by David Wind
What was happening? Chapin watched Mathews bow to Prime Minister Ishizaka, in the traditional Oriental manner. The man, a foot shorter than Mathews, returned the bow and offered Mathews his hand.
After the two men shook hands, the prime minister of Japan stepped to the lectern. From his right, coming around Sanders, was the prime minister’s interpreter.
Chapin forgot about the prime minister. He kept his attention on Mathews, as the vice president went to the president and stood next to him. The two Americans leaned their heads slightly toward each other. Mathews spoke, and Etheridge nodded. Chapin back stepped until he was within two feet of the two men.
Etheridge did not seem affected by the change in plans. Chapin guessed they had done this among themselves, on the way here.
From where he stood, he viewed the scene and comprehension dawned. The two Japanese at the lectern blocked most of the view of the president and vice-president.
Chapin’s eyes flicked to the rooftop. He made what he hoped to be a casual gesture of tapping his earpiece. Talk to me, he silently pleaded to Ben-Moshe.
“I see the change. It is a good one for the assassination. The speakers are screening Etheridge from the audience. They will for some confusion,” Ben-Moshe said, echoing some of Chapin’s thoughts.
In preparation for what was about to happen, Chapin took a half step forward. He stopped immediately when he heard Ben-Moshe again. “Look closely at Mathews. The sniper is putting on a headset. Mathews must have a speaker somewhere.”
Chapin focused on the vice president’s left ear and spotted something behind the ear. He stared harder. There was a clear strip of plastic, partially hidden by Mathews’ thick dark hair. He recognized it as one of the new wireless receivers.
Mathews being in communication with the sniper would make their plan more difficult, but that didn’t matter. They had to take out the sniper, but if it weren’t at the exact right moment, their plan would fail. If they moved too soon, there would be no way to stop Sokova and Mathews.
Tenser than ever in his life, Chapin’s muscles ached with a need for the release. The increased beating of his heart and the faster coursing of the blood through his body sent adrenaline spiking. He focused totally on Mathews and the earpiece in his own ear.
He leaned slightly forward on the balls of his feet. His knees bent, waiting and tense. He saw Mathews blink, lean forward, and say something into Etheridge’s ear.
At that exact instant, he heard Ben-Moshe scream, “Now!” In the thousandth of a second it took Chapin to react and start forward, the very fabric of time stopped.
He saw the president turn toward Mathews and saw Mathews lean back, out of the line of fire from Etheridge.
Etheridge’s mouth opened to speak to Mathews, and saw the president’s eyes widen in surprise when Mathews drew back.
While all of that was happening, Chapin moved in reflex to the unfolding actions and to Ben-Moshe’s single word. His knees straightened, he lunged forward, slamming his shoulder into the center of the vice president’s back.
“No!” Mathews screamed, stumbling into Etheridge. At the exact instant Mathews’ body hit the president’s, the back of Mathews’ head exploded. Scalp, brains, and blood sprayed over everything and everyone.
Chapin threw himself onto Mathews’ already dead body and sent them both into Etheridge. The president fell to the floor. Mathews’ body fell with him, landing on top of the president. Chapin’s momentum carried him to the floor, half covering the two men.
Pandemonium broke out everywhere. The screams of the crowd, the cries of the press, and the orders shouted from every agent’s throat only added to the chaos.
Then came the sounds of gunshots. Chapin did not react to them; he expected the sounds. It was important for people to think there had been a fight.
Two sets of hands pulled Chapin from the pile. In his earpiece Ben-Moshe said, “It’s over. Shalom, my friend.”
He looked up to the rooftop and shook his head. It wasn’t over yet. There was still Sokova.
He turned back to the ongoing bedlam. Sanders was kneeling over the vice president. The back of Mathews’ head was gone, but his face was intact. The bullet that had killed him had entered the center of his forehead. Mathews’ eyes were open, in shock and surprise.
Sanders looked up at the building to the right of the raised platform. Then he looked at Chapin. Chapin pointed to the building on the left. “From up there.”
Sanders hesitated, and then nodded; President Etheridge stared at the dead man while two of his Secret Service agents began to lead him from the platform.
Prime Minister Ishizaka was accorded the same protection. Just as the two heads of state reached the edge of the platform, a helicopter zoomed into view.
Chapin went to Sanders and pulled him aside. “Have the chopper go to the roof,” he said, pointing to the building where the dead sniper was.
“It’s not mine,” Sanders said. “Must be the police.”
“No” came a familiar voice, “it’s ours.”
Chapin stiffened, and turned. He met the piercing blue eyes of the speaker, and took a half step forward.
“Everything is covered,” said General Thomas Audoban, Deputy Director of the CIA.
“You knew?” Chapin asked, unable to pull his eyes from the general’s.
“Not all. We can’t talk here. We need to go elsewhere.”
Chapin agreed. He looked over his shoulder, and spotted Brannigan at the edge of the platform. Her eyes were worried. He waved, motioning her to come around and meet him.
“Yes, we have to get out of here. This isn’t finished yet,” he added.
“Where?” the general asked. “Washington.”
<><><>
The CIA Lear Jet sped toward Washington. Chapin and Brannigan sat together, across from the general. Constant reports blistered the loudspeaker system, mostly updates from the media.
Word spread swiftly of how Vice-President Robert Mathews had given up his life to save the president. Mathews was a hero, a martyr, and a man who had sacrificed himself for the benefit of his country.
Chapin’s plan had worked to perfection. No one had seen him bump the vice president. No report had been issued about the killing, other than the sniper had been killed within moments of firing the fatal shot.
During the first half hour of the flight, Chapin had given the general a full report of what had happened during the past few weeks, ending with, “Tanaka was the key. I don’t think that Sanders would have let me on the platform without her help.”
“You’re right, to a degree. But it wasn’t Tanaka; it was me.”
Chapin had suspected as much, as soon as he’d seen the general. “But you believed I’d been turned. Why did you back me up now?”
“Again, Tanaka. She was the only one who stood for you. No matter what was said or what orders were given, she defended you.”
The general shifted in his seat. “I didn’t know where you were, or if you were even alive, until Tanaka discovered you in Israel and brought me an intercepted Mossad transmission.”
“But you did nothing.”
“What could I do,” the general snapped. “I wanted to help you. The proof was there, yes, but so was Sokova. I knew Sokova had at least one person in The Company, possibly more. I couldn’t take the chance of him learning about you, so I had to content myself with waiting.”
“And if we hadn’t been able to pull this off, then what?” Chapin asked.
The general held Chapin’s challenging stare. “But you did, and nicely.”
Chapin was unmoved by the general’s words. The compliment bounced off him, leaving him empty. He remained silent.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, the general said, “So Tanaka worked it alone, verifying or trying to verify everything you said about Sokova’s plan.
“Ten days ago, I called the Mossad and arranged a meeting.” The general half turned, nodding to the man sitting next to him. Du
vid Lumel, the assistant director of the Mossad, returned the nod.
“I spoke with Duvid. He confirmed everything Tanaka had told me. He explained the situation and your plan. There was no possible way I could intervene without tipping Sokova. You damned well know we couldn’t take an active part in the operation. How the hell could the CIA be a part of the assassination of the vice president?”
“You couldn’t, of course. Did Tanaka know?”
“No, she didn’t know I had been in contact with the Mossad. No one did. When you called this morning, you forced her into making a difficult decision. But your faith in her was warranted. She called me to let me know you called. I took it from there, and spoke with Sanders.”
Chapin looked at Duvid Lumel. “Did Eli know about this?”
Lumel shook his head. “It was between myself and the general and my prime minister. I’m sorry, Kevin, there was no choice. To do what we did today, without bringing your people in on it, would have been an act of insanity. Your plan was magnificent. It accomplished everything necessary; but, to have you come in cold would have meant failure. No one, not us, and not even you, could have pulled this off without the help of your people.”
“What if the general was one of Sokova’s people?” Chapin asked in a low voice.
“You should have known better than that.”
Raking his eyes across the Israeli’s face, Chapin then stared at the deputy director. “No, not then. Now, yes, because I know who Sokova is.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
Georgetown: Washington, D. C.
They parked the car on Dunbarton, just off the corner of Thirty-First Street. They were four blocks from the Potomac River, and across the river from Arlington National Cemetery.
After a slow drive by, passing the hundred-and-thirty-year-old Georgetown house, the driver had stopped the car on the corner diagonally across and a half a block away from the large house.
Carved granite stone and glass with a slate roof, the house was set a hundred feet behind a six-foot brick fence topped with curved wrought iron. It looked every day of its age beneath the yellow cast of the full winter moon. Chapin sensed something evil about the house, something that had corrupted and eaten its way from the inside out.
His stomach was queasy. The ramifications of the next hours were unfathomable. He thought back to the beginning, realizing that while it had only been less than a half-year since he’d gone into Russia, it felt as though he had spent half his life involved with Sokova.
Hopefully, it would end in a little while. Hopefully, because everything that was about to happen was based on his conclusions. There was no real proof who Sokova was, only his inner knowledge of being right.
If he was wrong…. No, he would not permit himself to think that. What he had to do tonight was prove he was right.
He thought about Brannigan, and their last talk. She was waiting for him at her apartment. Their future determined by what he would do in Georgetown, now, and in her apartment, later.
“Ready?”
Chapin turned to the speaker. Alex Kanter was the Secret Service’s overseeing supervisor for the agency’s Washington zone. Because they had to play this by the rules, if they were to take Sokova the right way, the Secret Service and not the CIA had to run the operation.
Chapin, now back on active status, was for legal purposes working under the Secret Service’s powers. However, he was in charge of all aspects of the Sokova arrest.
“Run a test,” Chapin told the man sitting in the right front passenger seat.
“Don’t talk,” the man said as he turned a dial on the machine on his lap. The inside of the black sedan filled with the sound of Chapin’s heartbeat and breathing. After a few seconds, and the man’s playing with a different dial, the sound of his heart faded to a low background noise.
When the man was satisfied, he said, “I’m using a low level interactive filter to mute your heartbeat. But, every word you speak and every word spoken within twenty feet will be picked up.”
Chapin nodded. The tape holding the microphone to his chest pulled at his hair. He ignored it.
“I’ll go to the gate with you,” Kanter said.
“No. I go alone.”
“But if he has someone there?”
“He won’t. Sokova knows that to survive and get away with what he’s done, he can’t do anything out of the ordinary. No one has seen or heard from him since the assassination, which is in character for a man who has suffered a traumatic loss. He must play out his part; it’s the only way for him to survive.”
Kanter nodded. The man’s eyes were uneasy. An experienced agent did not like going into the unknown; and inside the old house was just that—the unknown.
Chapin slipped the Browning from its shoulder holster and popped the clip. He checked the load, replaced the clip, chambered a round and re-holstered the weapon.
Kanter then handed him the blue backed paper. “We’re doing this by the book. The warrant is legal.”
Chapin took the warrant and put it in his inside pocket. He opened the door and stepped into the cold night.
The wind blew in off the Potomac like a cold hand pushing against his skin. Without looking back at the car, he started the three-hundred-foot walk.
The block was empty because of the hour. Most of the town houses and single family homes were darkened. His footsteps were dull and muted.
He stopped across the street from the house to study it. The driveway curved in front of the house, passing the double doors and then turning toward the garage, which was set twenty feet away from the house. The wide wrought iron gate was closed. The windows on both sides of the doors showed the low glow of lights inside.
Crossing the street, Chapin went to the gate. He found the digital code box set into the masonry and entered the code the agency had pulled from the police computer.
The gate opened, and he stepped inside. Another gust of wind sent a chill through his body. He walked along the driveway, slowly, looking everywhere, letting his senses expand and feel for danger. He sensed none.
The landscaping was perfect. Even as the winter drew to an end, the grass looked manicured, and the bushes neatly trimmed.
But that was the way everything was supposed to look. Perfect. Just the way it had for well over a hundred years.
Chapin reached the door and stopped. He started to draw his weapon, but changed his mind; instead, he put his hand on the doorknob and tested it.
The knob turned: he opened the door.
The strains of Tchaikovsky floated in the air.
The hallway was empty. Light came from an overhead brass-and-glass fixture. The hallway floor was gray slate; the walls covered in hand painted wallpaper.
“I’m going in,” he whispered.
He followed the sound of music, stopping at each doorway to make sure nothing lurked inside. As he approached the room from which the music emanated, his heart beat faster. He wondered if the technician was hearing the accelerated beating, or if the audio filter was working properly.
He reached the doorway and paused. His mouth was dry, his muscles taut. He stepped into the doorway and looked inside.
The lighting in the room was low, except for the erratic glow coming from the marble fireplace. The man sitting in the club chair stared at the fire, and did not seem aware of Chapin.
Chapin held still, studying the man’s profile, watching the face shift and change in the reflective light from the fire.
Tchaikovsky ended, and the only sound remaining was that of the fire.
“The Sokova Convention,” Chapin said, stepping inside.
Walter Hirshorne turned to face Chapin. He said nothing.
“It was brilliant,” Chapin said, “truly brilliant. Every move perfectly orchestrated. It was, indeed, as if you were playing a game of chess. On the flight here, from the coast, I thought about it a great deal. The most amazing aspect of all was how an intelligence operation could be kept so completely secret.”
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“It wasn’t that hard,” Hirshorne said, admitting everything with those four words.
Chapin’s hatred and anger flared so strongly he knew if he did not master it, he would kill the man now. He took a deep breath, and fought for the control of his emotions.
“It wasn’t that easy,” he said, seconds later.
Hirshorne half nodded, accepting the compliment. He started to speak, and then stopped. Chapin saw indecision in his eyes. His face was old; the lines and wrinkles deep. It amazed Chapin to think that this man was the mastermind who had almost defeated an entire country.
“Even after discovering what you had done, it took me a long time to figure out how you were able to do it. It was only when I worked out all your moves, all the subtle strategies, that I was able to discover who Sokova was.
“And I have to admit, your convention was the consummate long range plan, from the kidnapping through to the substitution. You set about accomplishing the impossible, and you almost succeeded.”
Chapin saw Hirshorne’s eyes brighten. The man shifted slightly in the wide-armed club seat. “But you didn’t see the one aspect that started it, did you?”
Chapin stared at him, wondering what he meant. “What?”
“The kidnapping wasn’t part of it. In fact, I had no plan at that point. Then came the kidnapping by that madman. As I lay on the floor, stunned but conscious, Robert was being born, and with him, the plan. And the plan was perfect.
“I spent the two years following the birth working out every aspect. You see, I had to make sure that both boys were identical. There was no way of telling, except with time.
“While I raised Robert as my son—just the way Michael had asked in his will—I made sure that his brother was being raised in a similar way.”
Chapin saw his hands shaking. A moment later, Hirshorne clasped his hands and placed them on his lap.
“During the third year, the installation in the Pamirs was being constructed. It was a tremendously large undertaking, and took another two years to complete.”
Chapin interrupted him. “That’s a part I’m not quite clear on. It took a lot people to build the installation. How could you make sure they wouldn’t talk about it?”
