Crossfire (Kirk McGarvey 3)

by Hagberg, David

  He urinated at the side of the dirt track and then went back to the car where he pulled one of the full canteens of water from the trunk and drank.

  Next he filled the gas tank with the last of the fuel from the jerry cans, closed the trunk, and went around to the driver's side.

  Abbas was awake in the back seat and was staring at Kurshin, his eyes dark, his complexion wan. He didn't look well.

  'May I have some water?" he asked, his voice weak. "No," Kurshin said, getting in behind the wheel and starting the car.

  "If I die from dehydration, I will be of no use to you," Abbas said.

  Kurshin considered him in the rearview mirror. He shook his head. "I don't think you will die so soon. But if you pass out I will give you some water to revive you."

  "I can't go on much longer like this," Abbas said. "You will manage."

  "Please," Abbas croaked. "I'm begging you in the name of human decency. Just a little water."

  Kurshin turned in his seat and looked closely at the American as if seeing him for the first time. His lip curled a little. "You're not much of a man, are you," he said conversationally. "I could kill you now and it would make very little difference to my plans. Or I could keep you alive a little while longer. In the end it is up to you."

  Abbas's Adam's apple bobbed up and down and his eyes were blinking furiously. He was clearly on the verge of losing control. "What kind of a monster are you?"

  "You can't imagine," Kurshin said. He took out his pistol, levered a round into the firing chamber, and calmly reached over the back of the seat and placed the muzzle against Abbas's forehead.

  The American flinched.

  "What is it to be?" Kurshin asked. "Death now, or life?"

  Abbas said nothing.

  "With life there is hope. Who knows, perhaps something will go wrong at the last minute. Perhaps I will be killed and you will get your chance to escape. Die now and that would be impossible."

  "I want to live," Abbas said.

  "Then you will cooperate with me?"

  •Yes."

  "Very good," Kurshin said. He withdrew his pistol, eased the hammer down, and laid it on the seat beside him. He had absolutely no respect for men such as Abbas, even though this type made his work easier. The man was weak, and deserved to die. And he would.

  The only two men who had ever earned his respect were Valentin Baranov, and Kirk McGarvey. Baranov was dead, and McGarvey would be soon.

  He eased the car into gear and headed back down to the main highway. "We will get ready to take the gold now," he said.

  It was getting dark again, and for a little while Richard Abbas thought he might be going blind. He was lying in the cramped back seat of the Triumph as they bumped slowly over an extremely rough track. It was the motion that had awakened him. They were once again off the highway.

  It took a long while for his brain to begin to function properly, but finally he managed to sit up and look outside.

  They were following what appeared to be the dry bed of a mountain stream that would contain water only in the spring. They were very high in the mountains, but above them the even taller peaks were covered with snow. This was a no-man's land. Nothing lived here except for the eagles. No one would ever want to come here.

  Kurshin was concentrating on his driving. Ten minutes later, after they had gone another half mile, the stream's course opened onto a narrow defile that had to be a mile or so long and perhaps several hundred yards wide. The ground, from what Abbas could see, was reasonably level and free of large boulders or holes or drift piles.

  It would make a perfect landing spot, Abbas slowly realized. The site was completely hemmed in by taller mountains. Once the aircraft got in, they would be virtually invisible to Iranian radar, and certainly invisible from the highway below. SAVAK would never suspect a thing. Neither would the guards on the gold convoy.

  It was ingenious. The Russians would get the gold, and the Americans would be blamed for it. The Iranians were always ready to believe ill of the Americans.

  Kurshin pulled up at the edge of the landing area, shut off the car's lights and engine, and looked back at Abbas. "So. You are awake. How do you feel?"

  "Very ... bad," Abbas said, feigning much more weakness than he actually felt, although he was frightened at how little strength he did have.

  Kurshin studied him. It was late afternoon and would be night

  before long. They were much higher in the mountains here than they had been last night, so already the weather was much colder. Abbas didn't know if he would be able to hold up much longer.

  "Get out of the car,'' Kurshin said, opening his door and climbing out.

  Abbas pretended to fumble with the door handle for a long time, and took even longer to pull himself out. Meanwhile Kurshin had opened the trunk and had taken out a metal canister about twenty inches long, and half that wide. A short whip antenna was attached to its top surface.

  'There's water for you in the trunk," he said. "And some food in the box. But I would drink and eat with care lest you make yourself ill."

  Abbas dragged himself to the back of the car as Kurshin walked off a few yards with the canister and set it down on the ground. He hunched over it and began fiddling with the base of the antenna.

  Abbas snatched a canteen from the trunk, and for just a moment he wavered on his feet, dizzy even from that slight effort. His fingers felt so thick and numb that he had a difficult time simply removing the cap. With shaking hands he raised the canteen to his lips and drank, spilling more than half the water all over the trunk and himself before he managed to get some down his throat. It was lukewarm and tasted metallic, but it was wonderful, the relief to his dehydrated system almost immediate.

  A second later his stomach knotted up, and he almost vomited, but he held it back by force of will.

  He took another drink, this time more cautiously, and his eyes fell on one of his shirts rolled in a ball in the corner of the trunk. His own gun was half wrapped in the cloth, its butt and trigger guard exposed.

  Abbas glanced over at the Russian, who was still occupied with the canister. It had to be some kind of a transmitter, Abbas thought. It was the only explanation that made sense. He reached inside the trunk and grabbed the pistol, the feel of the metal like a shot of adrenaline to his system.

  He cocked the gun, and then holding it behind his right leg, he straightened up and turned around. Kurshin was still doing something with the transmitter.

  Abbas walked on unsteady legs toward the Russian. The man seemed completely absorbed in what he was doing. It was the mistake he had talked about. Only it was going to cost him his life.

  "You son of a bitch," Abbas growled, raising the pistol and aiming it at the back of Kurshin's head. He pulled the trigger, and the hammer slapped on an empty chamber.

  Kurshin turned around and grinned up at him. Abbas stumbled backward, off balance, the Russian's laughter rising and finally echoing off the sheer cliffs around them, a red light blinking atop the transmitter.

  mcgarvey hated the inactivity. He'd paced the tiny downtown apartment all morning and most of the afternoon, not daring to turn on the radio or television for fear someone in the building would hear it and come to investigate.

  The apartment belonged to an Air Iran international pilot, and was very rarely occupied. Although the man was completely above any sort of suspicion, the paranoia that gripped Tehran was all-encompassing. Anyone could become a suspected sympathizer of things Western under the correct circumstances. McGarvey didn't want anyone knocking on the door. Not now.

  Ghfari had gone out around three-thirty in the afternoon, and although it was already after six, he had not returned. McGarvey was becoming concerned.

  He had weapons now. A Russian-made TK automatic and an

  AK-47 assault rifle. He also had one of the satellite handie-talkie transceivers, maps, and fresh papers that identified him as Danish. But until Ghfari returned with the car, he had no transportation.
r />   For the past hour he had watched the street from the window, half expecting at any moment to see SAVAK, or the police, or even the military pulling up below. He had visions of Ghfari being arrested and interrogated. The young man would crack easily.

  McGarvey checked his watch again. He'd give Ghfari thirty more minutes before he would have to write him off.

  The convoy was already on its way north, and depending upon where Kurshin had set up his ambush point, the attack could come any time within the next twenty-four hours.

  The street was still clear. McGarvey went into the bedroom where he got his jacket and stuffed the pistol in his belt at the small of his back. The AK-47 had been disassembled and was loaded into a leather overnight bag along with several thirty-round clips of ammunition, a second pistol and ammunition, the handie-talkie, and the maps, which included the convoy route, in itself a highly secret piece of information.

  They would face immediate trial and execution if they were caught with any of that. And, as Wills had warned in Cairo: "It would be more evidence to the Iranians that the U.S. was behind the hijacking. So don't let yourself get caught."

  The last of the afternoon light had faded, and the few cars and trucks on the street below all ran with headlights. In a couple of hours it would be curfew, and getting out of the city would be next to impossible.

  McGarvey closed the heavy bag and brought it out to the tiny living room, where he set it by the door. It would be cold in the mountains at this time of the year. In addition to the car, Ghfari was to bring them warm clothing, extra fuel, and food.

  But anything could have gone wrong. If Ghfari had been stopped and the car searched, he would have been put under immediate arrest. Innocent people did not drive around with such things in their cars. At least they didn't in Iran these days.

  "Ghfari is a good man,'' Jaziraf had told him. "I know him well. We trained together."

  "But?" McGarvey had asked. They were nearly at the airport.

  The Egyptian had been giving him last-minute instructions and hints all the way out.

  "He is a young man. There is much that he has not experienced in his life. Therefore there is much that he does not understand."

  McGarvey's life would depend on Ghfari's abilities and judgment. He was grateful for Jaziraf s candor. "Can he be trusted?"

  "Oh, yes, most completely he can be trusted. But he is only the number three, he is alone in a hostile country, and he is terribly frightened. I have heard it in his last transmission."

  Frightened men did extraordinary things. But they also did stupid, dangerous things.

  Ghfari drove past in a battered Range Rover with big, knobby, off-road tires, two very tall whip antennae at the back, and some sort of symbol painted on the door.

  He stopped at the end of the block and pulled the big station wagon half up on the curb. He got out, the headlights still on, and walked to the back of the car where he seemed to check something at the base of one of the antennae.

  Before he got back behind the wheel he looked down the street the way he had come, up at the apartment, and then back down the street.

  It was a signal. He'd managed to get their transportation, but something had evidently gone wrong, and he wanted McGarvey to get out of the apartment. They would have to meet out on the streets somewhere.

  Ghfari pulled away from the curb and turned the corner at the end of the block. McGarvey checked to make sure the pistol was secure in his belt, then picked up the leather bag and let himself out of the apartment.

  Downstairs he waited for a few moments in the relative darkness of the doorway to study the street. Traffic was light, but as far as he could tell, normal. No one seemed to be lingering nearby. No one seemed particularly interested in the building. The few shops on this street seemed to be getting ready to close for the evening.

  McGarvey stepped out onto the sidewalk, the early-evening air very cool, and walked in the opposite direction Ghfari had gone.

  At the corner he headed east, directly away from what had once been called Argentine Park. He had no idea what it had

  been renamed since the revolution, but there seemed to be some kind of a demonstration going on there. A bonfire had been lit and it looked as if the crowd was burning some effigy, though at this distance it was impossible to tell just who or what the straw figure represented. Such occurrences, he'd been told, were common these days in Tehran.

  In the next block, the Range Rover pulled up beside him. He tossed the bag in the back seat and climbed in beside Ghfari.

  "It's SAVAK," Ghfari said, immediately pulling away and heading up toward the Tarasht Highway just south of Vanak.

  "Did they follow you?"

  Ghfari glanced in the rearview mirror. "I have lost them for the moment. But they know this car. They were at the meeting. I do not know if the others got away."

  "These others," McGarvey said, "do they know our plans?"

  "No," Ghfari said grimly. "But if SAVAK catches them, they will die."

  "There's nothing we can do for them now," McGarvey said.

  Ghfari looked at him. "I know."

  "Then let's get out of the city. We've wasted enough time."

  the president and Thomas Haines were bent over a small-scale map of Iran spread out on the President's desk when Roland Murphy was shown into the Oval Office. It was two forty-five in the afternoon, Washington time.

  The situation in Iran was coming to a head now. The President had asked to be briefed the moment the operation, which they were calling PLUTUS after the Greek god of wealth, went critical. In Murphy's estimation, it had.

  Both men looked up when Murphy came in.

  "We have fifteen minutes, General. Then I have a news conference," the President said.

  "Anything to do with Iran?" Murphy asked, joining them.

  "No," the President said. "At least I hope not. But if it comes up, I intend stonewalling it. For the moment, anyway."

  "Every president since the Second World War who has tried to keep something from the media has been crucified," Haines cautioned.

  "I know," the President said glumly. "But it's my call. What's the latest, General? The convoy is off and running?"

  'Tes, Mr. President. At least I can give you that much good news," Murphy said.

  The President gave him a sharp look. "Spell it out."

  "There've been no troubles so far, and our last report was that the gold was at the halfway point, about here." Murphy stabbed a blunt finger at a point well into the mountains.

  The President and his security adviser looked at the spot. "That's pretty wild country, isn't it?" Haines asked.

  "That's an understatement. The area is about as remote as they get."

  "We don't have time," the President warned.

  "Arkady Kurshin is there, all right, at least according to McGarvey."

  "We've gotten word from him? He's in place?"

  "There was evidently some sort of trouble in Tehran, but he and our number three man in the station managed to get out of the city and use the satellite link with us. He wanted us to look for heat traces off the main highway south of Qom, and for any kind of a narrow-beam high-frequency beacon in the same area."

  The President's eyes narrowed. "In English, General."

  "He didn't stop to explain, but we think he believes that Kurshin will set up a radio homing beacon to allow low-flying aircraft to land at some remote spot in the mountains. They'd be able to come in under Iranian radar, set down, hijack the gold shipment, and fly out before anyone knew what was going on."

  "Well?" the President asked.

  "We just found the beacon," Murphy said. He took out his glasses, put them on, and studied the map for a moment or two before he drew a small circle in the mountains well north of the convoy's present position.

  The President's eyes were bright. "Are we sure it's a Russian beacon?"

  "No," Murphy admitted heavily, "but it's where it should be if Kurshin has set it for the reasons we th
ink he did."

  "Has this information been transmitted to McGarvey?"

  "Not yet, Mr. President. We told him to wait until twenty-three hundred hours Greenwich time, which is when our satellite will be overhead. Gives us another three hours to decide what to tell him."

  "In the meantime the convoy is heading into a possible ambush," Haines said. "And the Iranians may have intercepted your transmission to McGarvey."

  "It's a chance we have to take," Murphy said. "But we've got as much as twelve hours, depending upon how fast the convoy moves. Which places the Russians at the disadvantage. Iran keeps time eight and a half hours ahead of us. It's coming up on eleven-thirty in the evening over there. The convoy isn't due to pass the ambush spot until sometime tomorrow morning. During daylight hours. Unless it speeds up, which is possible."

  The President exchanged glances with Haines. "Which also puts us at the disadvantage if we want to send our Delta Force team in."

  "McGarvey was quite specific about not making such a move. At least not for the moment," Murphy said.

  "We may have no choice, General," the President replied. "I simply will not allow that gold to fall into Russian hands. Not after your warning."

  "Perhaps you should call President Gorbachev on the hot line—" Murphy stopped when the telephone on the President's desk chimed softly.

  The President picked it up. "We'll be through in a few minutes," he said sharply. He looked at Murphy. "Who?" he asked. "Send him in." He hung up the phone. 'Tour deputy director of operations. He says it's of vital importance."

  All three men turned toward the door as Phil Carrara, carrying a briefcase, came in. He was very nervous, and he looked all in. He'd been back from Paris less than eighteen hours.

  "I'm sorry, General, but this couldn't wait," he said apologetically.

  "That's all right," the President told him. "This is my office. What have you got for me?"