Assassin km-6

by David Hagberg

  “There are none,” the general said flatly. “You have my authorization to ask the CIA for help. But you will do so through their Chief of Station Thomas Lynch here in Paris.”

  “Yes, sir,” Galan said, and the general dismissed him.

  At the door the general recalled him. “Kirk Mcgarvey is a dangerous man. But he is not an enemy of France. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  “Perfectly, man General.”

  EIGHT

  CIA Headquarters

  Deputy Director of Operations Howard Ryan was a man who believed in isometrics. Walking into his third floor conference room at 7:30 a.m. sharp and taking his place at the head of the long table he knew that every man seated there hated him because he pushed. It was exactly as it should be, he thought with smug satisfaction. Hate generated energy. And energy was exactly what the Company had been lacking for many years.

  Besides his assistant, Thomas Moore, the others he’d called to the briefing included the assistant to the Deputy Director of Intelligence, Chris Vizanko, whom Ryan considered to be little more than a street thug who didn’t belong here, and the heavyset Director of Technical Services, Jared Kraus, who was a steady if sometimes ponderous presence.

  Each man had brought his own “experts,” something Ryan always insisted on. He told his people repeatedly that if they were not willing to bet

  their lives on the facts then they’d better surround themselves with experts. His staff called it “Ryan’s insulation factor.” If something went wrong, the more underlings around you to absorb the blame the better you’d come out.

  But Ryan had pressures from above, as he was fond of reminding them. His came from the big leagues; the Director of Central Intelligence, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, the President’s National Security Adviser and the President himself.

  “Gentlemen, the Director is scheduled to brief the President at ten, and in turn he expects me to brief him at nine. It gives us less than a half-hour to come up with a consensus on the facts so that I’ll have time to prepare my recommendations,” Ryan began.

  “If Boris Yeltsin died of a heart attack, he did so in mid-air,” Vizanko said.

  Ryan, who’d started out as an attorney for a prestigious New York law firm, did not like levity of any kind, and he shot the assistant DDI a sharp look of disapproval. “What do you have for me?”

  “Jim Rayn’s people managed to come up with blood and tissue samples from Red Square. The DNA in several of” them was definitely Yeltsin’s.” Rayn was the Chief of Moscow Station.

  “It’s been more than forty-eight hours, what took so long?” Ryan demanded. He always wore three-piece suits. He took his ornate pocket watch out and looked at the time as if to make his point. It was a “Ryan” gesture, pretentious as hell.

  “That’s normally a two-week procedure, Mr. Ryan,” Kraus said from his end of the table. “Rayn must have lit a fire under somebody to get it that fast.”

  “He got it from the Russians themselves. And those guys are definitely motivated right now,” Vizanko said. “He also came up with a rumor that a body will be ready for display later today. The operative word is ‘a’ body, not Yeltsin’s.”

  There was more deadwood yet to be cleared ut of the Agency, Ryan thought. “Russian science and shaky rumors. This is what the world’s best intelligence agency has managed to come up with?”

  “With no reliable eyewitnesses who actually saw Yeltsin in the back seat of the limo that took the hit, I think it’s the best we can do under the circumstances,” Vizanko said. “It’s Mr. Doyle’s opinion that if Yeltsin had actually died of a heart attack, his body would have been placed on display within twenty-four hours. They just wouldn’t have waited so long.” Tom Doyle was Deputy Director of Intelligence. “His bodyguards don’t carry that kind of explosives in any event,” Kraus said. “We think the device was Semtex. Rayn’s people found evidence supporting that.”

  “What evidence?” Ryan shot back. He didn’t like this at all. It was way too loose.

  “Certain chemical compounds consistent with the plastic explosive were detected in the human tissue samples.”

  “Just what compounds? Specifically.”

  Kraus shrugged, and opened a file folder. He passed a report down the table to Ryan. “As you can see, Mr. Ryan, page three and four outline the results of mass spectrograph tests on the material. The third and fifth sets of complex hydrocarbons, which you can see, do not match human blood or tissue, and in fact can be identified as—”

  “I can read,” Ryan said harshly. The graphs, columns and rows of numbers, and diagrams of what appeared to be a complex series of spikes and sawtooth patterns made no sense to him. He did not have a science background. But the material looked impressive as hell. It would make for a damn good presentation.

  He ran his finger down several rows of figures, flipped to page four, and studied the graphs.

  “I concur,” he said, looking up. “Do we have any sense of how much

  Semtex was used?” He liked to toss in an unanswerable question now and then. It kept his people on their toes.

  “That’s on the bottom of page five, sir,” Kraus said. “It was a radio-controlled package weighing in the neighborhood of six kilos. Probably placed inside the car, beneath the rear seat. The body armor would have effectively focused the blast upward.”

  Ryan looked at Kraus and the others to make sure they weren’t having a laugh at his expense, then flipped to the next page. “I see it here,” he-said. “Good work.”

  “I don’t think there’s any question who pulled it off or why,” Vizanko said. He passed down a thick folder. “Yevgenni Tarankov. They call him the Tarantula, and for good reason it looks like.”

  “Save me from wading through this, Chris. Do we have hard intelligence to support that speculation?”

  Vizanko sat back, insolently. “Tarankov hit their Riga Nuclear Power Station in the Moscow suburb of Dzerzhinskiy the day before. You’ve already seen that report, and damage estimates. We think that Yeltsin finally got off his duff and ordered Tarankov’s arrest.” Vizanko spread his hands. “The Tarantula retaliated. Sure as hell sent the Kremlin a clear message.”

  “What’s that?” Ryan asked coldly.

  “Tarankov is going to take over in the June elections, if not sooner.”

  “By force?”

  “It’s a possibility that should be considered’.”

  “I see,” Ryan said. He turned to his assistant, Tom Moore. “Do you concur?”

  Moore, “Sir Thomas” behind his back, even more staid and pedantic than his boss, took his pipe out of his mouth and studied the contents of the bowl. “I’d have to study the reports at length, Howard. But on the surface of it the possibility has enough merit to be kicked upstairs.”

  “Very well—”

  “But of course I would advise caution. Meddling in Russia’s internal affairs at this moment is fraught with danger, the least of which is our considerable dollar investment over there.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Ryan said.

  “Won’t matter much if Tarankov takes power,” Vizanko said. “That bastard will nationalize everything, and there’ll be very little that we could do to stop him. Half the Russian Strategic Rocket Force officers are on his side. We’ve already seen the analysis of those numbers. It’d take no leap of imagination to envision him scrapping SALT, and reprogramming his ICBMs.”

  “He doesn’t have the money.”

  “I think he could get it, Mr. Ryan,” Vizanko said. He shrugged again. “Anyway, it’s a thought.”

  “Any other comments?” Ryan asked after a few moments. There were none. “Thank you for your help this morning,” he said.

  Ryan was in the DCI’s office a minute before nine with two copies of his lengthy report, one of them in a leather folder for the President. He’d scanned the Directorate of Intelligence report and the Technical Services Division findings directly into his computer under the Directorate of
Operations seal, heavily edited the material, added his own conclusions and included full color graphs, charts and maps, along with photographs of Yeltsin and his staff, Prime Minister Kabatov and his staff, Russia’s key generals, and a selection of the few photographs they had of Tarankov. Ryan’s second principle of insulation, was when a report was requested throw as much material into it as possible, then double that amount. The government, he was fond of saying, likes to see something impressive for the trillions it spends.

  General Roland Murphy (retired) had been director of the Central Intelligence Agency for an unprecedented ten and a half years because he was very good, he had no party affiliation, and each president he’d served under found him to be indispensable, whatever his politics.

  He and Ryan went back a number of years together. The general knew the family very well, and he’d hired Ryan away from the law firm to act as general counsel for the CIA, a job which Ryan had loved.

  During his tenure, Ryan had developed an appreciation for, and a real expertise in, the hardball politics of liaison between the Agency and the Hill, an ability Murphy lacked. When the previous DDO had been killed eighteen months ago, and Ryan wounded in the same operation, Murphy had rewarded his friend with the directorate.

  Murphy quickly scanned the report, which ran to nearly eighty pages, as Ryan poured a cup of coffee, and went to the big corner windows. The sky was gray, but all the snow was gone and spring was not far away. Ryan was indifferent.

  “Very professional, as usual, Howard,” Murphy said after a few minutes.

  “Thank you, General,” Ryan said, turning back.

  “This’ll impress the hell out of them, but the President likes straight answers. He doesn’t want to be caught flat-footed like he was over the Japanese thing.”

  Ryan’s jaw tightened, and he reflexively touched his face where he’d been shot by a former East German Stasi hit man. By all rights he should have been killed. But for the grace of God he would have been, and he carried the scar not only of his wound, but of the memory of the man who had put him in harm’s way.

  “I understand, Mr. Director,” Ryan said. “I’ve included a summary on the last two pages which should make it clear.”

  “You can tell him that yourself. He pushed the briefing forward to nine-thirty, which doesn’t give me time to wade through this.”

  “I’d be happy to brief the President,” Ryan said, genuinely pleased. One of the keys to acquiring power, he’d always told himself, was to surround yourself with power. Another was knowing how to handle yourself when the time came.

  The White House Washington, D.C.

  The President’s appointments secretary, Dale Nichols, showed them into the Oval Office at precisely 9:30. Ryan had answered tough questions nonstop on the way over from Langley in the DQ’s limousine; as a result he felt much better prepared than he had a half-hour ago. The general might not have been a politician, but he was as astute as he was expedient.

  President Lindsay, a tall, Lincolnesque figure, was seated in his rocking chair across from his National Security Adviser, Harold Secor, Secretary of State Jonathan Carter and Secretary of Defense Paul Landry. Two extra chairs had been pulled up around the broad coffee table.

  “Good morning, Roland,” the President said. “I’d say from the cut of your jib that the news is less than good.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President. There’ve been better days,” Murphy responded. “I think you know Howard Ryan, my Deputy Director of Operations.”

  “Good to see you, Ryan,” the President said.

  “It’s good to be here, Mr. President,” Ryan replied evenly.

  No introductions were needed with Secor, Carter or Landry. They knew Ryan well from briefings before various committees and subcommittees on the Hill.

  “Howard’s more in touch with the nuts and bolts of the situation than I am, so I brought him along to conduct the briefing,” Murphy said.

  “Fine.”

  Ryan handed the President the leather folder. “The last two pages summarize what we know, but I can go over the high points with you, Mr. President.”

  The President motioned for him to take a seat, and he flipped through the bulky report. He didn’t bother with the summary at the back. When he was finished he looked up. “I’ll read this later.” He handed the report to Secor. “In the meantime we have a problem for which I’m going to need some hard information. Prime Minister Kabatov telephoned me this morning, and asked for my help. He means to arrest Yevgenni Tarankov for murder and for destruction of one of their nuclear power plants. He’s asked for my backing, and that of NATO to forestall what might develop into a military coup d’etat. I promised that I would get back to him this morning.”

  “He wants us to use our satellites to help track Tarankov’s train,” Secor said.

  “Mr. President, may I ask what the Prime Minister said to you about President Yeltsin’s death?” Ryan asked. He was on dangerous ground here. Ever since the debacle with the Japanese the President had become a tough bastard. He treated failure harshly.

  “I assume you’ll make a point,” the President said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The funeral has been postponed until next week. He hoped I’d understand, but they have their hands full over there at the moment.”

  “Mr. President, are you saying that Prime Minister Kabatov continues to maintain that President Yeltsin died of a heart attack induced by the car bomb in Red Square?”

  “That’s exactly what he’s saying,” the President said. “Do you know something different?”

  “President Yeltsin was in the limousine that blew up. He was assassinated under Yevgenni Tarankov’s orders because Yeltsin had ordered his ‘arrest in response to the destruction of the Riga Nuclear Power plant.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Secretary of Defense Landry said. “Does the bastard really think he can take over by force?”

  “It’s a possibility that we’re monitoring very closely, Mr. Secretary,” Ryan said.

  President Lindsay ran a hand over his forehead. “What a mess. They’re in over their heads, and they’re finally beginning to realize the sad facts of life.” He glanced at Murphy, then brought his attention back to Ryan. “How reliable is this information?” “Unfortunately there were no eyewitnesses, Mr. President. But my people managed to come up with samples of blood and human tissue from the square, minutes after the explosion. A laboratory was set up, and they did in two days what would normally take three or four weeks to do. They came up with an accurate DNA analysis of the blood, and a mass spectrographic study of the tissues. The blood was Yeltsin’s, there’s no doubt about that. And imbedded in the human tissues we found conclusive evidence of Semtex, which is a powerful plastic explosive. The data are on pages seventeen through twenty-one. We’re estimating that the bomb weighed around six kilos, and was placed inside the’ cabin of President Yeltsin’s limousine — probably beneath the rear seat. The limo’s external armor plating would have effectively contained the primary force of the explosion inside the cabin, tripling its effectiveness. It was radio controlled. Most likely the assassin was in Red Square within sight of the presidential motorcade. He pushed the button and escaped in the confusion.”

  Murphy gave Ryan an odd look, but Ryan shrugged it off. He was in his element now.

  “Tarankov may try to take the government by force before the June elections, Mr. President,” Ryan continued. “He has the support of much of the military, as well as at least half the officers in the Russian missile force. If he is successful it’s likely he’ll reprogram what missiles remain back to their old targets — cities in the United States. He’ll almost certainly have no trouble finding the money to do so.”

  “That sounds a little far fetched, Howard,” Secretary of State Carter said.

  “I’d like to agree, Mr. Secretary, but the facts seem to indicate otherwise,” Ryan replied heavily.

  “What’s the CIA recommending?” the Pres
ident asked.

  Murphy started to reply, but Ryan beat him to the punch.

  “First, we need to proceed with caution, Mr. President. Meddling in Russia’s internal affairs right now will be dangerous, considering our considerable dollar investment over there.”

  “Now, that I agree with,” Carter said.

  “We cannot ignore the situation,” the President said.

  “No, sir,” Ryan responded. “What we need is a major intelligence investigation into Tarankov’s chances for success, and exactly how deep his power base runs not only in the military and old KGB and Militia, but in the rank and file population as well. The people of Dzerzhinskiy cheered him when he destroyed the power station.

  “I think we need to give Prime Minister Kabatov as much help as possible, but only in the form of assurances until we have more information. The Prime Minister is ordering the very same thing that resulted in President Yeltsin’s death.”

  “What happens if we find out that Tarankov will be successful?” Secor asked evenly. “Do we step in with force?”

  “In that case it would be a political decision. But if the man has popular backing he’ll become president of Russia, and we’ll end up having to deal with him. Perhaps it would be better to start hedging our bets now.”

  The President eyed Ryan coolly. “As you say, Mr. Ryan, the decision would be a political one. But I’m curious. What do you mean by hedging our bets?”

  “We should send out feelers to him. Might kill two birds with one stone.”

  “How so?”

  “Whoever we send as an unofficial envoy from this government would in reality be one of my people. He’d be instructed to explore possible future relations, while keeping his eyes and ears open to learn what he could.”

  “In effect we’d be stabbing Prime Minister Kabatov’s democratic reform government in the back,” the President said, his voice dangerously soft.