by David Wind
“Tom,” Chapin replied.
“You carrying?” Sanders asked.
Chapin opened his jacket. “Want to search?”
Sanders shook his head and motioned him inside.
Chapin made it two steps before he froze. His mind flipped him back seven thousand miles, to the Pamir Mountains. He was standing in the foyer of Robert Mathews’ house. It was an exact duplicate of the foyer, in Russia.
He was claustrophobic: The walls of the house closed in on him. He was walking into a trap. He sensed it with every fiber of his being. His mind screamed for him to get away. His muscles trembled with some unknown inner fear.
Chapin shook his head, clearing away the anxiety warping his mind, and followed Sanders down the hall to a door he knew would open up into the Mathews’ den.
As he expected, Chapin followed Sanders into the duplicate of the den he’d seen in Russia. Across from him was the photo wall. On the other wall was the chess set. Mathews, he saw, was sitting behind the desk watching him.
The Vice-President Elect looked exactly the way he had when Chapin had last seen him in Chicago. His eyes were clear and bright, his dark hair neatly combed, which accentuated his handsome features. Was it Mathews, or was it his brother? Chapin wondered.
“Thank you, Tom,” Mathews said, nodding to the agent, “that will be all for now. Mr. Chapin, how have you been?” he added as Sanders left the room and Mathews came over to shake Chapin’s hand.
“Tired,” Chapin said truthfully, glancing over his shoulder to where Sanders was closing the door. Was the agent—was his old friend—getting the trap ready?
Mathews nodded solemnly. “I can certainly understand that. And what of your news? Have you found out anything for me?”
Where did he begin? Just before he started to speak, he sensed something amiss. An instinctive perception of danger struck him forcefully. Something was wrong. His inner senses were trying to warn him. He looked at Mathews, wondering if this was Robert he was speaking to, and found himself holding back. “I’m not really sure what my news is. I’ve spent the last few days running across half the world. I was in the Soviet Union…” He shook his head slowly. “And I’m beginning to think I was wrong.”
Mathews nodded slowly. “I can understand that,” he said as he walked back to his desk, turned, and sat on its edge. “After you left me in Chicago, I began to think about what you had said. For years, I’ve carried within me the guilt of having stayed alive while my family died. When you came to me and offered me an alternative to my guilt, I grabbed it. But later, after you left, I realized that my encouraging you to look for my wife and son’s killer was wrong.”
Mathews paused to wipe a tired hand across his face. “Their deaths were an accident, weren’t they?”
Caution dictated Chapin’s guarded response. “I’ve looked everywhere, and I haven’t found a single piece of physical evidence to prove that they were killed. I was so certain it was the same man,” Chapin said, “after he tried to kill me in Austria.”
“And now you are certain it isn’t him?”
Chapin shook his head dismally. “No. I’m sorry, but I’m not certain about anything, anymore. All I know is that I’ve got the intelligence agencies of two nations looking for me, and I’m tired of running.”
Chapin turned and looked at the photo wall. He walked to it, gazing at the pictures of Mathews when he was a boy. “Did you like the Ditman Academy?”
“As much as one could like a boarding school.”
“Did you have a favorite teacher?” Chapin asked.
“Several of them,” Mathews replied, his features showing puzzlement.
Chapin looked at Mathews. He had not come here to play a game. Doubt could not be a part of his actions. Was the man across from him the same one as in Chicago? He didn’t know. But he knew he had to make a decision. He stared into Mathews’ clear and unblinking eyes. He felt his trust building again as the man met his gaze openly.
Chapin took a deep breath. “I feel as though I’ve been here before,” he said, sweeping his arm in a half circle. His motion carried his sight past the photo wall and to where the chessboard was set up. His eyes locked on it, and he felt a sudden shock in his mind. The silver queen was in its rightful place.
“How?” The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop himself.
“The queen?” Mathews asked, following Chapin’s gaze.
“I thought—”
“That it was lost? You knew about the wager with a reporter, Joel Blair?”
When Chapin nodded, Mathews said, “Then, you knew he was holding the queen as part of the wager. Unfortunately, Blair was killed in a traffic accident,” Mathews said as he strode over to the chessboard and picked up the silver queen. “When the police told me they couldn’t find the queen in Blair’s belongings, I contacted the store in Spain where Uncle Walter had bought the set, and had them make me a new one.”
Mathews held the queen at arm’s length. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Magnificent,” Chapin agreed, staring at the queen and working harder than ever before in his life to keep his face expressionless.
“You were about to say something,” Mathews reminded him.
He nodded. “I was saying that I feel like I’ve been here before. Déjà vu, I guess you would call it.”
Mathews’ gaze became hard and penetrating. “What about you, Mr. Chapin? I’ve tried to get the CIA to listen to reason, but they won’t budge. I’ve spoken with the director, himself, and have gotten nowhere. I’m afraid I can’t get them to take you back, or to drop the charges against you.”
“I didn’t expect that to happen. Don’t worry, sir, I’ll work it out, somehow.”
“I can keep trying, though.”
“No, sir, you’ll be assuming your office soon. It would be best if you stayed out of this. I’ll work it out somehow,” he said as he half bowed to Mathews and started out.
“Keep in touch, Mr. Chapin, please.”
“I will,” he promised when he reached the door, opened it, and stepped through. He found Sanders waiting for him. The agent’s face was a mask of tension.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Chapin said. “He can’t help me anymore.”
“Kevin,” Sanders said, reaching out to touch Chapin’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he told Sanders, keeping out of reach of the agent’s arm. “I’ve been out in the cold before. And, I’ve always managed to come back in.”
“I don’t know about this time,” Sanders said. “I keep monitoring everything. There is still a full Company sanction out on you. Christ, Kevin, I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay alive this long.”
Chapin shrugged, and as they reached the front door, he turned to Sanders. “Have you noticed any changes in Mathews, these last few days?”
Sanders shook his head once, and then paused, his expression turning thoughtful. “In the last two days, he’s been a little more uptight. Tenser than usual, but that’s all.” Grasping onto the only straw he had, Chapin said, “Has he been out of your sight at all since you got here?”
“Just once. He got up before dawn on the morning after we got here, and went down to the trout stream to fish. He was back by six. I had a long talk with him. He agreed that if he were going anywhere he wouldn’t go without letting us know. Why?”
“I don’t know. Just a feeling,” Chapin said as he stepped outside, into the cool air.
Sanders walked with him to the car, and as Chapin opened the door, he turned back to the Secret Service man. “Tom, keep your eye on Mathews. There’s something happening. I—just watch him. When the time comes, you’ll understand. Just watch him.” Chapin stopped himself from saying more, knowing if he told Sanders what he already knew, Sanders would think him crazy.
“Get going,” Sanders said. “And, Kevin, you watch yourself, too. Oh,” Sanders added, his voice going low. “When you get off the ranch, look in the glove compartment. A
nd, Kevin, keep away from now on. I’ve done everything I could for you. There are no more markers between us. And it’s time for you to find a place and go to ground, permanently.”
Chapin acknowledged Sanders’ words with a curt nod.
Thirteen minutes later, Chapin climbed the second peak of the unique triple-tier mountain that was the midway point between Mathews’ ranch and Lander. His mind was a cauldron bubbling with doubts, uncertainties, and fears.
On the seat next to him was the nine-millimeter Browning Sanders had put into the glove compartment. When he’d found it, he silently thanked his old friend.
As he drove, with the pistol next to him and his eyes almost glued to the rearview mirror, he couldn’t help but to continue worrying about how and when Sokova would try to take him out. After seeing and speaking with Mathews, Chapin knew Sokova had known he would be on this road today.
He crested the incline, determined to clear his mind from the mire that seeing Mathews had plunged him into, and hit the brakes.
It was too late, he realized. He had been looking in the wrong direction, behind him. Now the man standing on the side of the road was shouldering a twelve-gauge shotgun.
Chapin did the only thing he could. He aimed the car at the man.
The shot came first. His windshield shattered even as he lay himself down on the front seat. He lost his grip on the steering wheel, and the car pulled to the right.
There was another shot. The car lurched to the left. The shot took out the tire. He raised himself and gripped the wheel in an effort to control the car.
The man was to the right, tracking the car. The guardrail was coming fast. The rear window exploded, chunks of safety glass flew through the car.
Chapin lowered himself again, just as the front fender plowed into the guardrail. The car shuddered as a five-foot section of the metal railing gave way. The front end of the vehicle dropped, hitting a ledge. The car hung there for a full second before slowly flipping over and then sliding down the side of the mountain.
Chapter Thirty-one
Leslie Brannigan screeched to a halt. Across and below from her, on the second crest of the triple-tier mountain, a car had gone off the road and was cart wheeling down the mountainside.
She watched in a fascinated horror as the car broke apart. Three quarters of the way down, the gas tank ruptured and the remnants of the car exploded in a fireball.
“Dear God.” her stomach went queasy with the thought of people dying in that fiery hell. Then she shifted her eyes, and looked for the spot where the car had left the road. She saw the missing section of guardrail and, beyond that, a man getting into a pickup truck. He carried a rifle.
“Kevin!” she cried aloud, knowing intuitively Chapin was in the car.
She hit the gas, speeding recklessly down the mountain. Although she had been less than a quarter of a mile away, in a straight line, she had a mile to go to reach the spot where the car had gone over.
She slowed only once, when the pickup passed her. She stared straight ahead. Her face was emotionless. Her knuckles white on the wheel. The tinted windows of the pickup truck prevented her from getting a good look at the two men in the cab; but, she did see that neither of them paid attention to her.
Reaching the crest of the mountain, she pulled to the side and jumped out of the car. She ran to the spot where the car had gone through the guardrail. She looked down, but could not see past the overhanging ledge, which extending for a half-dozen feet. A piece of the car’s bumper lay on the ledge.
She closed her eyes, a feeling of loss growing. Then she heard the groan. Her eyes snapped open. She went to her knees and looked over the rim. She saw him, tucked in a pocket beneath the rim of the road. He was holding his shoulder and leaning back against the side of the mountain. There was a pistol in his hand.
Her heart sped up. “Kevin!”
<><><>
“Kevin!” The voice penetrated the thick layers of semi-consciousness closing him off from the world.
At the sound of his name, he opened his eyes and saw the face of a mountain across from him. It took a moment to remember the car crashing into the metal railing. He remembered how time had all but stopped when the front end of the car hit the overhanging ledge.
He had known he was going to die, and was helpless to do anything about it. Then, when the car had crashed into the first ledge, his shoulder had hit the door handle. The door had burst open, and he tumbled out, landing against the mountainside. He had hit his head hard. The pistol was still in his hand. He must have grabbed it when he was trying to run down his assassin.
When the car had toppled over, Chapin had crawled into a small pocket of erosion that nature had carved beneath the roadway. He had held himself still, waiting for the gunman to spot him.
He’d heard the car explode, hundreds of feet below him. Above had come the echo of hard-soled boots. He’d pressed against the rocks. A few moments later, a car engine had started and the vehicle had driven away.
He had tried to move, but the pain in his shoulder and his head was too intense. He’d looked at his shoulder: the wound from the gunshot in Chicago had torn open. The pain in his head, he’d known, was from the crash.
Then he’d fallen into a semi-daze, coming slowly out of it when he heard his name called.
He looked up. Seven feet above him was Leslie Brannigan’s face. Confusion permeated his mind. She was in Washington, not in Wyoming. How? He closed his eyes when he realized he was dreaming.
“Damn it, Chapin. Look at me!”
His eyes snapped open and Brannigan was still there.
“Can you move?” He lowered his hand, looking at the pistol strangely. He shifted his weight and moved an inch forward. The pain in his head was extreme. “Yeah, I can move.”
“Can you get up here?”
He managed to stand, unsteadily, and put the Browning in his waistband. He wiped a hand across his face. It came away bloody. The flying glass had done damage.
He looked up. There was a foot and half between the top of his head and the road. “Lie down,” he told Brannigan.
After she was lying in the road, he took the Browning out of his waist and handed it to her. She put it on the road, and extended both arms down to him.
“Just hold on to me. Give me some leverage,” Chapin instructed.
She gripped his forearms, and he held hers. He pulled himself up, trying to swing his leg over the side of the road.
He felt his hand slipping on her arm. His strength was low. Brannigan’s grip tightened until her nails dug painfully into his skin, but neither of them could hold on. He slipped back, falling off balance and hard. He landed on his shoulder and rolled toward the edge.
He heard Brannigan shout a warning and dug his hand into the rocky surface, trying to find a hold. Two nails broke, but he managed to hang on: he rolled back from the edge.
He caught his breath and looked around. There was nothing to elevate himself. He looked up at Brannigan. “I need something to stand on.”
She left, returning three minutes later with the bottom half of the backseat of the car, which she slid over the side until he caught it and took it from her.
When he stood on the seat, the top of his head was only a half foot beneath the road. “Let’s try it again,” he said.
Brannigan lay down on the road and leaned over the edge. Reaching up, Chapin grabbed her arms above the elbow.
“Wait,” Brannigan said. He released her, and she disappeared for a moment. There was an unfamiliar whooshing sound. When she leaned back over the edge, her belt was in her hand.
“Take my left arm.”
He did as she asked, gripping her left arm with his right hand as tightly as he could. With her free hand, she wrapped the belt around his wrist and her arm, tying it off as securely as possible. Then she lowered her right arm and grasped his other arm. “Now,” she said, moving backward.
The belt helped. He didn’t have to use all his strength to hold on
and the smaller Brannigan could drag him up without losing her grip on his arm. She inched back until his waist was above the road. He drew his legs up, released his free hand, and scrambled onto the blacktop.
He lay there for a moment, his breath coming in short and hard gasps. He was dizzy, and his stomach churned. He recognized the signs of a concussion.
Brannigan removed the belt, freeing his hand. He sat up, and closed his eyes as the world spun madly.
“Easy,” Brannigan cautioned. Her hand on his shoulder helped to root him in reality.
He stood, again with her help. Then he went to the car, leaned against the front fender, and looked at her. “What are you doing here?”
As soon as he saw her face go stiff, he knew she had misunderstood his tone and question. “Is that all you have to say? What am I doing here? I just saved your ass! Do I get a thank you? No! I get a ‘what are you doing here? Well, Mr. Superspy, I’m here because I—” She stopped, leaned forward, and slapped him.
“God damn you!” she shouted. “Do you think you’re invincible? Don’t you ever do this to me again. Ever!” Chapin stayed silent, biting back the groan of pain the slap had brought up. He held her stare while she vented her rage and fear on him. He hadn’t flinched when she’d slapped him, but when she finally fell silent; he reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her into his arms.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. Her reaction, while hard and physical, wasn’t unusual for someone under deep stress.
He held her until she calmed down, and then released her. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.
She stared at him, and then laughed. “When Kline met us in Los Angeles, I gave him my story and told him what you were up to. I told him I was going to follow the story to the end.”
“And he let you?”
“No. I went anyway. I guess it was a good thing, huh?”
Chapin smiled, and then winced. “Yes, I guess so. How did you know where I was?”
“I was with you, on the plane, remember? I heard you talking to Sanders.
“Now I think we should get you someplace where we can clean you up…again.”
