Crossfire Page 13

  Q.: But you don’t know what he, Major Walther Roebling, might have been carrying with him aboard U2798.

  A.: No.

  Q.: Or where in Argentina they were bound.

  A.: Well, that’s a big (pause) mystery.

  Q.: What do you mean, mystery? What kind of a mystery. Do you know?

  A: I know nothing for sure. But there were rumors, you know. In those days (pause) always rumors. May I have a cigarette?

  Q.: What rumors, specifically?

  A.: Well, there was supposed to be some kind of trouble. Someone was waiting for them or something. So their primary destination may have been changed. Maybe even their secondary destination was changed too.

  Q.: These destinations were in Argentina?

  A.: Yes, of course.

  Q.: Where?

  A.: Well, that’s just it, you see. I don’t know. There’s no one around now who knows.

  Q.: What did you mean, then, by saying primary and secondary destinations?

  A.: Just that I’d had heard that alpha and beta were questionable, which left only gamma, delta, and epsilon. Nothing more. May I have the pack?

  “That was the end of the interview,” Dr. Hesse said. “Within the month both Holtz and Mueller were dead.”

  “I don’t understand,” Maria said.

  “What about Mossberg?” McGarvey asked, his mind racing well ahead.

  “He escaped from prison at the end of June of that year. And as far as the records go, he is still at large.”

  McGarvey got up and went to the window. He looked out over the snow-covered garden as he tried to think this out. “How old was Mossberg at the time of the interview?”

  “They were promoting them young at the end,” Dr. Hesse said. “He was just twenty-one.”

  “He’d be sixty-three today.”

  “Practically a boy …” Dr. Hesse mused.

  McGarvey turned. “He knew where the submarine went, and so do I. Or at least I think I can narrow its location to a searchable area.”

  “How …” Maria started to ask, but then changed her mind.

  “Mossberg never got to her,” McGarvey said.

  “Was he behind the killings?” Dr. Hesse asked.

  “Probably. And he might be dead himself now. The murders stopped in 1978, and no trace of the sub has turned up.”

  “Where is it?” Maria asked, a deep burning glow in her eyes.

  “That’s what I intend finding out,” McGarvey said.

  “No …”

  “You and I, Fraulein Schimmer, are going to find it together.”

  It was very late when Dr. Hesse heard his housekeeper cry out once, the sound distant and muffled. He lay awake in the dark for several minutes listening for the cry to be repeated, but the house was silent.

  It had probably been a nightmare, he told himself. In the morning he would chide her about it.

  In the meantime there was Kirk McGarvey and the extraordinary young woman he’d brought with him. Something would have to be done about that situation as soon as possible. In the morning he would have to make his call, an action that had not been necessary for a number of years. This time, however, something might come of it.

  There was a noise in the corridor and Dr. Hesse started to sit up, but his bedroom door was thrown open and a strong light shone in his eyes, obliterating his night vision and blinding him.

  “What is it?” he cried out.

  “You are in no danger, Herr Professor, if you cooperate with me,” a man told him in English. The voice was cultured, possibly British educated, but there was another accent there too. Well hidden.

  “What do you want with me?”

  “A few moments of your time. I wish to speak to you about Mr. Kirk McGarvey.”

  And then Dr. Hesse had it. The hidden accent was Russian. He knew now that he was going to die.

  18

  THE GEORGETOWN HOME OF Secretary of Defense Donald Hamilton was lavish even by Washington standards. So were his parties, held every Saturday night in season. Half of Washington, it seemed, was there.

  “Here comes your boss,” Dominique Carrara told her husband.

  Phil Carrara looked over his shoulder as Lawrence Danielle took a drink from a passing waiter and joined them. He didn’t look happy.

  “I didn’t think you came to these kinds of soirees, Larry,” Carrara said.

  “I don’t, as a rule,” the deputy director growled. He turned to Carrara’s wife. “You’re looking particularly radiant this evening, Dominique.”

  “Thanks. I think it’s time to powder my nose,” she said, smiling.

  “Good idea,” Danielle agreed, returning her smile. “I won’t keep him long.”

  “Five minutes?”

  “Make it ten.”

  “Sure thing,” Dominique pecked her husband on the cheek and left.

  Danielle looked around to make certain that no one was within earshot. “I take it you haven’t seen the amended overnights from Europe.”

  “I usually check them around midnight,” Carrara said, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “What’s happened that I should know about?”

  “It’s McGarvey. Phil, the man has definitely gone over. I don’t think there can be any question of it now. He’s got to be brought in … one way or the other.”

  Carrara shook his head. “We haven’t established a firm age on those blood samples found in Hewlett’s office. I gave you that report. And the fingerprints are next to meaningless.”

  “I might have agreed with you, except that McGarvey has disappeared.”

  “I know that.”

  “Carley Webb got into his apartment and looked around.”

  “Whose idea was that?” Carrara asked dangerously. The chain of command, as far as he was concerned, worked both ways.

  “Take it easy,” Danielle cautioned. “I’m told that she did it on her own initiative.”

  “Included in the amended report?”

  “Yes,” Danielle said. “I happened to be in the comms center this evening when it came in.” He looked around again to make certain no one was listening.

  “I’ll take Dominique home and get out to Operations.”

  “Good idea. What she found in his apartment clinches it as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What was that?”

  “He’s had C-four plastique. She found a piece of wrapping material that tested positive. No doubts about that. Nor is there any doubt about his typewriter. Technical Services has positively identified the machine as the one used to write the death threat letter to Tom Lord.”

  What the deputy director was saying was extraordinary, and made even more so because it was out of place and character for Danielle to become personally involved in the bits and pieces of an ongoing investigation. All of that belonged in Carrara’s purview.

  “Could have been planted,” Carrara said, his thoughts racing ahead to a dozen different possibilities.

  “In McGarvey’s apartment?” Danielle asked. “I give the man more credit than that. He wouldn’t leave himself so wide open.”

  “He might not have been expecting it, Larry. But I agree with you: I give him more credit too. Enough credit to doubt that he would leave such incriminating evidence for anyone to find.”

  “Ms. Webb isn’t just anybody. And the man has disappeared. I checked the Interpol overnights as well. No trace of him yet. Or of the Argentinian woman, I might add.”

  “What does the general say?” Carrara asked, still thinking ahead. He missed the odd, angry expression that briefly crossed Danielle’s face.

  “He agrees with me wholeheartedly. McGarvey must be brought in at all costs.”

  “We don’t want to get Interpol involved,” Carrara said.

  “I agree.”

  “This is our problem. He was our man, and he’s done some great things for the Agency and for his country. I mean to give him the respect and consideration all those loyalties demand.”

  “Bring him in, Phil,
before he does more damage.”

  “Assuming he’s done any in the first place.”

  “Just bring him in,” Danielle said. He turned on his heel and walked off.

  In a small, dingy apartment on Trinidad Avenue in Washington’s northeast district, Nikolai Morozov yanked off the tape holding the subminiature wire recorder to his chest. The pain was sharper this way, but it didn’t last as long as when he peeled it off slowly.

  He unplugged it from the highly sensitive directional microphone and handed both to the technician, Dmitri Yerokin.

  “How was it tonight?” Yerokin asked. With his blond hair, blue eyes, and tan, he could have passed for a Californian.

  “The usual,” Morozov said, rebuttoning his formal shirt. “There’s always something at Hamilton’s parties.”

  He donned his waiter’s jacket as Yerokin plugged the wire recorder into the transcribing machine. Within half a minute the sophisticated machine had compressed the information contained in the wire recorder into an eighteen-millisecond pulse. The pulse was then automatically transmitted to a powerful receiver in the Soviet embassy several blocks away. In the next instant, the information was erased from the wire recorder. If they were arrested here, they would have no incriminating evidence, something that under glasnost and perestroika could not be allowed to exist.

  “Anyone interesting I should flag?” Yerokin asked before Morozov left.

  “Maybe,” Morozov replied.

  “Oh?” Yerokin said, interested.

  “I was within range of the deputy director of the CIA, and his deputy director of Operations, during an entire conversation.”

  “Good.” Yerokin smiled broadly. “Very good.”

  19

  THEIR LUFTHANSA FLIGHT FROM Munich had been delayed Saturday evening in Rio de Janeiro, and the airline had put them up overnight at the Hilton. They were well rested when they finally arrived in Buenos Aires.

  Ezeiza International Airport, fifteen miles southwest of the city, was very busy. Three international flights had arrived within minutes of each other. Hundreds of people crammed the main concourse in the ultramodern terminal building, and customs and passport control were mobbed.

  As an Argentine citizen, Maria went through a separate, much faster, line than McGarvey. By the time he was through and had retrieved his single bag, she was waiting for him with a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a classic white linen suit. It was high summer in the Southern Hemisphere and quite warm.

  Maria beckoned to McGarvey, and he went over. The man smiled broadly, revealing a half-dozen gold-capped teeth.

  “Ah, this is your North American friend finally,” the man said in passable English.

  “Captain Eduardo Esformes,” Maria said. “Kirk McGarvey.”

  McGarvey put down his bag and shook hands with the man.

  “Any friend of Senorita Schimmer is a friend of mine, Senor McGarvey,” Esformes said.

  “Captain,” McGarvey said, inclining his head slightly. It had been a very long time since he’d last been on the South American continent. Then it had been Santiago, and he had come to kill a man. Old demons, he decided, died hardest.

  “Eduardo tells everyone that he is an officer with the federal police, but I know for a fact that he is with army intelligence,” Maria said.

  McGarvey thought that they had a long-standing relationship, but not necessarily one of mutual trust or even admiration.

  Esformes laughed. “She is a kidder, all the time with the jokes. But with important friends … well, what can one do?”

  There was nothing to say. He was in the middle of some kind of dangerous game between them.

  “If you will excuse us, then …” Maria said, but Esformes spoke over her.

  “What brings you to Argentina, Senor McGarvey? A vacation, perhaps? Sightseeing? We have a wonderful country.”

  “Actually, treasure hunting,” McGarvey said.

  Esformes smiled. “You are an expert in this endeavor?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “An archaeologist?”

  “Not exactly, though I have sometimes covered old ground.”

  Maria’s expression was unreadable, though she held herself very still. She wore a long skirt and a high-necked blouse for the cold in Europe. The outfit was out of place here, yet the clothes and the way she wore them lent her a definitely aristocratic air.

  “May I see your passport?”

  “Of course,” McGarvey said. He pulled it out and handed it over.

  “How long will you be staying in Argentina?” Esformes asked, studying the Argentinian tourist visa McGarvey had hastily bought from a forger in Munich.

  “A week, maybe longer. Perhaps we could get together for a drink?”

  Esformes looked up. “Have you been in Argentina before?”

  “Never,” McGarvey said.

  “What is the nature of this treasure you’re seeking?”

  “An old shipwreck somewhere off your coast.”

  Maria inhaled sharply but if Esformes noticed he made no sign. “If you should actually make such a find, Senor McGarvey, my government would have to be immediately notified. We have an interest in … such things, as Senorita Schimmer will undoubtedly tell you.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind, Captain,” McGarvey said. “Now, about that drink …”

  Esformes handed back his passport. “Stop by your embassy and have this attended to, señor. Your passport has expired.”

  “Thank you.”

  Esformes looked at Maria, then turned and walked off, disappearing into the crowd.

  “Do not underestimate that man,” Maria said. “He is very dangerous.”

  “I won’t. Nor will I underestimate you.”

  The Holiday Inn overlooked the busy Rio de la Plata, which brought giant ocean vessels more than a hundred miles from the sea. The river’s distant shore, fifty miles to the north, was Uruguay, its capital city, Montevideo, downriver on the sea.

  It was late afternoon, but still very warm. The sun was low in the west, slanting the shadows and reflections of the city’s skyscrapers across the harbor. McGarvey, shirtless after his shower, stood smoking a cigarette on his balcony.

  Although dinner here never began before nine o’clock and usually not until midnight, the cafés and tearooms were filling up. It was Sunday, but Buenos Aires, the jewel of South America, never truly slept.

  Someone knocked on his door. He hurried back into the room, stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray, and snatched up his gun from beneath the jacket on the bed. It had come through in pieces in his shaving gear.

  “Who is it?” he called, standing out of a direct line with the door.

  “Me,” Maria said.

  McGarvey stuffed the pistol in his belt at the small of his back and let her in. She was dressed in a light cotton skirt and an extremely sheer blouse. She wore no bra.

  “Don’t make a situation out of it,” she said, catching his look as she came in.

  “It?” McGarvey asked, closing the door.

  She went to the balcony and he followed her out. “It’s very common for women to dress this way here,” she said. “Now, get dressed. We have a man to see. He’s anxious to meet you and to learn how you figured out where my grandfather’s submarine is located.”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “But you said …”

  “I said I think I can narrow its location down to a searchable area.”

  She stared at him for a few seconds, and he was struck for the first time how haughtily beautiful she was. In Europe she’d worn makeup. Here she wore very little, and looked none the worse for it. She looked fresh, new.

  He’d always had very bad luck with women, beginning with his ex-wife Kathleen. It was the type, he thought: beautiful, but almost completely self-absorbed. Maybe he was attracted to that type, or worse, maybe they were attracted to him. Whatever, they seemed to find him.

  “Then we will discuss your ‘searchable area,’ Señor
McGarvey. Get dressed. I do not wish to keep my friend waiting.”

  McGarvey remained where he was. “I think I liked you better buried upside down with your skirt up around your ass. At least you were civil.”

  “I said get dressed,” Maria ordered through clenched teeth.

  McGarvey went to the bureau, lit a cigarette, and dialed room service. “This is McGarvey in Eighteen-oh-seven. Send up a bottle of American bourbon, some ice, and whatever newspapers you have from the States and Europe.”

  Maria had come up behind him. She snatched the telephone from his hand. Before she could cancel his order he grabbed her wrist and took the phone back. “Thank you,” he told the order taker. He hung up.

  “Let go! You’re hurting me,” Maria said, trying to pull away from him.

  “Perhaps I’ll break your wrist, Señorita Schimmer. But first we’re going to have a little chat. I’m going to ask you a question, and you are going to tell me the truth.”

  Her complexion had turned pale with anger. If she’d had the means, he believed that she would have killed him at that moment. But she said nothing.

  “What was your relationship with Carleton Reid?” he asked.

  She tried to pull away, and he bent her arm back. She winced, but she did not cry out. The pain she was undoubtedly suffering did not bother him in the least. She had lied to him from the beginning, and there were a lot of good people dead in Paris. If she had somehow been part of that, he would kill her.

  “Carleton Reid,” he said reasonably.

  “If you had bothered to make a simple telephone call either to Maurice Gavalet or to Horst Höehner, you would know that I had never laid eyes on the man until that night at the Inter-Continental.”

  “What’s the mysterious cargo aboard your grandfather’s submarine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “No one. Myself. What do you mean?”

  “Does the name Arkady Kurshin mean anything to you?”