The Windchime Legacy Page 8

  “I will be in a better position to answer that after I have examined this information carefully. I will need one day,” Kuradin said.

  “The Central Committee conveyed one more opinion, which I have neglected to tell you,” Travkin said. “They feel, after carefully reviewing the dossier, that Dr. Bridges is not essential to our program. We are interested in his information only, not him.

  “The committee felt that he had expanded his own role and contributions to the program.”

  Kuradin’s expression did not change. “That will certainly make my job much easier. But what if his information is in some personalized code or partially in his head?”

  “In that case, we will need him, too,” Travkin answered. “It will be up to you to make that decision when you meet him. You should plan for either eventuality.”

  Kuradin nodded his head in agreement.

  “You should have everything here that you will need. I will contact you tomorrow evening at the same time. If you need anything additional, let me know at that time, and I will see that you get it. This is top priority. Everything is at your disposal.”

  Travkin rose, as if to leave, Kuradin rising with him.

  “One more thing, Alexi.” Travkin paused, so that Kuradin’s attention would be on his next words. “Pay especially close attention to the file on the three code names we’ve obtained from England. Our facts on their activities bear out Dr. Bridges’s claim of the existence of a secret intelligence agency. We have linked at least eight encounters to them. All, except one, were failures. The evidence weighs heavily in favor of its existence.

  “The one mission that did not fail involved one of our very best agents. It nearly ended like the others. It was one year ago, in England.”

  He watched the eyes of Centaur.

  Kuradin sat back down, staring intensely at the floor. He began to rub the stub that was once the little finger of his left hand. His mind was back in England. He again felt the impact as the bullet hit the steering wheel after going through the windshield. It deflected downward hitting him in the left thigh.

  He recalled the paralyzing moments after the impact, when the hand would not function, and felt again the searing pain in his leg. It was only after he had gotten to safety that he was able to assess the extent of his wounds. The finger was gone, and the thigh only superficially wounded.

  Kuradin was sweating now. He could feel the fear gripping his stomach, as it had when the door was kicked in and the courier was shot. He continued rubbing the finger.

  “There was an Englishman…I thought later that maybe he was—”

  “An American, Alexi,” Travkin cut in. “An American, code named Pilgrim, who shot at you and almost killed you that day.”

  There was a pensive, faraway look on Kuradin’s face. “An American? Pilgrim.”

  “What are your thoughts concerning him?” Travkin asked.

  Kuradin rose and walked to the window. He brushed aside the heavy curtain and looked out at the snow.

  “I’ve thought about him often. I’ve asked myself a thousand times whether he could be better than me. How could he have known? He came so close to killing me…to beating me.”

  Kuradin turned to face Travkin. “He only fired at me once. He had another clear shot, but never took it. I kept waiting for the bullet to come crashing into me. It never came. I’ve wondered why.” He turned back to the window and the snow.

  “I could feel him. Two days before the final arrangements were made with the courier, I could feel him close to me. Every step I took away brought him one step closer. I could sense him just behind me. And then he was ahead of me, waiting.

  “I thought that perhaps he had followed the courier. Perhaps he had, but I had sensed his presence long before. When he kicked in that door, I knew it was him, coming for me. I was lucky.” He wiped the sweat away from his lip and forehead.

  “The mission was a success, Alexi. You won the encounter, not Pilgrim,” Travkin said.

  “Did I? I wonder.” His eyes gazed off. “Yes, I got the information. I got away safely, or at least alive. But I shouldn’t have. He had me. I should have lost and died that day.”

  His hand ached, he rubbed it gently. Then a sudden nervous sensation flooded through him. He realized what Travkin was trying to tell him. He stared hard into Travkin’s eyes.

  Yes, the computer was American…and Pilgrim was American. It was possible. An encounter.

  Kuradin nodded his head. “Don’t worry, Leonid. I shall plan carefully to account for him and his computer…if it exists.”

  He would not lose a second time to Pilgrim. This victory would be clean and complete. There would be no failure in the rematch.

  “I will see you tomorrow, Alexi. Sleep well, my friend,” Travkin said as he left the room. He closed the door behind him.

  As he walked down the stairs, he thought about how tired and frail his friend looked. He seemed so much older than he had a year ago. But he had always seemed small and weak. It was a wonder that he could bear the enormous weight of the responsibility thrust upon his shoulders. He knew that, beneath the frail body, was the strength of heart and courage of a great bear. He would win again, as always.

  Kuradin stared at the door for several long moments after Travkin had left. He wondered whether Travkin knew that he was dying. His condition was terminal, maybe twelve months, eighteen at the most. He was so tired of this business. He only wanted to spend his last days with his daughter and grandchildren.

  They should only know what their grandfather does for a living, he thought. His precious grandchildren.

  But he loved his country, his mother Russia. He would do this one last thing for her, then spend his remaining time playing with his grandchildren, telling them stories about the old Russia and how it came to be the great country that it now was, and of all the wonderful things that the future would hold for them—the future that he was about to help make.

  He picked up the stacks of information, a pad, and some pencils. The small room was equipped with everything he’d need.

  He put the room into complete darkness except for a reading light over the bed. He fluffed up the pillows and settled himself comfortably against them. He picked up the first attached stack of papers. The cover sheet bore the single word: SENTINEL.

  He would assume that it did exist, and that it was possessed of massive intelligence and flawless logic.

  How do you beat a computer? he wondered.

  He thought.

  Logic was its strength. Logic, he thought.

  Logic…and speed.

  Yes, of course. Logic…and speed, its two greatest assets. They could also be the means by which to defeat it.

  NINE

  On 1 September, 1939, we attacked Poland. The campaign lasted 37 days. Between 10 May and 25 June, 1940, we utterly destroyed the Anglo-French military lineup in the West. We occupied Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, and France.

  To the world, we seemed invincible. But in reality we had suffered critical losses. Almost 50,000 killed, over 110,000 wounded. Our Navy had taken savage losses during the Norwegian campaign; our airborne forces were nearly decimated in the successful action in the West; and the Luftwaffe had failed to win control of the skies over England.

  The war went on, and it became evident that the German army could not win in a war of attrition.

  The solution lay in the East. On 22 June, 1941, we invaded Russia.

  Entry No. 18 from the partially

  recovered Wolf Journal

  The Learjet had put down on a private airfield, code named Brighton, just outside of Huntington, about sixty miles north of London. From there Justin and Fanning drove west, to where Spartan had lived, just on the outskirts of Coventry.

  They made a slow pass at the house, as Fanning quickly appraised the grounds. The house was completely dark, only fairly well isolated. Neighboring houses on either side were easily distinguishable, which meant that they would have to use blackout panels on
the windows before they could conduct their search.

  They continued about a half mile past the house, then stopped the car.

  “SENTINEL Control, this is Badger,” Fanning said.

  BEEP!

  The tone in his implant told him that SENTINEL Control was in contact.

  “What do your sensor scans show?” he asked.

  “Sensors indicate the property to be clear of personnel. Your drive by was observed by satellite. Sensors also show house to be still heated. Temperature in study area of house is seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. The remainder of the house at sixty to sixty-four degrees.”

  “We’ll be leaving the car here. Do you have our position?” asked Fanning.

  “Yes,” the soft voice replied.

  “Keep the car under continuous sensor scan. We will be going in via the adjacent northside property.

  “We are breaking verbal contact until internal scanning for electronic devices is completed.”

  “Understood.”

  They were on their own now, unless sensors picked up unusual readings. SENTINEL Control would break silence only for an emergency.

  They made no noise as they crept slowly through the adjoining properties. Silence depended on slow progress.

  Each man carried one large black canvas sack, containing various pieces of electronic apparatuses. They made one final scan of the property and set up automatic scanners at four points around the house. This would allow for continual surveillance of the entire property and alert them in the event that anyone should approach the house.

  From the floor plan that had been supplied, they determined that the best point of entry would be through a back door that led directly to a large basement.

  Scanner checks showed no intruder-detecting devices on the door. They went in.

  Fifteen minutes later, they had established that there were no electronic devices installed in the house. They went to the study and put black felt panels, held firmly in place by adhesive strips, over the windows. When this was completed, they turned on the fluorescent desk lamp. From the outside, there would be no trace of light.

  “That’s not enough light, Ted. Turn on that overhead light,” Justin said, pointing to the wall switch. The room flooded instantly with light. They looked around the large study with its huge wall library.

  The attention of both of them was immediately drawn to the shattered door of the bathroom, just off the back corner of the room.

  “That room may have a window,” Fanning said, as he flicked off the overhead light. The room was again bathed in a dull light from the old fluorescent lamp. The door looked even worse in the dim glow.

  Justin pushed the shattered bathroom door open. There was a small window with thick opaque glass. He put a felt blackout panel over it, then turned on the light.

  The floor was covered with dried blood with a great many footprints smeared through it. An obviously sloppy attempt had been made to pick up some of the blood on the floor, probably when the body was taken away. It looked as if the room hadn’t been touched otherwise since the killing.

  The blood-splattered walls and toilet were pockmarked by the portions of the shotgun blasts that had missed Spartan. Neither man said a word.

  They returned to the study.

  “Well, where do we start?” asked Fanning.

  “I guess in here. He was obviously in this room last,” Justin said. He looked at the high library wall. “Jesus, it could be anywhere. All in one piece or in a hundred different pieces. Well, let’s get started. It ain’t getting done standing here.”

  Four hours later, they had gone through the room completely and found nothing. Justin had gone through every single book on the shelves, and Fanning had checked every square inch of the study. Nothing.

  They had worked without interruption except for the quick alerts by the ground sensors. Twice, dogs had crossed the property. Body temperature and mass were immediately determined by satellite sensors, and the all clear signal given to resume work.

  They had about an hour and a half left before the sun would begin to rise. They could work right through the next day, as long as no one approached the house. The ground sensors were well concealed, so they would not attract attention. The car would not attract attention, either, as it was parked well off the road. They just had to remove the blackout panels before the sun came up. In daylight, they could be seen.

  Fanning sat behind the desk, Justin on a chair to the side of the desk. They were tired. They had gotten very little rest since leaving Chicago.

  “Maybe there’s some kind of a secret panel on this desk, somewhere,” Fanning suggested.

  They had been all through that desk earlier and found nothing but another dusty old fluorescent desk lamp that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, and several small notebooks containing some notes on improvements made to the house and property.

  Fanning looked across the top of the desk once more. It was typical, nothing unusual: the old desk lamp, desk pad, calendar, stapler, humidor, various stacks of bill receipts, a paperweight made of poured plexiglass containing about twenty-five shiny new American copper pennies. He shook his head and let out a disgusted sigh.

  He opened the humidor and looked inside. “He won’t be needing these anymore,” he said, as he reached in and scooped out a fistful of cigars. “Want one?” he asked Justin.

  “No. And you better not, either,” Justin said as Fanning was about to unwrap one. “That thing will smell for days in here. If anyone shows up, they’ll know someone’s been here.”

  “Think I ought to put these back?” Fanning asked.

  “Nah, I don’t think that will make a difference. I’m surprised someone hasn’t taken them already,” Justin said.

  “I think you were right, Justin,” Fanning broke in. “I think the assassin killed him for the information and took it with him. There’s not a trace of it, anywhere. Maybe he’s the one who burned it in the fireplace. Maybe Billy didn’t have a chance to translate it all and got wasted before he could finish it. One thing’s certain,” he concluded, “that journal is not in this room.”

  Justin nodded tiredly. “Well, let’s get started on the rest of the house. It’ll be daylight soon, and I want to get this job over with. This place gives me the creeps.”

  At his Paris apartment, Dmitri Chakhovsky sat quite still, with the paper bearing the decoded message from Starling in his lap. His breakfast lay untouched.

  It was all gone now. Everything. The twenty-three years of service, the victories, the decorations, and the accolades. It was all down the tube now. In a matter of a few days, they would quietly come for him. He would be taken back to Russia like a common criminal.

  He looked down at the message and read it once again.

  “Illya Bodonov taken by Trushenko. Reason for arrest unknown. Sister taken as well. Kutz to interrogate. Will advise as more becomes known. Starling.”

  Chakhovsky knew why Bodonov had been taken. He knew Kutz and his methods. Bodonov would be broken and would confess to anything put before him. There was no chance of defense against the charges Trushenko would bring against him within the next few days. He must run.

  He had planned very carefully for the worst of possibilities. And they could be no worse now. He was ready.

  He called his consulate and talked to his secretary. He informed her that his trip to the south of France would start that morning. This would give him two days before he was discovered missing.

  His rank bore him certain privileges, one of which was the ability to move about freely. He left his apartment and took official transportation to the train station. He boarded the train, secured his luggage and compartment, and waited for departure. When the train finally pulled away, Dmitri Chakhovsky was not on it.

  He carefully made his way back through Paris over an elaborate route designed to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. He was free, with at least two days of safe time in which to complete his plans for defecting to t
he West.

  He carefully scanned the streets and windows as he walked. He could pick out KGB faces as if they were wearing a sign.

  The late morning air was wet and cold. The rain had stopped only minutes ago. His breath hung before him in the cold air. He came to a phone booth and stepped inside. He didn’t feel very well. There was an uncomfortable ache in his neck and a tightness in his chest.

  The Russian picked up the phone and dialed a number. Tiny beads of sweat began to form on his face.

  “Hello?” the other end of the phone crackled.

  “Henri?” Chakhovsky asked.

  “Yes, this is Henri. Who is this calling, please?” the voice asked.

  “This is Joseph. I need your help now,” Chakhovsky said, using the prearranged code name.

  Henri’s face flushed. He hadn’t expected this call so soon. It was only two days ago that he had received his instructions from Joseph.

  “Ah…ah…yes. What…ah, what can I do?” he stammered, his still-confused brain trying to recall the instructions. “Where are you? I will come right away,” he said.

  “No, Henri, you must not come to me,” Chakhovsky said quickly. “You must take the letter that I gave you to the United States consulate. Do you have it?”

  “Yes, I have it, my friend,” Henri said.

  “Good…good. You must take it there now. See that it gets to Robert Morsand. Only to him. Do you have the name?”

  “Yes, Robert Morsand,” Henri repeated.

  “It must be given only to him,” Chakhovsky instructed.

  “Yes, my friend. I know exactly what to do. I will not fail you. I will leave at this very moment.”

  Chakhovsky was soaked with perspiration; beads of sweat rolled down his face. The air was getting heavy, hard to breathe in the little booth.

  “Thank you, Henri. I shall never forget this,” the Russian said.

  The phone clicked dead.

  Chakhovsky remained in the phone booth. He was sweating heavily now. A feeling of weakness was taking over his body. The pains had never been this severe before. He took out a small bottle and placed one of the tiny pills under his tongue.