The Windchime Legacy

by A. W. Mykel

  “Yeah, I think I will,” he said, not really wanting to. They’d always remind him of Ted and what had happened. And he wanted to forget all that. Forever.

  The three-man debriefing team of Richard Wyatt, Dr. Peter Bell, and Victor Bishoff was seated in front of a bank of closed-circuit television monitors. The monitors showed Kuradin from four different positions. Bishoff watched them intently as the debriefing progressed.

  Also in front of them were banks of the same physiological monitors that had been used during the Chakhovsky debriefings. Bell studied these carefully.

  Kuradin’s condition had been stabilized to the point where his platelet and white-cell counts had risen high enough to start him on the D-80 desensitization program.

  Two intravenous tubes ran into him simultaneously. One delivered whole blood, the other ran a glucose solution, to which a low concentration of D-80 had been added.

  The levels of D-80 being fed into his system were gradually increased, as his body showed the necessary tolerance for it. He wasn’t as drug sensitive as many of the people on whom the drug had been tried in the past. This meant that the desensitization program could proceed at a fairly rapid rate. Within the next three or four weeks, he would be started on massive doses to begin battling the leukemic cells that were steadily eating his life away.

  Dr. Becker Dials had had several consultations with the Russian before the debriefings were started. Dials had been very frank with him. Kuradin knew he was dying and that chances of going into a long-term third remission weren’t very promising.

  Kuradin was allowed several days to adjust to what Dials had told him. He didn’t really need the time. He had already accepted his fate before going on the mission. In fact, it was an important part of the final contingency as he had planned it.

  When the debriefings had begun three days before, the panel had found him to be very cooperative. This surprised Wyatt, who had been prepared to go at him relentlessly, pounding away at him, until he got the information he needed.

  The even levels on the physiological monitors told them that he was answering all of their questions truthfully.

  They didn’t know, however, that Kuradin’s special training enabled him to control these telltale factors with remarkable ease. As long as he knew what to expect, he could maintain that consistent performance through any number of sessions. It was the sudden surprises that he had to look out for. Control of this nature required intense mental preparation. Surprises did not afford the necessary luxury of the preparation time he needed to keep up the game effectively. But Kuradin’s mind was quick. He could sift through alternatives nimbly, to improvise his way through such situations.

  Kuradin had given his name as being Mikhail Yarin, the real name of Phoenix. The debriefings had started with the careful accumulation of personal data, which was checked against the information obtained in Russia by Eagle, before his capture. Everything matched exactly, right down to the smallest detail.

  The first twenty minutes of this particular session had been used to review and clarify some of that data.

  “And in England, Mr. Yarin. What was your objective there?” Wyatt questioned.

  “I was to meet a courier who was carrying information wanted in Moscow. I was to pay him a certain sum of money and take the papers into my possession. A copy was to be put on microfilm, to be dead-dropped for a second agent, in case I ran into difficulties getting out of the country.”

  “Did you get the information that you were after?” Wyatt asked.

  “No. The courier arrived and the exchange was made, but we were broken in upon as I was photographing the papers. There was a struggle in the darkness, and I lost the camera. I was unable to find it or the papers before running. There was no time. It all happened very quickly.”

  The monitors remained steady.

  “Did you know what was on those papers?”

  “No,” Kuradin answered. “I got a look at them before I began photographing them, but they were in code. I remember that it was set in groupings of six letters, with five or six columns of code to each page. I didn’t remember any of the actual letter sequences. There were too many of them to even attempt it.”

  The monitors again registered their easy tracking.

  “Do the names Pilgrim, Badger, and Spartan mean anything to you?” Wyatt questioned.

  “Yes. The first name, Pilgrim, was the man who broke in on the transaction in England.” Kuradin went on to explain how the Pilgrim connection had been made. He answered all of Wyatt’s questions pertaining to the Soviets’ knowledge of SENTINEL. He explained what had been learned from the earlier contacts with Bridges and told them about the proof he had offered listing the exact locations of missile installations, the Siska-class submarine deployment and armament, and the list of highly placed KGB agents within the United States government agencies.

  “All of his information was correct, to the smallest detail. That was why we dared use only sleeper agents in the operation, with the one exception of Otto Ten Braak,” Kuradin said.

  He explained his entire plan and the logic behind it, omitting, of course, the Phoenix file changes and his final contingency.

  “We conceded the power that SENTINEL possesses,” Kuradin said. “We needed to learn the basis of that intellect. How it was put together and how it worked. That’s what Dr. Bridges offered to us. That’s what I came for.”

  “Why didn’t you try to take Bridges out with you?” Wyatt asked.

  “Our investigations of him and the psychological profile compiled led our scientists to the conclusion that, aside from his information, he offered nothing more of interest. With his information, our scientists could essentially build another SENTINEL,” Kuradin explained.

  “Were any other copies of the information to be made, had you been able to get the film processed?”

  “No. Only one set of microdots, to be implanted exactly as the unprocessed film had been. This was in case I was killed. Moscow would attempt to recover my body. It was all worked out very carefully. It shouldn’t have failed.”

  “I have just one more question for you today, then we’ll close this session. Why did you remove the twenty-fifth page?”

  The monitors stayed smooth and even.

  “There was no twenty-fifth page,” Kuradin answered calmly. He had prepared for this question.

  “But there was, and you removed it,” Wyatt said.

  “No. The information was left exactly as it was given to us by Dr. Bridges,” Kuradin lied convincingly.

  “Did Dr. Bridges mention a twenty-fifth page, or that he had additional information with him?” Wyatt quizzed.

  “No,” Kuradin said, shaking his head, “he said nothing like that. He expressed his concern over the time that had lapsed since taking the information, and he explained the probable action that SENTINEL would take in locating him after it was discovered that he was missing.

  “I think that is where I would have to say the plan failed. Had his absence not been discovered until Monday, as planned, we would have succeeded. Ten Braak as well.”

  “That will be enough for today. Thank you, Mr. Yarin. Rest well.”

  Later, as the debriefing team reviewed the transcript of the session, they discussed Phoenix’s answers to the questions pertaining to the twenty-fifth page.

  “Well, what do you think, Pete? Was he telling the truth, or wasn’t he?” Wyatt asked Dr. Bell.

  “The monitors remained as steady as a rock,” Bell said. “We know that people can be taught to control these responses, but that question coming out of the blue like that should have caught him. I think he’s told us the truth right from the start. I believe that he never saw, or had any knowledge of that twenty-fifth page.”

  “Victor, what are your thoughts?” Wyatt asked.

  “I’ve got to agree, Dick. He’s been playing it straight in my opinion, right from the beginning. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in that face, or those eyes, to make me think that
he’s told us even a single lie.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Wyatt said. His next questions would be put to SENTINEL, who had also observed all monitors during the debriefing session.

  Robert Morsand sat waiting in the open-air café in Paris. He had been contacted by Pavel Yentik, a member of the Soviet KGB with whom he had dealt in the past, exchanging various bits of information of a mutually important nature. There were numerous occasions when Morsand and Yentik found themselves on the same side of a fragile situation, in which cooperation was required. They were enemies, yet friends. There was a strong abiding mutual respect between them. The two always engaged in a game of “knowing,” of producing little tidbits of a sensitive or personal nature, to demonstrate their ability to learn even the most mundane facts about one another.

  It was a clear, hot day. Summer had settled into France, leaving behind all the harsh memories of a particularly rough winter. It was now the middle of June, just over two months since the Chakhovsky fiasco had taken place.

  Their investigations had led nowhere. One big fat zero. Chakhovsky had simply vanished.

  Yentik approached Morsand from behind. He pulled a chair away from the small round table and sat down. The American eyed the Russian through the rising blue smoke of his pipe.

  “You’re getting old, Yentik. I heard you from at least thirty feet away,” Morsand said.

  Yentik smiled broadly. “And you have a few more gray hairs than the last time I saw you,” the Russian chided back.

  “I only color them that way to give you a false sense of security,” Morsand said, through the crunch on his pipe.

  “And I only make noise to keep from frightening an old man to death,” the Russian retorted.

  “What’s cooking, Yentik?” Morsand asked.

  “An exchange,” the Russian said, eyeing his American counterpart.

  Morsand chewed on his pipe and waved a finger to the waiter to bring another cup of espresso to the table.

  “I’m listening,” Morsand said.

  “We are interested in the return of Mikhail Yarin. In exchange, we will offer Vytas Limpoulous,” the Russian said.

  Both men fell into silence as the espresso was put on the table. Morsand used the break to empty his pipe and refill it—and to think.

  After the waiter had left, Morsand struck a match and began sucking life into his pipe again. “Who in the hell are they?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of either one of them.”

  “It only goes to show how little you know,” the Russian kidded again, in near-perfect English. “We are interested in an even trade, at a time and place of your choosing.”

  They must want him badly, Morsand thought. The Russians never gave an inch. Dealing with them was like trying to deal with an Arab for his sister. In the end it turned out that you usually got his camel, and he got your nuts.

  “What makes you think we want Limpoulous back?” Morsand asked, going along with the flow. He hoped to learn more about the names he was hearing for the first time.

  “Oh, you will want him back. We are sure of that. Bring this offer to your superiors. I am sure that they will show an interest,” the Russian said, sipping his espresso. “When you have word, contact me in the usual way.”

  Morsand didn’t like being on the short end of the information. True, he didn’t know everyone that the Russians held, but he did know the biggies. And he had never heard of Vytas Limpoulous before.

  “I’ll talk with them and let you know what they decide,” he said.

  The Russian nodded. “Good. Now, with business out of the way, how is your lovely family? I understand your daughter’s piano recital went quite well last week…”

  “They’ve offered a trade,” Honeycut said to Richard Wyatt. “They want Yarin back. They’re offering Eagle for him.”

  Wyatt squinted in contemplation.

  “What’s Yarin’s condition?” Honeycut asked.

  “He’s beginning to respond to the D-eighty protocol they’ve put him on. Dials thinks that he’ll obtain remission very shortly.”

  “Is there any more to be learned from him?” Honeycut asked.

  “I don’t think so. He’s been very cooperative so far. The monitors indicate that he’s told the truth all the way,” Wyatt answered.

  “Does SENTINEL agree?”

  “Yes. I think we’re in the clear on this one. There’s no doubt that we’ve got the same man that Pilgrim went up against in England. Everything fits perfectly.”

  “Yes, well it has fit perfectly from the start. We were also convinced that he was David Fromme in Beloit,” Honeycut said. “I wish that Chakhovsky was conscious, to identify him positively.”

  “Chakhovsky is still in deep coma,” Wyatt said. “Dials says that his life signs are very strong and that he could come out of it at any time. How much time do we have before a trade can be negotiated?”

  “About four weeks, I would guess. We know that Eagle is alive and that his implant is in place. They’re trying to break him now, we think by sensory deprivation techniques. SENTINEL has induced hypnosis in him, through the implant. They won’t get anything from him. They’ll have to keep him alive, they won’t want to risk blowing the exchange,” Honeycut said.

  “It follows that they would try to make the exchange, too, Irv. As far as they are aware, Yarin still has his film implant. They’re banking on still getting the information,” Wyatt said.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Dick. I think his state of health was calculated into the plan, to help influence our decision. I just wish Chakhovsky could get a look at him.

  “Do you think there’s any possibility of a second implant somewhere?” Honeycut asked.

  “No. SENTINEL has had him put through the body scanner. He’s clean from head to toe,” Wyatt said.

  “Well, then, I think we should proceed with the trade negotiations. We’ve got to get Eagle back before they find that implant. Given enough time, they will. They can’t learn too much from it, but possibly enough to allow them to start picking up our transmissions.

  “There is one large stumbling block, though,” Honeycut said. “The Russians approached Robert Morsand for the trade. They didn’t know where else to go. The CIA is aware that something is up. They’re turning over every stone to find out who Yarin and Eagle are.

  “We can take care of their interference from the top. It’s after the trade is completed that I’m worried about. Their curiosity will be aroused, especially after the Chakhovsky deal. It’ll be hell trying to keep it all covered neatly.”

  “We don’t have any other choice, do we? We’ve got to get Eagle back, and they want Yarin,” Wyatt said.

  “That’s right. We’ll handle it all right, it’ll just be sticky for a while.”

  “How do you want Yarin handled from this point?” Wyatt asked.

  “Continue the debriefings right up to the end. If it looks even the least bit shaky, we’ll put off the trade and try to handle it in another way,” Honeycut said.

  “All right, Irv. We’ll stay on Yarin to see if we can shake anything else loose. My guess is that we’re safe on this, though.”

  “Yes, I have to agree. Let’s keep the game up, though. Yarin is a smart cookie. I still don’t trust him.”

  “Well, we can fix it so that he’ll be dead within forty-eight hours after the trade. That’s got to improve our odds,” Wyatt said.

  “We may just do that, if it becomes necessary.”

  Justin and Barbara had toured through Europe as planned during the eight-week period. They had now come to their last stop. England.

  England has its own special beauty, but they were too exhausted to appreciate it fully. The weather was bad for the first two days, and they spent most of that time sleeping off the effects from the first eight weeks of travel.

  The third day was beautiful. England was beautiful. They were rested and ready to go.

  Barbara wanted to spend a day shopping in London. What she really wanted to do w
as to find the tobacconist who handled the cigars that Fanning had given Justin and to surprise him with a box. So, she announced that she’d be off on a shop for the entire morning and early afternoon.

  Justin welcomed the opportunity to tend to the business in the back of his mind. He took the car they had rented and made the hour’s drive out to Coventry, to Spartan’s house.

  He stopped the car in front of the driveway. There was a large for sale sign on a tree at the entrance. Justin looked back to the house and saw a small round man step out of the house onto the little front porch. He turned the car into the driveway and pulled up to the house.

  The old man was wearing gray pants and a gray sweater. He turned on the porch and cocked his head, to examine the tall, young man getting out of the car.

  “Good morning,” Justin said.

  “Mornin’ to ya,” the old man returned in his cockney baritone.

  “I see this house is for sale. Are you the agent listing the property?” Justin asked.

  The old man tilted his head to the other side, squinting from the morning sun in his face.

  “American, are ya?” he asked.

  Justin nodded and smiled.

  “So was the poor bastard that owned this place. Kilt he was. Right in here,” he said throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the house.

  He obviously wasn’t the agent.

  “Killed? An accident?” Justin asked.

  “It was no accident. Some one kilt ’im. With a shotgun. Real mess it was, too.”

  “Jesus,” Justin said in mock surprise.

  “They’ll never sell it, either,” the old man said. “No one wants a house that someone was kilt in. Ghosts, ya know?”

  “Are you the agent?”

  “No. I’m the caretaker. I keep it clean and keep up the grounds until it’s sold. Ya wouldn’t be interested in it, would ya?”

  “I might be. Can I look inside?” Justin asked.

  “Ya ain’t supposed to without the agent bein’ with ya,” the old man replied.

  “I only want to look. You can come in with me. If I like it, I’ll call the agent,” Justin said.

  The old man nodded. “But ya won’t like it. Got ghosts.”