by David Wind
Chapin walked to the window and pulled the drape back. The sky was light. The sun would be up in the next few minutes. He stared into the distance, his mind caught in a vice of his own making.
What if Mathews’ twin brother didn’t die? What if the twin had survived when Hirshorne had gone after Vladim Koshenski. What if both brothers were alive?
Chapin thought of all the novels written about the Soviets taking over America. There were plots about duplicates, changed by surgery to be someone else. He thought about the Manchurian Candidate, and about some movies he had seen with the same plot lines. But, he could not bring himself to see those as fact and not fiction.
Yet, if the twin brother had lived… No! He would not allow his imagination to run away with him. There had to be a way to find out what had really happened in nineteen forty-seven.
<><><>
Dr. Steven Trenton, at the seismic research observatory in Albuquerque, was the first to report the quake. He was on duty at five a.m. studying the various instruments when a warning bell sounded.
Going to the computer terminal, he punched in the appropriate code. The screen changed, and filled with information. When he digested it all, he shook his head with disbelief.
A severe quake had just hit the U. S. S. R. The preliminary readings showed the severity of the quake to be even more powerful than the quake that had hit San Francisco recently.
The Richter scale showed a 7.6 reading. It was a major quake, and according to the instruments, the epicenter was 69.04 degrees east Longitude; 41.23 degrees north latitude, which translated, as Dr. Trenton soon learned from looking at his map, to Tashkent, in the former Soviet Union .
He left the computer console and went to his office. Picking up the phone, he dialed the emergency number and reported the earthquake.
Four and a half minutes later, in Washington, the president was notified of the severity of the earthquake that had struck the fourth most populous city in the old Soviet Union.
A quarter of an hour later, the president and his advisors had come to the decision that a call to the premier would be appropriate.
The president took such action and, in the name of the continuing efforts of Glasnost that the premier had begun years before, offered any and all help that the Soviets might need.
The premier informed the president that until he knew more about the situation, he could ask for no help, but when he had the situation properly appraised, he would contact the president.
Two hours later, the president of the United States received a phone call from the premier of the Soviet Union, who officially asked for the help the president had already offered. Almost all of the city of Tashkent had been destroyed and Uzbekistan’s newly formed quasi-government was is turmoil.
The president promised to make the proper arrangements.
<><><>
At two-forty-five, the Beechcraft containing Chapin and Brannigan landed in a private airport in College Park, Maryland. When it finished taxiing, Chapin and Brannigan got out and headed to the parking lot.
Kline met them halfway, looking even more harassed than usual. His clothing was a mess, and the bags under his eyes were dark and large. He carried a paper under his left arm.
“What’s wrong?” Leslie Brannigan asked as Kline led them to his car.
He pulled the paper from his arm and handed it to Brannigan. Opening it, she read the headline and gasped.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
Chapin took the paper from Brannigan, and started the trio walking toward the parking lot. He read the story as they walked, while Kline said, “Much worse than the one in Armenia, or the one in San Francisco. The president has offered our help, and the Soviet premier has accepted it, without debate or restrictions.”
Chapin speed-read the article. The quake had done its worst damage in Tashkent, but the tremors had extended for almost five hundred miles, destroying many smaller towns and villages. He looked at the map on the front page, and found it difficult to breath. Tashkent was the closest major city to the Pamir Mountains.
His skin tightened and his heart rate increased. He did his best to contain his excitement as he said, “What about Brannigan? Have there been any calls about her from the Secret Service or the FBI?”
Kline shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Good. Mathews must have ordered Sanders to forget her. Still, I’d like Brannigan on an assignment away from Washington,” Chapin said, looking from Kline to Brannigan.
“I’ve already taken care of that. She’s going to Russia as part of the team I’m fielding. I received permission from the State Department, and from the Soviets. All the newspapers and the news services have.”
Chapin looked at his old friend, and just as he had felt when he’d looked at the pen earlier in the day, he had another strong hunch. “So am I, Ed. I have to go in with the team.”
Kline looked at him as if he were insane. His eyes raked across Chapin’s red hair and eyebrows. “Don’t you think you’re running out of disguises?” Kline said sarcastically.
Three hours later, Chapin and Kline sat in Kline’s office. Leslie Brannigan had gone home to pack for her assignment in Russia. Chapin and Kline had just finished eating Chinese food from cardboard containers. “You certainly won’t stand up to any inspection as a reporter.”
“The Soviets have just had a major disaster. More foreigners will be entering the country than at any other time except for the Olympics, and security won’t be anywhere near as tight. I won’t have to stand up as anything.”
Kline nodded. “I want to know what is going on. Kevin, part of the reason you are in your situation is because I asked you to help me. Now I want to help you, but I can’t unless I know what is really happening.”
Chapin reached across the desk and patted Kline’s shoulder. “Not yet,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ed, but until I know for sure, I can’t say anything.”
“And if you die? What then? Who will help?”
“I’ll just have to stay alive. Ed, the people I’m trying to stop are not simple people. If I tell you what’s going on, and they learn I’ve spent even five minutes with you during the last three weeks, you won’t stay alive for fifteen minutes, and that includes your Ms. Brannigan.”
“Kevin,” Kline said, his voice going argumentative.
“No more questions,” Chapin said in a way that brooked no further debate.
“Use the name John Morgan for the press credentials.”
Kline nodded and pressed the intercom. Forty seconds later, there was a knock on the door. “Come,” Kline called.
His secretary entered and Kline told her to have press credentials prepared for John Morgan.
When she left, Kline said, “Ten o’clock, Dulles. Don’t be late.”
Chapin went to the door and as he reached for the doorknob, Kline called his name.
He turned to his old roommate, his hand on the doorknob. “Just one more thing, Kevin.”
“Yes?”
“You make a lousy redhead.”
<><><>
Sitting across from Tom Sanders, Mathews impatiently drummed his fingers on the smooth wood of the writing table. Finally, the phone rang. Mathews picked it up.
“Mathews,” he said, and then listened as the director of the Central Intelligence Agency identified himself.
“Mr. Director, I appreciate your returning my call. I want to discuss Kevin Chapin.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mathews, there is a top secret lid clamped on Chapin. I’m sure you understand, in light of what happened yesterday.”
Mathews ignored the mild rebuke in the use of his name, rather than his forthcoming title. The use of his name was proper, since he had not yet been sworn in, but in most cases, people tended to use his title instead of his name.
“What happened yesterday is exactly why I’m calling you.” Mathews cleared his throat. “Mr. Director, let me be very blunt about the Chapin issue: If anything happens to Kevin Chapin between no
w and when I assume office, I will seek the person or persons responsible and will personally conduct an investigation into all those involved who are part of our Central Intelligence Agency. And I assure you, when I start, I will have every piece of paper and every piece of information available about Kevin Chapin.”
“Mr. Mathews, you will not have that authority, even as vice president.”
“But the president will, Mr. Director, and I can guarantee you he will not only listen to me, but he will do as I ask.”
“Chapin is a spy for the Soviets,” the director argued. “He’s a double agent. A man who sold out his country.”
“Bullshit! He’s no more a Soviet agent than I am. If he was one, I would be dead, not talking to you.” Mathews paused to control his anger over the man’s paranoia, before adding, “If you feel you must take Chapin, make sure Chapin is not harmed. Consider it to be the first order you will receive from the new administration.”
“No, sir, and with all due respect, I must suggest that in the interest of national security, you reconsider your request.”
“And I recommend you rethink your last statement.” With that, Mathews hung up.
<><><>
Chapin watched the small Cape Cod house. He had been in position for a half hour, and was now satisfied that there was only one person in the house.
He touched his jacket, and the wallet outlined in the inside pocket. On the way to the house, he had made two stops. The first was at the Claremont Hotel, where he kept a safety deposit box, with a similar purpose as the one in France. In the box had been several important items; one of them was a set of identification papers. There was money as well, and several letters that would be released by his estate.
The only items he’d taken were the identification papers bearing the name of one John Morgan, the same name he had given Ed Kline.
Chapin’s second stop had been at the White Flint Mall, where he’d gone clothing shopping for the trip to the Soviet Union. He’d also bought a soft-sided suitcase to carry the clothing.
Chapin shifted on the seat. A quick pain lanced across his shoulder, but it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as yesterday. He gave thanks that the wound was healing fast.
He glanced at the house again, and saw a shadow walk across the living room window. Would she report him?
Ten minutes later, when he was certain no other people were surveilling the house, he got out of Ed Kline’s car.
Taking the suitcase and a brown paper bag from the backseat, Chapin went to her front door, knocked twice, and waited.
A half minute later, he heard her ask, “Yes?”
“Open up, Ann.”
The door opened immediately to show Ann Tanaka’s startled face. “Dear God in heaven, get in here!” she half shouted.
Chapin wasted no time in following her orders. After Tanaka closed the door, he said, “Thank you.”
“What are you doing here? Half The Company has been called in and put on a Code One to look for you.”
“I’m leaving again. I needed to see you,” he said as he reached into his pocket and withdrew Mathews’ pen. He had wrapped it in one of the small plastic bags that had been on the water glasses in the motel room. “Ann, check the prints on this and let me know if you get a match. Don’t let anyone else know about it, no matter who or what.” She looked from the pen to his face. “And you’re not going to tell me either, are you?”
“No. Anything more about the Pamirs?”
Tanaka met his eyes before shaking her head. “Nothing, Kevin, nothing at all. The area is so tightly guarded and so sparsely populated that none of my people could get anywhere near the installation. However, I did have two operatives use their contacts inside the Kremlin. No one knows about Sokova, or about the installation in the Pamirs.”
“Do you still believe me?” he asked, searching her face.
She replied without hesitation. “Yes,”
“All right. Ann, I’m going into Russia tomorrow. I’m going as a reporter covering the quake. Somehow, I’m going to get to the Pamirs and find out what the hell that installation is.”
“Tashkent?” When he nodded, she shook her head vehemently. “You can’t go in there, Kevin. Not now, it’s too risky.”
“I’ll manage. Ann, do you have a spare bed for tonight?” She nodded without hesitation. “Kevin, about your going into Russia. It’s dangerous. If you’re caught.... Kevin, according to my information, we aren’t the only ones after you anymore. The Soviets want you, badly.”
“I know, but they won’t be looking for me in their own territory.” He shrugged, not from apathy, but from the situation. “Can I use your phone?”
“Of course.”
“I’m calling overseas.”
She pointed to the phone. “I’ll get some coffee.” He went to the phone and dialed. After the various connections were made, the phone rang a dozen times. He hung up, looked at the time, and then called the embassy.
The call was answered on the sixth ring. He asked for Abby Sloan, and was told she was unavailable.
He left a message, saying that he would call as soon as possible, and asked the operator to sign it K, and hung up.
“Ann,” he called. When she returned to the room, carrying two mugs of steaming coffee, he said, “Your helping me may end up with you in jail.”
“I know. Kevin, I’m going to send a message into Russia. I’ll have Blacky find you.”
Chapin shook his head. Blacky was another of Ruby One’s double agents Chapin had recruited. “He might take me out.”
“No chance,” Tanaka said. “He doesn’t know about what’s happening here. None of our inside contacts do. I’ll send him orders. He’ll follow them.”
“What about you? If you’re caught....”
Tanaka gazed at him for several quiet seconds. When she spoke, her voice was low but firm. “Kevin, I have my own personal reason for believing you.”
She paused, looked down at the mug in her hand, and then smiled sadly. “I had to make a decision a week ago. I made it when I sent the information to Paris. If I thought you were a traitor, I would not have done so. I can’t stop now. Besides, what will it cost me if you are right about Sokova and, by my not helping you, you don’t stop him?”
Before Chapin could frame an answer, Tanaka said, “My life, I would imagine.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The Pan Am 747 landed smoothly in Moscow. On board the huge plane were a hundred and eleven members of the press, along with seven members of the State Department—who were the Press Corps chaperons— and a hundred and thirteen Red Cross volunteers. Television crews were the most represented among the press; newspaper and magazine teams were in the minority.
The Washington Courier press contingent consisted of Chapin, Brannigan, and Larry Pine, their photographer. Pine was a short man, well built, and in his mid-twenties. Chapin appraised the photographer as an intense man, and a loner, evidenced by the way he’d kept to himself on the trip to Moscow.
After going through careful but cursory inspection of press credentials, all passengers were taken by bus to an army barracks on the far side of the airport.
Even with the warming of relations between the Soviets and the Americans, and adding the crisis of the earthquake, Chapin couldn’t quite believe his luck on getting into the Soviet Union as easily as he had. Nor did he let his guard down with the ease of entry. He was still almost two thousand miles away from his ultimate destination.
Ignoring the stiffness in his shoulder and staying close to Brannigan and Pine, Chapin kept himself within the mass of press people as the Soviets separated the passengers into two groups: The press in one section of barracks; the Red Cross people in another, a hundred yards away.
After the bed assignments, they were told a hot meal would be ready for them in an hour. The uniformed speaker, a colonel, explained that their transportation to the main quake site would arrive in the morning.
Chapin, Brannigan, and Pine went to
the barracks mess hall together, but Pine excused himself and sat with a photographer he knew from the New York Times.
When the press finished eating, an editor of Tass and a Soviet member of the Red Cross came into the mess hall. Accompanying them was Roger Thornwood, deputy secretary of the United States Mission to the Soviet Union. Chapin had worked with him twice. Both times had been unpleasant.
Watching Thornwood cross the room, Chapin held the coffee cup in front of him, on the off chance that Thornwood might spot him.
He’d always found Thornwood, thin to the point of anorexia, an irritant. The Deputy Secretary did not look left or right as he marched to the microphone placed at the head of the room. There, Thornwood introduced the two Soviets without introducing himself.
The first was the editor of Tass who, speaking in thickly accented English, explained the situation. He detailed the extent of damage to the countryside, and the loss of life from the quake.
From the man’s description, Chapin knew the damage to the fourth-largest city in the Soviet Union had been minimized in earlier press releases. At least two-thirds of the city, according to the man, had been leveled.
When the Tass editor finished, the Soviet Red Cross representative took over to detail the rescue operations to date. When he finished, the editor took back the microphone.
“In the morning, you will be divided by destination. Your names and organizations will be called out, and you will go to the proper airplane at that time. Thank you.”
The Tass editor, who Chapin decided was a GRU officer, and the Red Cross representative left the dining room while Thornwood remained at the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Roger Thornwood. I forgot to introduce myself earlier. I am the deputy secretary of the U. S. Mission. Welcome to Russia. I want to remind you that even though this is an emergency, you are guests here, and you should act accordingly.
“You will be watched, and what you do will be a reflection on your country. Please remember how long it took to reestablish press credentials with the Chinese, after the eighty-nine incident.”
