Assassin km-6

by David Hagberg

  “We have built comfortable lives for ourselves in the aftermath.”

  Legler acknowledged the obvious. “The future seems bright.”

  “I would not like to jeopardize what we have, for the sake of a minor profit.”

  “You’re still speaking of Herr Allain,” Legler said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Admittedly the profit I made on the two units was not excessive. But if his business develops, it could turn into something worthwhile.” He’d dropped his pseudo western mannerisms. “Unless of course his business is something other than he says it is.”

  “My thoughts precisely,” Dunkel said.

  A heavyset, round-faced man with curly gray hair appeared in the doorway, spotted them seated near the rear of the bar, and came back.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, taking a seat.

  “Good of you to join us, Karl,” Dunkel said. “In point of fact we were just discussing you. We need your help with a somewhat… delicate matter.”

  The waitress came, and Franken ordered a dark beer.

  “Would this have anything to do with, shall we say, past entanglements?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Dunkel said. “The past remains the past. All Germans are looking to the future. In that we are steadfast.” Dunkel pursed his lips. “It’s another matter, one possibly of an international criminal nature that Bernard and I may have been unwittingly caught up in.”

  “If you’ve gotten yourselves into trouble I don’t know if I can help,” Franken said quietly.

  “I’m not talking about that kind of help, Karl. We’ve broken no German laws, nor do we intend doing so.” Dunkels voice was just as low as Franken’s. What was being discussed here was nobody’s business. “With the changing situation in the East, a businessman has to operate with care. Sometimes even forgoing an immediate profit if his business would possibly be in jeopardy.”

  Legler shot him a dark look, but Dunkel ignored it.

  “Go on.”

  Dunkel explained the unexpected business deal that had fallen into their laps.

  “His explanation to me why he was bringing his business to Leipzig, and not to Stuttgart, didn’t ring true.

  Nor did his dealings with Bernard. Operating his business as he was, it would be impossible for him to make a profit. It made me wonder that either the man was a fool or he was working to another more, shall I say, mysterious purpose.”

  “Es machts nichts,” Franken said, indifferently.

  “But it does matter,” Dunkel disagreed. “We have reputations to maintain that might run into difficulties should certain inquiries be made arising from a criminal proceeding.” Dunkel looked frankly at the cop. “I’ll do whatever it takes to maintain my good name. I have too much to lose otherwise. We all do.”

  “What can you fear from a Belgian?”

  “He’s not a Belgian. The passport he used was a fake. In fact the man is an American.”

  “How do you know?”

  “His letter of credit arrived in the name of Pierre Allain, drawn on a foreign bank. When I did some checking I discovered, by accident, that Pierre Allain was apparently the name of his business, and was not in fact the name of an actual person. But the Belgian passport he showed me identified him as Allain. In fact the man’s real name is Kirk McGarvey. An American, as I said.”

  Franken stiffened slightly, but then he shrugged and took a drink of his beer.

  “Did you happen to make a copy of his passport?”

  “I did,” Legler said. “We needed it for the licensing and export documents”

  “Fax it to my office this afternoon, would you?” Franken said. “Along with copies of all the paperwork on the cars.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is this name familiar to you, Karl?” Dunkel asked.

  Franken shook his head. “Nein, but I’ll check it out. At the very least he’s broken several of our laws by using a false passport.”

  Dunkel hesitated a moment. “This won’t affect us, will it?”

  “Not to worry, Herman. You and Bernard have done nothing wrong. In fact you’ve done exactly tile correct thing by bringing this to me.”

  “Then this is out of our hands now?”

  Franken pushed his beer glass aside and got to his feet.

  “Completely,” he said to Dunkel. “But if he tries to make contact with you again, call me immediately.”

  “We’ll certainly do that,” Dunkel said.

  Franken gave them an odd look, then turned and left the bar.

  “Gott im Himmel, what the hell was that all about?” Legler demanded. “Who gives a damn what passport the man was using? I have a safe filled with them, as I imagine you do.”

  Dunkel smiled benignly. “Herr McGarvey’s account with Barclay’s bank, a secret account that can only be accessed by a number and a code word, is worth in the neighborhood of three and a half million British pounds.”

  Legler’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your point, Herman?” “I am in possession of the account number as well as the code word,” Dunkel said. “If Herr McGarvey were to find himself languishing in a German prison, he would not be in a position to challenge anyone who was to take over his financial holdings.”

  This time Legler smiled. “Hot damn,” he said in English.

  Paris

  Lynch received the telephone call from Colonel Galan at his office in the U.S. Embassy at 2:15 p.m. He’d been working on his daily summary report for transmission to

  Langley and he was in a foul mood. McGarvey continued to elude them, and Ryan’s star pupil, Elizabeth, had been of no help except for giving them Otto Rencke’s name, which had resulted in a dead end. Galan sounded distant, almost resigned, as if he was at wit’s end and was calling to explain why he could not go on, or even if he should have embarked on this mission in the first place.

  “She’s gone,” he said when Lynch answered.

  “Who’s gone?” Lynch asked.

  “Elizabeth McGarvey. And there’s a good chance that the Russians have her.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lynch demanded angrily. If it was true he had no idea how he would explain this to Ryan, who’d taken a personal interest in the case.

  “She and Jacqueline came up with the idea that McGarvey might be hiding out in an apartment he’s used before in Riga. They flew up there early this morning without telling anybody and Elizabeth went in. Jacqueline was supposed to be backing her up, but before she could do anything Elizabeth came out of the apartment with a man, and they drove off together in a van.”

  “Was it McGarvey?”

  “Jacqueline didn’t get a very close look, but she didn’t think it was him,” Galan said. “My first thought was that the Riga police might have arrested her for some reason, but now I don’t think so. I made a few inquiries up there, but one wants to say anything, beyond the fact that no young American woman was arrested anytime within the past month.”

  “Then it was McGarvey,” Lynch said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I don’t think so, and neither does Jacqueline. She was his lover long enough to recognize him even from a distance,” Galan said. “In any event, the Riga police did admit that a Russian woman by the name of Raya Kisnelkov was arrested and turned over to the Russian Militia.”

  Lynch thought for a second.

  “It’s a long shot, but it could be a coincidence,” he said, even though he didn’t believe it himself. “At any rate how could the Russians have found out where McGarvey was hiding when we haven’t been able to do it?”

  “That’s their back yard, Tom,” Galan said. “I don’t think there’s any question that the Russians probably have her. And I don’t think there can be any doubt what they intend using her for.”

  “Goddammit, we’re helping the bastards. Is this how they repay us?”

  “If they find out that she’s working for the CIA they might ask what we were doing up there without telling about it.”

  “I’ll call Colonel Bykov
and ask him if he has her.”

  “Just like that?” Galan asked. “She’s the daughter of a man who’s gunning for Tarankov. What are you going to say when he accuses the CIA of secretly helping McGarvey? I hope you have a good answer, because if I were Bykov and you tried to tell me that you either didn’t know Elizabeth was McGarvey’s daughter, or that you didn’t send her to Riga, I’d call you a liar.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “What are you going to do?” Galan asked.

  “I’ll have to call Langley, because I don’t know what the hell to do. How about you?”

  “I’m sending Jacqueline to Moscow as an official liaison between the service and Colonel Bykov’s commission,” Galan said.

  “Jesus.”

  “I know it sounds crazy. But maybe she can find out something before it’s too late,” Galan said.

  “Keep me posted,” Lynch said.

  “Oui,” Galan promised. “That bastard McGarvey has caused us a lot of trouble.”

  “He’s an expert at it,” Lynch agreed. “But the hell of it is that I almost hope he succeeds.”

  “So do I,” Galan said quietly.

  It took the Embassy’s communications center ten minutes to find Howard Ryan at home, and establish an encrypted phone line to the DO. Lynch quickly explained what he’d just learned from Galan.

  “Sending the Belleau woman to Moscow might not be the brightest move the French ever made,” Ryan said.

  “Sir?”

  “Obviously she’s under McGarvey’s spell, which makes her less than worthless in this operation,” Ryan said. He sounded smug.

  “I’m afraid I don’t completely understand, Mr. Ryan.”

  “Figure it out, Lynch,” Ryan said irritably. “Neither we nor the French can find McGarvey. That’s with all the resources of two of the best intelligence services in the West. Yet Elizabeth disappears with her father, and Mademoiselle Belleau concocts a story about how she was arrested by the Russians.”

  “Colonel Galan did say that the Riga police turned a woman over to the Russians—:”

  “A Russian woman,” Ryan cut in. “The Latvians have no love for the Russians, and rightly so. I’m sure that such arrests happen all the time over there. But that’s not the point, Lynch. The point is that Elizabeth is helping her father, and Jacqueline Belleau is on her way to Moscow, with her government’s blessings, to work for Bykov’s commission. The Russians were smart, creating that commission. But McGarvey’s even smarter than they are. In one fell swoop he’s recruited his daughter and managed to get one of his people inside the commission. I haven’t any doubt that Jacqueline Belleau is McGarvey’s little spy, and will somehow report to him every move they make.”

  Ryan was wrong, and Lynch was sure of it. But he also knew enough to keep his mouth shut. You might argue with some deputy directors of operations, but not with Ryan.

  “It’s out of your hands now,” Ryan said. “I can’t say that you did an outstanding job for us, but don’t worry. Much better men than you have come up against McGarvey and lost. None of this will reflect badly on your record.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lynch said, hardly believing his own ears. Not only was Ryan wrong, the man was an idiot.

  Leipzig

  BKA Chief Investigator Franken studied the dozen separate documents that Legler had faxed to his office, comparing the photograph in the Pierre Allain passport to that of the Kirk McGarvey photograph circulating on the Interpol wire.

  “They don’t exactly match, but the height, weight and date of birth are close,” he told his deputy chief of special investigations.

  “Passport photos never do, unless they’re recent ones,” Lieutenant Dieter Waltz said.

  “According to the Belgians, the passport is legitimate.”

  “True, but they can’t confirm Allain’s address. Nobody by that name lives there or ever has.”

  “He has a proper driving license.”

  “Same story on the address,” Waltz said. “But Allain has never been issued a voter registration card. Nor has he ever served in any unit of the Belgian military. Unusual for a man his age.”

  “Then you think this man is in reality Kirk McGarvey?” Franken asked.

  “I think it’s likely,” Waltz answered carefully. “Which brings up an interesting speculation about him.”

  “What’s that?”

  “According to the Belgians, this passport was first issued fourteen years ago. Means McGarvey is a professional.”

  “How do you see that?” Franken asked, although he knew the answer. He liked to play devil’s advocate with his people. It kept them on their toes, free from sloppy thinking.

  “Why else did he maintain a false identity for so long? In all those years there’s never been an inquiry about the passport. So up until now he’s been a very careful man. Never made a mistake.”

  “Until now,” Franken said quietly.

  “What about his bank accounts?” Waltz asked.

  “That’s none of our business. For now the only law McGarvey has broken concerns his fake passport.”

  “Interpol wants him for something.”

  “Indeed,” Franken said. He gathered up the papers and handed them to Waltz. “Put this on the Interpol wire.”

  “Shall I work up a cover report?”

  Franken shook his head. “We’ll leave the speculation to others. Get this out right away, and then get back to work. We’ve already spent too much time on this business.”

  “Do you want me to telephone the Latvian Federal Police?”

  “I don’t think it’s necessary, Dieter,” Franken said. “Anyone who’s interested in Herr McGarvey will pick it off the wire.”

  Red Square

  Chernov was standing on the reviewing stand above Lenin’s Mausoleum when Militia Captain Petrovsky called his cellular telephone.

  “Pierre Allain. He’s traveling on a Belgian passport. The photos are a pretty good match.”

  “Where’d that come from?” Chernov asked, stepping back from the rail.

  “The German Federal Police in Leipzig. But the best part is the Mercedes four-by-four automobiles. Allain is exporting them from Leipzig to Riga. Thing is the Latvian customs people show that two cars came in so far, but only in transit.”

  “To where?”

  “Russia. It means he is coming by highway. Probably across the border near Zilupe. I sent this over to Gresko who’ll alert the border crossing. We might still have a chance of stopping him.”

  “I want every square meter covered. What do we have up there?”

  “Not much except for an air force training squadron at Velikiye Luki. That’s near Toropets, about two hundred kilometers from the border. Shall I have them cover the highway?”

  “Order them to send up everything they have.”

  “He won’t get away this time, Colonel, I guarantee it,” Petrovsky promised.

  Tarankov’s train was hidden near Klin less than fifty kilometers outside Moscow. Chernov had dropped McGarvey’s daughter out there and had raced back into the city. But unless McGarvey had delayed leaving Latvia for some reason, he’d already be across the border somewhere between there and Moscow. The thought was almost too interesting to bear.

  “I’m in Red Square”. Have a helicopter pick me up in front of Lenin’s Tomb as soon as possible. We’ll follow the highway west.”

  “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”

  “Then you’d better hurry, Captain.”

  Chernov broke the connection, pocketed his phone and looked out across Red Square again. In three days Russia would be Tarankov’s. Before that happened McGarvey would be dead, and it would be time to get out for good. He decided that he wouldn’t regret any of it. - ‘

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  On the Road to Moscow

  About seventy-five miles east of the Latvian border, McGarvey followed*a narrow dirt track off the highway down to a thick stand of birch and willows that followed a creek. Although
most of the trees had not budded yet, the growth was thick enough to obscure the outline of the Mercedes from the highway and from the air. Even if someone was looking for him, which he doubted, he would be safe here until dark.

  With the engine off, he stood smoking a cigarette as he listened to the burble of the gently flowing creek, and the distant hum of an occasional truck above on the highway. Through a stand of trees on the opposite side of the creek he could see a farm field rising to the crest of the hill. But there were no farm buildings or animals in sight. Nor did it seem as if the field had been worked in recent years, because it was overgrown with a brown stubble.

  Crossing the border had presented no problems. When it was his turn the same customs official as before came out to examine his papers.

  “No lunch this afternoon, Comrade Allain?” the official joked.

  “Not this time,” McGarvey said. “But I’ll be back next week, and maybe I’ll bring something good.” He handed the official an envelope with five hundred marks in cash.

  One of the border guards came out of the shack with the long-handled mirror, but the officer waved him back.

  “Sometimes he takes his job too seriously,” the officer said, pocketing the money. “A lot of them do.”

  The meaning was clear.

  “Do you take a day off each week?” McGarvey asked.

  “Sundays.”

  “I prefer to rest on Sundays myself.”

  “It’s a good philosophy,” the officer said. He stepped back and motioned for the gate to be raised.

  With dusk beginning to settle in, McGarvey removed his gun from the computer, loaded it, and pocketed the spare magazines and silencer. Then he started on the extra spare tire, deflating it, popping the seal with the tire irons, and removing the plastic bags containing Voronin’s KGB uniform. Next he unlatched the primary spare tire from its bracket on the cargo compartment lid, and removed the uniform cap. The cap and uniform went into a nylon zippered bag which he tossed in the back seat.

  If he were to be stopped and searched before he got to Moscow he would have no explanation for the uniform. But since he would be driving at night, and’ planned on remaining well within the speed limit, there was no reason for him to be stopped.