by A. W. Mykel
“Okay. What have you got, Irv?”
“We’ve definitely confirmed that it was the Soviets, just minutes ago. Division Two has nailed it down. We’ve even got the identity of the assassin,” Honeycut said proudly.
“That’s truly amazing. I thought that the last time we spoke, you said Division Two had little or nothing to go on? How did they learn so much so suddenly?” the President asked.
“It’s actually quite simple, Mr. President. Nobody, but nobody, can go into a room and spend even a short time in it without leaving some traces of his being there. A good crime-scene investigation team looks for these signs, or clues, and puts the facts together. Division Two is not just a good crime-scene investigation team, they’re the best in the world. After going through all of the evidence, they realized that they had more than they figured on. They were able to get a positive ID on the assassin, and he works solely for the Soviets. No free-lance work for this operative. And, as careful as he was, our caller left enough for them to go on.
“In any event, we know who he is and have a reported location on him. After this is verified, a team will be dispatched to return the sentiment in an equal style,” Honeycut reported.
“Good,” the President said. “And Pilgrim and Badger? They’re safe?”
“Yes, Mr. President. They returned yesterday from England,” Honeycut said.
“Did they find the information?” he asked.
“No, sir, they didn’t. But we’re still convinced that it’s in the house. They searched every inch of that house thoroughly, but came up empty. We’re going to have to risk sending a Division Two team in there again,” Honeycut said.
“But we’ve already had a Division Two team in there. And they found nothing,” the President said.
“That’s right, sir, but they were under a severe time restriction, due to Scotland Yard’s involvement. And they were there more to ascertain what had happened and who had done it than to look for the information. We knew next to nothing about the information at that time, and we couldn’t risk spending any more time in the house. We absolutely must avoid getting British Intelligence involved in this. M15 would mess things up badly if they came into it now.”
“How much have you managed to learn about the information to this point?” the President asked.
“Well, Mr. President, we know a lot more now than we did when we last spoke. We know that it was a journal, handwritten in German, approximately ninety to a hundred pages long. We know that Spartan had been working on a translation of it during the period when we lost his transmissions. We are fairly confident that he completed his translation and managed to hide it before being killed. We’ve learned most of this from analyzing ashes taken from the fireplace. There’s a lot more to analyze on this yet, before SENTINEL comes up with something more definite,” Honeycut explained.
Nothing that SENTINEL could do surprised the President anymore. Ashes, especially large unbroken portions, could be analyzed and read almost as well as the original. SENTINEL could examine even smaller segments of ash and probably piece together more extensive portions of the original text than dreamed possible. It would simply go at the tiny specs of evidence like a jigsaw puzzle, patiently piecing them all together, or a fair portion of them at any rate. Probably enough to give an idea of the journal’s contents and significance.
“Well, that’s real fine, Irv. What about our ‘fifth man’? What have we got on that?”
“It’s been narrowed down to two. We think we know which is our man, but we need more data to back up our hunch,” Honeycut answered.
“We must be absolutely certain before taking action, Irv. There can be no doubt whatsoever in this. Do you think you can nail him down and be one-hundred-percent positive?”
“Nothing is one hundred percent, Mr. President. But I think I know a way to get us as close as possible. Have you been briefed on the attempted defection of a Russian named Dmitri Chakhovsky?” Honeycut asked the President.
“Yes, I have, just this morning by Shyleur Platt. He says he’s a pretty big fish, too. He expects all hell to break loose once we get him out of Paris and into our protective custody. You know, the usual ‘disinformation tactics,’ the cleverly discrete leak that he is actually a Soviet plant, intended to fill us full of misleading and false information. It’s their usual act when we get one of their big ones. Platt is convinced that he is real, though. What are your thoughts?” the President asked.
“Oh, he’s real, all right. You can bet the Washington Monument on that. In fact, he’s the man who invented ‘disinformation’ and restructured the entire Western European intelligence network. I think he can confirm, beyond the shadow of a doubt, who our ‘fifth man’ is.
“I’d like your okay to take him,” he said to the President.
There was a long moment of silence before the President responded.
“Platt has advised me that the CIA is pretty well along in a plan to get him out. We’ll have him in a few days if things work out for us, and we can get that information from him then. I think it would be a better idea if your people just played a backup role to assure the success of the CIA plan. Do you agree?” The President waited for Honeycut’s answer. He didn’t wait long.
“No, sir. The CIA can’t get him. It mustn’t happen,” Honeycut said.
“What do you mean by, ‘mustn’t happen’?” the President asked.
“I mean, sir, that we can’t allow it to happen.” Honeycut’s voice was firm and steady.
“And why not?” It was a voice responding to challenge.
“Because we don’t know exactly how much the Soviets know about Spartan, Pilgrim, and Badger. We don’t know whether they suspect or know anything about SENTINEL. They sure as hell know something about the agency. And I believe that, what they know about it, Chakhovsky knows about it. Spartan was killed in England. All of Pilgrim’s and Badger’s activities have been in Western Europe. It’s academic. If he knows, and I think that he does, then we can’t allow him to tell the CIA what he knows,” Honeycut summed up.
Jesus Christ, he’s right, thought the President. If Shyleur Platt and the CIA find out about SENTINEL and the agency, it will turn into a real witchhunt that will endanger the security of the whole program. That would take away SENTINEL’s biggest advantage—its secrecy. That had never occurred to him. “Well, now I know how you earn your pay, Irv. As usual, your judgment cannot be refuted. But how are you going to do it? The CIA is pretty well advanced in this plan. They’ve got him in a safe house that nobody can get near if they don’t want them to. It’s not going to be easy.”
“There will be a blizzard in Death Valley before the day comes when we can’t handle the CIA, Mr. President. It’s the Russians that I’m worried about. They outsmart the CIA on a regular basis. We don’t know how much they know about this situation, other than that they’re hunting for him now.
“The CIA has a pretty good man heading up the job in Robert Morsand. He’s good, real good. I wish we had him with us. But, fortunately, he’s surrounded by a bunch of dummies. He’s had good success with getting defectors out, but, when it comes to the real big fish, his average drops off. It’s not his fault, it’s his lack of backup.”
“Do you have enough operatives in France to pull it off?” the President asked.
“We’re going to have to minimize our potential losses again. I plan on sending Pilgrim and Badger in to get him. It works out well for us, too, because they’re two of our very best, and we optimize our chances with them. If they fail, at least the Russians won’t learn any more than they know already. And nobody will stand a better chance of pulling it off than they will.”
“Well, there’s good sense to that. You have my official go ahead, Irv. Bring him home,” the President said.
“There is just one more thing, Mr. President. My boys are going to want to know how to treat the CIA. I intend to tell them to consider them and the KGB as equal adversaries, with equal regard. That means that, i
f they have to, they’ll kill,” Honeycut said.
The President was silent. “But they’re Americans, Irv,” he said after the pause. “I won’t have Americans killing Americans.”
“Only as a last resort, Mr. President. They don’t want to kill their own countrymen, either, unless it means staying alive. They must have that freedom of operation, sir,” Honeycut insisted.
“You’re right, but I don’t like it. Only as a last resort.”
“Yes, Mr. President, only as a last resort. They will also have instructions to stop Chakhovsky if it looks like the CIA might get him. They will not permit it. If the Russians get him it doesn’t hurt us one bit. But the CIA must not get him.”
“Okay, Irv. It’s your show. Keep me posted at first news. I want to know the minute you hear,” the President said.
“I’ll do that, Mr. President. And don’t worry, we’ll try to handle them with kid gloves if we can.”
“Yes, thank you, Irv. I’ll hear from you, then.”
“Good-bye, Mr. President.” The phone went dead in his ear. He placed his phone down and pushed the white call button on his SENTINEL console.
“Yes, Mr. Honeycut,” the soft voice responded.
“Call in Pilgrim and Badger. We have another job for them.”
TWELVE
Despite our tremendous advances and crushing victories, Russia itself, the immensity of it, began to defeat us. The deeper we pushed, the further apart our three main armies were dispersed. The entire plan began to bend out of focus.
Our equipment suffered from the huge distances covered. The men grew fatigued. The Luftwaffe had more and more difficulty in giving support over such a vast terrain. There were no roads; everything turned to mud under the weight of our tanks as the fall rains came. There were no preestablished lines where our advance was to stop. There were no naturally defensible features along the line of our advance at which to make a stand. And there was great indecision and confusion in the High Command.
And, from the vastness, three more things rushed forth to hurl themselves at us: more Russian reserves than we thought possible; the Russian T-34 tank, which proved to be superior to our own; and, worse by far than all the rest, the cold of Russian winter.
Entry No. 21 from the partially
recovered Wolf Journal
It was Wednesday morning, the beginning of a beautiful April day. Justin’s Impala turned onto Susan’s block. He had come to see his son.
He stopped in front of the house and sat looking at it for a while. It had been their house before the divorce, before Jack.
He was only a visitor now. It stung inside.
It always hurt him to come here. Everything was filled with memories that had been happy once. But, no matter how good the memories started out, they always ended with the image of Susan, her legs spread around that stiff-pricked dentist, her tits hanging out and bouncing as she grasped frantically at Jack’s ass, helping him to enter her deeper on each thrust, the sounds of her passion, and the catlike smile on her face.
He had suspected it—that hurt; to know that it was true was crushing; but to watch it was devastating—the ultimate betrayal. Nothing had ever hurt so much for so long.
He reached the front door and rang the bell. He waited, trying to get the dark emotions to subside. A few moments passed, and he rang the bell again. He could hear it ring inside. He began to think that no one was home when his ears caught the sound of the chain latch being slipped off. The door opened.
Susan was in her bathrobe, her long blond hair dripping wet, her skin covered with beads of water. She had been in the shower.
“Hi,” he said.
She said nothing. Her eyes were cold, her expression hard. A few drips rolled down her chest and ran between her breasts.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pull you out of the shower. Can I come in?”
She remained silent and backed up a step, her “yes” to his question.
Justin knew that look. She was pissed off about something.
“Is Michael home?” he asked.
She stared at him icily. “No, my mother has taken him for the morning. Then she’ll take him right to school. He won’t be home until three thirty.”
She closed the door behind Justin.
“I forgot that he goes to school on Wednesdays,” Justin said.
“You forget a lot of things,” she said flatly.
Justin gave a puzzled squint. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“Where were you on Sunday?” she asked. “Did you forget about Sunday again?”
He was silent for a moment. “No, I didn’t forget. I was on a job that got stretched over from Saturday. I didn’t know that I’d be tied up or I wouldn’t have made plans to take him,” he said.
“Too tied up to get to a phone?” she quizzed bitingly.
He’d had no way of knowing when he had been called to Chicago that he’d be spending all of Sunday and Monday out of the country. Once he entered that office with Fanning, there was no way he could break communications silence until the mission was completed. That was standard procedure with the agency.
“I just couldn’t,” he said, shaking his head.
“Bullshit!” she yelled. “You can’t tell me that you were too busy to call your son to tell him that you weren’t coming.” She was starting to wind up. This was going to be a good one.
“I couldn’t get to a phone, Susan—”
“Don’t hand me that crock of shit, all right? I’ve heard it too many times.”
“It’s no crock. I absolutely couldn’t get away,” he insisted.
“It’s Wednesday, Justin. I suppose you were all tied up until now?” she asked sarcastically.
“I didn’t get back until late last night. It was too late to call. I came over first thing this morning. I didn’t forget, Susan.”
She shook her head with a look that could kill.
“Look, Susan, you don’t understand—”
“No, Justin, you look,” she interrupted. “It’s not me who doesn’t understand. It’s your son who doesn’t understand that you mean maybe when you say that you’re coming over to take him someplace. He’s only four years old. It was Sunday. You were supposed to be here. It was all he talked about all week.” She was speaking loudly, her eyes were beginning to dampen.
“He waited for you by that goddamned window all day,” she said, waving an arm forcefully toward the big picture window in the living room. The motion opened her robe slightly, exposing part of her right breast and most of her right thigh. “It was the most pathetic and heartbreaking thing to watch,” she said, the tears now building in her eyes.
“I knew you weren’t going to show up by the time lunch rolled around. But he wouldn’t hear any of it. He even made me give him his lunch in the living room, where he could watch the driveway for your car. He ate his dinner in there, too, Justin. And, when it got dark outside, every set of headlights that came up the street sent him running to the front door, shouting, ‘Mommy, Mommy, Daddy’s coming!’ Then he’d stand by the door waiting for the knock that never came. After a while, he’d go back to the window and press his face up against it to wait for you.”
The infinite trust and patience of innocence.
Justin felt terrible. It broke his heart to picture it. Susan’s words had scored.
“I…I would never hurt him intentionally,” he said.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” she raged, crying steadily now. “You’re a bastard for what you do to that boy. I’ll never forgive you for that, Justin. Never.”
“You don’t think that I’d hurt him on purpose, do you?” he asked.
“All I know is what I see. I saw that little face against the window all day, waiting for you. He believed every minute that you’d come. He even fell asleep by that window. When Jack carried him to bed, he mumbled, ‘Daddy’s coming,’ as he slept. You could have called. One lousy call to talk to him.”
“I’m sorry, Susan,” he a
pologized softly. He had a lot of things to be sorry for that he could never change. If he could have only told her about the agency and what he did, why it was important and necessary, she’d have understood. Maybe.
The apology didn’t soothe her. She had the upper hand now. She had him squirming, and she was enjoying it.
“Don’t tell it to me—tell it to your son. Maybe he’ll believe it, because I can’t. He thinks I can put Popeye or Spiderman on the television anytime he wants to see them. He doesn’t accept it when I tell him they’re on only at certain times. He doesn’t understand those things yet. He thinks every day can be a Sunday, because he wants it to be, and that you’ll be coming over. He asks me twenty times a day when you’re coming over. What do I tell him?
“He adores you, Justin. He deserves better from you. He spends his life waiting for Sundays…and you. And he’s just going to keep waiting…and waiting…and waiting—the same way I did.”
Justin was stung. He found himself fighting to keep his expression unchanged, but he was unable to.
Coming here, being here with her, was like running through a field of coiled barbed wire. It left him ripped and bleeding inside. He hated her, but he loved her; he wanted her, but he could never take her back.
This was their house now, hers and Jack’s, not his. She was Jack’s wife now, Jack’s lover now. And Michael? How long before he would call Jack “Daddy”? Then it would be complete. He should have killed the son-of-a-bitch when he caught them and accused him of raping his wife.
Then the words hit him again. “He spends his life waiting… and waiting—the same way I did.”
His face reddened and twisted.
Susan saw a look in his face that she had never seen before. It frightened her. She backed away a step.
“Waiting?” he began, the voice rising like a rumbling clap of thunder. “Like you waited? Tell me about how you waited, you whore.”
