"Could have been planted," Carrara said, his thoughts racing ahead to a dozen different possibilities.
"In McGarvey's apartment?" Danielle asked. "I give the man more credit than that. He wouldn't leave himself so wide open."
"He might not have been expecting it, Larry. But I agree with you: I give him more credit too. Enough credit to doubt that he would leave such incriminating evidence for anyone to find."
"Ms. Webb isn't just anybody. And the man has disappeared. I checked the Interpol overnights as well. No trace of him yet. Or of the Argentinian woman, I might add."
"What does the general say?" Carrara asked, still thinking ahead. He missed the odd, angry expression that briefly crossed Danielle's face.
"He agrees with me wholeheartedly. McGarvey must be brought in at all costs."
"We don't want to get Interpol involved," Carrara said.
"I agree."
"This is our problem. He was our man, and he's done some great things for the Agency and for his country. I mean to give him the respect and consideration all those loyalties demand."
"Bring him in, Phil, before he does more damage."
"Assuming he's done any in the first place."
"Just bring him in," Danielle said. He turned on his heel and walked off.
In a small, dingy apartment on Trinidad Avenue in Washington's northeast district, Nikolai Morozov yanked off the tape holding the subminiature wire recorder to his chest. The pain was sharper this way, but it didn't last as long as when he peeled it off slowly.
He unplugged it from the highly sensitive directional microphone and handed both to the technician, Dmitri Yerokin.
"How was it tonight?" Yerokin asked. With his blond hair, blue eyes, and tan, he could have passed for a Californian.
"The usual," Morozov said, rebuttoning his formal shirt. "There's always something at Hamilton's parties."
He donned his waiter's jacket as Yerokin plugged the wire recorder into the transcribing machine. Within half a minute the sophisticated machine had compressed the information contained in the wire recorder into an eighteen-millisecond pulse. The pulse was then automatically transmitted to a powerful receiver in the Soviet embassy several blocks away. In the next instant, the information was erased from the wire recorder. If they were arrested here, they would have no incriminating evidence, something that under glasnost and perestroika could not be allowed to exist.
"Anyone interesting I should flag?" Yerokin asked before Mo-rozov left.
"Maybe," Morozov replied.
"Oh?" Yerokin said, interested.
"I was within range of the deputy director of the CIA, and his deputy director of Operations, during an entire conversation."
"Good." Yerokin smiled broadly. "Very good."
their Lufthansa flight from Munich had been delayed Saturday evening in Rio de Janeiro, and the airline had put them up overnight at the Hilton. They were well rested when they finally arrived in Buenos Aires.
Ezeiza International Airport, fifteen miles southwest of the city, was very busy. Three international flights had arrived within minutes of each other. Hundreds of people crammed the main concourse in the ultramodern terminal building, and customs and passport control were mobbed.
As an Argentine citizen, Maria went through a separate, much faster, line than McGarvey. By the time he was through and had retrieved his single bag, she was waiting for him with a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a classic white linen suit. It was high summer in the Southern Hemisphere and quite warm.
Maria beckoned to McGarvey, and he went over. The man smiled broadly, revealing a half-dozen gold-capped teeth.
"Ah, this is your North American friend finally," the man said in passable English.
"Captain Eduardo Esformes," Maria said. "Kirk McGarvey."
McGarvey put down his bag and shook hands with the man.
"Any friend of Sehorita Schimmer is a friend of mine, Senor McGarvey," Esformes said.
"Captain," McGarvey said, inclining his head slightly. It had been a very long time since he'd last been on the South American continent. Then it had been Santiago, and he had come to kill a man. Old demons, he decided, died hardest.
"Eduardo tells everyone that he is an officer with the federal police, but I know for a fact that he is with army intelligence," Maria said.
McGarvey thought that they had a long-standing relationship, but not necessarily one of mutual trust or even admiration.
Esformes laughed. "She is a kidder, all the time with the jokes. But with important friends ... well, what can one do?"
There was nothing to say. He was in the middle of some kind of dangerous game between them.
"If you will excuse us, then..." Maria said, but Esformes spoke over her.
"What brings you to Argentina, Senor McGarvey? A vacation, perhaps? Sightseeing? We have a wonderful country."
"Actually, treasure hunting," McGarvey said.
Esformes smiled. "You are an expert in this endeavor?"
"Yes, I am."
"An archaeologist?"
"Not exactly, though I have sometimes covered old ground."
Maria's expression was unreadable, though she held herself very still. She wore a long skirt and a high-necked blouse for the cold in Europe. The outfit was out of place here, yet the clothes and the way she wore them lent her a definitely aristocratic air.
"May I see your passport?"
"Of course," McGarvey said. He pulled it out and handed it over.
"How long will you be staying in Argentina?" Esformes asked, studying the Argentinian tourist visa McGarvey had hastily bought from a forger in Munich.
"A week, maybe longer. Perhaps we could get together for a drink?"
Esformes looked up. "Have you been in Argentina before?"
"Never," McGarvey said.
"What is the nature of this treasure you're seeking?"
"An old shipwreck somewhere off your coast."
Maria inhaled sharply but if Esformes noticed he made no sign. "If you should actually make such a find, Senor McGarvey, my government would have to be immediately notified. We have an interest in ... such things, as Senorita Schimmer will undoubtedly tell you."
"We'll keep that in mind, Captain," McGarvey said. "Now, about that drink ..."
Esformes handed back his passport. "Stop by your embassy and have this attended to, senor. Your passport has expired."
"Thank you."
Esformes looked at Maria, then turned and walked off, disappearing into the crowd.
"Do not underestimate that man," Maria said. "He is very dangerous."
"I won't. Nor will I underestimate you."
The Holiday Inn overlooked the busy Rio de la Plata, which brought giant ocean vessels more than a hundred miles from the sea. The river's distant shore, fifty miles to the north, was Uruguay, its capital city, Montevideo, downriver on the sea.
It was late afternoon, but still very warm. The sun was low in the west, slanting the shadows and reflections of the city's skyscrapers across the harbor. McGarvey, shirtless after his shower, stood smoking a cigarette on his balcony.
Although dinner here never began before nine o'clock and usually not until midnight, the cafes and tearooms were filling up. It was Sunday, but Buenos Aires, the jewel of South America, never truly slept.
Someone knocked on his door. He hurried back into the room, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, and snatched up his gun from beneath the jacket on the bed. It had come through in pieces in his shaving gear.
"Who is it?" he called, standing out of a direct line with the door.
"Me," Maria said.
McGarvey stuffed the pistol in his belt at the small of his back and let her in. She was dressed in a light cotton skirt and an extremely sheer blouse. She wore no bra.
"Don't make a situation out of it," she said, catching his look as she came in.
"It?" McGarvey asked, closing the door.
She went to the balcony and he followed her ou
t. "It's very common for women to dress this way here," she said. "Now, get dressed. We have a man to see. He's anxious to meet you and to learn how you figured out where my grandfather's submarine is located."
"I don't know where it is."
"But you said ..."
"I said I think I can narrow its location down to a searchable area."
She stared at him for a few seconds, and he was struck for the first time how haughtily beautiful she was. In Europe she'd worn makeup. Here she wore very little, and looked none the worse for it. She looked fresh, new.
He'd always had very bad luck with women, beginning with his ex-wife Kathleen. It was the type, he thought: beautiful, but almost completely self-absorbed. Maybe he was attracted to that type, or worse, maybe they were attracted to him. Whatever, they seemed to find him.
"Then we will discuss your 'searchable area,' Senor McGarvey. Get dressed. I do not wish to keep my friend waiting."
McGarvey remained where he was. "I think I liked you better buried upside down with your skirt up around your ass. At least you were civil."
"I said get dressed," Maria ordered through clenched teeth.
McGarvey went to the bureau, lit a cigarette, and dialed room service. "This is McGarvey in Eighteen-oh-seven. Send up a bottle of American bourbon, some ice, and whatever newspapers you have from the States and Europe."
Maria had come up behind him. She snatched the telephone from his hand. Before she could cancel his order he grabbed her wrist and took the phone back. "Thank you," he told the order taker. He hung up.
"Let go! You're hurting me," Maria said, trying to pull away from him.
"Perhaps I'll break your wrist, Senorita Schimmer. But first
we're going to have a little chat. I'm going to ask you a question, and you are going to tell me the truth."
Her complexion had turned pale with anger. If she'd had the means, he believed that she would have killed him at that moment. But she said nothing.
"What was your relationship with Carleton Reid?" he asked.
She tried to pull away, and he bent her arm back. She winced, but she did not cry out. The pain she was undoubtedly suffering did not bother him in the least. She had lied to him from the beginning, and there were a lot of good people dead in Paris. If she had somehow been part of that, he would kill her.
"Carleton Reid," he said reasonably.
"If you had bothered to make a simple telephone call either to Maurice Gavalet or to Horst Hoehner, you would know that I had never laid eyes on the man until that night at the Inter-Continental."
"What's the mysterious cargo aboard your grandfather's submarine?"
"I don't know."
"Who do you work for?"
"No one. Myself. What do you mean?"
"Does the name Arkady Kurshin mean anything to you?"
Maria looked at him blankly. She shook her head. "No. Should it?"
It was the very first thing, he decided, that she had been honest about. He let her go, and she immediately stepped away from him, rubbing her wrist.
"If you ever touch me like that again, I shall kill you," she said, her voice low with emotion. She meant it.
"There won't be a next time," McGarvey said. "I'm leaving in the morning."
"Why?" she cried out. "You said you were willing to help."
"I've changed my mind."
"Why?"
"I'd rather not get involved in whatever you have going with Esformes. That's your fight, not mine."
"You can't leave just like that."
"Yes, I can, and I will," McGarvey said. "I made a mistake coming here like this, getting myself involved in your problems."
"But what about me?"
McGarvey had to smile inwardly. Her almost complete self-centeredness seemed innocently childlike.
"I'm sure you and your friends will persevere. Dr. Hesse gave us the clue. You'll figure it out if you put your mind to it."
"Goddamnit! I won't let you leave!" she shouted.
"There's nothing you can do about it," McGarvey said, looking at her evenly.
"We'll see," she snapped coldly. She turned on her heel and went to the door.
"Sorry about your wrist," McGarvey said.
She hesitated a second, then yanked open the door and was gone.
The concierge booked him a seat on the morning flight to Miami. From there he would have to decide whether he would return to Paris or continue up to Washington to straighten out the mess he was apparently in.
It had been a mistake, after all, to run from Paris. Like it or not, his name had been involved in the embassy attack, making him very much a part of the situation.
Pushing Carley away had provided no solution to his dissatisfaction. Nor had following Maria Schimmer halfway around the world on a wild-goose chase been sensible. He didn't think she was connected with the Russians.
And yet the loose ends in this business bothered him.
He could accept for the moment the possibility that Maria's meeting with Carleton Reid had been happenstance. He could even accept her explanation as to why she'd been in the embassy.
But a comment Dr. Hesse had made stuck out in his mind. The old man had not only gone to the naval archives for them, he had brought back a series of files on the submarine. Not copies of the files, but the actual documents themselves.
"Look at them if you wish'' Dr. Hesse had told them. "In fact, you must before you leave."
It made no sense to McGarvey. Why had the old man been so insistent that they look at the files? They had, but they'd found nothing else useful, unless he'd wanted their fingerprints on the documents, for some reason.
At eight that evening he placed a call to Dr. Hesse's home in
Freiburg. It was midnight there, but the old man had told him that he never got to sleep until one in the morning, and sometimes later.
An unfamiliar male voice answered on the first ring. "Yes, who is this?"
"A colleague," McGarvey said in German. Something was wrong. "I am calling for Dr. Hesse. Is he there, please?"
"Yes, which colleague? Where are you calling from?"
"Dr. Fritz Webber. I am telephoning from Mexico City. May I speak with the professor, please?"
"I'm afraid not, Dr. Webber. Dr. Hesse is dead. He has been murdered."
"My God," McGarvey whispered.
A key grated in his lock. He slammed down the telephone and snatched his pistol as the door opened and Maria Schimmer came in. She was wearing sandals and a white cotton off-the-shoulder dress. Without a word she closed and chained the door, kicked off her sandals, and unzipped her dress, letting it fall to the floor. She stood before him nude.
mcgarvey slowly lowered his gun and laid it on the table. Dr. Hesse was dead, and Maria was offering herself to him. He was beginning to lose his capacity for surprise.
"What do you want?" he asked quietly.
"Is that all you can say?" Maria flared.
She was a beautiful woman. Her long dark hair fell from her shoulders to her breasts. A small, intensely red strawberry birthmark on her left breast was matched by a similar one on her belly, just beneath what was obviously a bikini line.
"You're even more beautiful than I thought you would be," McGarvey said. "But what are you doing here like this? What do you want?"
"You may make love to me if you wish," she replied, lowering her voice but looking directly into his eyes.
"Why?" he asked.
Her left eyebrow rose. "What, are you a queer? Don't you want to make love to me?"
"I'd like very much to make love with you, but why now? Like this?"
She stepped forward, away from her dress. "I never thanked you for saving my life."
McGarvey went across the room, picked up her dress, and handed it to her. For a moment she'd thought he was taking her up on her offer, and he'd seen a tiny glint of triumph in her eyes that faded when she understood what he was doing.
"Get dressed," he said.
She grabbe
d the dress from him, and turned away to put it on. Her back was also beautiful.
"You're going to have to tell me why you came here like this."
"Go to hell," she said.
"Someone has killed Dr. Hesse, very possibly because of your submarine."
Clothed, Maria whirled around, genuinely shocked. "When?"
"I don't know. The police were there when I telephoned."
"Did you give them your name? Did you tell them where you were calling from?"
"No."
Maria no longer looked angry or embarrassed. "You said we'd been followed in Freiburg. Could it have been the same man?"
"It's possible. Were you expecting this?"
Maria was startled. "Of course not," she said. "But you heard him. He said there had been killings."
"That stopped in 1978."
"Because the inquiries stopped. Maybe he stirred up an old hornets' nest."
"There are a lot of them in Germany," McGarvey said.
'Tes," Maria answered, momentarily lost in thought. "Especially now that the wall has come down and the light of day has risen in the east."
"Which brings us back to the submarine and what was aboard her," McGarvey prompted after a beat.
Maria looked up. "It was the first time I'd ever heard of a cargo."
"Bullshit!" McGarvey said harshly.
"No, listen to me, please. I have been lying to you about some things. I'll admit that."
"Now you're going to tell me the truth?" McGarvey asked, his skepticism obvious in his tone.
"There is something aboard that submarine that I'm looking for."
"I'm listening."
"Major Roebling was bringing something with him to Argentina. Something terribly important. In this you must believe me."
"I'm still listening."
Maria nodded. "He brought no cargo with him, Kirk. All he brought was a small notebook with the names and cover identities of twelve men. The 'Council.'"
"Nazis?"
She nodded again. "Schutzstaffel. They were to be organized. Argentina was to become their Fourth Reich, and Roebling was to be their link between the old world and the new."
Crossfire (Kirk McGarvey 3) Page 13
