Finally the customs officer went back behind the counter. He checked Maria’s papers, and when her suitcase came out of the machine, he put it and her passport on the counter and waved her off.
Maria snatched her things and stalked back outside, giving McGarvey a slight smile as she passed.
The passengers who’d been on the bus at the time of the shooting applauded, and the customs officer continued his inspection.
When it was McGarvey’s turn, the same customs officer who had dealt with Maria looked at his Larson passport, comparing the photo to McGarvey’s face, then sent the backpack through the X-ray machine.
The customs officer who’d stood back was probably a supervisor. When Mac’s bag came out of the machine, he brought it over to the counter, and the first officer handed over the passport.
“Señor Larson, all of these items are new,” he said. “Are you carrying nothing else?”
“No. I decided on the spur of the moment to take a look at some of the ski areas around Santiago, for later in the year. I have friends in Colorado who are interested in a holiday.”
“You flew all the way from Colorado to Buenos Aires and then decided to take a bus to Santiago?”
“I wanted to get a feel for the mountains.”
“Why not fly to Mendoza and then take the bus across?”
McGarvey shrugged. “It never occurred to me. I’ll do it that way the next time. Or better yet, fly direct to Santiago.”
For a longish moment the supervisor looked at McGarvey, then nodded and handed the passport back to the customs officer at the counter.
“In the morning you’ll have a very good look at our mountains. They are spectacular. Welcome to Chile.”
Bag in hand, McGarvey went back outside to wait with the other passengers until their bus was inspected and brought back out of the big garage.
Maria stood with some other women. He went up to her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She smiled. “It was nothing.”
But it was something. And what he’d seen nagged at the back of his head. “You’re a brave girl,” he said.
“That was the tough part,” she said. “Everything else from here is downhill. You’ll see.”
SIXTY-TWO
Baranov reached Santiago just before noon aboard a Yak-40D VIP jet that Yezhov had arranged for him. He was the only passenger and the KGB chief of Mexico City Station had warned him that there would be some resistance from Moscow over the expense.
“I understand your hurry, Vasha, but you have to ask yourself, Is it worth risking your career for?” Yezhov had asked before Baranov had left for the airport late yesterday afternoon.
“If we’re going to make any real progress, I have to keep expanding the network. Chile is ripe now.”
Yezhov dismissed the statement. “Save that for your dailies. It’s McGarvey you want. Like I said before, it’s become a personal vendetta for some reason.”
“My source in Langley warned me that we either deal with McGarvey now, or he’ll turn out to be the most dangerous adversary that the service has faced in a very long time.”
“You’re not convinced that McGarvey bought the lie about General Varga’s death?”
“He’s disappeared. Apparently even his control officer can’t make contact.”
“You think that he’s on his way to Chile?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Then, like I’ve also said before, good hunting, Vasha. And I hope in the end that you keep your head firmly attached to your shoulders. They don’t ring the bells in Moscow just for dinner.”
They’d landed in Quito in the middle of the night to refuel and continued south, the sun tingeing the Andes with red and yellow by the time they were well into Peru’s airspace.
He’d slept only in brief snatches because he was keyed up over the operation to stop McGarvey and pave the way for the delegation from Moscow. But also in part because he was beginning to come to the understanding that the American was no ordinary CIA field officer. He was young and brash, but he was showing some skills and abilities that were well beyond an operator so new to the Agency.
And with that understanding, he’d realized in the middle of the night, came a healthy respect and maybe even a little fear.
He’d brought his gun along with the suppressor and three eighteen-round magazines of ammunition in a sealed diplomatic bag. He’d always liked the pistol because it was reliable and was the preferred sidearm of the KGB.
If he got into a shootout with McGarvey—which he sincerely hoped he would—he wanted an old friend in his hand.
After landing they were directed to a hangar across the field from the main terminal that accommodated VIP and special diplomatic flights. A customs agent in uniform and a man in a suit and tie, almost certainly an officer of the DINA, were there to meet the plane when the male flight attendant opened the door and lowered the stairs.
The cockpit door was open, and Major Oleg Dyukov, a veteran MIG pilot, turned in his seat. “Do you require us to wait, Captain?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying, and Yezhov would have a hemorrhage if I made you wait.”
The major chuckled. “We’ll refuel and get some sleep. Probably until morning. If you’re done by then, leave word at flight ops.”
Baranov hefted his overnight bag and the leather diplomatic pouch and headed down the stairs.
“Good hunting, sir,” the attendant whispered.
At the bottom Baranov handed over his diplomatic passport to the customs agent, who in turned handed it to the officer.
“Welcome back to Chile, Señor Baranov. But we may have to ask you to wait here until I receive clearance.”
“What’s the holdup?”
“The funeral for General Varga and his wife. It will begin within the half hour, and there has been some opposition. Demonstrations, even shootings and fires. The city just now is not safe.”
“I need to speak to General Torres.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not immediately possible. The general is on his way to the reviewing stand with el Presidente and other dignitaries.”
“Have operators been stationed at the airport?”
“I don’t understand.”
Baranov was frustrated. “This is a state emergency, you idiot!” he shouted. “I have to speak with General Torres now, before it’s too late.”
“Come with me,” the officer said, handing Baranov’s passport back. He turned and marched into the operations center, which occupied several glassed-in offices on the second floor at the rear of the hangar.
Three men were there, two checking on other incoming VIP flights, and one just hanging up from a telephone call.
The officer grabbed the phone and called someone. “Yanez, this is Carlos; I have the Russian with me. He insists that he speak with General Torres. It’s a matter of state. What do you want me to do?”
“Let me talk to him,” Baranov said.
The officer relayed the message and handed over the phone.
“Do you know who I am?” Baranov demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“The American assassin coming here to kill General Varga may already be in the city. I need to speak to General Torres to make sure that all arriving flights are being watched.”
“But General Varga is already dead, sir.”
“That doesn’t matter. Right now only catching the American is important because he may have another target. El Presidente.”
“Dios mío,” the man said. “Give the phone back to Carlos.”
Baranov did it.
The conversation didn’t last long. The officer slammed down the phone. “Come with me,” he said.
Baranov followed him on the run back down on the floor of the hangar to a black Ford Bronco, and they took off, peeling rubber across the back side of the airport toward the rear gate.
“General Torres is being notified of the danger to the president and tha
t we are on our way. He’ll radio us as soon as possible. In the meantime I’m to get you downtown to the reviewing stand in front of the Moneda.”
Once clear of the airport, on the main highway, traffic, though heavy, moved smoothly, and they made good time.
Baranov was getting the almost overwhelming feeling that McGarvey was very close, maybe even arriving at the main terminal behind them, and that if they didn’t hurry he would manage to get into the city and lose himself. At that point the entire operation would devolve on the Vargas’ compound that was supposed to be empty.
Torres called on the car’s communications radio. “Unit seven, Eagle Two, are you en route with the passenger?”
“Eagle Two, unit seven, about fifteen minutes out.”
“Let me talk to him.”
Baranov took the mic. “Do you have people at the airport?”
“Of course we do. But what’s this about the other possible target?”
“That was just to get your attention. Listen, his control officer may not be able to reach him, and I’m almost certain that he’s here already or will be soon. Have you heard anything from your airport units?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What about trains or buses? He could be coming from anywhere.”
“I’ve had people on every train and bus coming into the city or to San Antonio for the past two days. And I’ve had officers on the platforms and in the stations watching for him. Trust me, señor, he will not get into the country unless he knows magic.”
SIXTY-THREE
Shifting her body so that what she was doing was kept out of sight from the other passengers, Maria reached under her dress and pulled out McGarvey’s holster and pistol, the two mags and the suppressor, and handed them to him.
They were coming down out of the foothills, the city of Santiago laid out below them, the upper peaks of the mountains they’d crossed dusted with snow despite the fact it was late spring.
“That must have been uncomfortable,” McGarvey said. “I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you. Although if I tell my friends that I was saved by a pregnant women, they’ll have a laugh.”
“We’re good for more than just the one thing, you know,” she said. Her English was much better than it had been last night. And it had a harder edge.
His pistol was too light. Obviously she had removed the bullets from the mag and the one in the breach sometime during the night, or possibly even outside the bus barn as he was going through customs at the border.
He popped the empty magazine from the pistol and put in a loaded one, pulling a round into the firing chamber.
She started to get up, but he took her arm and held her back.
“How did you know?” she asked after the first shock of fear passed.
“You lifted your dress too high, and it wasn’t your belly sticking out; it was padding. You work for the DINA?”
She nodded.
“There’ll be armed men waiting at the bus station where you’ll point me out?”
“So far as we were told you have done nothing illegal except bring a firearm into the country. At the appropriate moment you will be handed over to your embassy and then deported.”
“We?”
“The arrivals hall at the airport is being watched, and we’ve had agents on every bus and train coming into the country for the past three days.”
“What about the bandits on the highway? Were they your people too?”
She looked away, embarrassment on her face. “No, they were for real. And it’s possible they would have killed us all.”
“Did you know beforehand that I was the one you were watching for?”
“You fit the general description, but I wasn’t sure until you killed those guys.”
“Is that what they taught you at your academy? Arrest the man who saved your lives?”
She was almost in tears now, real or not. “Nothing will happen to you, except that you’ll be kicked out of Chile.”
“You know enough English to understand the word bullshit,” McGarvey said. “The question now is, How do we get past your people at the bus depot?”
“You won’t, trust me. If you run, you’ll be shot.”
“And I’ll shoot back. I just want to get the hell out of Chile in one piece.”
“Then give me back your gun, and I’ll let them know it’s you. You’ll be sent home.”
“They’ll just turn me over to General Varga.”
“He’s dead. In fact, his funeral is about to start right now.”
“Then whoever takes over from him,” McGarvey said, letting a note of desperation come into his voice.
She touched his arm, the expression of sadness seemingly real. “I have no anger for you, especially not after last night. I want you to go in peace. Just leave Chile.”
“I would if I could.”
She thought about it for a moment. “Are you CIA?”
“Yes. Just here to observe.”
“Observe what?”
“The funeral. We want to know if there are any riots or protests. General Varga was a very bad man. Because of him a lot of Chileans are dead.”
“How do you plan on getting out of the country?”
“A bus to Mendoza and then fly probably back to B.A. Worst comes to worst, I’ll try to make it to my embassy.”
“But first you have been ordered to witness the funeral,” she said. “Nothing more than observe?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then why did you bring a gun?”
“If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The route to the bus terminal in Santiago followed the metro line, passing within a couple of blocks of the Moneda, but the driver had to take a detour because the roads were clogged with people. The crowd seemed to be headed north toward the Presidential Palace and the Plaza de la Constitución.
McGarvey holstered his pistol at the small of his back under his jacket and pocketed the spare mags.
Maria watched him. “I don’t want to start a shootout in the middle of the terminal. I don’t want innocent people to get hurt.”
“Neither do I.”
“You came to witness the parade. Does it have to be in person, or can you watch it on television? I can take you to my apartment. I live alone. And tonight I can take you to the Terminal Alameda. No one will be suspecting you to be leaving so soon.”
McGarvey decided she was an amateur, sent because her DINA boss thought that McGarvey would more easily spot an experienced officer. “Do the spotters know you by sight?”
“Yes,” she said. She got up and went forward to the bus driver and had a few words with him. When she came back, she was excited. “He’s going to let us off here.”
“The other passengers—especially the new ones who came on at Mendoza—might report it.”
She shook her head. “We tend to mind our own business these days. Besides, it’s not unusual for people to get off early.”
The bus driver pulled over and opened the door. They were just south of the city center, in a neighborhood of tall office and apartment buildings, boutiques, restaurants and outdoor cafés. But there was almost no traffic on the broad avenue or on the sidewalks.
McGarvey went with Maria to the front of the bus. No one said a word, most of them looking out the windows. He was an American who had brought a gun into the country. But he had saved lives.
“Gracias, señor,” the bus driver said softly. “Vaya con Dios.”
They watched the bus drive away, and when it was gone, McGarvey could hear the mélange of voices and shouts of a very large crowd not too far in the distance. A siren came from that general direction, followed by a short volley of gunshots.
“It sounds like it’s getting bad,” Maria said. “We need to get off the streets; my apartment’s not far from here.”
“How far are we from the bus terminal?”
Maria shrugged.
“How far?”
“
Three blocks. But why?”
“Because that’s where we’re going.”
SIXTY-FOUR
Terminal Santiago was a large place, bustling with buses to and from just about every point on the South American continent, and with shuttles and taxis and even a nearby metro station. In Las Condes Plazas, it wasn’t far from the Mondea, where the funeral procession would soon be passing, and people on foot were streaming toward it.
A half block away Maria stopped in her tracks. She was frightened. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” she demanded.
They were on a broad sidewalk, and the people walking or running past paid no attention to them.
“I thought you said that I would be peacefully arrested, no shooting unless I opened fire first?”
“That was coming out of the terminal, not trying to get back in, or trying to sneak up on them.”
“How many are there?”
“I don’t know.”
He grabbed her arm. “It was a setup. I wasn’t going to be arrested—they were going to shoot me on sight, and the hell with collateral damage.”
“No.”
“Then let’s go. You can point them out to me.”
She shook her head and started to pull away, but he held her close. “How many more like you are in this country?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Willing to lead someone to their death. But right now I just want to get the hell out of Chile.”
“I thought you wanted to observe the funeral. See if there was any violence.”
“I heard the gunfire—that’s enough,” McGarvey said. “But you gave yourself away on the bus after the border. You had my gun; why didn’t you just arrest me, or shoot me?”
“The other passengers wouldn’t have allowed it. Anyway, those weren’t my orders.”
“Right,” McGarvey said.
“But why did you want to come here? You might be seen.” She was worried, because she would have to explain why she’d gotten off the bus early with him. It was written all over her round face. In the light of day she didn’t look so much like a peasant.
“To find a cab.”
There were dozens waiting to pick up passengers from their buses and several others that had just arrived. The terminal was mobbed.
First Kill--A Kirk McGarvey Novel Page 27
