"Drive, or I will kill you here and now," Kurshin said.
Traffic was piling up behind them, and other drivers were honking their horns.
"If a cop shows up, I will shoot you," Kurshin warned.
The American took off. At the next intersection Kurshin instructed him to turn left, away from the river and the embassy.
"If this is some kind of a stickup, I don't have very much on me, and besides, you'd be making a big fucking mistake."
"On the contrary, it is you who have made the mistake, coming here to look for McGarvey and his woman," Kurshin said in a reasonable tone.
The CIA officer nearly lost control of the car. When he recovered, he said, "What the hell is this? What do you want? Who the hell are you?" He was tan, but his complexion had begun to pale.
"A friend. I want to know where McGarvey is keeping himself these days. I want to have a word with him."
"I don't know what you're talking about. McGarvey who?"
"You do know, and you'll tell me, either the easy way or the hard way. Personally, I don't care which."
After a half-dozen blocks they had come to one of the many slums called villas miserias. It was a densely packed area lined with tin and cardboard shacks, with open sewers along the sides of the narrow, filthy streets. The slum was crisscrossed with dark alleys and dead-end streets.
Kurshin had the American pull over, shut off the engine, and kill the lights.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I swear to Christ."
"Let's go for a walk," Kurshin said, motioning with his gun for the agent to get out of the car.
"Christ ... Christ, don't do this. What do you want? Just tell me. Money? Whatever."
"You and your partner showed up at Mercator with a dozen aluminum cases, which you trucked to that ship at the Vestry docks. Mercator and Vestry are both fronts for Central Intelligence Agency activities in Argentina. You are here to find Kirk McGarvey, whom you suspect was involved with the attack on your Paris embassy. You believe he is currently somewhere along the coast searching for a Nazi submarine that may have been sunk at the end of the war."
The American was breathing rapidly through his mouth. He was impressed.
"All I need to know is, where will you begin your search? Where do you believe McGarvey and the woman are at this moment?"
The American was shaking his head. "If you know that much, then you know that I can't tell you anything. You're the opposition. Okay, pal, you've got me. But the goddamned cold war is over. Let us clean up our own house."
"Get out of the car," Kurshin said.
"Bullshit."
Kurshin cocked the pistol's hammer.
The American hurriedly opened the door and slid out, Kurshin right behind him.
"What the fuck do you think you're going to do?"
Kurshin lowered his aim and fired, the bullet catching the American in the left kneecap. The man screamed in pain as he collapsed in the filthy street.
No one came running; no one sounded the alarm. No one would, in this section of the city.
Kurshin hunched down beside the American and jammed the barrel of the pistol into the man's scrotum. "Where do you believe McGarvey has gotten himself to?"
The American was sobbing in pain and fear. "Christ, Christ..."
"Where?" Kurshin asked softly.
The American looked up, pleading. "Viedma. The Gulf of San Matias."
"I hope you're not lying."
"No, no, I swear to God. We're leaving in a few hours. We're supposed to be there sometime tomorrow. God, I swear it."
"I believe you," Kurshin said, and he stood up and shot the man in the head at point-blank range.
it had taken them nearly ten hours in the steadily rising wind and seas to make the forty-five nautical miles southwest to the breakwater off the town of Puerto Lobos.
They'd had nothing to eat during the long day. Except for the one visit, Maria had kept to her cabin forward of the saloon. As far as McGarvey knew, Jones and his mate had remained topside on the bridge, trying to bring them in to safety.
McGarvey had actually managed to get a few hours of sleep, despite the extreme motion and uncertainty about their chances. But he had pushed himself dangerously close to collapse on the dive. At forty-six he was no longer a kid, and despite his good physical condition, his age was beginning to catch up with him.
His dreams were jumbled and confused, and involved erotic
pictures of Maria, naked on a huge pile of gold bars, all stamped with the swastika. She was beckoning to him, but someone else out of the range of his vision was calling to him, trying to tell him something. He could hear the desperation in the person's voice, but he could not tell who was calling, nor even the speaker's gender, which left him frustrated and disturbed.
When he woke it was pitch-dark in his cabin. If anything, the motion of the sea had gotten worse, and for several seconds, disoriented, he was on the verge of becoming seasick.
He pulled himself out of his bunk and, bracing himself against the bulkhead, cupped his hands around the small porthole and looked out into the night. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten.
At first he could see nothing, but then he thought he spotted lights ahead to the south, and a second later he caught the flash of the navigational beacon on the end of the Puerto Lobos breakwater. They had arrived, but this close to shore the waves were tremendous and extremely dangerous.
Pulling on his foul-weather jacket, McGarvey lurched out of his cabin into the empty main saloon, which smelled strongly of diesel fuel, sloshing bilges, and the heads. Dim red and amber lights on the navigation equipment above the chart table aft, and a thin line of white light from beneath Maria's door forward, provided the only illumination. The companionway hatch leading topside was partly open, but the night above it was utterly dark.
He hesitated for a minute. Perhaps he should speak to Maria again, try to explain to her why he was leaving. But then he decided that he owed her no explanation. In fact, it was she who owed him the truth.
He had started for the companionway when Jorge suddenly appeared at the hatch and came down the ladder, a broad grin on his dark face.
"Where is the woman?" the Argentinian demanded in clear English.
"So, he does speak after all," McGarvey replied carefully. This was trouble. His gun was holstered at the small of his back beneath his foul-weather gear.
Jorge glanced at her door. "Get her. The captain wants both of you topside immediately."
"What does he want?"
"Get the woman," Jorge repeated. "Immediately. There is no time."
"Time for what?" McGarvey asked.
Jorge pulled out a big gun, cocked the hammer, and pointed it at the center of McGarvey's chest. It was a .357 magnum, and the Argentinian's hand was steady. "Hurry."
"Maria," McGarvey shouted without taking his eyes off Jorge. "Maria. Come out here," he called. "And bring the ... gold with you."
"That is not necessary—" Jorge began, but abruptly stopped.
"You know," McGarvey said to him. "Maria!" he shouted. He turned and lurched across the saloon, bracing himself against the dining table as the boat swung around broadside to the waves for a moment before coming dead into the wind. They were heading back out to sea.
The door to Maria's cabin opened and she came out. "Are we almost there?" she asked, and then she spotted Jorge beyond McGarvey. "Oh," she said, reaching for the doorframe for support.
"They want the gold," McGarvey said, looking into her eyes.
"No!" Jorge shouted from behind him.
"We're going to give it to them. Now," McGarvey said.
"All right," Maria said, and before Jorge could do anything she turned and went back into her cabin.
"Get away from that door," the Argentinian yelled. He was suddenly very agitated.
Maria was back a second later. She handed the heavy gold bar to McGarvey, who turned and held it up.
"This is what yo
u want, isn't it?"
Jorge's black eyes grew large, his greed obvious on his lined face. It was a universal look, unmistakable. His gun hand wavered.
"We don't want any trouble," McGarvey said, taking a step closer.
Jorge's aim steadied.
"You can have this, and the rest aboard the sub. Just put us ashore."
"That's up to the captain."
McGarvey smiled reassuringly and took another step closer. The boat was rising and falling by the bow now. It felt as if they
had nearly stopped and were maintaining their position somewhere off the breakwater.
"If you want to share it with him and his pals that s up to you. But we just want to make it to shore
"It's not my business. Jorge said.
McGarvey took another step closer and stumbled, dropping the gold bar.
Jorge instinctively moved forward in an effort to grab the gold bar. At that moment he was open and vulnerable McGarvey shifted his weight to his left foot and kicked out with his right, catching the Argentinians gun hand.
The pistol discharged, the noise deafening in the narrow confines of the saloon. McGarvey was on top of the man in the next instant, driving him against the companions ay stairs
Though short, Jorge was extremely strong Almost immediately he had the advantage, bodily forcing McGarvey back, turning the gun inward.
"Kirk!" Maria cried.
The boat dropped into a trough with a tremendous lurch, and McGarvey let himself go limp, falling back under Jorge's attack.
The Argentinian was suddenly propelled forward by his own strength, and before he realized what was happening to him. he went completely over McGarvey, the wrist of his gun hand snapping with a loud pop.
Jorge bellowed in pain and rage, scrambling to his feet as he pulled out his skinning knife.
McGarvey snatched up the gun. "I don't want to kill you. he shouted.
Jorge stopped short, fury in his face.
Maria rushed across the saloon "/BastanJoT she screamed and before Jorge could react, she plunged her dagger to the hilt in his back.
The Argentinian cried out. stumbled forward, and then went down.
Kurshin got locky. An Austral flight to Yiedma put him in the Patagonian city a little after nine in the evening. He was able to rent a car at the airport, and in the city it took him only five telephone calls before he d found that McGarvey and the woman had staved brieflv at the Hotel Matias. but were gone.
It was what he'd expected. They would be out on the water searching for the submarine. Or at least they had been out there. He didn't think they'd be out on a night like this, however. The weather here was even worse than it had been in Buenos Aires. The flight down had been rough.
He reasoned that they would have had to hire a workboat to take them out. They'd need the equipment and the crew to operate it if they expected any chance of success.
Such a boat and crew, he was told, could be hired at only one marina in the city.
It was ten-thirty by the time he got there, and except for a dim light or two on a couple of the boats, the place seemed deserted.
He drove down the long dirt track and pulled up in front of the ramshackle marina office. Shutting off his lights, but leaving the engine running, he got out of the car.
The air smelled of the sea, of creosote, and of diesel fuel. Nothing moved in the night wind except for tree branches and boats' rigging. Someone aboard one of the boats laughed and shouted something, and then was quiet again.
It was possible that McGarvey and the woman had come back here, and were at this moment aboard one of the boats. But somehow he didn't think that was the case.
He was reaching inside the car to turn off the engine when someone came up out of the darkness behind him.
"jQuepasa, senor?"
Kurshin spun around, reaching for his pistol. But it was just an old man with dark, leathery skin and whispy white hair.
"I'm looking for my friends. I was told they might be here," he replied in Spanish.
"Are they fishermen, these friends of yours?" the old man asked pleasantly.
"No. The man is American and the woman is an Argentinian."
"Oh, yes, they are with Captain Jones aboard the Yankee Girl. But they are not here. They have been gone for three days now."
"Where?"
The old man shrugged, and glanced toward the docks and the river. "On the gulf."
"But not tonight," Kurshin suggested.
"No, of course not."
"Did they head north?"
"No, it was south."
"But they are not here?"
"No," the old man said.
"Where, then?"
"Perhaps not so far south as Golfo Nuevo."
"No?"
The old man shrugged. "They have no doubt gone to safety at Puerto Lobos. It is the only sensible thing to do. And Captain Jones is a sensible man."
"How far is this city to the south?"
"By water or by highway?"
"By highway."
Again the old man shrugged. "Two hundred, perhaps three hundred kilometers. But the road is good."
"Gracias" Kurshin said.
The old man nodded, and stepped back as Kurshin climbed into his car, flipped on the headlights, and headed back to the highway. If he pushed it, he figured he could make Puerto Lobos in less than three hours. The timing would be perfect.
There was a lot of surge in the small harbor. They had to put out automobile tires to save the boat from beating herself to death against the docks.
Jones had been extremely wary ever since McGarvey, and not Jorge, had come topside to help bring the boat through the breakwater. But he'd said nothing, and McGarvey had maintained the silence until they were safely docked. It was nearly one in the morning. Nothing moved on the streets of the small port town, although a couple of the waterfront bars were open and seemed to be doing a lively business.
'Tour mate is dead," McGarvey said.
"I see," the man said expressionlessly.
"You wanted the gold for yourselves," McGarvey said softly. "But there is none down there."
Jones said nothing.
"What I brought up was a solid lead bar, with a coating of gold to make it look authentic. Somebody was playing a trick."
Jones's eyes narrowed. "You won't get out of Argentina alive," he said.
"I think you are in more trouble here than you realize, Captain," McGarvey continued. "This is your boat, and he was your mate. You'll have to do something with the body."
"The police—"
"Will do nothing. In Buenos Aires there are people who would be upset to learn that you have been dredging up old Nazi secrets. Powerful people who have influence with the police."
"Then I will kill you myself."
"You might try," McGarvey said. "But I have a better solution for you."
Jones said nothing. Finally he inclined his head slightly.
"There are a lot of lead bars down there to be salvaged."
"Lead is not worth the effort."
"But each bar is covered in gold. Maybe a few ounces each. Maybe eight hundred to a thousand dollars apiece. Not a fortune, but worth the effort."
"What about Jorge?" Jones asked.
"The submarine holds many secrets," McGarvey said. "One more will make no difference. Does he have family?"
Jones shook his head. "How do I know if you're telling the truth?"
"The lead bar I brought from the bottom is in the saloon."
"I mean about what's left on the bottom."
"Go see for yourself."
"I don't dive ..."
"I think you do if the rewards are there."
Jones remained silent for a moment or two. He glanced at the companionway hatch. "What about you and the woman?"
"We'll leave tonight. Immediately."
"What's to prevent you from turning this over to the police —or to your friends in Buenos Aires?"
"For what reason?" Mc
Garvey said. "We came looking for gold, and we did not find it."
"But you found something," Jones said. "Something worth more than a submarine filled with gold."
"Don't press your luck," McGarvey warned. "I'm offering you an easy way out. Take it."
"If I don't?"
"You won't like the consequences. Believe me."
For a long time Jones just stared at McGarvey. Then he moved away from the companionway hatch. "I don't want trouble."
McGarvey nodded. "Maria," he called.
She appeared at the hatch with their things. But she hesitated, not quite certain of the situation.
"Go," Jones said.
McGarvey motioned for Maria to get off the boat. Quickly she crossed the deck and, timing her move to coincide with the boat's motion in the surge, scrambled over the rail and onto the dock.
"I heard the shot," Jones said. "Did you kill him with his own gun?"
"No," McGarvey said at the rail. "Maria killed him."
"He was a friend," Jones said, but McGarvey had clambered over the rail, and he and Maria were hurrying off the long dock into the town.
kurshin stood in the shadows at the end of the Puerto Lobos dock. A couple of the portholes were lit aboard the Yankee Girl. Other than that the rest of the tiny harbor was in darkness, except for the four-and-a-half-second flashing green light at the end of the breakwater.
The wind was very strong. Even inside the harbor waves rose to three and four feet.
He checked his watch. It was a few minutes after one-thirty. He'd stood in the darkness for a full five minutes to make certain no one was hidden either on the deck of the thirty-eight-foot converted pleasure craft or on the dock somewhere.
Satisfied that there was no one, Kurshin took out his pistol and started for the boat.
In his mind was a jumble of confused thoughts and images and emotions with McGarvey at the dark center of each.
All of his failures—his disfavor with Baranov while the former KGB chief was still alive, and his own near death—could be attributed to McGarvey. But not to the American alone. In Kur-shin's mind, McGarvey always had an army of backers behind him. Soldiers. Highly trained CIA operatives. Fieldmen. Shooters. Technicians. He had the cooperation of all the Western intelligence services. He knew the federal police forces in every Western nation. And most galling of all, the man had been incredibly lucky.
Crossfire (Kirk McGarvey 3) Page 18
