react to the vibrant sound of her voice. “I’ve been waiting for this call. Are you okay? Where are you?” she asked rapidly.

  He swallowed hard. “I’m fine. I’m in the Midwest, and I spoke with Mathews today. He doesn’t know anything about Sokova; but he did know about his brother. He said his twin had died with the man who kidnapped him.”

  “Why wasn’t it reported that way?”

  “Because it would have created a situation that worsened the cold war. It was that simple and that dangerous.”

  There was silence on the other end. He could hear her breathing. After another few seconds passed, she said, “I miss you, Kevin. And I’m afraid for you.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s hard, waiting to hear from you, not knowing where you are or where you’re going.”

  “It will be over soon.”

  “I hope so. When will you call again?”

  “As soon as I can. I love you.”

  “And I you,” he heard her say as he hung up and suddenly realized that he missed her more than he had ever expected to miss anyone.

  He leaned back on the pillows, stopped thinking about Abby, and start to plan his next move.

  If his luck held, the Secret Service would not pick up his trail for several days. It all depended on whether they connected the stolen car to him and were able to trace it. Somehow, he didn’t think that would happen.

  After they had driven out of the Executive House in the stolen car, they stopped in Skokie, leaving the stolen car on a residential street where it looked like it belonged after they had rented a Chevrolet Corsica. Then they had driven to Wisconsin.

  When they had reached Greenport, Wisconsin, and Chapin had seen the sign for an airport, he had had Brannigan drive by the place. He spotted a private charter company, and memorized the phone number.

  Then he’d had Brannigan stop at a phone booth, and he called the charter company and arranged for a flight to Maryland. After which, Brannigan had picked up bandages and medication.

  Now all they had to do, Chapin thought, was get to Maryland without being recognized, contact Ann Tanaka, and have her convince the general that Sokova was real, and that he, Chapin, was only a dupe.

  “Right,” he said sarcastically.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The pencil snapped with a sharp pop. Major General Thomas Audoban looked at the broken yellow wood and pursed his lips in annoyance.

  “Sir,” Ann Tanaka said, ignoring the broken pencil and the way the deputy director was staring at the two pieces in his hands.

  Audoban looked at her. “Yes?”

  “Forgetting Chapin for the moment, we still need to discuss Ruby One.”

  The DD shook his head. “I’ve read your report and am aware of what you need. We’ll discuss that when I’m ready. What I want to know at this particular moment is why he came back, and why he went after Mathews?”

  Tanaka decided to go with her gut, rather than dance around the issue. “Sir, if he had wanted Mathews, Mathews would be dead. Isn’t that what’s really bothering you, sir, that Kevin had Mathews alone and at his mercy in an elevator and let him go?”

  The DD looked at Tanaka, his expression sour. “All right, why?”

  “Because he was right about this Soviet plan all along?”

  “I see. And Mitchell was the double in Ruby One, and someone else killed Alexi Merchenko in New York, is that it?”

  Tanaka moistened her lips with her tongue. “Actually, yes.”

  “What if all of his actions today, the release of our new V. P. elect, his bloodless escape, all of it was designed make us think exactly what we are thinking now.”

  “Don’t you feel that’s a stretch?” Tanaka asked.

  “No more than what you’re proposing,” the DD said with a sudden smile. “Anything is possible, Ann, but very rarely does what we want reality to be become reality. No, I’m afraid we both have to accept what Chapin is and roll with it.”

  Tanaka stood. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that. I have every indication Kevin Chapin is not a traitor; he is being used by the Soviets.”

  “And until such time as we have absolute proof, Ms. Tanaka, I’m afraid there’s no choice but to play the game the way it reads.”

  Tanaka’s struggle with herself was internal. Her face remained stoic. A moment later she said, “Yes, sir, I understand,” and left the DD ‘s office.

  When he was alone, Audoban turned to the window and looked out. He was deeply troubled by what had happened in the last weeks: his most dependable agent had been turned; the head analyst of the covert Soviet apparatus terminated; and, a Soviet defector murdered. Then a Soviet KGB agent was killed in Switzerland—the same man who Chapin had connected to the death of a reporter in America.

  Could the Soviets have actually mounted so complex an operation against Chapin in so short a time? Knowing them as well as he did, he didn’t think so.

  Then who? Did it all mean Chapin was right about a highly placed mole with the code name of Sokova?

  It didn’t sit right. The stories of moles were just too commonplace. He remembered the big scare in the Pentagon, a few years back, when someone in Army Intelligence had decided that there was a sleeper in the war department, and the sleeper had surfaced and was giving the Soviets all the information about the new Stealth Bomber.

  They turned the Pentagon upside down, and every person within the walls interviewed and inspected. Every man and woman detained for fifty-seven hours, until the results were in.

  The man who had called the report in–the man who was responsible for what had happened—was now serving as the Intelligence officer for the Army’s staff at the Department of Defense’s Early Warning radar station number eighty-six, in the Arctic.

  He
wanted to believe Chapin. But without proof, Chapin was a dead man. The Company would never forget. Inevitably, no matter where Chapin went, they would find him.

  <><><>

  The sound of rain reached him through the myriad layers of sleep. He stirred, and pain rippled through his shoulder. He held back a groan and opened his eyes.

  Looking around, he remembered where he was. He touched the bandage on his left shoulder. It was still there. Then he realized the rain he was hearing was someone taking a shower in the room next to this one.

  He sat up, wincing with the movement. He rotated his shoulder. It was stiff and it hurt, but he had full movement.

  He looked at the time: it was almost seven. Their private plane left at nine. What now?

  He turned in the bed and looked across the chasm to the second bed. In the subdued light coming from around the edges of the drapes, Leslie Brannigan slept motionlessly.

  She was an interesting person, he thought, and reminded him of Ann Tanaka. Brannigan was good under pressure. She had shown that facet of her personality yesterday.

  He was glad her part in his escapade would be over soon. He didn’t want to drag anyone else into the bottomless mire sucking him deeper and deeper.

  Could he do it? Could he penetrate Sokova’s cover and expose a man who had had over four decades to perfect his cover and implement his operation?

  He had to. There was no choice. And he would have to do it alone. But how?

  He rotated his shoulder by slowly wind milling his arm. The pain came, but not as intense as before. The stiffness was easing, which was a good sign.

  He stood and started toward the bathroom. When he passed the dresser, a glint of silver caught his eye. He stopped to look at the pen he’d gotten from Robert Mathews.

  Bending, he took a closer look at it. It was a chrome Cross pen, slim and elegant. There were no initials on it.

  Staring at the pen, a new thought hit him like a rock breaking through glass. He straightened and looked at himself in the mirror above the dresser.

  He tried to dismiss the thought, but the idea carried too much merit to dismiss so easily. He had believed everyone’s story, as long as it had fit into what his preconceived ideas had been. But what if he was wrong?