The Kill Zone km-9

by David Hagberg

  It seemed to McGarvey that the priest was reaching out for his own assurances. It was as if he was trying to draw strength instead of give it. “I don’t think that my wife would have remained with something she didn’t believe in.”

  Vietski smiled and nodded. “May I go in for just a few minutes?”

  “Maybe later, she’s sleeping now.”

  “I won’t wake her, I promise,” Vietski said earnestly. “But just a few minutes. I’d like to sit with her and say a little prayer. I think it would mean something to her.”

  McGarvey glanced at Peggy, who raised her eyebrows. Then he nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Vietski went into Kathleen’s room, closing the door softly behind him.

  “He’s a troubled man,” McGarvey said.

  “But he seems to care,” Peggy Vaccaro replied. “That’s something.”

  The blinds were shut and the room was dark. Kathleen was asleep.

  Vietski moved to her side and made a sign of the cross over her head and began to pray, his voice soft, but filled with emotion. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me …”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  BLOWBACK

  And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths. Win us with honest trifles, to betray’s In deepest consequences

  W. Shakespeare

  It’s blowback, plain and simple. The policy was kept from the American public all these years, and now we’re reaping the unintended consequences.

  CIA, anonymous

  TUESDAY

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN GOD, BUT YOU DO HAVE SOME OF THE ANSWERS.”

  ANDREWS AFB

  McGarvey was seated in the back of the DCI’s limo headed east on 1-495

  across the river, lost in thought, as Dick Yemm expertly maneuvered the armored Cadillac through the lunch hour traffic. Otto Rencke sat in back with McGarvey. Yemm had snagged him at his apartment before coming out to Chevy Chase. “Liz is going to want to see you,” McGarvey had explained to Otto. She’d sounded distant and frightened on the phone last night. He glanced over at Otto, who was staring out the other window, then at Yemm, who was watching in the rearview mirror.

  Everyone’s imagination was working at full tilt. All of them were waiting for the next shoe to drop, for the next attack to come. And everyone was looking to him for support, for answers. They passed Temple Hills as an air force transport took off from Andrews a couple of miles away. He felt a spasm of fear for his daughter, for what this latest attack was doing to her spirit. Losing the first baby had been almost more than she could endure. Only Todd had been able to bring her back, to make her laugh again. This time was worse. The loss wasn’t a natural miscarriage. It was murder. He didn’t know how Liz was bearing the pain and the fear. And he didn’t know if Todd, who was suffering his own demons, would be able to be as strong this time as he had been the first. “I’m here, baby,” he mumbled to himself. “This time I won’t leave.” He wanted her to get the message loud and clear. “Mac, oh wow, are you okay?” Otto intruded. McGarvey came out of his thoughts. Otto’s eyes were round, his hair went in every direction. He was frightened. “I’m okay. How about you?” “I shouldn’t have called Mrs. M.” ya know. I’m sorry.”

  There. That had been on McGarvey’s mind. Yemm said that Otto told him Katy deserved the truth. But that made no sense under the circumstances. Katy needed protection. There was something else. The scratching, nagging was still there. Coming on even stronger than before. “No. You shouldn’t have. I would have taken care of it,” he said, and Otto quickly looked away. What to make of his behavior?

  Whom to trust? Larry Danielle would know. “What’s going on, Otto? I have to know. Talk to me,” Otto refused to turn back. “I don’t know what you mean.” “Yes, you do. It’s why I brought you out here this morning. So we could have a chance to talk.” “Nada” Otto murmured.

  He laid his forehead on the window. “Nadu’s no longer an acceptable answer,” McGarvey pressured. “I don’t know…” “Lavender,” McGarvey prompted. “Start there. You’re searching for something, and it’s coming up lavender.” But Otto didn’t answer. They arrived at Andrews main gate, and the air policemen on duty saluted the car and passed them through. Yemm drove directly over to the VIP hangar, where the CIA’s Gulfstream would come after landing. The flight was still at least twenty minutes out, and there was no activity in or around the hangar, though the big doors were open. Yemm parked on the apron in front of the doors. “Take a walk, Dick,” McGarvey told Yemm. “Find out when the flight lands.” Yemm turned and looked at Otto who stared out the window toward the control tower, then at McGarvey. He didn’t think that it was such a good idea leaving the DCI here unprotected, even if he was with a friend. “I can call Operations.” “Get out of here, Dick.” Yemm looked at him questioningly. Under the CIA’s Standard Operating Policies he would be within his rights, as the DCIs bodyguard, to refuse a direct order if he thought that the DCIs life would be jeopardized because of it. It was the same SOP that the Secret Service agents guarding the President of the United States followed. He knew that McGarvey could take care of himself.

  Nonetheless, he took his job seriously. But he nodded finally. “I’ll be back in ten.” When Yemm was gone, McGarvey got out of the limo, walked around to the front and leaned against the hood. An old KG-135

  tanker came lumbering in for a landing. The Boeing 707 was still majestic after nearly a half century of service. He remembered as a kid riding one out to Saigon on his first assignment. “I don’t know what holds it up, ya know,” Otto said at his side. “Physics?” “Nah.”

  “Then it has to be trust,” McGarvey said. “Sometimes that’s not so easy.” “Between friends.” “Yes, especially between friends. Real friends, ya know.” “I’d like to think that I have real friends.” Otto gave a little shuffle. He was becoming agitated. “You do, Mac.

  Honest injun.” “Special Operation Spotlight.” “What?” “I want to know what it is. Why it’s lavender. And what it has to do with Nikolayev and your trip to France.” McGarvey gave Otto a penetrating stare. “I want to know what it has to do with me and my family.” “It’s nothing more than a research project. I’m running down a few loose ends that Elizabeth came up with in the archives.” McGarvey shook his head.

  “Somebody tried to kill you, me and my wife, and now our daughter. And you tell me that you’re working on a research project? Bullshit, Otto.

  Pure, unadulterated bullshit.” “My machines are running the programs while I’m looking for bad guys-” “Okay. What have you come up with?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  Otto was backing himself into a corner, and McGarvey was worried that he was losing it. He was hiding something. But he always told the truth no matter how painful or embarrassing it might be.

  “Give me one thing, then,” McGarvey said, keeping his patience. “For instance, tell me about Nikolayev. He worked for General Baranov in the old days. Does that have something to do with this?”

  “Nothing…”

  “That’s not true, goddammit,” McGarvey pressed. “You don’t spend that kind of computer time on a research project when someone is trying to kill you and the people around you. And you don’t come up with some bullshit operational title and go off commandeering a hyper sonic spy plane to take you to France.”

  Otto was alarmed, he seemed to be vibrating. “That’s not true…”

  “Louise was waiting here to pick you up when the Aurora landed. Dick saw the whole thing. Makes her an accessory. Do you want us to bring her in for questioning?”

  Otto put a hand to his mouth.

  �
�It wouldn’t do her air force career much good if the headhunters investigated her for murder and treason. Even if she was cleared, she’d be tainted in the eyes of the promotions board. She might even lose her clearances

  “Why are you doing this?” “Because I’m tired of screwing around. I want the truth.” “I don’t have the answers, Mac. I swear to God,”

  Otto cried in anguish. “You don’t believe in God, but you do have some of the answers.” Otto started to dance from one foot to the other.

  His sneakers were untied again, his shirt was stained with something, maybe mustard, and the welts and scabs on his head punctuated the massive bruising all over the left side of his face. He looked pitiful, even crazy. But there was too much at stake to let him off the hook, friend or not. McGarvey had known that it would come to this with Otto. Just as he knew that he was the only one to confront him; he was the only person on the face of the earth other than Louise Horn to whom Otto would listen. Stenzel had warned him that confronting Otto head-to-head might drive him over the edge. But then he might already be over the edge and looking for a way back. Sometimes behavior like Otto’s signaled a desperate plea for help. “There’s simply no way to know for sure until he falls apart and we can pick up the pieces.” “It’s okay,” McGarvey said. He wanted to put his arm around Otto’s shoulder, friend-to-friend. But he didn’t dare. Otto was simply too fragile now. “It’s okay. Just tell me what you can. I need something to go on.” Otto stopped dancing as if he were a mechanical toy winding down. McGarvey glanced toward the active runway.

  Liz’s plane would touch down soon. She was another fragile spirit he would have to find the strength to protect and comfort. But they still had a few minutes. Otto was staring at him. “In August one of my search programs came up with a hit,” Otto said softly, as if he were afraid of being overheard. “An old KGB general was found shot to death in his Moscow apartment. A suicide. But there were questions.” “What search program?” McGarvey asked. “I got the idea last year when I was digging through your old operational files.” Otto was hesitant.

  McGarvey nodded reassuringly for him to go on. “You crossed paths with some bad people. I thought that maybe someday one of them might come looking for you. Revenge, ya know. Settle old scores. You pissed off some serious dudes.” McGarvey watched him. Otto was choosing his words with care. With too much care. There were things that he knew that he did not want to reveal. “Who was he?” “Gennadi Zhuralev.

  Nobody important, except that he worked for Baranov, and that program was watching for Baranov connections.” “Was he murdered?” Otto shrugged. “Probably. But what got me interested was that another old Baranov hand, Anatoli Nikolayev, went missing the very same day, and within twenty-four hours the SVR launched an all-out search for him.

  That was too coincidental for me.” “The Russians traced him to France, and so did you.” “That’s right.” “But why, Otto?” McGarvey asked.

  “Why have you gone through all the trouble to find some old Russian?”

  “Because the SVR wanted him big-time. So I figured he had to be worth something.” McGarvey shook his head. “I don’t buy it. People disappear from Russia all the time, most of them smuggling something valuable out with them. They’re draining the country, so the SVR wants them back. The FBI usually gets those requests for help, but Fred Rudolph has heard nothing.” “He was a Baranov man,” Otto said lamely.

  “Baranov is dead, and Nikolayev is very old. Where’s the interest?”

  “He didn’t want to forget,” Otto said with difficulty. “Forget what?

  What do you mean?” “He was reading the old files. Interviewing people.” “Baranov’s files? Department Viktor people?” Otto nodded.

  “Including my involvement?” McGarvey asked. Otto nodded again. “So what?” McGarvey said, but then he stopped himself. “He found out something that somebody in Moscow doesn’t want found out.” Otto watched him but said nothing. “It has something to do with what’s happening around here. Where’s the connection, Otto? Where’s the lavender?” Rencke flinched as if he had been burned. “I’m not sure, Mac. Honest injun.” “It’s some operation that lay dormant for all these years until Nikolayev stumbles on it. He hits a trip wire, and the thing starts.” McGarvey focused on Otto. “What is it?” Otto was vibrating again, a look of terror on his face. “You found Nikolayev, and you must have made contact with him. Is that right?” Otto shook his head. “Goddammit, you didn’t come back from France empty-handed. I know you didn’t. What did you find out?” Otto’s lips worked as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. “Spotlight is your operation to find out what Nikolayev is up to. And you found out something.

  What?” Yemm came around the corner of the building. McGarvey spotted him and angrily waved him back. “Their plane is on final, boss,” Yemm shouted. “You have about five minutes.” He turned and went into the hangar. McGarvey turned back to Rencke with a mixture of frustration, pity and anger. “Somebody is trying to kill me. Or at the very least stop me from becoming DCI. A number of our people have pegged you as the chief suspect. They think that you’ve gone around the bend.” Otto hung his head. “I know.” “You can’t do this alone, Otto. You can’t fight the war by your seE Let me help. It’s what I do for my friends.

  It’s the least I can do.” “Network Martyrs,” Otto mumbled. McGarvey’s eyes narrowed. Something in the sudden mood shift as Otto spoke the words was disturbing. “Was that a Baranov operation?” “Like CESTA and Banco del Sur, but a lot more specific.” Otto was desperately afraid of something. “Nikolayev found the file at Lefortovo.” “How do you know that?” McGarvey asked. It was a reasonable question under the circumstances. “Did you talk to him when you were in France?” “No.

  He was in Paris, but I didn’t see him. I couldn’t. Somebody tried to kill him in front of the Louvre. They killed another man instead. The one Nikolayev had gone to see. Just like Zhuralev in Moscow.” “Was he another Baranov man?” “Valdimir Trofimov. He was BaranoVs special assistant for about ten years.” Otto looked off in the distance as the CIA’s Gulfstream approached the end of the field for a landing.

  “Nikolayev doesn’t have all the answers either.” “How do you know?”

  “He wouldn’t be running for his life.” “What about Network Martyrs?”

  “He was living in an apartment in Montmartre. I found a scrap of paper with the name.” “Now we’re getting somewhere. We can give this to Tom Lynch. His people can search the apartment. They might find something we can use.” Lynch was chief of the CIA’s Paris station. “The Russians have already been there. They were right on my heels.” “Did you get the scrap of paper?” Otto looked down and shook his head.

  “No. But I hacked the SVR’s mainframe in Moscow.” He looked up.

  “Baranov planted a very deep cover agent here in the States almost twenty years ago. When the time was right the agent would be activated and would assassinate the target.” Otto blinked furiously. “The target is you, Mac. Oh, wow, and the agent has been activated.” The hairs prickled on the back of McGarvey’s neck. “Who is the assassin?”

  “I don’t know,” Otto said, unable to meet McGarvey’s eyes. He was lying again. He knew, or at the very least he suspected who it might be. “It’s someone close,” McGarvey said. “We know that much. Do you have a list?” “Not one that has any meaning. Nothing makes any sense.” Otto started to dance from foot to foot again. There it was again. The business about trust. If he couldn’t trust his friends, who the hell was left?

  “I have my own list,” McGarvey admitted. “You’re on it. So is Yemm.”

  Maybe he had suspected all along that Baranov would come back. The look in the general’s eyes when he died wasn’t one of defeat, but rather one of cunning and malevolence. Bravado, as he lay bleeding to death outside East Berlin, or some knowledge that he would get his revenge in the end?

  McGarvey had never really understood Baranov’s motivation for coming after
him. If the Russians had wanted McGarvey dead, they’d had plenty of opportunities to put a bullet in the back of his head. No one could go through life without making a mistake.

  Now he had to wonder again, if indeed this was a Baranov operation that had been put in place more than twenty years ago.

  Was the general’s desire for revenge nothing more than insanity? Some international game of chess played for a grudge? A vengeance game? It was probably something they would never know for sure, because the only man who understood was dead.

  Pride? Ego? Saving face?

  The Gulfstream touched down with a puff of smoke from its tires. “I’ll find Nikolayev, but we gotta keep Paris station out of it,” Otto said.

  “If the Russians find out that we’re after him, too, there’s no telling what’ll happen. If they get to him first, they’ll kill him, just like they did Zhuralev and Trofimov. They want to bury the mess that Baranov made. We’d never know the whole truth until it was too late.”

  Otto looked up, pleading. “Don’t you see, Mac, you gotta let me work on it my way.”

  A towing vehicle came across the apron and pulled up where the Gulfstream would stop. The driver glanced over at McGarvey and Otto, then looked away. A gas truck came from the same direction and pulled up as Yemm came out of the hangar.