Thirty seconds later the DNA trace provided a second match. The same name and photograph came up on the screen.
James Tilley, chief of the CIA's Technical Services Division, sat alone in the small briefing auditorium. Robert Hettrick and his forensics team people had finished with their afternoon reports and had left a few minutes earlier. The evidence that had been sent over from Paris was laid out on tables next to the speaker's platform. Behind them were three large blackboards covered with notes and diagrams.
The scene reminded Tilley, who held doctorates in biophysics and biochemistry, of his days as a student. He'd spent a good portion of his life in rooms like these, trying to unravel mysteries that sometimes seemed beyond his ken.
Looking more like a construction worker than an academic, Tilley ran Technical Services with a fair but iron hand. "Trouble is," his subordinates sometimes said, "when the boss is so much smarter than everyone else, it's impossible to put anything over on him."
This business had him stumped, however, and he was developing a gut feeling that when the resolution finally came, it would be to nobody's liking. In chemistry or physics there were always facts to rely on that would either support or destroy the prevailing theory. It made no difference which, because there were always new theories. Facts were what science was all about.
In this case, the prevailing theory was that an unknown French terrorist or terrorists had planted the bomb in the embassy. Relations between France and the U.S. were at an all-time low, because despite the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact the U.S. still demanded that NATO be maintained. France disagreed.
Hardly any of the facts supported this theory, and yet everyone was trying to make the facts fit, because the theory was convenient.
He got up and approached the tables. In his mind the most
damning bits of evidence were the pieces of latex face mask found at the scene.
The man who'd posed as Kirk McGarvey had evidently worn a disguise which, for some reason, he had discarded before he left the embassy. It wasn't something the average French or French-Algerian terrorist would do.
He picked up the plastic bag that contained the half-dozen bits of latex. There was a message here; he was sure of it. They were being told something by the killer. The man was tempting them to solve the mystery: "I left this for you. I'm telling you plainly that I wore a disguise. That once I'd planted the explosives I no longer needed the mask."
Tilley laid the plastic bag back on the table and shook his head.
"Catch me if you can," the killer was saying.
Sam Vaughan had apparently walked in on him and had been shot in the face with a pistol. Ballistics were certain the bullet had been fired from a Walther PPK, even though it had become badly distorted on impact with the skull.
Another message in the choice of weapon?
The killer had used McGarvey's name and passport number, which meant that either he had access to State Department records, or he'd had some contact with the man. Possibly there in Paris.
Still another message?
His secretary came to the rear door. "General Murphy is on the telephone for you, sir," she called down to him.
Tilley followed her back to his office and picked up the telephone. "Good afternoon, General."
"Anything new from Paris?"
"The team is still sifting, and we're still analyzing what they've already sent back."
"What about the explosives? Any handle on the material yet?"
"Standard C-four. Could have been lifted from any U.S. base in Europe, or purchased on the open market."
The general hesitated, and Tilley filled in the silence for him: "The material wasn't Semtex, the Polish plastique, but that still doesn't rule out an Eastern bloc operation."
"It's not likely they'd use C-four when their own material is so much better," Murphy said.
"Unless they were trying to tell us something," Tilley said.
"Make us believe one thing when in reality another was the truth. Throw us off. Misdirect us."
"What are you saying, Jim?" the DCI asked.
"Nothing more than a gut feeling," Tilley replied. "But our man is telling us too much, more than he should. The choice of weapon he used to defend himself. The facts that he wore a disguise and that he knows Kirk McGarvey."
"Which brings us to the Argentinian woman—Maria Schimmer—who, by the way, has disappeared. Have your people found any physical evidence of what she was doing in the embassy?"
"Nothing directly," Tilley said. "Other than eyewitness accounts, of course."
"She's important, I think, for a lot of reasons." Again Murphy hesitated.
"Something I should know about, General?" Tilley prompted.
"Not yet, except that I would like your people to concentrate at least some of their efforts on picking up her track in the building."
"I'll pass it along, but I think we've taken the lion's share of useful material out of the debris already. The weather and water damage have taken their toll. And State Department people in there digging around for sensitive documents haven't helped. But we'll do what we can."
"That's all I ask," Murphy said. "Keep the lines of communication open, Jim. I want to know the minute you learn anything ... anything at all, do you understand?"
'Tes, sir," Tilley said.
The CIA had been the target, of course, and Murphy, who had never been known for his delicacy, would be charging full steam ahead. But there'd been something else in his manner, a tone in his voice that wasn't normally there. If Tilley hadn't known better, he would have suspected that the DCI was frightened.
His telephone rang. It was his secretary again. "Richard Ship-man is on line two."
"Do I know him?" Tilley asked.
"He's chief of physical security at Langley. Says you'll want to talk to him."
"I'll take it," Tilley said. He punched the button. "Jim Tilley. What can I do for you, Mr. Shipman?"
"I thought you'd want to handle this yourself," Shipman said.
"Handle what?"
"We have one of your people here—Katherine Ray—under detention. Before we proceed any further, perhaps you would like to talk to her. We can't make any sense of it."
"Proceed with what?" Tilley demanded. "Why are you holding her?"
"Sir, she got into Agency computer records and destroyed at least ten complete files before one of the section supervisors got wind of what she was doing and stopped her. This hasn't gone upstairs yet, she asked for you first, but we're talking sabotage."
"I'll be there within the half hour," Tilley said. "Don't do anything with her until then."
"Yes, sir."
The Technical Services Division, which came under the Directorate of Operations, was in some respects the Agency's police force, or at least its investigative arm. They supplied Clandestine Services with the second-story men, the safecrackers, the telephone tappers, the gumshoes.
A good percentage of Technical Services officers came from the FBI or other police forces, and there was a rivalry, sometimes bitter, between them and mainstream intelligence officers.
Because of the snow it took Tilley nearly a full hour to make it across the river and up to Langley. Richard Shipman, a big, solidly-built man—even bigger than Tilley—was waiting in a conference room with Katherine.
"The roads still bad?" Shipman asked.
"That's why it took me so long to get here," Tilley said. "Could I have a few minutes alone with Ms. Ray?"
Shipman, who had been perched on the edge of the table, got to his feet. "Be my guest," he said. "I'll be in my office when you're ready." He glanced toward Katherine. "I hope she wasn't working under orders. Because if she was, there'll be hell to pay." He turned back to Tilley. "Know what I mean, sir?"
"We'll be along in a couple of minutes," Tilley said, and when Shipman was gone he drew up a chair next to Katherine and sat down. "What happened?"
"I'd rather not discuss it, Mr. Tilley," she said. It was clear she
was very frightened, but determined, too.
"Sooner or later you'll have to, of course. Shipman said you destroyed some files before you were stopped. It'll only be a matter of time for them to be identified and pieced back together."
She said nothing.
"They'll have your hide. You know that, I suppose. As it is, Shipman is doing us a favor."
Still she held her silence.
Tilley sat back. "Well, let's see if we can put this together anyway. You were working on forensics, so I guess I can call John Wilson to find out exactly what you were working on today ..."
"Fingerprints and DNA analyses of body fluids and tissue," she said reluctantly.
"I see," Tilley said. "Then you've obviously found a match. Someone here in Agency files. An officer who—" He stopped, sudden understanding dawning on him like a flash. The answer had been under their noses all along.
Katherine read something of that from his eyes, because she stiffened.
"It's McGarvey after all, isn't it," he said gently. Katherine had had a thing for him two years ago when he was in Washington. Although she had tried to keep it to herself, it had been obvious in her work, and word had gotten to Tilley. He had talked to her about it. "He's a dangerous man, which is what appeals to you, but I don't think you should pursue it. Won't do you or him any good." She reminded Tilley of his daughter away at college.
She had taken his advice, or at least he thought she had. But the problem was back, this time in spades.
She nodded. "He's been set up, Mr. Tilley."
"Was there a positive DNA match?"
She nodded again after a hesitation.
"Fingerprints?"
"Yes."
"He shoots a Walther PPK, if I remember correctly," Tilley said. "It was the gun used to kill Sam Vaughan."
"He wouldn't do it, sir. Not ... him."
"Why not?" Tilley asked. Everything fit, of course. "He certainly had the means and the motive. He came unglued, that's all."
"No."
"I think so."
"No, sir, listen to me, please," Katherine pleaded. "If he would do such a thing, he wouldn't have done it this way. He's too good to leave his fingerprints, or to sign in with the Marines at the front desk. It doesn't make sense."
Tilley patted the back of her hand. "I don't agree with you," he said softly. "It's exactly the way Mr. McGarvey would have done it."
everything was changed in East Berlin. Coming into what had once been the GDR from the west, Kurshin could hardly believe his eyes. He'd not been in Germany in more than two years, and in that time, the wall had disappeared.
Passing through what had once been Checkpoint Charlie, he had to look over his shoulder to make certain he'd seen what he'd seen—or not seen. The wall, the road barriers, the glass-fronted guard hut were all gone.
He turned back and smiled wryly. The cabbie caught his expression in the rearview mirror.
"It's startling, isn't it," the man said. "I used to be an East Berliner. Now I am a German."
It was different here now, as it seemed to be different every-
where else. Unsettling. Out of focus. Even his victory in Paris seemed somehow hollow.
The cabbie left him off at the Leninplatz. He walked three blocks down to the Karl-Marx-Allee, where traffic was heavy in the early-evening hour. A black Mercedes sedan and driver were waiting for him. Without a word he got in the back seat, and they took off, heading through Friedrichshain toward Lichten-berg to the southeast.
There was even more snow here than there had been in Paris, and the roads were poorly plowed. Services had deteriorated because the economy of what had once been West Germany had been so seriously strained in the union, there was no money to give the east for roads. And still most former East Germans preferred to work in the west and live in the east.
He had read about this in the newspapers, and had watched it develop on television, but seeing the effects firsthand was startling. It gave him a sense of just how difficult General Di-denko's position had become.
South of Treptow they crossed the Spree River, and skirted the Grosser Muggelsee, traffic this far out in the country nonexistent.
Kurshin held his emotions in check with an iron will as they turned down a familiar dirt road that plunged into the dark woods, the snow-laden branches of the trees nearly meeting over the narrow track. He'd been here before, under similar circumstances. But that time, however, he'd come at Baranov's bidding. He'd not been a man to be trifled with. He'd been a power in the Soviet secret intelligence services since the early fifties. An unstoppable power, an unmovable force ... until McGarvey.
To this day Kurshin could hardly believe it. Yet he had gone up against the man three times himself, and had very nearly lost his life. It rankled deeply.
They were stopped by the general's people at the gate about two miles from the main highway. The rear door was yanked open, and Kurshin got out. He was quickly and efficiently frisked by one of the guards, while the other two stood off, holding their AK-74 assault rifles trained on him. He was relieved of his pistol and his overnight bag, as well as a small penknife he carried.
One of them radioed up to the main house with a walkie-
talkie, and another got in the car with Kurshin and rode the rest of the way up the hill. They pulled up in front of the big house, which in the old days had been a Nazi general's country retreat, and until two years ago had belonged to Baranov.
At least two other armed guards stood at the edge of the woods, and one appeared in an upstairs window. General Di-denko had been Baranov's closest aide, and he knew how his boss had finally fallen. It had been arrogance that had killed him, and Didenko was taking no chances of his own.
Kurshin was escorted onto the porch and inside the entry hall. The guard who'd come up with him took his coat.
"Up here, Arkasha," General Didenko said from the head of the stairs. He had the same flair for the dramatic as Baranov had had.
Kurshin went up, and at the top Didenko stepped back, his dark complexion even darker in the shadows. His hair was combed back and had a sheen of oil. He was not one of the modern Russians who strove to look Western, something even Baranov had managed when the need arose. Didenko was definitely from the old school. "A Chekist," he was fond of calling himself.
This evening he wore an open-collar tunic, rough workmen's trousers, and boots that were still wet with snow.
He motioned for Kurshin to precede him down the corridor to the study at the back of the house. A fire was burning in the fireplace, giving the room a cozy, comforting atmosphere.
"I won't keep you long," Didenko said, coming in and drawing but not completely closing the door.
"It's not such a difficult trip these days."
"It no longer matters." Didenko leaned against the edge of his desk. He did not offer Kurshin a chair. "Now we have their attention, Arkasha."
"Paris was not a complete success."
"I talked with Stepan Bokarev. Under the circumstances your action was effective enough. The Paris station is in ruins. It will be years before they recover, and with a little help from our French friends, they might never completely restore their operations."
"Then we should hit Rome next. After that Bonn, Lisbon, Athens. The letters are written."
'Tes, I know," Didenko said with a cold look. "It was a nice touch on your part. Unnecessary, but nice."
"Which city?"
"Plans have changed. We are finished in Europe for the moment."
"Then you are ready to go ahead with your main objectives in Washington?"
"Not quite, Arkasha. First I have another assignment for you. One easily as important as Paris, perhaps more so." Didenko picked up an eight-by-ten photograph from his desk and handed it to Kurshin. It was a picture of a dark-haired man in a trench coat coming out of what appeared to be an office building, possibly in the States. Kurshin did not recognize him, though he looked American.
"His name is Richard Abbas," Dide
nko said. "Currently chief of station for CIA operations in Tehran."
Kurshin looked up, confused, his stomach knotting.
"I want you to go to Iran and kill this man as soon as possible. Within the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours."
"What about Europe, your plans to draw off as much talent from Langley as possible, leaving them shorthanded and ripe for penetration ... ?" Kurshin stopped abruptly, understanding suddenly that he'd been lied to from the beginning. That had never been Didenko's plan.
"You need not know everything," Didenko said. He slipped his right hand into his trouser pocket. Kurshin could see the tenseness in the man's eyes. He was expecting trouble.
Kurshin again willed himself to remain outwardly calm, though inside he was seething. "I'm not to know your final objective?"
"Not yet," Didenko said flatly. "Nor will you need the letters you wrote on Kirk McGarvey's typewriter. Nor will you need the rest of the frozen blood samples you managed to come up with from the American Hospital, or your new set of his fingerprints or his hair samples."
Kurshin very nearly lost control. A red haze seemed to rise up and blot out his vision. Again he could feel the cold water rising up over his head. He could feel McGarvey's bullets slamming into his body. The pain. The humiliation. The frustration. They were almost more than he could bear.
"You may think you have a vendetta againsf this man," Di-
denko continued, unaware of exactly how close to death he was. "That's counterproductive, Arkasha. Believe me. I want you to leave Mr. McGarvey to his own people. You have done your damage. You will get your revenge in the end. Think—what could be worse than death for a man such as McGarvey? Imprisonment, of course. For him to lose his precious freedom."
By a tremendous force of will Kurshin let his shoulders sag, as if he were a man defeated. He looked away. The general had lied to him. Tehran had been the direction of this operation from the beginning. Paris was a diversion, but it was the only diversion.
"You're right, Comrade General," Kurshin mumbled.
"I understand how you feel, Arkasha. Believe me, I do," Di-denko said smoothly. "I'll promise you this: if for any reason McGarvey is not killed or jailed by his own people, you may go after him once you are finished in Tehran. We are keeping an eye on him."
Crossfire (Kirk McGarvey 3) Page 10
