"Something like that," she said. "My car is outside." She managed a smile. "By the way, welcome to Paris. How was your flight?"
"Thanks," Carrara said. "Long. How are you holding up?"
She looked at him. "Okay. But it's a big mess here. Mike is doing a wonderful job, though. He's got a lot of enthusiasm."
Carley's car was a dark brown Peugeot. She drove fast with the traffic, and very competently.
"He's on his way back to Europe," Carrara said when they'd cleared the airport. "At least we think he is."
"I saw the weekends. It couldn't have been him, Phil."
"I want to agree with you. But the fact remains that Ken Bellows is dead. They found his body in one of the slums. The dogs had been at it."
"Not Kirk."
"The Argentinian federal police have issued arrest warrants for him and the woman he's been traveling with. There were other killings, too. Another man, an Argentinian in Buenos Aires. A ship captain and his mate in a small coastal town south of Buenos Aires. A clerk and an Italian tourist in a Puerto Lobos hotel." Carrara looked out the window. They were passing a big roadside ad for Perrier water. It was a huge bottle.
"How do you know they're coming here?"
"They crossed the border into Chile Friday afternoon, and then disappeared. I'm guessing they're on their way back here. Paris is where it all began."
Carley drove for several minutes in silence, concentrating on what she was doing. She was a very good-looking young woman, but essentially naive. It was wrong to have hired her, he decided. She was perfect for certain aspects of the job, aspects he'd never discussed with Dominique, but her career was killing her.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She glanced at him. "Is he coming here to see me?"
"It's possible."
Again Carley fell silent. Then she said, "If he's guilty, Phil, why come to see me? I mean the only reason he'd come back here would be to clear himself. To make sure that his name was cleared in connection with the attack on our embassy."
Carrara nodded. "That's what I figured, kid," he said. "But out
of sixteen thousand employees in the Company, you and I may be the only ones to think so."
"What do you want me to do?"
"There isn't much you can do until he shows up."
"//he does."
"Right," Carrara said. "In the meantime, we have a lot of work to do here. It's the main reason I've come over."
"It's the scheduling and communications that are killing us. We've lost direct contact with half of our networks."
"We'll have to send out runners. Go back to the old field procedures."
"That's what Mike thought, but he's got his hands full with everything else at the moment," Carley said.
Traffic was heavy, which was normal for this time of the evening, but despite the snow no one had slowed down.
"The general is after his scalp, isn't he?" she asked after a time.
"He wants him brought in at all costs. But at this point he only wants to have a parley. It's Ryan who's after his ass."
"Howard Ryan?" Carley asked, glancing over.
Carrara nodded. "He's after you, too. He thinks you may have helped McGarvey ... wittingly or unwittingly. He thinks you were sleeping with him, and he thinks you're in love with him."
"I see," Carley said. "What do you believe?"
"Whatever you tell me."
"And then?"
"I'll hold Ryan off from my end and let you and Mike get on with the business of rebuilding Paris."
"Fair enough," Carley said. "Yes, I was sleeping with him, and yes, it's true I'm in love with him. But that's as far as it goes, Phil. I swear it."
"It's good enough for me," Carrara said gently.
It was snowing heavily when McGarvey and Maria emerged from the Gare du Nord after their six-hour train—hovercraft-train trip from London. It seemed as if they had been traveling for months rather than a few days, partly because they were on the run, and partly because they had crossed from the Southern Hemisphere into the Northern, from summer into winter.
After crossing the border into Chile, they had gone to the small airport at Osorno, where they'd caught a flight up to Santiago.
They had spent the remainder of Saturday and all of Sunday in the capital city, purchasing new clothes, a couple of pieces of luggage, and—through McGarvey's old contacts—new identification papers. To McGarvey it had seemed strange and even claustrophobic to be there. This had been where his fall from grace had begun. He'd been sent here to kill a man.
But Santiago had not changed in those interim years. Coming into the city had been like entering the land of his own dreams, at once unreal and frightening. Leaving it had been a relief, even though by doing so he was returning to the real, much more dangerous world.
Maria shivered and hunched up her coat collar as they got in line at the taxi rank.
"Is anyone following us?" she asked, looking up at him.
"I don't think so." McGarvey glanced over his shoulder at the people still coming out of the station. "Not yet, anyway, but he'll be there. I can guarantee it."
"What does the bastard want? And just who are you?"
"An interesting question," he said. "Do you want the truth?"
"Yes," she said.
"All right. I'll tell you who I am, and then you'll tell me who you really are, and who you work for."
"We've already gone over—"
"Who owns International Traders, for starters?" McGarvey interrupted. "My guess would be the Mossad."
"No."
"Who, then?"
"Some people in Argentina who want to see ..."
"What?"
"Justice done."
"By finding this hoard of gold, and doing what with it?"
"Returning it to its rightful owners," Maria said defensively. "What are you after?"
Life, he wanted to say, but he didn't. "The truth," he said instead.
it was snowing very hard. All of western Europe was gripped in the storm. The Channel ferries and hovercraft were being closed down. Charles de Gaulle and Orly had also been closed. Even the trains were being delayed. All travel was being discouraged for the next twenty-four hours.
As McGarvey had learned from Dr. Hesse, Interpol wanted them for questioning in connection with the embassy bombing. For the CIA to have turned over their names to the civilian authorities was a drastic step.
Alone, on the way over to Carley's apartment in the First Arrondissement, McGarvey carefully watched his back to make certain he wasn't being followed. But this time no one was
behind him. The feeling wasn't there. Kurshin was not here. Not yet.
"It's him," Carley said softly from the window. "He's in the doorway just across the street."
"Son of a bitch, he made it," Carrara said admiringly from the bedroom door. "Is he alone?"
"I think so," Carley said. McGarvey stepped out of the shadows and started across the street. "Wait. He's coming. He's alone." She turned away from the window.
"Don't clutch up now. You know what has to be done."
Carley shook her head. "I don't know if I can do this, Phil. If he asks me something, I'll have to tell the truth."
"None of us is going to get hurt by the truth, Carley. Not even McGarvey. Remember that."
"If he's innocent."
'Teah," Carrara said. "But if he's guilty, playing fair won't matter. I'll nail the bastard myself."
Carley looked at him. He was an administrator, not a neldman like McGarvey. The spark was missing from his eyes, from his bearing and stance, from his attitude. His wasn't the kind of look you expected to see from a killer. He was tame; McGarvey was feral. There was no comparison.
"He's innocent," she said.
She opened the door for him on the first ring, and entering her apartment McGarvey got the impression that she'd been waiting for him.
"I saw you from the window," she said, closing the door behind him. She wore a
pair of blue jeans and an old UCLA sweatshirt, and no shoes.
"How are you, Carley?" McGarvey asked. She looked strung out and very nervous, he thought.
"Okay," she said.
McGarvey went to the window and looked out. A car passed on the street below but did not stop. Nothing else moved.
For a moment he studied Carley's reflection in the dark win-do wpane. She glanced at the bedroom door, then quickly looked away.
By your tradecraft you shall be known. The old line from the Farm came back to him. They'd been expecting him to
come here. To make contact. It was the nature of the beast. His move.
He turned back to her and unbuttoned his overcoat. His pistol was in the left pocket. "So, who've you got in there, Carley? A good one, or a bad one?"
Her eyes widened. "Kirk, I—"
The bedroom door opened and McGarvey pulled out his gun. Carrara appeared in the doorway.
"I guess I should have known better than to try to fool you," the DDO said.
McGarvey slowly lowered his pistol and uncocked the hammer. He put the gun back in his pocket. "Did you trace us from Chile?"
"We lost you after you crossed the border. The federal police in Buenos Aires have issued warrants for your arrests. Yours and Maria Schimmer's. You knew that?"
McGarvey nodded. "For the murder of Albert Rothmann."
"There are others. Steven Jones and Jorge Vallejo aboard a boat in Puerto Lobos. A hotel clerk in the town. And one of the hotel's guests, an Italian tourist. SISMI is interested in you now. We got a twixt from Rome yesterday."
"We killed Vallejo in self-defense."
"The others?"
"Arkady Kurshin."
Carrara swore, half to himself. "Are you sure? Absolutely sure, Kirk? I mean, did you actually see the man?"
"Yes," McGarvey said, his jaw tightening. "I saw him. There's no doubt."
"He's alive after all," Carrara said in wonder. "But how the hell did he trace you to Buenos Aires?"
"There's a professor in Freiburg."
"Hesse. He's dead."
"Right."
"And it was him at the embassy?" Carley asked.
McGarvey nodded tiredly. "Almost certainly. But I don't know what he wants. I don't know what he hoped to accomplish by killing Tom Lord and the others. It makes no sense to me."
Carrara's tie was loose, but he still wore his jacket. He stepped out of the bedroom doorway, and McGarvey moved back a pace, his hand going into his coat pocket.
Carrara, startled, stopped short. "Easy, Kirk," he said. "There are no other surprises tonight. No one else hiding in the closet."
"But you knew I was coming."
"We knew you were on the move, and I figured you'd show up here sooner or later. The general wants to talk to you."
"Not now," McGarvey said. "I came to warn you about Kur-shin, and have you call your dogs off me."
"I can't do that. Not now."
There was something else. McGarvey could see it as a dangerous glint in the man's eyes. "What?" he asked softly.
"One of our people was killed in Buenos Aires. Kneecap first, then shot in the head. With a Walther PPK You're high on everyone's list."
"What was he doing there?"
"Looking for you and the woman. And the submarine."
"I didn't kill him."
"The woman?"
McGarvey shook his head. "It would be my guess that Kurshin found out where we were from him."
"The man gets around," Carrara said dryly.
"What are you saying, Phil?" McGarvey asked, his voice flat. Carley recognized the tone, and she stiffened. Carrara did not.
"The general wants to talk to you, as I've already said. But I have a feeling that if I tried to take you by force, you'd prevent it."
McGarvey nodded.
"Perhaps it was the same with Ken Bellows in Buenos Aires."
"No," McGarvey said. "I wouldn't have come back here like this."
"For Carley's sake," Carrara suggested.
A pained look crossed her face.
McGarvey shook his head. "No. Not for Carley's sake. Whatever there was between us is over with, Phil. I returned to warn you that Arkady Kurshin is on the loose. He's on his way to Lisbon, I think, and I'll be waiting for him. But there's no telling what the man will do to get there. If your people get in his way, he'll kill them. I think he's already demonstrated that ability, and willingness."
"Why Lisbon?" Carrara asked.
McGarvey just looked at him.
"If it has something to do with gold or artwork or whatever from the war, I think we know what he's after."
"Its gold," McGarvey said. "At least I've been led to believe it is."
"A lot of gold?"
'Tes."
"The KGB is in big trouble. Its budget has been deeply cut. Gorbachev is controlling it that way, especially by limiting its foreign currency. If they can get their hands on money, or something that can be easily converted, they'll go after it."
"Who's Kurshin's runner?"
"A man by the name of Vasili Didenko."
"General Didenko," McGarvey said. "Baranov's number two man in the old days."
"The same."
"Still takes us back to the embassy attack, Phil. Makes no sense from where I stand."
"It might," Carrara replied, and before McGarvey could ask he continued, "The general will explain it to you. I'm not authorized. But there might be a pattern to his movements."
"Is it anything that would stop Kurshin from coming after me in Lisbon?"
"A few days ago I might have said yes. But now ... I don't know."
"Then Lisbon it is."
"I can't let you leave," Carrara said. "I will stop you. Kirk."
"I don't think so," McGarvey said. He turned and walked to the door.
"You'll have to kill me, then," Carrara said.
McGarvey looked back in time to see the DDO pull out a pistol.
"No!" Carley screamed, leaping between the two men. She wrapped her arms around Carrara and wrestled him back against the bedroom doorjamb before he could make a move. "Run!"
McGarvey hesitated for just a second, then slipped out the door and down the stairs, and out into the snowstorm.
Tehran was a dangerous place, and Richard Abbas had known for some time now that his days here were numbered. SAVAK, the secret police from the shah's era that still survived under the ayatollahs, was on to him again.
As director of the CIA's front organization, the Compagnie General de Picarde, S. A., he expected to come under daily surveillance. And did. They sold computers and computer software, which the Iranians badly needed, but they were Westerners, and not to be trusted.
But over the past few months SAVAK had stepped up its surveillance. Now they watched him almost continuously, tapping his telephones, opening most of his mail, and staking out his apartment almost every night.
Then there had been the threat on his life. He'd received assurances from Langley via high-speed satellite burst transmissions that he was safe. Yet he had the over-the-shoulder feeling that the threat was still valid. It was the same feeling that all good operatives developed ... or at least the ones who survived very long in the field did.
Getting ready to leave the office, he called in his number two, Shahpur Naisir. "Is everything set?" he asked in French. It was six in the evening.
Abbas was a well-built man of six feet two, towering over the much smaller, much slighter Shahpur.
His assistant COS nodded, glancing pointedly at the telephone. They'd discovered the new SAVAK bug three days ago during a normal sweep. Abbas had personally taken care of it.
"We're clean," Abbas said.
"Your gear is in the car," Shahpur said. He was still very tense. Everyone in the office was tense.
"Has the City of Tallahassee entered the Gulf of Oman yet?"
"She was reported past Ras al Hadd two hours ago. And I got that from the horse's mouth. The KH-11 pass couldn't have be
en timed more perfectly."
"She's on schedule, then."
Shahpur nodded. "She'll make the Strait of Hormuz in another twenty-two or twenty-three hours, and dock at Bushehr twenty-six hours later."
"Escort?"
"Our navy, of course, until she actually enters the Persian Gulf, then the Iranians take over. But if someone is going to hijack that gold, it won't be at sea, I think. The navy is all right. It's the army that has me worried."
"Me, too," Abbas said. "But it's a fool's mission we're on."
'Tes" Shahpur agreed.
Like Abbas, he'd been born and raised in Tehran. He had left at the age of fifteen in 1978 shortly before the fall of the shah. He, too, had been recruited by the CIA in the early eighties and now considered himself to be an American, as Abbas did. Here, however, they presented themselves as French, as did the other key employees in Picarde.
"The government won't thank us for saving the gold, if it comes to that," Abbas said.
"Most certainly not. But if you're caught out there in the desert, they won't hesitate to kill you. Not the army, and certainly not Captain Peshadi."
Hussain Peshadi, an officer in SAVAK, had a personal vendetta against Americans. His older sister had been having an affair with an American consular officer. When the embassy had been stormed, she'd been caught inside. She'd been executed immediately following her five-minute trial by the People's Court.
The Americans had caused her downfall, and Peshadi, who'd been one of the men responsible for holding the hostages in the embassy, had vowed death to Americans. Death to all Americans.
It was he and his people who had stepped up the surveillance on Abbas.
"I won't leave Tehran until I shake him," Abbas said.
"Will you try tonight?"
"Midnight. If all goes well, I should be on the coast sometime tomorrow afternoon. It'll give me plenty of time to get set up before the ship docks and they start unloading the gold."
"Don't forget to activate the telephone-answering equipment in your apartment."
"No," Abbas said. "As of tomorrow morning when you telephone me, you'll hear a definitely under-the-weather Frenchman."
Shahpur nodded. "Take care, then, Richard."
Crossfire (Kirk McGarvey 3) Page 21
