First Kill--A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  “No one important at this moment. Tom Barkin, one of our station guys, is keeping an eye out for him. If something develops, we’ll see. But I do have a mission for you. An important one.”

  McGarvey would remember this exact moment for a very long time, because it marked a watershed for him—not only for his career but for his life.

  “I’ll drive you back to the OHB, we’ve set up a small office for you, and if need be we can arrange an assistant, though I’d rather keep you isolated as much as possible. You do understand.”

  “No.”

  “Good heavens, man, you’re going into badland and you need to prepare yourself.”

  “Chile?”

  “Yes, San Antonio.”

  “You said you weren’t interested in Baranov for now.”

  “General Matias Varga. He has a compound just a few klicks from Baranov’s. It’s black op. Just the sort you wanted when you signed up.” Trotter stopped and looked McGarvey in the eye. “We want you to assassinate him for us.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s called the Butcher for a very good reason. Under Pinochet’s direction the man has set up an office to clean out Chile’s dissidents. Thousands have already been arrested, tortured and then murdered. With more to come. The man supposedly thinks of himself as a Nazi doing a righteous job of cleansing.”

  “Feed it to the press,” McGarvey said. “Expose the bastard. It’ll soon stop.”

  “It would spill over to the Presidential Palace.”

  “That’s the point. Take down the entire regime.”

  “No.” Trotter hesitated. “I’m told that there are other considerations.”

  “Which you can’t discuss with me,” McGarvey said.

  “They’d simply replace the general.”

  “They’d know that we know. It’d be a very clear message,” McGarvey said. “A warning to stop.” Everything was wrong. “I’d need to speak to Danielle or someone on the seventh floor.”

  “I’m as far as it goes.”

  “Will I have help?”

  “No.”

  “I’m to be deniable,” McGarvey said.

  Trotter nodded. “Something like that. Will you do it? Will you take on the job and the responsibility?”

  McGarvey had asked for this very thing, though at the moment he couldn’t recall exactly why. He’d known that it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be so neat as he’d hoped. Nothing in the real world ever was. And the world of international espionage was less so.

  “I’ll need something in writing.”

  Trotter shook his head. “You’re on your own, Kirk. In this business you’ll always be on your own.”

  What to tell Katy? McGarvey wondered, but he nodded. “I’m in.”

  NINE

  The Prince of Wales Country Club in Santiago’s Metropolitan Region was in restricted-entry mode when Baranov’s black Cadillac pulled up at the gate and the driver powered down the window. A guard with a crisp army uniform, a pistol at his hip, came out of the gatehouse.

  “The president is expecting us,” the Russian driver said.

  The guard glanced at Baranov in the backseat, then stepped back a pace, saluted and waved the car through.

  Baranov wore khaki slacks with a light sweater against the late spring weather, but no blazer or suit today. The club, which had become fairly exclusive since Pinochet had taken up golf, had nevertheless relaxed its once strict dress code. Away from his official duties, during which he wore his military uniform with medals, the president was informal, and he expected his staff and others around him to dress the same way.

  The club was housed in a meticulously maintained Tudor-style building with exposed dark wood beams across white stucco walls, and at the entrance the only cars in sight were military vehicles, several of them troop trucks, empty now. Five helicopters circled overhead. A pair of soldiers in fatigues, automatic rifles at the ready, stood at the front door. When Baranov got out of the car, they came to attention.

  “I’m Captain Baranov here at el Presidente’s invitation.”

  “Yes, sir, straight back in the barroom. Are you armed?”

  “No.”

  The club was empty except for Pinochet and a group of men in the bar, all of them dressed in golfing clothes. The president was far less of an imposing man in civilian attire than in his uniforms. And this morning he didn’t seem as forceful as normal, possibly even a little sad or worried. He was starting to look his age.

  He was seated at the round table with a half-dozen of his advisers, one of whom said something to him as Baranov walked in. He looked up and smiled.

  “Ah, my Russian spy come to play golf with me.”

  Baranov nodded. “Diplomat, Mr. President, and unfortunately, I don’t play golf. Not a very practical game in Moscow.”

  “Too bad—I was hoping to have a long talk with you about your mission, whatever it really is. Certainly not the arts.”

  “I can caddy for you, sir,” Baranov said. At thirty he was on the verge of a promotion if he could pull off what KGB Director General Maxim Leonov was calling a coup. CESTA del Sur was the KGB’s operation in the western hemisphere south of the U.S. border. To this point it was stuck gathering intelligence and peddling influence mostly in Mexico and a few of the Latin American countries. Cuba was a completely separate operation, but Chile was high on the list.

  “It’s the prize we need to take away from the Americans,” Leonov had explained. The U.S. had backed Pinochet’s coup in September 1973, and still had a huge influence on the government. It was Baranov’s mission to bring the country and its intelligence services—especially the DINA—into CESTA del Sur.

  The ultimate goal was to burn American intelligence operations all the way up to Mexico, and eventually to Cuba, the biggest prize of all, through the back door. Through Chile.

  “You have balls, Captain, I’ll give you that much,” Leonov had said last night, laughing.

  Baranov had reported to him via encrypted telephone about his activities at the San Antonio compound and his invitation to play golf with the president.

  “I didn’t know you played the game.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then be careful, Captain, that you don’t lose your head trying to gain the country.”

  Baranov turned to Pinochet, who said sharply, “I don’t need a caddy; what I need is a partner. It’s a game you might think about.”

  General Varga, in golfing clothes, walked in. He seemed to be in a foul mood.

  “Matias,” Pinochet said, rising. “Unfortunately there will be no golf today.” He motioned for Baranov to come with him and they went outside to a line of four golf carts, armed soldiers everywhere, even on the driving range and out on the course.

  “The general seems disappointed,” Baranov said.

  “He’s an important officer—I’ll make it up to him. You drive.”

  They got in the lead golf car and headed away from the clubhouse, bypassing the first tee at Pinochet’s direction. A golf cart with four presidential guards followed.

  “Actually General Varga is a neighbor of yours in San Antonio, you know this. Lovely wife, but they tend to stay to themselves. Unfortunately they’ve never developed a credible understanding of the real world.”

  “Which is why I was sent here, Mr. President.”

  “Did your government send you merely to spy on us, or are you after something else?”

  “Copper,” Baranov said.

  “You have all the minerals you need in Siberia.”

  “Making a deal with Chile would be easier than opening new mining operations.”

  “In exchange for what, Captain?”

  “Intelligence on American activities. Washington is not your friend.”

  Pinochet laughed. “Washington’s only friend is Washington—didn’t they teach you that at School One?” The school was the KGB’s main academy outside Moscow.

  “It’s a fact that could be used against them.”


  “Without their assistance I would not be president.”

  “And without our assistance you might not remain president much longer.”

  Pinochet was instantly angry. He motioned for Baranov to stop. “Talk to me, Captain, but not in riddles.”

  “The president’s advisers want to block Japan’s negotiations for exclusivity to your copper exports. At the same time they’re worried that your General Varga’s activities in Valparaíso might become public. It would be an acute embarrassment to the White House. By supporting your government it might appear that the Americans are also supporting Varga.”

  Pinochet pursed his lips, trying to control his anger. “What happens in Chile stays in Chile.”

  “Varga fancies himself another Josef Mengele. You know how that turned out for Germany.”

  “Don’t threaten me, or you might not live to visit Valparaíso yourself.”

  “I’m trying to help you, Mr. President.”

  “Like Washington, Moscow’s only friend is Moscow. You say you came here for copper—what else? You want me to sever ties with America—ties that I might remind you have completely turned our economy around. It was my Chicago Boys who pulled the magic out of their hats.”

  The Chicago Boys were a group of Chilean economists who went to the University of Chicago while in exchange a group of professors from Chicago came to the Catholic University of Chile to turn its department of economics around. The program was financed by the U.S. Agency for International Development. Chile owed a large debt to the USAID.

  “But Valparaíso is a potential embarrassment that would change everything. The U.S. is sending an assassin to kill the general.”

  “I know this!”

  “I was told that you did,” Baranov said. “But I have brought a plan that would turn Varga’s murder into a coup for you. An act that would satisfy the White House that you were still a friend to the U.S.”

  Pinochet laughed. “While buying you time to work here with us—with my intelligence agencies. Giving you an open door to Washington.”

  “Exactly, Mr. President.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They’re sending a young CIA officer for the wet work.”

  “One man?”

  “Yes. But I suggest that you wait in ambush until he completes his task then kill him and completely destroy his body so that it could never be found.”

  “And what would this accomplish? We need Varga’s skills.”

  “You will claim responsibility for the general’s death. You will say that when you found out the full details of his grisly work, you had no other choice but to eliminate him, without a public hearing. You wanted the program to end. And as far as Valparaíso and the general’s skills, you can move the program and hire someone else for the job. I’m sure there are other men in Chile such as the general.”

  Pinochet looked away for a moment. “Do you have someone on the inside in Washington who knows the name of this American?”

  “His name is Kirk McGarvey, and this would be his first kill.”

  “Why let it go that far?” Pinochet said. “Why not kill him before he ever comes here? In the meantime I’ll have Varga attended to.”

  “If that’s what you wish, Mr. President.”

  TEN

  Although McGarvey had been in residence at the Farm for only ten days, his homecoming seemed odd, even a little disjointed. Driving up in his red Mustang convertible, he thought how out of place he sometimes felt in his and Katy’s expansive two-story colonial, located on the south side of the Chevy Chase Club. But it was Katy’s place. He’d bought it for her, hoping she’d be happy, especially during his absences. It hadn’t worked out that way.

  He parked in the three-car garage next to her Mercedes and custom-made golf cart, both in powder blue. In less than one year she had been elected to the club’s board of directors. It was a singular honor, she’d told him. Something normal people aspire to.

  He’d been too tired to argue with her that night in bed, and she’d taken his silence as disapproval.

  It was a little after five, Friday, and Katy was in the kitchen drinking a glass of Chablis. When he walked in, she got a beer from the fridge and opened it for him. “Glass?”

  “Bottle’s fine,” McGarvey said.

  Katy was tall, just a couple of inches shorter than him, with a long graceful neck and delicate facial lines under high eyebrows. Slender but in perfect shape because of her three-times-a-week visit to the salon, and her personal fitness trainer and dietician, she could have been a movie actress. Blond hair, blue eyes, a flawless complexion and a default attitude that was as often as not haughty.

  “Did Liz get off okay?”

  “Peggy picked her up and took her to Dulles yesterday morning. They got to your sister’s around ten.”

  McGarvey’s sister lived with her husband and two girls in Salt Lake City. She had discussed with Katy about having Liz out for a visit, and Katy had agreed. Mac had just gone out to the Farm and Katy had called him after the fact. Their housekeeper would travel with Liz.

  “I’m sorry I missed her,” he said.

  “She was sorry too.”

  What was probably the last foursome of the day was playing down the thirteenth fairway. After the round they would have drinks and maybe even dinner with their wives, who had undoubtedly played bridge all afternoon. It was something Katy did from time to time, complaining that Kirk ought to take up golf. It could be a pleasant life, versus dropping everything usually with less than a moment’s notice to go off running God only knew where.

  That life, and especially this house—with its perfect furnishings, perfect paintings, perfect color schemes, perfect bedspreads, chintz and lace, chaise lounges, Turkish rugs laid down here and there in perfect harmony—wasn’t for him.

  He’d been a rancher’s son in western Kansas where life was plain, sometimes even brutal in winter; job one was saving the cattle from starvation no matter the weather. Whereas Katy was East Coast, refined, the daughter of successful, philanthropic parents; she’d found Mac to be devastatingly handsome, but dangerous.

  After Mac’s parents had died, his sister had been given their money, and he had inherited the ranch. His parents’ Manhattan lawyer—Katy’s father by happenstance—had arranged the will and the sale of the property, netting Mac several million dollars, which he had invested.

  He and Katy had met outside her father’s office and something about him was untamed, she’d admitted to him once. Maybe even untamable. He’d become a project for her and along the way they’d fallen in love.

  “Are you back now for a stretch?” Katy asked. “There’s a reception for Senator Bitterman at the club. I thought that since we contributed to his last campaign you might want to meet him.”

  “When?”

  “A week from Tuesday. It means that you’d have to stay available for eleven days. Can you do that for me?”

  “I might have to go away before then.”

  Katy turned away. “Christ,” she muttered.

  “I’ll take a shower and change, and we can go out to dinner. We need to talk.”

  She turned back. “We certainly do. Any place you’d like?”

  “Somewhere neutral, if you don’t mind.”

  * * *

  The Capitol Hill Club, a private enclave for important Republicans, was located two blocks from the Capitol. He and Katy were members because her father was an important contributor to the party. In Mac’s estimation it was even more stuffy than their country club, but at least it was neutral.

  They were a little early but the club was busy as usual for a Friday night. The main dining room was full but they found a spot in the Grill Room, which didn’t accept reservations, and was often used for Washington insider business.

  Katy ordered a chicken breast with a simple lemon butter sauce and Mac a six-ounce New York strip, rare, and a Caesar salad. They shared a bottle of Dom Pérignon. It was the wine they’d had on their first date, when Ka
ty learned she was pregnant, at Liz’s birth and on just about every other occasion that was significant.

  “If you’re bearing bad news, this won’t soften the blow,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, Katy—” he started, but she interrupted him, something she only did when she was angry.

  “Kathleen.”

  “I’ve been given an assignment that I can’t turn down. It’s important enough that I can’t discuss the details with you, but necessary. At least I think it is.”

  “Can’t turn down, or won’t?”

  “Won’t,” he said.

  She thought for a moment. “Dangerous, I suppose.”

  McGarvey nodded. “I won’t lie to you.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “A few days, maybe a little longer. I have to do a little research.”

  “Is it the Soviet Union or China or someplace dreadful?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “How long will you be gone this time?”

  McGarvey had a few ideas but nothing definite had jelled yet. “A few days, maybe a week. I don’t know.”

  “And I sit home alone worried sick about you. Never knowing what dirty little spy mission you’re on. Maybe you’re off someplace killing someone or getting killed yourself. And still I’ll never know.”

  Their dinners came, but Katy threw down her napkin. “I’m done here, Kirk. And I’m just about done with you. I can’t take the uncertainty. Maybe my father was right after all. Maybe I should have insisted that we settle in some godforsaken corner of Kansas. At least I’d know where you were every day.”

  She got up and headed for the door. Mac paid the waiter, who didn’t show he was flustered—this was Washington, after all—and followed his wife.

  Katy was at the curb when a taxi slid up as McGarvey got outside.

  All of a sudden everything was wrong. A dark-colored car—a Buick—had just turned the corner onto First Street, its passenger-side front and rear windows down, one man driving, one in the shotgun position, the other directly behind him.

  McGarvey pulled his Walther PPK from the holster beneath his jacket at the small of his back, thumbing the safety catch off as he raced from under the club’s entry canopy.