The Kill Zone km-9

by David Hagberg

  Within a couple of months he was throwing his own lavish parties all over Mexico City, and at a CIA-run house on the Pacific Coast. His target was Evita Perez, twenty and beautiful. Her mother was the third daughter of the governor of the state of Hidaglo, and her father was the assistant secretary of finance for the federal government. They were an old, prestigious Mexican family, with important contacts throughout the country. After their wedding and honeymoon, Yarnell surrounded himself with a crowd at their palatial home outside Mexico City and at other times at their mountain home, or at the seaside CIA house. Darby’s mob, as he called them, were mostly Mexican and Latin American high government officials, and the product he was sending back to Langley was nothing short of stellar. But Baranov’s, and therefore Yarnell’s, chief target (an operation that ruined the poor young Evita) was another rising star within the CIA. Donald Suthland Powers, who would later become the Director of Central Intelligence. Yarnell, under Baranov’s expert direction, set up a series of sophisticated honey traps for Powers, in which Powers would appear to be in Yarnell’s debt. The operation was a lengthy one, and extremely delicate.

  Powers, who trusted Yarnell until the very end, never suspected that he was being manipulated. But step by step he was placed in incriminating circumstances showing up at a nightclub known to be a communist hangout; driving through a communist neighborhood at the young hours of the day, and too often, being photographed time and again in the vicinity of known KGB agents. All of it was staged, of course, and to Powers’s discredit, he never once bothered to take a good look around him. That operation did not come to fruition until years later, well after Yarnell quit the CIA, and even after he’d given up his Senate seat to become a lobbyist for a number of powerful multinational corporations and adviser to the President of the United States. The other shoe fell when Powers was appointed to run the CIA by a president who, like everyone else, had been dazzled by Yarnell. McGarvey was called out of retirement in Lausanne, Switzerland by a fantastic tale of betrayal supposedly leaked by Artime Basulto, a Cuban who had supported Batista until the revolution. Basulto, by then living in the States as a drug dealer, was, like everyone in the charade, being manipulated indirectly by Baranov. The target was Powers, of course, as well as the credibility of the entire Central Intelligence Agency.

  An incompetent president and an out-of-control Congress had hired Powers, supposedly a traitor to run the CIA. The weapons were Powers’s indiscretions in Mexico City and the dogged determination that McGarvey had shown in Vietnam and later in Chile and Germany. McGarvey was sent to investigate Yarnell, and in so doing unwittingly forced Yarnell into killing Powers, which in turned forced McGarvey to put a bullet into Yarnell’s brain. Neat and tidy. Except that in the end, Donald Powers, who was an innocent man and an outstanding DCI, was dead. Poor Evita, who had learned to believe in Baranov, shot herself to death.

  And as a bit of insurance, as a backstop against future events, Baranov arranged to make McGarvey witness Darby Yarnell’s seduction of McGarvey’s ex-wife. Was it happening again, Rencke wondered, sitting back and closing his eyes. Baranov had guessed that someday Powers would rise to head the CIA, so he had sown the seeds of the man’s destruction years earlier. Had he also seen McGarvey’s rise and sown the seeds of his destruction? All the clues were there. Everything that he needed to know in order to unravel the problem was in front of him, and yet he was blind. He got up and began hopping from foot to foot, the rhythmic motion keeping time with his thoughts.

  Putting a bullet into Powers’s head in Mexico City in the early days would not have been the Baranov style. The Russian had never been interested in merely bringing down a single individual, because he understood that when one man fell there was usually another to take his place. Instead, Baranov chose to bring down as many people as possible with one stroke, even bring down entire organizations. Not only kill the man, but kill the idea, kill the confidence in the institution.

  That would help explain all the targets this time: Kathleen and Yemm in the USVI, Elizabeth in Vail, and even himself on the Parkway. But he couldn’t see it. He could not see the whole picture. Something was missing. Something vastly important. Something that he should know.

  Otto stopped. Christ. Goddamn hell. Most of the people Baranov manipulated did not know that they were being managed. They had no idea. They were never allowed to see the whole picture. Network Martyrs was at least twenty years old. Its trigger point was probably the same kind of trigger that had led to Donald Powers’s downfall.

  McGarvey had been appointed to head the CIA, that was the opening bell.

  It was something that Baranov could not allow, and he would stop, even from the grave. Still, that was only a part of the structure. Who was the Darby Yarnell this time? Who was the catalyst? Who would actually hold the gun to McGarvey’s head and fire the shot? Nikolayev? An old Russian Department Viktor psychiatrist? Possibly. He went back to his laptop and restarted his search, this time widening the base to include all of Baranov’s Department Viktor personnel and activities.

  THIRTY-TWO

  HE KEPT COMING BACK TO THE SAME CONUNDRUM: WHO CAN A SPY TRUST? WHO CAN HE BELIEVE IN?

  CIA HEADQUARTERS

  McGarvey walked back to his office after the five o’clock staff meeting, the tall, ascetic DDO David Whittaker beside him. Since Adkins’s forced leave of absence, Whittaker had agreed to temporarily fill in as acting Deputy DCI. He had shown his abilities at the meeting. His was a steady hand, and being number two wasn’t such a huge leap from being boss of Operations, which was the CIA’s largest directorate. But he wasn’t happy with the promotion. Adkins was a friend. “I didn’t know that Ruth was that sick. It’s got to be hitting him pretty hard.” “He didn’t call you?” McGarvey asked, walking into his office. Ms. Swanfeld handed him several phone messages. “No. When did he leave?” “Earlier this afternoon. I had to practically call Security to drag him out of his office.” McGarvey took a critical look at Whittaker. “His wife’s in the hospital, but he didn’t want to be with her. Does that make any sense to you, Dave?”

  “The girls are here.” “That’s what he said.” They went into McGarvey’s private office and Whittaker closed the door. He seemed sheepish. “You probably don’t know Dick’s situation. At home. He loves Ruth, there’s no doubt about that. And she loves him. But they’re not really friends, like Sandy and me. Since the girls were old enough to go shopping it was Ruth and them in one camp, and Dick in the other. They treat him like gold when he’s home. But to them he’s more like a … guest in his own house.” “I see,” McGarvey said. It explained Adkins’s reluctance to leave. He had more friends here than at home. And his wife would find more comfort with her daughters than with her husband. “Sometimes the world’s a bitch.” “The arrangement worked for him,” Whittaker said. “Until now.” McGarvey felt sorry for Adkins. It was one more bit of bleak news. “Does Security know about his home life?” “No, and it’s none of their business.” “Bullshit,”

  McGarvey shot back. “Does he have a girlfriend, David? An outside interest? If his home life is so cold, who could blame him? You know the drill. It happens all the time.” “It’s not like that, Mr.

  Director.” McGarvey studied his new DDCI for a beat. “It’s not like that because you don’t want it to be, or because you don’t know?”

  “Dick is an honorable man.” McGarvey had heard that term before. He was no closer now to believing that such a noble passion existed than he had been as a young man before Vietnam. “I’m sure he is,” he said.

  “But he’s out.” “What do you mean?” “I mean he’s not coming back until Security and the FBI can run another full background check on him.” “You can’t do that to him, not now,” Whittaker argued. “Yes, now,” McGarvey replied. “For the good of the CIA.” “You sonofabitch,”

  Whittaker blurted. McGarvey nodded. “I am indeed,” he replied mildly.

  “But we have a job to do, and as long as I’m sitting behind t
his desk I won’t allow anyone to get in my way.” Who to trust? He had asked that question all of his adult life without a satisfactory answer. But Adkins was out there alone, on an emotional limb. It made him vulnerable. And vulnerable men were almost always the first to fall.

  Rick Ames was a drunk, and he liked to spend more money than he earned.

  On top of that he had a raging ego that allowed him to believe that he was truly smarter than everyone else. So he had sold out to the Russians. He was no different than most other spies, including Robert Hanssen, who traded his secrets for money. He, too, had had a huge ego, thinking that he was better than everyone else. And he, too, had had his point of weakness in the stripper whom he had befriended and supported. Of course for every spy who turned out to have his vulnerabilities, there were ten thousand really vulnerable men who were not spies. McGarvey simply could not be certain about Adkins. Not now, not with so much going on around him. Even if it meant pushing away the very people who could help him the most, he had to have people he could trust. Whittaker saw the struggle in McGarvey’s face.

  “Sorry, Mac. I shouldn’t have run off at the mouth like that.” “Yeah, I know the feeling,” McGarvey said. “Are you still interested in the job? Because I need somebody up here who knows the drill.” Whittaker nodded. “Am I going to have to move into Dick’s office?” “It’d make life easier.” Whittaker nodded again. “I have a few things to square away with my people first, but I’ll be in place by noon tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough. You’ll be briefed then.” “Right,” Whittaker said. He headed for the door, but McGarvey stopped him. “One thing, Dave. I don’t want you talking to Dick until he’s cleared.” Whittaker wanted to object, but he realized the necessity of keeping his distance. “Okay,”

  he said. When Whittaker was gone, McGarvey flipped through the phone messages his secretary had handed him. Fred Rudolph had called a couple of minutes after five, followed by his son-in-law Todd, and then Stenzel. It was after six, so he told Ms. Swanfeld that she could leave for the day, and gave Yemm the heads-up that there would be no swim today, and that they were going over to the hospital as soon as he cleared up a few things on his desk. Rudolph was still at his desk in the J. Edgar Hoover Building when McGarvey’s call went through.

  “Whoever says government servants don’t earn their pay is nuts,”

  McGarvey said. “What else would I be doing if I wasn’t here? Having a drink in front of the fireplace at home while my wife made dinner and my adoring children brought me my slippers and pipe?” “You don’t smoke. And anyway you’d be shoveling off your driveway. Have you looked outside lately?” “No, and I don’t want to. That’s where all the bad guys are lurking,” Rudolph said. “The Russians are hunkering down. Not just Runkov, but all the Russians.” “What about the ambassador?” “Except for Korolev. He’s skiing with his family in Aspen. All that’s left at the embassy is a skeleton staff. And it’s the same in New York. The entire Russian delegation to the UN went on recess.” “When?” “Over the past few days,” the FBI’s Special Investigative Division director said. “But not one of them has returned to Moscow.” “Have you found Runkov yet?” “Yeah, he’s been home all along. Just keeping his head down like all the others. We got a good picture of him through an upstairs bedroom window. But he hasn’t been outside even to pick up his newspaper.” “Korolev is skiing, and everyone else is hiding.” “Whatever is going to happen will go down soon,” Rudolph said. “Maybe it’s time that you duck for cover yourself.” “I’m considering it.” “I think you should do more than that.” “Right, Fred. Keep me posted, would you?” McGarvey said.

  “Okay. But let me know what you decide.” “Will do,” McGarvey promised, and he hung up. Rudolph was wrong. The Russians had been lying low for more than the past few days. Runkov’s absence last week at the hearings had sent a clear enough message. Something that they did not want to get blamed for was about to happen. In the meantime, he would have Internal Affairs start Adkins’s background investigation before they got the FBI involved. He got an outside line. The number Todd had left was for his cell phone. His son-in-law answered on the second ring. “Hello.” “Where are you?”

  “Hi, Mac. We’re home. But you better get over to the hospital before it’s too late. Mrs. M. was agitating to get out of there.” That was what Stenzel’s call was probably about. “I’ll head over there right now. But what’s going on, Todd? Why’d you take Liz home? She was supposed to stay the night.” “I couldn’t stop her. She and her mother had a long talk, and when Liz came out she was pissed. She insisted that we were going home.” “What’d they talk about?” “I can’t get a thing out of her, except that she wants to get back to work.” “It’s out of the question.” “That’s what I told her. But she thinks that something’s going to happen any minute now.” “So do I,” McGarvey said, making his decision. “I’m taking Liz and her mother out to the safe house first thing in the morning.” “That’s a good idea. I can get back to work and help stop this guy, whoever the hell he is.” “Do you have a security detail out there with you?” McGarvey asked. He was having strong premonitions of disaster now. Especially because Todd and Rudolph were telling him practically the same things. “Parked out front.” “Okay, stay tight for tonight, and I’ll see you in the morning.” “All right,” Todd said. “But I meant what I said before.

  When we get this guy he will not stand trial.” McGarvey closed his eyes for a second. That was the old way. His old way. “I hear you,”

  he said, and he hung up. He called for Yemm, but the night officer of Security said that Yemm was on his way up. Next he called Stenzel, catching him in his car about a mile from the hospital. He was on his way back to the CIA. He sounded out of breath, as if he was sprinting down the highway and not driving. “Your wife checked herself out of the hospital about fifteen minutes ago, Mr. Director.” A cold fist clutched at McGarvey’s heart. “Why didn’t you stop her?” “I’m her doctor, not her jailer,” Stenzel shot back angrily. “Besides, I was going to release her in the morning anyway. She’s not cured. She’s a long way from that. But she is much better.” “Are her security people with her?” McGarvey demanded at the same moment Yemm walked into his office. His bodyguard nodded that they were.

  “They weren’t very happy, but there wasn’t much that they could do except go along with her.” “Okay, I’m heading for home now. Is there anything else I need to know? Anything that I can do to help?” “Get her out of town, Mr. Director,” Stenzel offered. “I don’t give a damn where you take her, just make sure that it’s someplace safe.” “First thing in the morning.” “About time. Let me know where you wind up, because I want to keep seeing her. I think that I might be able to get a handle on her problem if I have just a little more time. I’m almost there.” “I know the feeling,” McGarvey said for the second time in less than ten minutes. Yemm got McGarvey’s coat from the closet. He was agitated. “I just found out about it myself a few minutes ago,” he said. “Janis called me and said that they were headed back to the house.” “Who else is with her?” McGarvey asked, as they headed out of his office and down the corridor to the executive elevator. “Peggy Vaccaro is with them. They got one of the surveillance vans that Tony Parker and John Hernandez were using. They all went together.” “Did you call for backup?” “We’ll get to your house first,” Yemm said.

  “And at this point there’s nothing wrong, boss. Mrs. M. checked herself out of the hospital, and she agreed to do what her security team told her to do.” “Where are they right now?” “When I talked to Tony they were just leaving the hospital parking lot. It’ll take them fifteen minutes to get to your house. It’ll take us thirty.”

  Downstairs they got into the DCI’s limo. As soon as they cleared the building, McGarvey tried his home phone number. On the second ring it rolled over to his own cell phone. Katy wasn’t home yet. He lowered the bulletproof partition to the front seat. “There’s no answer at the house. Try the security
detail.” Yemm had the car phone in his hand.

  “They’re coming up on the Connecticut Avenue exit. Do you want me to call the MHP for backup? They might have a unit in the vicinity.” “Do you think it’s necessary?” “We’d have to give them an explanation,”

  Yemm said. “Do you want to talk to your wife?” McGarvey looked out the window as they merged onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. There was a lot of traffic tonight, slowed by a heavy, wind-whipped snow that was already piling into drifts. “No,” he said. “Just get me home as quickly as you can, Dick.

  It’s a bad night.” “That it is,” Yemm replied. Who to trust? Who to trust? He kept coming back to the same conundrum: Who can a spy trust?

  Who can he believe in? His circle of friends and close acquaintances, people he surrounded himself with, people who meant the most to him, was very small. And it was dwindling even more every day. Otto had gone off the deep end again. Yemm was acting strangely. Adkins was under extreme pressure. And even Todd wasn’t himself. Everybody had gone crazy all of a sudden. McGarvey sat back in his seat and unconsciously reached inside the coat for a cigarette, remembering that he had quit. Dr. Anatoli Nikolayev had apparently stirred up a hornet’s nest in Moscow six months ago. The SVR was looking for him, but either they weren’t looking very hard, or he was better than they were. Knowing Baranov and the people who worked for him in the old Department Viktor days, he had a pretty fair idea that it was Nikolayev leading the SVR investigators around in circles. This whole bizarre situation had a Baranov stench to it. But the general was dead. Long dead. McGarvey could feel the recoil of his pistol when he put a bullet in the Russian’s brain. But if it was Baranov after all, if it was some long-range scheme that he had placed on automatic before his death, there would have to be people around with strong ties to that past. Someone like poor Evita Perez and Darby Yarnell and that crowd.