McGarvey’s Senate committee hearings were scheduled to begin today. The Paris newspaper wondered if the senators would consider the French government’s position that McGarvey was no longer welcome here. A highly placed source inside the DGSE (the French secret intelligence service) had agreed to answer questions provided his anonymity could be protected. On the surface of it, Nikolayev thought that the request was stupid. By definition spies were supposed to be anonymous figures; once they opened their mouths they forfeited that right. It was a plant. But he read the article anyway.
“Despite M. McGarvey’s background in the CIA, he was generously given a resident alien visa as early as 1992. Of course he had to agree never to conduct an operation on French soil or against a citizen of France. We sent people to watch him, to make certain that he complied with those conditions. This of course cost the French people a certain amount of money. But in the past M. McGarvey had provided us with a valuable service, so we were willing, even happy, to allow him a pleasant retirement, providing he remained retired.”
Q: “Did he stay retired?”
R: “Non.”
Q: “What happened?”
R: “We are getting into an area now in which I cannot delve too deeply. Let’s just say that there were some unpleasant circumstances which ultimately resulted in a death.”
Q: “Of a French citizen?”
R: “Oui.”
Q: “Are you able to give us a name?”
R: “Non.”
Her name was Jaqueline Belleau. Nikolayev had gleaned most of the details from his computer searches here. What the gentleman from the DGSE did not tell the journalist was that Mademoiselle Belleau was a French spy sent to McGarvey’s bed in order to keep a close eye on him. When he returned to the States she followed him, instead of remaining in Paris where she belonged. The mistake had killed her, though it was not McGarvey’s fault. She had been caught in the middle of a terrorist bombing of a Georgetown restaurant.
Unlike the American newspapers, Le Monde drew no conclusions, leaving the story with vague references to perhaps as many as a half-dozen illegal operations that McGarvey had been involved with on French soil. Neither the anonymous man from the DGSE nor the journalist from the newspaper raised any questions about why McGarvey was not currently serving hard time in a French penitentiary, or, if he were to be appointed DCI, would the French secret service be willing to work with him.
McGarvey’s wasn’t the only name in the Network Martyrs file. Just the first to come into the media spotlight.
Baranov had known what was going to happen. He’d tried several times to destroy McGarvey’s career, even planting false evidence in CIA archives that his parents had been spies for the Soviet Union. Mightn’t it pass down to the son?
He’d tried to have McGarvey killed without success. Tried to drive him to ground. If Baranov couldn’t kill him, perhaps he could render the man ineffectual.
None of that had happened.
Now it had come to Baranov’s endgame. Martyrs.
Nikolayev drank his tea and ate his raisin buns, appreciating what he had here, all the more so because he knew that he would be leaving France soon.
If Kirk McGarvey were confirmed as Director of Central Intelligence, he would be assassinated. In fact the assassin was almost certainly already making his opening moves; preparing for the strike.
The Martyrs file had listed the targets, among them President Jimmy Carter, several admirals and army generals, a half-dozen U.S. senators and congressmen, none of whose names Nikolayev recognized. And McGarvey.
But the names of the assassins had been left out, either because they had not been selected when the original documents had been drafted, or because Baranov wanted the extra layer of security.
When he was finished with his breakfast, he took his things back into the kitchen and went upstairs to pack a bag for Paris. He needed more information than he could get here, and he needed a safe city from which to mail his letter.
The assassin would be making the opening moves now. It was time for Nikolayev to make his next move.
The jackals were snapping at his heels. He had only three choices. Go back and be shot to death for what he had uncovered. Try to disappear and hide for the remainder of his life. Or go forward and try to put a stop to Martyrs.
Some old men got religion, while others filled the endgame by trying to make amends for a lifetime of sin. Martyrs had been his sin just as much as it had been Baranov’s.
No choice, really, he told himself. No choice at all.
SEVEN
THE IMAGE THAT REMAINED … WAS OF A HELL IN WHICH DOZENS OF PEOPLE WERE FALLING BACK IN SLOW MOTION; BLOOD SPLASHING IN EVERY DIRECTION …
CHEVY CHASE
McGarvey slept very hard and dreamless; nevertheless, when the telephone rang at 4:00 A.M. he answered it on the first ring as if he had been lying there waiting for the call.
“Yes.” He glanced at the clock.
“Mr. McGarvey, this is Ken Marks on the night desk. One of our personnel has been involved in an automobile accident that could have compromised security.”
“Hang on a minute,” McGarvey said. Kathleen stirred as he got out of bed.
“What is it, Kirk?”
“One of our people was in an accident.”
She sat bolt upright. “Was it Elizabeth?” she demanded.
“I don’t think so,” McGarvey said. He was going to take the phone into the bathroom so he wouldn’t wake her, but it was too late. “Who was it?” he asked the OD.
“Mr. Rencke, sir. His emergency locator was activated at one-seventeen on the Parkway a couple of miles this side of Arlington. We tried to call him, but there was no response, and by the time Security got down there the Virginia Highway Patrol had already responded.”
McGarvey put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “It was Otto,” he told his wife. “Where did they take him?”
“Bethesda. He’s listed in good but guarded condition. Mr. Yemm is on his way to you right now.”
“Right. I’m going to the hospital. Have a unit sent out here to keep a watch on Mrs. McGarvey.”
“Mr. Yemm is bringing someone with him.”
Kathleen got up, threw on a robe and started picking out clothes for Mac to wear, a pinched expression on her face. This was the old days all over again. Nothing had changed.
“What about the security problem?”
“Mr. Rencke was carrying his laptop along with a number of classified floppies.”
“Who gave you the heads-up?”
“No one, sir. I know Mr. Rencke personally. He never leaves his shop without a bagful of work. Anyway, Security arrived on scene the same time the EMTs got there, and they tidied up.”
“But there was a gap between the accident and the time our people got there?”
“Yes, sir. An inventory is being taken right now, but it’ll be slow; he’s probably got everything bugged.”
“You can bet on it. How’d the accident happen, do we know?”
“Apparently he lost control, left the roadway and flipped over. There were no other vehicles involved, according to the VHP. Stand by one, sir—”
Kathleen was looking at him.
“He’ll be okay,” McGarvey told her. “He worked late and was on his way home when it looks like he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed.”
“He never wears a seat belt.”
“He got lucky.”
Marks was back. “Sir, are we authorizing visitors?”
“Only Agency people.”
“How about Major Horn?”
“Her too,” McGarvey said. Otto and Louise Horn lived together. She worked for the NRO.
“Mr. Yemm is pulling into your driveway now, sir.”
“Tell him I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Since he was probably going directly from the hospital to his office, and from there to the Senate subcommittee hearing chambers, Kathleen l
aid out a dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie.
“Why do you want bodyguards out here?” she asked.
“Standard procedures,” McGarvey said, getting dressed.
“It might not have been an accident, is that what you’re saying?”
He nodded. “We don’t know yet, and until we do we’re taking no chances.”
She turned away but then looked back. “Give Otto my best. Tell him that I’ll come up to see him later today if it’s allowed.”
“I’ll tell him.” McGarvey gave his wife a peck on the cheek, went downstairs, got his coat and went out to the waiting limo. A dark gray van was parked across the street. It was still snowing heavily, and it was very cold and blustery.
Yemm had the door open. McGarvey nodded to him. “Did you get any sleep?”
“A couple of hours.”
McGarvey got in, and Yemm headed out, his driving precise in the difficult conditions.
“Hammerhead en route Star Seven. ETA twenty,” Yemm radioed.
“Copy.”
“What do we have?” McGarvey demanded.
“The wheel bearing on the front right wheel fell apart, somehow pulled the cotter pin out and sheared the king nut so that the wheel fell off.”
“Doesn’t sound like a simple mechanical failure.”
“We’re checking to see if he had any brake work, or anything like that done in the past few days or weeks. But if it was an accident, whoever did the work was a piss poor mechanic.”
“It’s been known to happen.”
With all the snow and ice on the roads, the emergency room at the hospital was busy. McGarvey and Yemm went up to the seventh floor, where a pair of CIA Office of Security people were stationed at Otto’s door. The police had already left, and the ward was quiet for the night, though breakfast would be served in a couple of hours.
McGarvey went inside the darkened room alone. Otto was propped up in bed, asleep, his head swathed in bandages, his left arm in a sling that held it against his chest. Louise Horn, tall, skinny, her angular features making her look more gaunt than usual, sat in the chair next to the bed. She held Otto’s right hand in both of hers. Her cheeks glistened with tears.
She looked up. “He finally got to sleep, please don’t wake him.”
McGarvey squeezed her shoulder. “I won’t. How is he?”
“Couple of broken ribs. He’ll be okay. His left shoulder was dislocated, that’s why they immobilized his arm. And he banged up his left knee on the bottom of the steering wheel or something.”
McGarvey touched his own head. “What about the bandages?”
Louise Horn looked back at Otto. “The side of his face got cut up with flying glass. Looks worse than it is. But he was lucky. He was wearing his seat belt. Saved his life.” She looked up again, more tears welling from her eyes. “He really could have been killed out there.”
“When did he start wearing a seat belt?”
Louise Horn had a blank expression on her face. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
McGarvey smiled. “He sure picked a good time to start,” he said. “Give me a call as soon as he’s awake, I want to talk to him. And tell him that Mrs. McGarvey will be up later today to see him.”
“Thanks. That’ll mean a lot to him.”
“Try to get some sleep yourself.” McGarvey gave Otto a last look, then started to go. He stopped at the door. “He’s been pretty intense lately.”
She nodded. “Tell me about it.”
“He’s been pulling some long hours. Working on something that’s bothering him. Has he said anything to you?”
“Nothing,” she said. “And I don’t pry.” She gave McGarvey a faint smile. “We have that rule in our house.”
McGarvey nodded. “Good rule.” he said, and he left.
LANGLEY
Before they went back to the Agency, they had a word with Otto’s doctor. Heshi Daishong, a slight, dark, high-strung man.
“We’re waiting to see signs of concussion. For now he looks okay. His biggest problems are a slight malnutrition and exhaustion.”
“He’s been working hard.”
The doctor pushed his glasses up. “We all do. But for Pete’s sake, tell the man to slow down.” He looked very tired himself. “If all is well, I’ll release him at noon.”
Back at his office McGarvey had the executive kitchen send up coffee and a basket of muffins. He hadn’t had time for breakfast, and he was hungry. He managed to get in a couple of hours of uninterrupted reading before his secretary showed up. She was followed a few minutes later by a strung-out Dick Adkins.
“Well, Ruth was right and the rest of us were wrong,” Adkins said. “They found lumps in both of her breasts. How they missed them for so long is anybody’s guess. But no one’s talking.”
“Is she still at the hospital?” McGarvey asked, concerned.
“Yeah. They want to do a bunch of tests, and then, depending on what they find, they’ll want to talk to us about our options.”
“I’ll ask Katy to stop over. In the meantime I want you to get out of here and get some sleep.”
Adkins shook his head. “If I go home I’ll just sit around and worry myself into drinking. If I go back to the hospital there’s nothing I can do until the tests are done. They won’t let me in the room with her, and they all but kicked me out of the hospital.” He looked like he was floundering, but he was determined not to cave in. “The hearings are going to keep you busy for at least the rest of the week. In the meantime we have the NIE and Watch Report to get out.”
“Get out of here anytime you have to, I mean it, Dick.”
Adkins nodded. “Thanks.”
Elizabeth called a couple of minutes after nine from the Farm outside Williamsburg. “Hi, Daddy, how’s Otto?”
“Good morning, sweetheart. He was banged up pretty good, but the doctor says he’ll be okay, Should be out of the hospital sometime today. What are you doing back at the farm?”
“We have a class of husband and wife recruits, and Stu has made Todd and me stars of the show. There’s lots to go over.” Stewart Walker was the new commandant of the training facility. A former Green Beret full colonel, he’d been McGarvey’s first choice for the spot, and he was doing a very good job.
“How long are you going to stay there?”
“We’ll be home for the weekend. Todd doesn’t want to drive back until the snow lets up. Unless you want us to chopper back. Otto is going to be okay, isn’t he?”
“He’ll be fine. How about you?”
“Aside from the fact I’m grumpy all the time, and I’m fat, I feel great.” She hesitated. “Tell mom that I’ll call her tonight.”
“I will.”
“Good luck with the hearings. Are you sure you don’t want me to come back?”
“Stay there and do your job.”
“We’ll definitely be back for the weekend. Give ’em hell, Dad.”
WASHINGTON
The Senate hearing room was filled to capacity, mostly with media. When McGarvey and Paterson came in and made their way to the witness table the noise level rose, flash cameras went off and television lights came on. Under normal circumstances presidential appointees came to their confirmation hearings with a cadre of attorneys and advisers. But McGarvey had vetoed the plan because, he explained to a reluctant Paterson, no one knew his background except himself. And if there was to be any fallout, he wanted all of it on his shoulders.
McGarvey recognized many of the people in the audience; friends from the other U.S. intelligence services, the military, the FBI and from at least a half-dozen embassies around town. Dmitri Runkov, the chief of the SVR’s Washington operation was missing, however, which was bothersome to McGarvey. Connections within connections, or the lack thereof. He put the Russian’s absence at the back of his mind.
Paterson took a number of file folders out of his briefcase, extracted a four-page document and laid it on the table in front of McGarvey as the clerk of the hear
ings came to the front.
“Hear ye, hear ye. All those having business before the United States Senate Armed Force Subcommitttee on Intelligence rise for the honorable members: Senators Thomas Hammond, Junior, Minnesota, chairman; John Clawson, Montana, vice chairman; Brian Jackman, Mississippi; Brenda Madden, California; Gerald Pilcher, New York; and Arthur Wright, Utah.”
Everyone stood as the senators filed in from a door at the side and took their places behind a long oak desk on a raised platform at the head of the chamber. Hammond was a stern-looking man with thick white hair and bushy Dirksen eyebrows. He looked like a Moses without a robe and tablets. He glared down at McGarvey and Paterson as he removed a number of fat file folders from his briefcase.
Of the others, according to Paterson, his second worst enemy was Brenda Madden, a raging knee-jerk liberal who’d been one of the original bra burners at Berkeley. Hers was the same goal as Hammond’s. They wanted to punish the CIA for failing to warn the nation about the attacks of September 11. According to them, the Agency was riddled with incompetent, self-serving fools. The U.S. intelligence community needed revamping and streamlining from the top to the bottom. They were happy just now to start at the top with McGarvey.
Mississippi’s Jackman and Montana’s Clawson were for keeping a strong CIA, though they were asking for more efficiency for the same dollars. New York’s Pilcher and Utah’s Wright, both junior senators, and both fairly new on the committee, were still on the fence.
Hammond brought the meeting to order, then swore in McGarvey. C-SPAN’s television cameras continued to roll.
“Mr. McGarvey, I see by your witness list that you’ve brought only the CIA’s general counsel Carleton Paterson with you this morning.”
“Good morning, Senator. Yes, that’s correct.”
“Will you be bringing other advisers or witnesses in the coming days? I ask because if you are, their names will first have to be presented to the committee.”
The Kill Zone Page 7
