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  “I went to the hotel to see Horst Höehner. I followed him from Vienna.”

  “I’ll hold,” McGarvey said into the telephone. “Simon Wiesenthal’s assistant?”

  “Yes,” Maria said.

  “About what?”

  “I’m trying to find a … World War Two Nazi submarine.”

  McGarvey hung up the telephone, intrigued now. “You asked Höehner to help? It would seem that he would be the last person who’d know anything, or be willing to help.”

  “He has access to the records in Freiburg. No one else would listen to me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He also refused.”

  “So you went to Reid.”

  She nodded.

  “What’s your interest in this submarine?”

  “My grandfather was the skipper.”

  “And?”

  “They were on a secret mission to … Argentina when he and his crew and the boat disappeared. I want to find the boat and … his body.”

  “What was the mission?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was lying. McGarvey could see it in her eyes. “Do you think they made it into Argentinian waters?”

  “It’s possible. I want to know for sure.”

  “What will you do now?” McGarvey asked. He watched her eyes, but there was no reaction.

  “I’ll go back to Freiburg and try again.”

  “Alone?”

  She nodded.

  Coincidence or plan? McGarvey tried to separate his unsettled feelings from what he was hearing now and from what had happened in the past hours. If Kurshin were indeed alive and active, would he have used this one? It was possible.

  You cannot begin to understand the depths of another man’s hate. It can be used like a tool. Like a finely honed surgeon’s scalpel.

  “Maybe that won’t be necessary,” he said.

  “I’m not staying …”

  “Maybe I can help. If you want it, that is. I have a friend in Freiburg who would have access to the material you want.”

  For a moment her eyes lit up, but then the light faded and she became wary. “What do you want, Senor McGarvey?”

  “Answers,” he said.

  “I don’t have them.”

  McGarvey smiled. “You don’t have any other options. Besides, you owe me.”

  BOOK TWO

  14

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  SNOW BLANKETED THE NATION’S capital and the surrounding countryside, making driving extremely difficult. Katherine Ray was late arriving at CIA headquarters, but she had spent longer at the FBI’s Fingerprint Division and then the Walter Reed Army Medical Center than she thought she would. It was three o’clock by the time she had logged in at the front desk, had her briefcase checked, and had gone down to Records Section in the basement.

  “Ray, Technical Services,” she said. “My boss called.”

  A clerk checked her credentials and signed her name in the visitors’ log. “You’ve been here before?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Once or twice.”

  “Then you won’t need a baby-sitter.”

  Katherine shook her head.

  “Too bad,” the clerk said. He checked a register. “Terminal eighteen. Down the hall to the left. If you need a file runner, hit F-twelve and ENTER. Have you got the proper access codes?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Katherine went back to her assigned cubicle, took off her coat, opened her briefcase, and entered the system with the primary access word: THUNDER.

  The terminal screen bloomed. “Welcome to Records Section of the Central Intelligence Agency. Do you wish to see a menu?”

  Katherine, who worked for the agency’s Technical Services Division downtown, had been assigned the physical evidence of the Paris embassy bombing case. The team they’d sent to Paris within hours of the blast had begun sending back evidence almost immediately, including samples of human tissue and blood and other body fluids, as well as fingerprints lifted from the debris in and around the office in which the bomb had exploded.

  The FBI had identified many of the fingerprints from its government services files, although several sets were flagged as being of special interest to the Agency, and therefore in a closed file.

  At Walter Reed, the laboratory technicians had reduced the tissue and fluid samples to their DNA signatures. Three separate individuals had been in the room. Tom Lord and the Marine guard who’d gone in with him were known. But the third was an unknown. A sample of his blood and two clear fingerprints had been found on the doorknob leading from the inner office.

  There was no third body, so it was possible, Katherine had reasoned on her way over, that the mystery man was the killer.

  The bothersome part was that the FBI had identified the blood and fingerprints as belonging to someone of interest to the Agency. Very possibly they weren’t the killer’s after all. Possibly Graves had been in the office for some reason, or perhaps one of the communications people who’d come down to the second floor when they’d heard something had happened to Berringer and Vaughan had gone inside for some reason.

  Entering the ten-point identification profile for the unknown prints, she started the computer searching through the huge amount of data stored in personnel records for a match.

  Next, she entered the DNA standard profile from the blood sample and began searching medical records.

  Within ninety seconds the first match had been made between the fingerprints found on Kevin Hewlett’s doorknob and personnel files. A name and a date of birth along with a photograph came up on the screen. Katherine’s mouth dropped open.

  Thirty seconds later the DNA trace provided a second match. The same name and photograph came up on the screen.

  James Tilley, chief of the CIA’s Technical Services Division, sat alone in the small briefing auditorium. Robert Hettrick and his forensics team people had finished with their afternoon reports and had left a few minutes earlier. The evidence that had been sent over from Paris was laid out on tables next to the speaker’s platform. Behind them were three large blackboards covered with notes and diagrams.

  The scene reminded Tilley, who held doctorates in biophysics and biochemistry, of his days as a student. He’d spent a good portion of his life in rooms like these, trying to unravel mysteries that sometimes seemed beyond his ken.

  Looking more like a construction worker than an academic, Tilley ran Technical Services with a fair but iron hand. “Trouble is,” his subordinates sometimes said, “when the boss is so much smarter than everyone else, it’s impossible to put anything over on him.”

  This business had him stumped, however, and he was developing a gut feeling that when the resolution finally came, it would be to nobody’s liking. In chemistry or physics there were always facts to rely on that would either support or destroy the prevailing theory. It made no difference which, because there were always new theories. Facts were what science was all about.

  In this case, the prevailing theory was that an unknown French terrorist or terrorists had planted the bomb in the embassy. Relations between France and the U.S. were at an all-time low, because despite the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact the U.S. still demanded that NATO be maintained. France disagreed.

  Hardly any of the facts supported this theory, and yet everyone was trying to make the facts fit, because the theory was convenient.

  He got up and approached the tables. In his mind the most damning bits of evidence were the pieces of latex face mask found at the scene.

  The man who’d posed as Kirk McGarvey had evidently worn a disguise which, for some reason, he had discarded before he left the embassy. It wasn’t something the average French or French-Algerian terrorist would do.

  He picked up the plastic bag that contained the half-dozen bits of latex. There was a message here; he was sure of it. They were being told something by the killer. The man was tempting them to solve the mystery: “I left this for you. I’m telling you plainly that I wore a
disguise. That once I’d planted the explosives I no longer needed the mask.”

  Tilley laid the plastic bag back on the table and shook his head.

  “Catch me if you can,” the killer was saying.

  Sam Vaughan had apparently walked in on him and had been shot in the face with a pistol. Ballistics were certain the bullet had been fired from a Walther PPK, even though it had become badly distorted on impact with the skull.

  Another message in the choice of weapon?

  The killer had used McGarvey’s name and passport number, which meant that either he had access to State Department records, or he’d had some contact with the man. Possibly there in Paris.

  Still another message?

  His secretary came to the rear door. “General Murphy is on the telephone for you, sir,” she called down to him.

  Tilley followed her back to his office and picked up the telephone. “Good afternoon, General.”

  “Anything new from Paris?”

  “The team is still sifting, and we’re still analyzing what they’ve already sent back.”

  “What about the explosives? Any handle on the material yet?”

  “Standard C-four. Could have been lifted from any U.S. base in Europe, or purchased on the open market.”

  The general hesitated, and Tilley filled in the silence for him: “The material wasn’t Semtex, the Polish plastique, but that still doesn’t rule out an Eastern bloc operation.”

  “It’s not likely they’d use C-four when their own material is so much better,” Murphy said.

  “Unless they were trying to tell us something,” Tilley said. “Make us believe one thing when in reality another was the truth. Throw us off. Misdirect us.”

  “What are you saying, Jim?” the DCI asked.

  “Nothing more than a gut feeling,” Tilley replied. “But our man is telling us too much, more than he should. The choice of weapon he used to defend himself. The facts that he wore a disguise and that he knows Kirk McGarvey.”

  “Which brings us to the Argentinian woman—Maria Schimmer—who, by the way, has disappeared. Have your people found any physical evidence of what she was doing in the embassy?”

  “Nothing directly,” Tilley said. “Other than eyewitness accounts, of course.”

  “She’s important, I think, for a lot of reasons.” Again Murphy hesitated.

  “Something I should know about, General?” Tilley prompted.

  “Not yet, except that I would like your people to concentrate at least some of their efforts on picking up her track in the building.”

  “I’ll pass it along, but I think we’ve taken the lion’s share of useful material out of the debris already. The weather and water damage have taken their toll. And State Department people in there digging around for sensitive documents haven’t helped. But we’ll do what we can.”

  “That’s all I ask,” Murphy said. “Keep the lines of communication open, Jim. I want to know the minute you learn anything … anything at all, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tilley said.

  The CIA had been the target, of course, and Murphy, who had never been known for his delicacy, would be charging full steam ahead. But there’d been something else in his manner, a tone in his voice that wasn’t normally there. If Tilley hadn’t known better, he would have suspected that the DCI was frightened.

  His telephone rang. It was his secretary again. “Richard Shipman is on line two.”

  “Do I know him?” Tilley asked.

  “He’s chief of physical security at Langley. Says you’ll want to talk to him.”

  “I’ll take it,” Tilley said. He punched the button. “Jim Tilley. What can I do for you, Mr. Shipman?”

  “I thought you’d want to handle this yourself,” Shipman said.

  “Handle what?”

  “We have one of your people here—Katherine Ray—under detention. Before we proceed any further, perhaps you would like to talk to her. We can’t make any sense of it.”

  “Proceed with what?” Tilley demanded. “Why are you holding her?”

  “Sir, she got into Agency computer records and destroyed at least ten complete files before one of the section supervisors got wind of what she was doing and stopped her. This hasn’t gone upstairs yet, she asked for you first, but we’re talking sabotage.”

  “I’ll be there within the half hour,” Tilley said. “Don’t do anything with her until then.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Technical Services Division, which came under the Directorate of Operations, was in some respects the Agency’s police force, or at least its investigative arm. They supplied Clandestine Services with the second-story men, the safecrackers, the telephone tappers, the gumshoes.

  A good percentage of Technical Services officers came from the FBI or other police forces, and there was a rivalry, sometimes bitter, between them and mainstream intelligence officers.

  Because of the snow it took Tilley nearly a full hour to make it across the river and up to Langley. Richard Shipman, a big, solidly-built man—even bigger than Tilley—was waiting in a conference room with Katherine.

  “The roads still bad?” Shipman asked.

  “That’s why it took me so long to get here,” Tilley said. “Could I have a few minutes alone with Ms. Ray?”

  Shipman, who had been perched on the edge of the table, got to his feet. “Be my guest,” he said. “I’ll be in my office when you’re ready.” He glanced toward Katherine. “I hope she wasn’t working under orders. Because if she was, there’ll be hell to pay.” He turned back to Tilley. “Know what I mean, sir?”

  “We’ll be along in a couple of minutes,” Tilley said, and when Shipman was gone he drew up a chair next to Katherine and sat down. “What happened?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it, Mr. Tilley,” she said. It was clear she was very frightened, but determined, too.

  “Sooner or later you’ll have to, of course. Shipman said you destroyed some files before you were stopped. It’ll only be a matter of time for them to be identified and pieced back together.”

  She said nothing.

  “They’ll have your hide. You know that, I suppose. As it is, Shipman is doing us a favor.”

  Still she held her silence.

  Tilley sat back. “Well, let’s see if we can put this together anyway. You were working on forensics, so I guess I can call John Wilson to find out exactly what you were working on today …”

  “Fingerprints and DNA analyses of body fluids and tissue,” she said reluctantly.

  “I see,” Tilley said. “Then you’ve obviously found a match. Someone here in Agency files. An officer who—” He stopped, sudden understanding dawning on him like a flash. The answer had been under their noses all along.

  Katherine read something of that from his eyes, because she stiffened.

  “It’s McGarvey after all, isn’t it,” he said gently. Katherine had had a thing for him two years ago when he was in Washington. Although she had tried to keep it to herself, it had been obvious in her work, and word had gotten to Tilley. He had talked to her about it. “He’s a dangerous man, which is what appeals to you, but I don’t think you should pursue it. Won’t do you or him any good.” She reminded Tilley of his daughter away at college.

  She had taken his advice, or at least he thought she had. But the problem was back, this time in spades.

  She nodded. “He’s been set up, Mr. Tilley.”

  “Was there a positive DNA match?”

  She nodded again after a hesitation.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Yes.”

  “He shoots a Walther PPK, if I remember correctly,” Tilley said. “It was the gun used to kill Sam Vaughan.”

  “He wouldn’t do it, sir. Not … him.”

  “Why not?” Tilley asked. Everything fit, of course. “He certainly had the means and the motive. He came unglued, that’s all.”

  “No.”

  “I think so.”

&n
bsp; “No, sir, listen to me, please,” Katherine pleaded. “If he would do such a thing, he wouldn’t have done it this way. He’s too good to leave his fingerprints, or to sign in with the Marines at the front desk. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Tilley patted the back of her hand. “I don’t agree with you,” he said softly. “It’s exactly the way Mr. McGarvey would have done it.”

  15

  EVERYTHING WAS CHANGED in East Berlin. Coming into what had once been the GDR from the west, Kurshin could hardly believe his eyes. He’d not been in Germany in more than two years, and in that time, the wall had disappeared.

  Passing through what had once been Checkpoint Charlie, he had to look over his shoulder to make certain he’d seen what he’d seen—or not seen. The wall, the road barriers, the glass-fronted guard hut were all gone.

  He turned back and smiled wryly. The cabbie caught his expression in the rearview mirror.

  “It’s startling, isn’t it,” the man said. “I used to be an East Berliner. Now I am a German.”

  It was different here now, as it seemed to be different everywhere else. Unsettling. Out of focus. Even his victory in Paris seemed somehow hollow.

  The cabbie left him off at the Leninplatz. He walked three blocks down to the Karl-Marx-Allee, where traffic was heavy in the early-evening hour. A black Mercedes sedan and driver were waiting for him. Without a word he got in the back seat, and they took off, heading through Friedrichshain toward Lichtenberg to the southeast.

  There was even more snow here than there had been in Paris, and the roads were poorly plowed. Services had deteriorated because the economy of what had once been West Germany had been so seriously strained in the union, there was no money to give the east for roads. And still most former East Germans preferred to work in the west and live in the east.

  He had read about this in the newspapers, and had watched it develop on television, but seeing the effects firsthand was startling. It gave him a sense of just how difficult General Didenko’s position had become.