The Kill Zone

by David Hagberg

  “There’s not much we can do for her if she doesn’t want us to get involved with her pregnancy. At least not for now. And the other thing, with her and Otto, will be resolved in the next couple of days. I’ll make sure of it.”

  Kathleen nodded after a moment, then busied herself with the rest of the dinner while McGarvey carved the roast. They all had wine except for Elizabeth, who stuck with Perrier. She and Todd seemed relaxed with each other, but there was an underlying tension around the table.

  “I’ve relieved Otto from duty for a couple of days,” McGarvey said when they were finished.

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s probably a good idea. He came back too soon after the accident. But if he wants to keep working, he can do it from his apartment.”

  “What are you two working on that’s got him so heated up, and you climbing down everyone’s throats?” McGarvey asked his daughter.

  “Otto and I aren’t working on anything.”

  “Come on, Liz. You’re putting together my bio, everybody knows that. Otto’s got you digging through some of the old records at Fort Hill. But he’s been working on something else, too. He won’t tell me what it is yet, but it’s got something to do with KGB files and with an old Department Viktor psychologist by the name of Nikolayev. Does any of that ring a bell?”

  “No.”

  Elizabeth said it with a straight face, but this time McGarvey knew damned well that she was lying to him. “Maybe I should relieve you of duty, too.”

  “Come on, Dad. I have a job to do. But if I’m going to be treated like the director’s daughter, I won’t be able to get anything done. I’ll never know if people are telling me the truth or just something that they think I want to hear. Let me get on with it.”

  “On with what?”

  Something flashed across her face. “My job.”

  “You’re four months pregnant, Elizabeth,” her mother said.

  “In the old days women went to bed for the entire nine months, Mother. This is the twenty-first century. Not only am I going to keep working, but Todd and I are going skiing this weekend. With my doctor’s permission.”

  “Okay, sweetheart, if you want to be treated like an ordinary intelligence officer, so be it,” McGarvey said.

  “That’s exactly what I want,” Liz responded defiantly.

  “You and Todd are relieved from duty at the Farm as of right now. I’ll talk to Dave Whittaker and Tommy Doyle about your transfers. Starting Monday you’ll be assigned to the Russian desk, and Todd will work for Jay Newby in the Operations Center.”

  “Dad—”

  “Since you’re going away for the weekend, I’ll cut you some slack. But no later than Tuesday noon I want a full report on what you’ve been doing for the past ninety days. That includes all your day sheets and contact logs.”

  “What if I don’t?” Elizabeth flared.

  “Then I’ll fire you.”

  Elizabeth started to protest, but Todd put a hand over hers. “Shut up, Liz,” he told her. “The transfer is just until after the baby is born, right?” he asked McGarvey.

  “We’ll see. Once the baby comes your job specs will have to be reevaluated anyway.”

  Todd nodded after an awkward silence. “Liz’s day sheet will be on your desk Tuesday morning.”

  “What time are you leaving for Colorado?” Kathleen asked. She was brittle.

  Elizabeth turned to her mother. Sensing trouble, her lips tightened. “Eight in the morning.” She glanced up at the clock. It was coming up on 9:00. “In fact we should get going now. We still have to get our ski stuff together, and I need to get some sleep. It’s been a long week.”

  “Did your doctor consider the risk you’re taking, going out to Colorado, considering what happened … last time,” Kathleen asked.

  “It’s still snowing, Mrs. M.,” Todd said. “The Beltway is going to be a mess. We have to go.”

  “I asked a question.”

  Elizabeth held herself tightly. “Yes my doctor considered the risk to me and my baby, and he gave me permission to go skiing if I was careful.”

  Kathleen turned to her husband. “What do you think, Kirk?”

  “If they don’t get going right now they’ll have to stay the night and they’ll miss their flight. The roads won’t be any better by morning.”

  Kathleen clenched her hands. “Be careful, Elizabeth. Would you do at least that much for me?” she said. “I’ll worry all weekend about you and the baby. I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

  Elizabeth softened. “It’ll be okay, mother. I want you and daddy to have some fun too. Soak up some sun. Washington will be here when we all get back.”

  “I’ll get your skis out of the garage,” Todd told Elizabeth. “Great dinner, Mrs. M.” He got up and McGarvey went with him.

  Elizabeth’s skis, in their hardshell traveling case, had already been taken down from the rack on the back wall. Todd carried them out to his Land Cruiser SUV and attached them to the roof rack with bungee cords.

  McGarvey glanced back at the house. He could see through the hall window that Kathleen was helping Elizabeth with her jacket.

  “Watch yourself out there,” McGarvey told his son-in-law.

  “I’ll make her take it easy.”

  “I don’t mean just that,” McGarvey said. “You and Elizabeth are field officers and I’m the acting DCI. We’re targets. All of us, all the time.”

  A flat, professional look came into Van Buren’s eyes. He nodded. “There isn’t a day goes by that I don’t think about it. Especially now with the baby coming.”

  McGarvey clapped him on the shoulder. “You know what to do. Both of you do. Watch your backs.”

  McGarvey helped his wife clean up, and afterward they went up to bed. He made sure that the house was locked up and the security system was up and running first. At the head of the stairs he stopped and looked down at the front door in the gloom of the front hall.

  The scratching was coming again. It was like an animal in trouble trying to gain entry to the house. A rough beast, or merely a stray, he couldn’t tell. But something was coming. Gaining on them. Skulking in the night. Waiting to pounce.

  “Paradise is where I am,” Voltaire wrote in Le Mondain. Life was what you made of it. Either a paradise or a hell. McGarvey wasn’t sure which life he had created for himself and his family, though he was certain that he wanted paradise, or at least a little peace.

  By the time he got undressed, washed up and climbed into bed, Kathleen was already half-asleep.

  “Good night, Katy,” he said.

  “I wonder what we’ll come back to,” she mumbled. She rolled over, and within a minute her breathing deepened. She was asleep.

  McGarvey turned off the lights, and for a long time he listened to the winter wind whipping around the eaves; the scratching, nagging feeling rising again at the edges of his consciousness.

  In the old days he would have run first and looked back later. But he couldn’t do that now.

  Not now, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  FRIDAY

  THIRTEEN

  McGARVEY COULD FEEL THE PISTOL IN HIS HANDS. FEEL THE RECOIL AS HE FIRED THREE SHOTS AT THE TRAITOR. KILLING HIM.

  CHEVY CHASE

  McGarvey got home a few minutes before noon. Three leather bags were packed and lined up in the front hall. But Kathleen wasn’t home. She’d left a note on the hall table promising that she would be back by noon; she had a couple of errands to run before they left for Andrews Air Force Base.

  Yemm came in, glanced at the bags and cocked an ear to listen. “Mrs. McGarvey’s not home?”

  “She had a couple of errands to run,” McGarvey told him. “Put the bags in the trunk, would you, Dick? I’m going upstairs to change.”

  True to form, Kathleen had laid out his clothes; boat shoes, white slacks and a colorful Hawaiian print shirt. She’d also laid out a jacket for the trip to the airport.

  He felt faintly foolish p
utting on summer clothes while snow was falling, but when he was dressed his mood was lighter than it had been all week. He found that he was looking forward to the weekend for his own sake.

  He transferred his Walther to an ankle holster strapped to his right leg under his slacks. When he put his foot down and turned around, Kathleen, snow still clinging to her Hermès scarf, was at the door, looking at him, an intense expression on her face.

  “Is that necessary?” she asked. She sounded winded, as if she had just finished jogging a couple of miles.

  “Considering what I am, yes, it is, Katy.”

  “Kathleen,” she corrected. But then she smiled and shook her head. “There I go again.” She came to him and they embraced. “Sorry, darling,” she said.

  “It’s all right. Old habits die hard. For both of us.”

  She shivered.

  “Come on, Katy,” McGarvey said. “We’re going to have a great weekend.”

  She looked up and squared her shoulders. “You’re right,” she said. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

  “I’ll check to make sure that we’re locked up.”

  “Does Dick have to come with us?”

  “It’d be tough trying to get rid of him,” McGarvey told her. “Having a bodyguard is part of the job.”

  “I suppose,” she said.

  McGarvey stopped at the door. “Did you get your errands done?”

  “I went to church,” Katy muttered.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t think that I’d be so late. Father Vietski heard my confession. No big deal.”

  McGarvey came back to her. “Are you afraid to fly? We don’t have to go to St. John. We can take the train to Florida and have just as relaxed a time.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’ve never been to the islands.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  She nodded. “One hundred percent,” she said. She gave him a reassuring smile. “Now, get out of here so I can change.”

  VC-12

  The moment they lifted off from Andrews Air Force Base and broke out into the bright sunlight on top of the low deck of snow clouds, Kathleen’s mood took a dramatic swing. She became bright and animated, as if she were onstage even though she was playing to a very small audience.

  The Gulfstream VIP jet, one of several that the CIA used, was a navy aircraft, maintained and operated by naval personnel. Their captain was Lt. Cmdr. Frank White, a veteran of the Gulf War and the Bosnian peacekeeping operation. He was only forty-seven but looked much older because his hair was perfectly white. He smiled with his eyes and handled the airplane as if it were a toy in his capable hands.

  His copilot, Lt. Rody Johnson, was a short-timer. He was going to work for Delta Airlines in the spring.

  Their flight attendant was Ens. Judy Dietrich, a blond German from Milwaukee, who looked fifteen but was in fact in her thirties, married and the mother of three boys.

  As soon as they were at cruising altitude and heading southeast out over the Atlantic, Ensign Dietrich offered them drinks. Yemm stuck with Pepsi, but Kathleen asked for Dom Pérignon.

  “We’re on vacation, and the government is paying for it, so why not live a little,” she said. The remark was uncharacteristic. McGarvey could see a sharp edge of tension at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

  “Maybe you should wait until we get on the ground,” he suggested.

  She waved him off airily. “Nonsense. It’s going to be a lovely weekend. You said so yourself.”

  “Are you a little nervous about flying, Mrs. McGarvey?” Ensign Dietrich asked under her breath as she poured the champagne.

  “Absolutely petrified.”

  “Would you like something—”

  “The champagne is fine, thank you,” Kathleen said. “But tell the captain to get us there posthaste if he would.”

  McGarvey took a glass of champagne and sat back. “We’ll be in the islands in time for dinner.”

  “Let’s eat out. I feel like I’ve been in jail for the past month.”

  McGarvey glanced at Yemm, who shrugged. “There’s a nice place in Frenchtown on St. Thomas. We can have dinner there before we take the ferry over.”

  “Do we have to dress?”

  “Not in the islands,” McGarvey told his wife. “That’s the whole point.”

  “Because if we have to dress, we’re in trouble,” Kathleen said as if she hadn’t heard him. “I didn’t bring any good clothes. Just shorts and swimming suits and summer clothes.” She sounded almost manic.

  “That’s fine, Katy,” McGarvey said.

  “I thought that if the restaurant in Frenchtown is nice, we might feel out of place dressed like this.” She wore a soft yellow maillot over which she had put on a linen skirt, sandals and a scarf around her neck. She looked like a model in a Club Med commercial.

  “You look great, Mrs. M.,” Yemm said.

  Kathleen dismissed him with a gesture. “You know that we have to be careful. Because of the hearings. Everybody in Washington is watching us.”

  “Not where we’re going,” McGarvey said. “And even if they are, it doesn’t matter.”

  Kathleen shook her head. “It might not matter to you, Kirk. But appearances matter to just about everyone else in Washington.” She smiled at Ensign Dietrich, who stood in the galley separating the main cabin from the cockpit. “Women know more about these things than men do.” She was verging on the edge of hysteria. “Bill Clinton and his two-hundred-dollar haircut.” She laughed. “Jimmy Carter and the killer rabbit, or his ridiculous Playboy interview. Lust in his heart, indeed.” She laughed again and turned to her husband. “Do you remember Darby Yarnell, darling?”

  It was a name out of the clear blue sky, and there was a clutch at his heart. He nodded. “That was the old days.”

  Yarnell, who had worked for the CIA in the fifties and sixties, had been a two-term senator from New York. He had been one of the people responsible for getting McGarvey burned after Santiago. He had been brought down during the Donald Powers investigation, and had been shot to death in front of the DCI’s residence a million years ago.

  McGarvey could feel the pistol in his hands. Feel the recoil as he fired three shots at the man he thought was a traitor. Killing him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he could see the image in the surveillance camera trained on Yarnell’s Georgetown house. The third-story bedroom window. Kathleen was there in Yarnell’s arms. It was an image that was etched in his brain.

  Of course the final blow came when they realized that Yarnell wasn’t a traitor after all. But the man had caused a lot of damage. Ruined a lot of people because of his arrogance, his cocksure attitude that his was the only vision.

  “It was before you came back from Switzerland the first time,” she said. “Darby was part of the in crowd, and I was trying to storm the gates, as my father would say.”

  “He hurt a lot of people,” McGarvey said.

  “That’s my point,” Kathleen countered, and McGarvey had no earthly idea where she was going with the story, or why she had brought Yarnell’s name up.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He was the one man at the time in Washington for whom appearances meant everything. And yet he was the only man I ever met who apparently didn’t need to care. Everything he did was perfect. His house was perfectly decorated. The clothes he wore were perfect; his shoes were always shined, his cologne wasn’t overpowering and his parties were the best in the city. He spoke a half-dozen languages, he could quote Shakespeare, and there wasn’t a restaurant or private collection in Washington that had a better wine cellar than his.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Why, appearances mean everything,” she said, as if she were telling him a universal truth that everyone instinctively knew. “He was a spy, after all. And a bastard. Yet everyone in Washington, including me, thought that he was perfect. We were drawn to him like moths to a flame.” She gave her husband a wistful smile.
“That’s what’s important in Washington, don’t you see, my darling? It doesn’t matter if you’re the best DCI ever to sit on the seventh floor if Washington doesn’t accept your appearance. It doesn’t matter if you’re good; the only thing that matters is if you look like you’re right for the job.”

  McGarvey forced a smile. “I don’t really care—”

  “You should.” Kathleen held out her glass for more champagne. “Hammond and his bunch do.” She was brittle.

  “It doesn’t matter if they confirm me or not. They’ll get somebody else.”

  “Don’t be silly, Kirk. You’re the best DCI there ever was. It’s only the idiots who don’t know it yet.” A dark cloud passed over her. “But once you’re there, even your friends will try to cut you down.” Then she smiled. “Isn’t that so, Dick?”

  “It’s part of the job, Mrs. M.,” Yemm answered. He was glum.

  “Do you think someone will shoot him?” Kathleen asked. The question startled everyone. Ensign Dietrich almost dropped the champagne bottle, and the pilot looked over his shoulder through the open cockpit door.

  “Come on, Katy, we’re supposed to be on vacation.” McGarvey tried to stop her, but she held up a hand.

  “No, wait. Let him answer my question. I have a right to know if someone out there wants to make me a widow.”

  “There’s a lot of them want it,” Yemm said. He glanced at McGarvey, who shrugged.

  “But will they go for it?”

  After a moment Yemm nodded. “I think so.”

  “Well,” Kathleen said. She looked at the others. “Isn’t that peachy.”

  U.S. VIRGIN ISLANDS

  They landed on St. Thomas when the sun was low on the horizon. By six it would be dark and after the stress of Washington, Kathleen admitted that she was too tired to eat out. She wanted to get directly over to the house on St. John, sit on a veranda with a cup of tea and look at the tropical stars.

  Captain White taxied over to the private aviation terminal. When the engines spooled down, Ensign Dietrich opened the hatch. A pleasant, soft-spoken immigration official in short sleeves came aboard and checked their papers and aircraft registration. Even though these islands were a U.S. Territory, the formalities were still observed. When the man found out who he was dealing with he practically fell all over himself with hospitality. Drug trafficking throughout the Caribbean was a big problem; that, along with money laundering and gunrunning, had corrupted officials all the way up to the USVI’s governor’s office. It made the people here very nervous. Yemm took the man aside. They would be here only for the weekend. They did not want to read about the director’s visit in the newspaper or hear about it on the radio. There would be no meetings with territorial officials. The CIA would take it unkindly if the news were to leak.