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

by David Wind

  “Don’t you think this is a different situation?” called a TV newscaster.

  “Different situation, same form of government. Please, watch yourselves. If you step out of line, they will not hesitate to send you packing. Is that clear?”

  When everyone agreed, Thornwood added, “If anyone needs to speak with me, I’m available this evening.” Thornwood left the microphone and went to an empty table, where he prepared himself to hold court for the various people of the press.

  “Seems like a real smooth operator. Is he ours or theirs?” Brannigan asked.

  Chapin hid his smile behind the coffee cup. “Ours.”

  “Is he good?”

  “Adequate.”

  “What happens now?”

  “You do my job—write the story and send it to the paper, every day we are here.”

  “And you?” she said, her eyes searching his face.

  He looked around the room, watching the way the people were reacting to their situation. When his eyes returned to Brannigan, he said, “It’s better if you don’t ask.”

  <><><>

  “I do not care what it takes, or how many people, I want the man stopped. The package? It is in Canada?”

  “Yes” came the reply.

  “Have it sent. I will pick up the package myself—tomorrow night..”

  “Very well, sir. I will arrange it.” Sokova did not reply; he hung up and walked to the hotel window. Los Angeles was spread out for his inspection. The lights twinkled in windows like the stars in the sky.

  Sokova looked at his watch. In two more days, it would be over. He had pushed his timetable ahead by three months: Chapin’s ongoing interference mandated the change.

  Yet, Sokova thought, it didn’t really matter if he was ahead of schedule. His plan was infallible, his success assured—the election had determined that. When the package arrived, nothing Chapin could do would change the outcome.

  Which did not mean he would leave Chapin to rant on to whomever he chose. Nothing would satisfy him other than the verification of Chapin’s death.

  <><><>

  Chapin lay in his bunk, listening to the sounds of the other people sleeping. Once again, he was back on Soviet soil without permission. The thought should have been frightening. It wasn’t; rather, his return to Russia was his last chance to stop Sokova.

  His only regret was his inability to reach Abby. Before leaving Ann Tanaka’s house for the airport, he had called the embassy in Paris. They had informed him that Ms. Sloan was out of the country on assignment.

  Chapin massaged the ache in his shoulder, just above the wound. Sleep was becoming a stranger to him, except for those periods when he was too exhausted to think. What was his next step? He would have to wait for Blacky to contact him. Once the double agent made himself known, Chapin had two projects for him.

  He wanted to find Titania Basilova, Davidov’s widow. And he needed to get to the Pamir Mountains and inside the location of the unknown installation. Only by seeing the installation and learning its purpose would he be able to find a solution to the Sokova plan. To reach Davidov’s widow, he needed Blacky’s help; however, he could reach the Pamirs without the Soviet double agent.

  Chapin reviewed his memory of Blacky. Stanislaus Kublakshev had been a friend of Davidov’s. Blacky wasn’t in the KGB; he was a professor of languages at the university in Moscow.

  But how would Tanaka arrange for Blacky to find him? Knowing that the more he wondered, the less he would sleep, Chapin tried to blank out his runaway thoughts. A little while later, he succeeded, and fell into a deep sleep.

  He woke an hour before the early-winter dawn, rose, and went to the bathroom. After cleaning up and changing into fresh clothing, Chapin went into the mess hall.

  A crew of army personnel were the only ones in the room. The tables were set for breakfast, and the air held the scent of coffee.

  Walking directly to the large metal urn, he poured coffee, took a couple of rolls, and brought them to a table. As he drank the rough and bitter brew the Soviets called coffee, and chewed the doughy bread, a middle-aged man with large green eyes and a full mustache, came up to him. The man bent inquisitively to look at the press I. D. hanging from Chapin’s jacket pocket.

  “Ah, Mr. Morgan, just the person I was looking for.” He spoke flawless American English.

  On his guard, Chapin stared at the man. “Yes?”

  “I am Kublakshev, your translator during your stay.” the man favored Chapin with a smile.

  Chapin stared at the man in amazement. This was Blacky. He had often pictured him, but had never come close to reality. Before speaking, Chapin glanced surreptitiously around. No one was paying attention to them. “I am very glad to meet you at last,” Chapin said to his contact. “How did you manage to arrange....”

  Slipping a cigarette into his mouth, Blacky lighted it. He exhaled a stream of smoke, waved his hand through it to dissipate the smoke, and said, “Part was arranged before I received word of your coming.” Blacky took another drag of his cigarette. “I volunteered to help in the disaster area. The GRU weeded me out to become a translator for the American press—they haven’t enough operatives to assign one to each news team.”

  “But to be assigned to me...how?”

  “That was easy. After I received word from Ruby One, I explained I knew you from a conference I had attended several years before, in Vienna. You, it seemed, had interviewed me.”

  Blacky tapped his temple with a long forefinger. “You must remember the way the GRU think. I am not viewed with suspicion, for I have never done any overt act against my country; and when I am in the Soviet Union, I always report any meetings between a Westerner and myself. Therefore, the GRU believe I will translate for you and report everything you say.”

  Chapin nodded. He knew exactly what the Soviet meant. “Blacky, how bad is it?”

  The Russian’s green eyes changed. Chapin saw sadness creep into them. He looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “It is very, very bad. From what I have been able to learn, there are perhaps thirty, maybe forty thousand dead so far, and that is just in Tashkent. The quake went for over five hundred miles.”

  Chapin shook his head. “Jesus.... Blacky, how is Titania ? Have you seen her?”

  He nodded. “And so will you. She is in Tashkent. Every available doctor was sent.

  “Did Tanaka explain anything to you?”

  Blacky shook his head. “The only thing she sent were the instructions to meet you, priority one. Can you tell me anything?”

  “I can tell you the reason I am here is because of Davidov. And somehow, I must get to a secret installation in the Pamir Mountains.”

  “The Pamirs?” he asked, making a face. “What would anyone want with them? They are not very accessible.”

  Chapin smiled. “Exactly.”

  “I’m sure we will be able to work it out. From what I hear, there is much confusion in the disaster area.”

  From the corner of his eye, Chapin saw the press contingent had woken and many were entering the mess hall. He spotted Leslie Brannigan and Larry Pine, and waved to them.

  Brannigan waved back, pointed Chapin out to Pine before going to the food line. “Of all the people here, only the woman knows who I am.”

  “Understood,” Blacky said.

  “Miss Brannigan, Mr. Pine,” Chapin said formally when the two arrived at the table, “meet Stanislaus Kublakshev, our translator.”

  “Mr. Kublakshev,” Brannigan said, extending her hand. Larry Pine repeated the gesture, and sat down next to Chapin, while Brannigan sat next to Blacky.

  Brannigan picked up the coffee cup, but did not drink. “When do they give out the press destinations?”

  “Soon. But I already learned we’re going to Tashkent,” Chapin said.

  Brannigan’s brows arched. “How do you know that?”

  He nodded at Blacky. “Mr. Kublakshev was assigned to us this morning, and when he saw me here, he introduced himself. I i
nterviewed Mr. Kublakshev several years ago.” Brannigan’s eyes went from Chapin to Blacky. Her face was unreadable. “I see,” she said. “Well, it’s always nice to have a friend in an unfriendly country.”

  Finally, she took a sip of her coffee. She swallowed, grimaced, and said, “God, this stuff is awful.”

  “With all the changes to date, the, ah...good changes, there still is no God in the Soviet Union,” said Blacky, his eyes locked on hers, his voice light. “Perhaps that is why our coffee tastes the way it does.”

  For an instant, Brannigan held Blacky’s gaze. Then she smiled. “A joke?”

  “A joke,” Blacky agreed as he stood. “Miss Brannigan, Mr. Morgan, Mr. Pine, I will see you at the plane.”

  As Blacky walked away, Brannigan started to say something. Chapin cut her off. “Interesting fellow, that Kublakshev,” he said, nodding toward the doorway.

  Brannigan turned and saw what Chapin had already seen. Five men wearing poor quality suits and three soldiers in army uniform entered the dining area.

  KGB, Chapin was certain. He looked around and saw that almost everyone had arrived. A few moments later, the gaunt-looking Thornwood entered. He went to the microphone and, without testing it to make sure it was on, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, good morning.”

  The attention was immediate. The members of the press stopped talking and turned to Thornwood, who acknowledged the silence with a curt nod.

  “I know you are anxious to get going. Commissar Lentmilla will give out the assignments. As your name is called, please go to the plane you are assigned to. Commissar.”

  A single heavyset woman left the group of KGB men and went to the microphone. With a thick accent, and no wasted words, Commissar Lentmilla began by calling the names of the particular types of media, followed by the names of the people belonging to that organization.

  Television, as usual, came first, followed by the magazines, and lastly, newspapers. When it came to the Washington Courier, Chapin heard the names of John Morgan, Larry Pine, and Leslie Brannigan called.

  They stood in unison and left the mess hall. They went to their bunks, got their clothing and equipment, and then to plane number seven: Destination Tashkent.

  <><><>

  Although Chapin had never been in Tashkent, he had seen scores of aerial and satellite photographs. Now he could only visualize what it had once looked like. Two-thirds of the city was gone; a chasm, thirty-feet wide in several places, divided the city. The radical splitting of the earth had caused massive damage to the entire city. Buildings lay in piles of rubble. The smell of fire consumed the air, and mixed with another scent—death before decay.

  The sight was so massively sickening that even Chapin’s stomach, hardened to death for so many years, was queasy.

  Brannigan stumbled. He grabbed her arm. “Are you all right?”

  She looked up at him. Her face was pale and drawn. She held his eyes and nodded.

  Next to them, Pine took picture after picture; the shutter of his Nikon was the only sound anyone heard.

  Chapin glanced at Blacky. He’d been the only one prepared for the disaster sight. But even the Russian was ashen.

  They boarded the waiting bus. “Where to?” Chapin asked Blacky.

  “The north end, there are some buildings still standing. Several of them have been turned into hospitals; the others are being used as emergency quarters for the rescue workers and medical and food supplies.”

  As they drove, numbness from the sight of the disaster began to edge in. He remembered the old news clips of the bombing of Germany during World War II. It was exactly what Tashkent looked like…a bombed-out ruin. Overhead, helicopters flew beelike, carrying supplies and machinery into the city.

  Chapin leaned close to Blacky, his mouth centimeters from the Russian’s ear. When he spoke, his lips did not move. “After we get settled, find Titania for me.”

  Blacky didn’t answer, but he knew he’d heard him. They followed a circuitous route, oftentimes doubling back to find a clearing through newly shifted debris. It took forty-five minutes to go the two and a half miles.

  Astounded by the number of crews searching the rubble for survivors, he realized the weather—cold but not freezing—was the reason there would be survivors. If it had been the dead of winter, most would have died already.

  The bus stopped at a four story stone building, where the twenty-member press contingent went from the bus into the structure.

  Inside, the smell of disinfectant was strong. “Ladies and gentlemen,” called a man near the center of the room. “My name is Norman Greenberg; I am with the State Department. If there is anything you need, please come to me. Report on what you feel is necessary, but remember that we are guests in this country. Now, if you will step into the doorway to my right, one of our staff will assign you to sleeping quarters. I should warn you that you may have to sleep in shifts with others.” Once again, the process continued. When Chapin heard his name, Brannigan’s, and Pine’s, he went to the door.

  Following the two into the room, he froze. His breath exploded, his feet became rooted to the spot. Finally, he took another step forward, moving closer to the desk and the shocked wide-eyed woman sitting there.

  “Hello, Abby.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapin broke free of his trance and went to the desk, ignoring the others with him. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to reach you?”

  Even as he spoke, Abby came from behind the desk and flew into his arms. They kissed deeply. When he released her, she stared up into his eyes. Her hands went to his cheeks and stroked him gently. “I’ve been so worried, so frightened for you.”

  “I’m all right,” he said, holding her close and luxuriating in the warmth of her body against his.

  Then her features tightened and her eyes turned troubled. “What are you doing here?”

  “My job,” he said, his voice deep and hard.

  “But if they—”

  “It was the only choice I had. Abby,” he said, turning her toward the other two people and pressing her arm in warning. “This is my assistant at the Courier, Leslie Brannigan. Larry Pine is our photographer on this trip. Guys, this is Abby Sloan, the State Department’s top translator.”

  “Not quite,” she said with a smile.

  She shook Pine’s hand first. When she took Brannigan’s, Chapin saw that Brannigan’s features had gone tense, her eyes narrowed. He wondered why.

  Abby went back to her desk, sat, and looked at the room assignment charts. “Miss Brannigan, you’ll be on the second floor, room three dash seven. You’ll be rooming with Clair King of the San Francisco Chronicle. You’ll have the late afternoon and early evening for work, and the late night and early morning for sleep. Eliana Grimonova, of Tass, and Suzette Ladot, of a combine of French papers will be sleeping in that room when you aren’t.

  “Mr. Pine, you’ll be in room four dash two, with Mr. Barnett of the Times. During your work shift, two men from the State Department will be sleeping there. And you,” Abby said, crossing out John Morgan’s name from where it had originally been inscribed and writing it in next to another number, “will be in room two dash eight.”

  Abby looked at everyone again. “I want to caution you that there will always be two other sets of sleepers, so please keep your personal belongings in your cases. Food is served all day in the dining room, which is in the basement.”

  Chapin nodded. “Where can we leave our bags until it’s time for us to use our rooms?”

  “Right here,” she said, motioning to a door behind her. When they had deposited their cases, Chapin asked Brannigan and Pine to wait out front with their translator.

  Finally, when he and Abby were alone, he said, “I’ve missed you.”

  She went into his arms again and clung to him. Her body trembled against his. “I was afraid I wouldn’t see you again. What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for answers. Abby, I still haven’t put together all the
pieces. I need to find out more. When the earthquake happened, I had to use it.”

  She backed away, gazing at him with a quiet desperation and vulnerability that made him want to take her back into his arms. “But you’ll be careful?”

  “As careful as possible,” he promised.

  “Then, I’ll see you later.”

  “Where do you want me to meet you?”

  Abby smiled brightly. “In your room, of course. That’s why I made the change,” she said, pointing to the assignment sheet. “I’m your roommate.”

  He returned the smile, kissed her quickly, and left. Outside, he found Brannigan and Pine talking with a man he didn’t know. Blacky was off to one side, waiting patiently.

  He motioned to Brannigan, who broke away and came over. “Is she the one you told me about in Canada?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Can you handle going around without me and Blacky?”

  “Sure. The man I was talking to is Joey Malone of the Cleveland Plain Dealer. We went to college together. Pine and I will tag along with him. When will I see you?” she asked suddenly.

  “I don’t know. Either later or in the morning. Probably in the morning. I’ll meet you in the dining room. Cover me with Pine.”

  “Be careful,” Brannigan said, her expression softening.

  “I will.” He signaled the Russian.

  Chapin and Blacky left, walking quickly away from the press people. “Where will we find Titania?”

  “The hospital, of course,” the Russian said, pointing toward a ten-story building a few blocks away. “The Red Cross turned it into a hospital. They have electricity, supplied by several generators.”

  All around them, as they made their way to the building, the survivors whose conditions did not merit hospitalization sat or lay on blankets. While most had bandages, a few had nothing visibly wrong with them, but Chapin knew they were suffering from psychological aftershock.

  “You’re a journalist looking to see how the doctors are handling this emergency. Let me do the talking—all of it,” Blacky ordered.

  Chapin nodded, his voice gone for the moment as he continued to take in the condition of the surviving victims and knew this disaster surmounted the barriers of political boundaries. He hoped enough of the press had come so the true depth of Tashkent’s destruction would be known, and that more help, real help, would come.