Without Honor - 01

by David Hagberg

  “It’s just around the corner,” she said automatically.

  McGarvey put down the map. “You have been there?”

  “Yes. With Valentin,” she said defensively. “He sometimes took me there at night. To the referentura. He was showing me off.”

  The referentura in all Soviet embassies was the equivalent of a safe room or screened room. Physically and electronically secure from the rest of the facility, it was the room in which KGB plans were formulated and carried out. It was the heart of KGB operations in any country. Even Baranov had to have taken chances bringing her there. But then the Russian was young in those days. And brash?

  “Did you ever go over there with your husband?”

  Evita shook her head.

  “Did he ever go there alone to meet with Baranov?”

  “I don’t know. He never said and I never asked.”

  Traffic along the Avenida Juárez was heavy. Even over the blare of their muffler, they could hear the crowd noises from across the park. McGarvey waited for a break and then pulled out.

  “What are we going to do at the embassy?” Evita asked.

  “Maybe they’ll offer us a nightcap if they recognize you,” McGarvey said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. Still she was lying to him. Even now she was holding back, telling him only what she thought he wanted to hear at the moment. It was habit from a lifetime of lying. A lifetime of deceit for fear that she would be found out for what she really was; a poor silly girl without a mind of her own. He wanted to despise her, yet he found he couldn’t. If anything he felt sorry for her.

  He turned left on Lopez which ran along the east end of the park, then right onto the broad Calzada de Tacubaya after the traffic light changed. Behind them they could see the huge mass of the crowd completely filling the Avenida Hidalgo, several bonfires now lighting up the night sky, armed policemen behind barricades at all the corners leading toward the disturbance.

  The Russians would be pleased with this latest round of unrest. In 1971 they nearly succeeded in maneuvering Mexico into a civil war. This time it seemed possible they might succeed. Certainly the mood of the Mexican government was different now than it had been in 1971; more hostile toward the U.S., under seige this time because of falling oil prices, massive unemployment, and several devastating earthquakes over the past few years, not to mention the continuing strife over the drug issue.

  They passed behind the Palace of Fine Arts and across San Juan Letran, the main post office. A statue of Charles IV stood in front of the College of Mines. Traffic was moving at a breakneck pace. McGarvey wanted to slow down, but the drivers behind him honked their horns impatiently.

  “It’s number 204, behind the tall iron fence on the next block,” Evita said. “Valentin’s office will be on the second floor.”

  McGarvey pulled over out of traffic and parked across the street. The Soviet embassy was housed in an old Victorian villa complete with shuttered windows, ornate cupolas, tall brick chimneys, the roof bristling with antennae and aerials. Two light globes were perched above the entry gate, and inside the grounds were ablaze with light. Something big was happening at the embassy, something very big. McGarvey thought about the crises he had weathered at other embassies around the world. It was the same as this. Every window in the building was lit. The cipher machines would be running full tilt. Messages would be streaming back and forth between Moscow. The Mexican unrest, the missile crisis.

  A dark Ford van came down the avenue and turned in at the embassy gate. The driver flashed his headlights and moments later the gates swung open and the van drove through, the gates closing behind it.

  “He’s probably inside now,” Evita said in a small voice.

  McGarvey glanced at her. Her eyes were wide, her lips pursed. She was shivering. “There’s trouble. He’ll be preoccupied. Time now for him to make a mistake.”

  She shook her head. “He never makes mistakes.”

  “We’ll see,” McGarvey said.

  A man inside the compound came to the gate and looked across the street at them. He didn’t move. A second man joined him, they said something to each other, and he turned and went away.

  “They’ve seen us,” Evita said.

  “But they can’t know who we are. Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for? For Valentin to show up? Let’s get out of here. We can’t do anything.”

  McGarvey stared across at the other man for a long time. He wanted the Russians to see them. He wanted them to know they’d come. He wanted them to know that everything wasn’t going to go their way this time. At least in this one thing, Baranov was going to lose.

  “Please, Kirk,” Evita said. “I am becoming frightened.”

  “Where is the American embassy?” McGarvey asked. “Is it far from here?”

  “Not far,” she said. “On the Paseo de la Reforma. Back the way we came.”

  McGarvey put the car in gear, waited for a gap in the traffic, and made a U-turn so that they passed directly in front of the Soviet embassy gate. Evita turned her head so that she would not be seen, but McGarvey looked directly at the Russian guard. Tell Baranov I’ve come for him. Tell him it won’t be long now. And then they were past and turning again at the barricades blocking Hidalgo, the demonstration still building. Even more police had arrived, and they were anxiously directing traffic away from the park.

  The crowd had spilled clear across the park onto the Avenida Juárez. They had to drive two blocks farther south before they could turn back to the west past the Hotel Metropol.

  “What can you hope to accomplish here like this?” Evita asked. “Just driving around the city at night. Sooner or later someone will spot us. Valentin has his spies everywhere.”

  “I want him to know that we’re here.”

  “This is insanity!”

  “The insanity, Evita, has been going on for twenty-five years. I’m going to end it.”

  “It’ll end when you’re dead,” she cried. “He’ll kill us all, and in the end he’ll get his way.”

  She was beginning to come apart. It was too soon. He needed her for a little while longer. “Listen to me, Evita. You’re going to have to be strong, but just for a couple of days.”

  “I can’t,” she cried.

  “You won’t have to do a thing except make a phone call. One call tomorrow night. After that you can come back to New York. I promise you.”

  “Then what are we doing out here like this tonight?” she screeched. She held out her hand. “No, you don’t have to tell me, you bastard! You’re provoking him! You’re parading around his city with me. You’re showing him that you aren’t afraid of him. Well I am!”

  She was right. But he needed her. “I’ll put you on a plane first thing in the morning, if that’s what you want.”

  “You’re goddamned right that’s what I want!”

  “He and your husband will have won.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “And Juanita will be theirs. Body and soul. She’ll have about as much chance as you had.” He was thinking about his ex-wife, Kathleen, and his, daughter. They didn’t have much of a chance either. Maybe it was too late for them after all. Maybe he was charging at windmills. Maybe he should have remained with Marta in Switzerland. Lausanne seemed so terribly far away just now. Unattainable. Unreal. As if that part of his life had never occurred.

  “Oh, you bastard,” she said.

  “Forty-eight hours, maybe less,” he told her, turning the corner onto the Paseo de la Reforma. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

  A double row of tall trees lined the main boulevard, Mexico City’s most magnificent. Stone and bronze statues of national heroes seemed to be everywhere. It reminded McGarvey of Rome’s Via Vento or Paris’s Champs Elysées. He expected to see legions marching in broad phalanxes to the roar of cheering crowds.

  They came around a traffic circle at the center of which was a towering monument to Cristóbal Colón, which was the Span
ish name for Christopher Columbus. If anything, traffic was much heavier now. There seemed to be an urgency throughout the city. A stridency to the note of the horns, to the snarl of the engines, to the movement of the pedestrians crossing against the lights and in the middle of the blocks.

  Banners still proclaimed the opening of a new gallery in the Banco International next to the Hotel Continental and the statue of Cuauhtemoc, the last Aztec emperor, still rose above the intersection with Avenida Insurgentes—and all of it was cast in a violet glow from the streetlights. Mexico City was a pagan arena.

  They could hear the roar of the crowd before they could see it. Traffic began immediately to slow. Evita looked up and sat forward.

  “What is it now?” she asked.

  “I think it’s our embassy,” McGarvey replied absently as he looked for a place to turn around. He did not want to get caught in a traffic jam here.

  A blue and white police car, its lights flashing and its sirens blaring, raced past, followed by three ambulances. In the distance they could hear gunfire.

  “What’s happening?” Evita cried, holding her ears.

  Two canvas-covered army trucks roared up from a side street and careened around the traffic circle, pulling to a halt on the grass. Immediately two dozen armed soldiers leaped from the trucks and on their officer’s orders took up positions across the boulevard. Traffic came to a complete standstill and began to back up. A huge explosion lit the night sky with a tremendous flash and a heavy thump. A ball of fire rose from a building on the next block. Some of the soldiers looked over their shoulders, while others ran forward up the broad boulevard, motioning with their weapons for the cars and trucks to turn around. But it was impossible. Already traffic was backed up for several blocks.

  People began piling out of their cars, talking excitedly with each other, shouting at the soldiers and pointing toward the flames and sparks shooting up into the sky. In the distance, from all directions, it seemed, they could hear sirens converging on the scene of the explosion. McGarvey had little doubt that it was the American embassy. Already he was considering the danger he was in because of his nationality. Evita might get by, but he didn’t know more than a dozen words in Spanish. The mood of the crowd on this side of the army barrier was rapidly turning ugly. He’d found out what he wanted to find out in any event. The mood in Mexico City was rabidly anti-American, and the Soviet embassy had seemed to be on standby for an emergency.

  They were near the head of the traffic jam. McGarvey eased the Volkswagen out from behind a taxi and bumped slowly up onto the median strip, ignoring the shouts for him to go back. One of the soldiers rushed down from the traffic circle, brandishing his rifle and shouting for them to stop.

  “You’re sick,” McGarvey told Evita. “We have to get you to the hospital.”

  Evita’s eyes were wide. She looked from the advancing soldier to McGarvey and back.

  “Hospital! Hospital!” McGarvey shouted out the window.

  Another grim-faced soldier raced over. Evita suddenly held her gut and doubled over, screaming in what sounded like agony.

  McGarvey took his pistol out of his pocket and laid it on the seat beside his right leg. He’d come too far, he decided, to be caught like this without a fight.

  “Hospital,” he shouted out the window again. And Evita moaned as if she were half-dead. It was a convincing performance.

  A crowd was beginning to gather around them. The soldiers held a hurried conference and then stepped aside, waving McGarvey onto the traffic circle toward a side street that headed north.

  “Hospital de la Raza,” one soldier shouted. “De la Raza.” He was gesturing toward the north. “Insurgentes Norte,” he shouted as McGarvey passed.

  The other soldiers watched them curiously as they drove past. Before they turned up Calles Rhin, McGarvey got a clear view down the broad boulevard at the huge crowd. The front of the U.S. embassy had been blown away and had collapsed into the street. Half the block was engulfed in flames. Soldiers seemed to be everywhere. The sounds of gunfire were clearly audible over the screaming and shouting of the crowd, the sirens, and the blaring bullhorns warning the people back.

  They had to wait for three army trucks racing down from Avenida Lerma before they were able to cross and head back east, making a wide circle around the traffic backed up along the Paseo de la Reforma.

  “Where are we going now?” Evita shouted.

  “I want to see Baranov’s house,” McGarvey said, turning south along Avenida Bucareli. Traffic was heavy here, too, but in the opposite direction. The entire city, it seemed, was rushing toward the U.S. embassy.

  “You’re crazy. Let’s go to the airport. Now. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “First Baranov. And then we’ll return to the hotel and stay there, out of sight.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, Evita. We’ve come too far to be stopped now. He’s not going to win this time.”

  “He already has,” she cried. “It wasn’t the Russian embassy that was blown up. He’s won, can’t you see it? What use will it be if we’re killed?”

  McGarvey looked over at her. She had pinned up her long hair, but it was coming loose and hung in wisps around her face. She looked vulnerable. There was an hysterical edge to her voice now, and her eyes were a little wild.

  “Do you think it’ll make any difference if we return to New York? If he wants us, he’ll get us no matter where we are.”

  “Then what are we doing here?”

  “Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

  “And then you’ll kill him? Is that it? Is that what you’re doing here?”

  “If need be.”

  “But it’s not just him you’re after,” she said.

  “You want Darby, too, and maybe someone else. Is that it? Is there someone else? Another spy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what are we doing here like this? I’m supposed to telephone someone tomorrow? Who? What am I supposed to tell this person?”

  They turned onto the broad Fray Servando Teresa de Mier; traffic was still heavy but moving much faster now, allowing McGarvey to speed up.

  “If I’m to help you, I need to know what I’m supposed to do.” She was trying to be reasonable.

  “I want to see Baranov’s house. I want to see where he lives.”

  She looked out the window. “What if I don’t give you directions?”

  “He’s near Ixtayopan,” McGarvey said tiredly. “I’ll ask around.”

  “You’re completely crazy.”

  “Probably. But I’m not going to stop.”

  “You’d never find him.”

  “It would take time, but I’d find him,” McGarvey said. “Because he wants to be found. He knew that I was coming to see you, and he knew that you would help me.”

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t understand.” “Neither do I,” McGarvey said.

  “What?” she asked, opening her eyes.

  “Did Baranov tell you why I would be coming to see you?” he asked her. “Did he tell you that I would be coming after your husband and that you were to cooperate with me? Did he make you promise to tell me all about Mexico City in the early days? How your husband was a spy and how he worked for the Russians as well as the Americans?”

  “It doesn’t make any sense.” She was avoiding his questions.

  “It’s all right if it scares you, Evita, it scares the hell out of me, too.”

  “But what is he after? What kind of a plot has he hatched?”

  “It has something to do with the Soviet missiles here. And something else. Someone he may be trying to protect.”

  “Valentin wants Darby to be found out. He wants you to arrest him.”

  “I think so.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know, Evita. But that’s why we’re here. It’s the one thing Baranov did not expect us to do.”

  To the southeast the road rose in tiers from the high plateau valley toward
snow-capped mountains. Back the way they had come the city spread itself out across half the horizon, wonderfully lit avenues and streets stretching across the valley like long necklaces; tall buildings, radio towers, and even moving traffic along the broader avenues were clear despite the smog that blanketed the valley. They passed through Culhuacan, Tezonco, Zapotitlan, Tlalenco, Tlahuac, and Tulyehualco—cities that had been all but swallowed by the city’s sprawl. Each was a little smaller than the previous one, and each had its own character, but they all seemed in a touristy way to want to return to the days of the Aztecs. Eighteen miles out from the center of the city traffic had finally thinned out so that now, driving southwest out of San Juan Ixtayopan toward the peak of Cerro Tuehtli, they were finally alone on the dark road. Their car was very loud as they crossed the mountains, but then McGarvey wasn’t interested in hiding his presence; he wanted Baranov to know that someone was coming, that his Mexican fortress wasn’t as impregnable as he might suspect it was. So what are you trying, you bastard? Everything points toward Darby Yarnell, your old pal and confidante, even your lover if Evita is to be believed (and he thought she was). Did he quit on you? Did he get too big for his britches, demand too much? Or did he want asylum just when you finally tired of him and wanted to get rid of him? Or had Darby Yarnell simply outlived his usefulness, and now it was time to dump him? What was he missing? McGarvey asked himself. Where was the one twist, the one fact, the one lie that in the light of day would make everything clear?

  As they crossed a bridge spanning a deep ravine, they could see a large house alive with lights perched on the edge of the mountain above them. The road entered the trees and curved left before switching back. Suddenly they could see the house again, much closer now, and they could pick out dozens of automobiles parked in a front courtyard. Japanese lanterns hung in the trees, and they could see people dancing on a broad veranda that was cantilevered out over the side of the hill.

  McGarvey pulled up a hundred yards below the house, doused his lights, and shut off the engine. In the sudden silence they could hear music and laughter and even bits of conversation, voices raised in celebration. Baranov was Nero: he was throwing a party while Mexico City burned.