First Kill--A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  “Sergeant Carol at the Farm. He was very close to McGarvey. He knew most of the operational details, because he was the chief mission instructor.”

  “Could his death have been an accident? The detonators they use sometimes can be tricky.”

  “If it was anyone but Carol, I would have agreed with you. But he was the best. I think the odds that he killed himself making a mistake are miniscule.” Trotter shook his head. “No, I think he was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was protecting McGarvey.”

  Danielle was startled. “Someone working for the DINA?”

  “That’ll be my starting point.”

  “Any idea where to begin looking?”

  “Spanish translators,” Trotter said.

  “Makes sense, though the DINA’s people, at least the ones working here out of their embassy, are fluent in English,” Danielle said.

  “But you said two bits of not-so-good news. What’s the second?”

  “McGarvey has to know by now that General Varga is dead and there is no reason for his oparation.”

  “He doesn’t believe the general is dead. He thinks it’s an elaborate scam to buy Pinochet some time.”

  “Time for what?” the DCI asked.

  “To negotiate with the Russians for a better deal than they’re getting with us.”

  “That’s diplomacy. For now McGarvey needs to be recalled, and that comes from the White House.”

  “Even if I could reach him, which I think at this point might be impossible, he wouldn’t back down. He’s still going after Varga, but he’s also gunning for Baranov.”

  “They know he’s coming; they have his description,” Danielle said. “Even if he got across the border, every cop, intel officer and soldier in the country would be gunning for him. And that’s the bad news.”

  Trotter nodded. “I’m just now beginning to get a true measure of the man. He won’t stop. But I’ll do what I can.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Forty-five minutes out of Buenos Aires’s Ezeiza International Airport, McGarvey woke from a fitful slumber. Forward in the head he splashed some cold water on his face then in the galley snagged a Heineken from one of the stews and took it back to his aisle seat in the empty row.

  He’d done a lot of thinking since Mexico City. Baranov had been expecting him, and he had cracked the Whiteside work name at the Four Seasons. Which wasn’t terribly surprising to McGarvey; it only proved what he’d suspected, that the Russian had a source inside Langley. Someone who knew enough about McGarvey’s movements, if not his actual work names, to put Baranov on alert.

  McGarvey is coming to you, and his usual style is first-class. He has money, and he’s not afraid of using it.

  A number of people inside the CIA knew those things about him, so narrowing down the identity of the mole or moles would not be easy. In fact, it would be impossible, made so because he had decided against keeping in touch with Trotter.

  He’d come to another understanding because of Baranov’s contract on him—that General Varga was not dead. Someone, probably Baranov’s contact inside the DINA, had arranged for the fake murder-suicide in an effort to have McGarvey recalled until some sort of a diplomatic solution to Washington’s problem with Valparaíso could be arranged.

  It would be a nifty bit of geopolitics for the Russians, courtesy of Baranov, that could put Moscow on the inside with Pinochet, while handing Washington its marching orders. It would be a paradigm shift in the southern hemisphere, or at least the start of one.

  Baranov, because of his contact inside Langley, and therefore the DINA because of the Russian’s connection, not only knew that McGarvey was coming to kill the general, but what he looked like.

  But they’d failed to take him out in Mexico City, and as long as he didn’t phone home, they couldn’t know if he’d backed off and gone to ground somewhere, or was on his way to Santiago and then San Antonio. And the longer it took him to get there, the harder it would become for the general to stay out of sight.

  * * *

  After he got through passport control and then customs, he got a cab and asked the driver to take him to a reasonably priced hotel nearby, which turned out to be the Hotel Plaza Central Canning.

  It was an odd name but it turned out to be pleasant enough. He checked in under his Larson work name. Once he was upstairs in his small, plainly furnished room with a view of the parking lot, he got his gun and a magazine of ammunition from under the lining in his suitcase.

  Downstairs again he had the bellman call him another cab, which he took into the city center, where he had the driver take him on a mini-tour. The streets were as busy with cars and people as downtown Manhattan on a weekday. And except for the cathedrals with their Spanish flair, Buenos Aires could have been a cosmopolitan city in any country.

  They worked their way in widening circles from the Río de la Plata to the east, and out to the Avenida Callao to the west and the Congressional Plaza. The driver, whose English was excellent, pointed out all the important landmarks. In under an hour McGarvey had found what he wanted, and had the driver drop him off near the north end of the tree-lined Avenida 9 de Julio.

  He walked a few blocks up the Avenida Santa Fe, to the sporting goods store he’d spotted earlier. Using cash he bought a couple of pairs of jeans, two work shirts, a dark zip-up jacket and a pair of ankle-high hiking boots and two pairs of wool socks, a couple changes of underwear, along with a hunting knife and a pair of compact binoculars. He also bought a nylon rucksack into which he stuffed everything.

  A block and a half away he went into a drugstore, where he bought some shaving gear, a toothbrush and toothpaste, putting them in the rucksack.

  In a liquor store he picked up three bottles of de Jerez brandy, then walked all the way over to the Retiro, which was one of the city’s largest barrios, and where the huge Retiro railway station and bus terminals sat just across from the Torre Monumental in the Plaza Fuerza Aérea. This was the major ground transportation hub for the entire city as well as all of Argentina and most of the South American continent.

  The district was also home to a lot of high-end stores, shops and restaurants, along with upper-class houses and apartments along tree-lined streets, where Mercedes, Jaguars and even the occasional Ferrari, Bentley and Rolls were parked. By contrast more than twenty thousand illegal immigrants lived in a shantytown called Villa 31, and pickpockets were everywhere around the train and bus terminal, which was crammed with departing and arriving passengers.

  In the Terminal de Ómnibus he went into a stall in the men’s restroom, where he changed into the clothes he bought at the sporting goods store. Then, following the signs to the second floor for west-bound buses, he found an English-speaking ticket agent and bought a round-trip ticket to Santiago on CATA Internacional, which left every afternoon at five and got to the Chilean capital around noon the next day.

  He opted for the cheapest seat with no service—rather than the more expensive Pullman coaches—paying with cash.

  Back outside he was practically mobbed by a dozen or more children, some of them probably as young as five. He pulled out a wad of notes and change and tossed the money over his shoulder. The kids scattered long enough for him to get clear before more came to see what was going on.

  Earlier he’d spotted what looked to be an older, inexpensive hotel on Avenida Paraguay just a half dozen blocks from the train station. Housed in a ten-story building, the Gran Hotel Orly fronted on the narrow, unpretentious street, which, like just about every other street in the city, was busy with traffic.

  It took him less than ten minutes to reach it, but it took nearly twenty for the sour desk clerk to rent him a room without reservations. It was the Argentine attitude.

  On the eighth floor the shoebox of a room looked over the street through dirty windows. The bed was made up, but the small bathroom, though not filthy, hadn’t been cleaned very well.

  He’d used cash, but he didn’t thi
nk anyone would look for him in a place like this. And tomorrow by five he would have dropped completely out of sight.

  Baranov knew that he was probably coming and would have told his contact at the DINA. But they would be watching for him at the airport, not at the bus terminal. And, if the information about the loading dock mock-up at the Farm had been passed to Baranov, or the DINA, they might be expecting him to reach San Antonio by sea.

  No one would be expecting him to come to Santiago from Buenos Aires, by bus. And workman’s-class at that.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Baranov went upstairs to the referentura a few minutes before one in the afternoon to call Henry on a secure line. He’d spent a day and a half trying to figure out where McGarvey had gotten himself to, but to this point he’d come up empty-handed.

  He was almost certain that the American would turn up in San Antonio to make sure that Mati was not dead, and that the funeral was a sham. But he wasn’t willing to bet the dacha on it, at least not yet.

  Henry answered on the first ring as if he was expecting the call. “Yes.”

  “I’ve lost him,” Baranov said. “We traced his Whiteside ID to a flight for Miami, but our people didn’t actually see him getting on the plane, nor was he spotted getting off in Miami.”

  “His tradecraft included some pretty good disguises.”

  “The passport photo wouldn’t match.”

  “It’s likely that he’s carrying more than one.”

  “Under the same name?”

  “It’s been done before. But he hasn’t shown up here.”

  “My bet is that he’s on his way to Chile, or he could be there already.”

  “Aguilera met with the president yesterday. Now, I don’t know all the details, only what I heard from a couple of my sources, but apparently Pinochet has agreed to shut down operations in Valparaíso. And supposedly McGarvey has been recalled.”

  “I don’t think so,” Baranov said.

  “You don’t think what?”

  “Valparaíso won’t stop any time soon, and even if McGarvey gets word that he’s to back off, I don’t think he’ll do it. I sent two contractors to take him out; he shot one of them and the other stupid bastard gave him the name of the Ateno. And he actually showed up there and had a little chat with Luis Alvarez. Said that if I wanted him dead to come do it myself.”

  “He mentioned you by name?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you hear about it?”

  “I was there, in a back room meeting with someone.”

  “Anyone I would know?”

  “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you take McGarvey out right then and there?”

  “The authorities don’t bother us there, and Luis means to keep it that way. There’s never any trouble of any kind in the club. Never.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out on this end. But McGarvey’s started to build a legend for himself as a dangerous bastard.”

  “I thought that this was his first mission.”

  “His first wet mission, but the body count is already rising. What about those guys you sent after him in Mexico City? Were they any good?”

  “Professionals. Former GAFE operators, and from what I was told very good, but overzealous. Their body counts were high, too high, so they were kicked out.” GAFE was the Mexican army’s Special Forces Airmobile Group. “They were veterans.”

  “You tipped your hand, my friend. Sending them told McGarvey that the general was still alive. Why else would you have done it? And what about the contractors—will they talk to anyone?”

  “Nyet. They’re dead.”

  “Good,” Henry said. “What about you? What’s next?”

  “I’m going back to my compound outside San Antonio to wait for him.”

  “What will Moscow say?”

  “This time I’m not asking permission. But if you hear anything about McGarvey, contact me at the usual number,” Baranov said. It was a highly secure forwarding service in Luxembourg. When he was on mission, messages could be left for him at the number. He had to use a special ten-digit alpha-numeric code to retrieve them.

  “Good hunting, then. I think that this man, unless dealt with very soon, will become a serious threat to both of us.”

  * * *

  Baranov went downstairs to Petr Yezhov’s office. The KGB chief of station was perched on the edge of his secretary’s desk. She was young and attractive, as was every secretary he’d ever hired.

  “Ah, Vasha, you have the look,” he said. They went into his inner office and he closed the door. “I assume it’s the thing with the American. He left for Miami and now he’s disappeared. Is that about right?”

  “My guess is San Antonio.”

  “You don’t think he bought the fiction about General Varga?”

  No. I think he’s going to show up in Chile and I’m going to be there when he does.”

  Yezhov frowned. “Have you passed this by control?”

  “No, and I won’t unless you include it in your daily to Moscow.”

  “It’s become a vendetta, Vasha? For what?”

  “The man is an insult to me,” Baranov said, and he felt hot just thinking about the American, and about Henry’s warning.

  “If you win, you’ll be a hero. But if you fail, you’ll be sent back here with your tail between your legs, and the Russian delegation will be forced to cancel its trip to Santiago.”

  “Unless you stop me.”

  Yezhov smiled and waved the suggestion off. “I admire initiative, always have. And I think you have balls down to your knees. No, I won’t report our conversation today, because we never had one.”

  “Thank you. I fly out first thing in the morning.”

  Yezhov smiled again. “I know,” he said. “Good hunting.”

  Baranov went back to his quarters in the embassy’s residential section and packed a small bag with a few personal items—he already had most of what he needed at his place in San Antonio. He also packed his Russian-made Makarov 9mm pistol and a loaded eighteen-round magazine of ammunition in a diplomatic bag. He had personal weapons at his compound, but first he would have to reach it from the airport in Santiago, after a quick chat with Torres.

  McGarvey was becoming a serious problem, and he wouldn’t put it past the man to show up at the least opportune time and place.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Trotter was not invited to the private meeting among Morton, Larry Danielle and Dick Beckett, which he found a little odd since he was McGarvey’s control officer on the Varga operation. But the Santiago chief of station agreed to have dinner at the Hay-Adams. He was returning to Chile first thing in the morning.

  It was just seven when Trotter showed up at the elegant Lafayette Restaurant right behind Beckett, who was being seated. It was a weekday, but the restaurant was more than half filled with well-dressed people including a few congressmen and several upper-level White House staffers from across the street. This was one of the premier power lunch and dinner meeting spots.

  The maître d’ looked up in disapproval as Trotter walked over instead of waiting to be escorted. “We’re together,” he said and sat down.

  “Nice place, Mr. Trotter,” Beckett said. He wore a striped sport coat and a tie that was loose, the top button of his white shirt undone. He looked like he’d been working all day, which he had over in the Directorate of Operations’ territory. And to Trotter it seemed as if he’d rather be somewhere less formal.

  “Please, it’s John. And this is just the sort of place I wanted to meet with you. Everybody here is usually so busy making their own little deals that they never listen to anyone else. Almost as good as one of our safe rooms.”

  Beckett was dubious. “If you say so.”

  The waiter came with menus, and Trotter ordered a cognac and Beckett a Budweiser.

  “I’m sorry that I couldn’t attend your meeting with the director and Larry, but I wanted to have a few words with you before you left. It’s about V
alentin Baranov, the head of the Russian CESTA del Sur network. From what I understand he wants to set up shop in Santiago.”

  Beckett glanced over at the four men seated at the next table, six or seven feet away. “Maybe we should take this back to Langley.”

  Trotter nodded to one of the men. “Nice seeing you again, Don.”

  “Discussing secrets, John?” the man asked, smiling.

  “Same as you,” Trotter said. He turned back to Beckett. “Don Parker is an assistant to the president’s national security adviser, and the three men with him are from the Hill. Appropriations. The president is fishing for votes for the new aircraft carrier the navy wants, and the White House would just as soon keep it a secret for now.”

  “I know how this town works,” Beckett said.

  Their drinks came.

  “Are you gentlemen ready to order?” the waiter asked.

  “Give us a few minutes,” Trotter said. “We’ll signal.”

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter said and left.

  “You and Baranov had a meeting, which is quite extraordinary considering all that’s happening down there. Apparently he’s trying to expand his intelligence network to include Chile.”

  Beckett pursed his lips. “Frankly I wasn’t aware that you were on the list.”

  “I’m one of the project managers, and until now we’ve more or less kept to our own shop in Mexico City.”

  “I’ll have to include this conversation in my daily report.”

  “As will I, Dick. But good heavens, we’re all on the same team here. Both of us are keenly interested in keeping CESTA del Sur bottled up in Mexico. But I’m told that you and Baranov discussed the Valparaíso issue. General Varga’s work. And that it was possible he knew that an assassin was being sent.”

  “Are you telling me that it’s true?”

  “Is it true that Varga and his wife are dead? A murder-suicide, from what the media is reporting?”