Critical Mass Page 14

  “God forbid,” Danielle said. He was old enough to clearly remember Pearl Harbor and the days that had led up to it.

  “Phil?” Murphy passed the question to Carrara.

  “At this point there doesn’t seem to be any connection between the Japanese and the STASI group, other than the possibility certain payments may have been made into a Swiss bank account in yen. But that currency is strong just now. Wherever they got that funding from, either on their own or through a second party, using yen may have been simply a matter of expediency.”

  They were lying, and it was so obvious from their faces and sudden change in attitudes that it was almost ludicrous. But he’d learned what he’d come to learn.

  “I’ll stay clear of ModTec for the moment, and concentrate on the bank accounts. They’ll want to protect their money. But if your people find out something, anything at all, I’ll expect to be told about it.”

  “Agreed,” Murphy said.

  “I’ll spend a day or two here in Washington, working with Phil and going through what files you can give me.”

  “Whatever help we can provide you’ll have. But you must understand that you’re not on anyone’s payroll. If you run into real trouble, we’ll do what we can, but you will be denied.”

  “It’s never been any different, General,” McGarvey said, getting to his feet. “Not even in the old days, when I actually was on the payroll.”

  23

  CARRARA WAS AS HELPFUL AS HE COULD BE UNDER THE circumstances, but McGarvey believed that the man was working under constraints placed on him by Murphy, probably at Ryan’s insistence.

  They spent the afternoon together in operations territory on the third floor, going through the Agency’s background information on the STASI. Ernst Spranger’s name came up at the head of the list of ex-STASI officers whose whereabouts were presently unknown, as did the speculation that the group may have been based somewhere in the south of France.

  The information was only useful to the extent that it verified Rencke’s story. But Carrara was definitely holding back not only on the information about the STASI’s bank accounts and possible connections with Japan, but about ModTec, and DuVerlie, the engineer who’d gone down aboard 145. The operational files in many cases had big gaps, especially on the time and contact sheets which should have outlined by time and date each contact made with DuVerlie or anyone else from the Swiss high-tech company.

  Carrara offered no real explanation, nor did McGarvey question him too closely for the moment. Before he went back to Europe, however, he would have it out with the DDO. The last time McGarvey had worked with the man, Carrara had seemed open, and willing at least to try to help. This time he was definitely reticent.

  It was six by the time McGarvey was ready to leave for the day. He figured there was little or nothing he could accomplish here for the moment.

  “Where are you staying?” Carrara asked.

  “Nearby,” McGarvey said at the door from the DDO’s office. “Don’t have me followed, Phil. If I spot one of your legmen, the deal is off. Clear?”

  Carrara nodded.

  “And, Phil, if we’re going to get anywhere at all, you’d better convince the general to take off the leash. Tomorrow I’m going to want some answers.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Carrara asked, his voice low.

  “You understand,” McGarvey said. “It’ll be my ass hanging out in the wind. I want to know the real situation.”

  “You have it.”

  McGarvey shook his head. “The next time you try to doctor your field officers’ contact sheets you’d better think about filling in the blanks.”

  Carrara smiled wanly. He sat back. “You don’t trust anybody, do you?”

  “In the old days I did.”

  “No one to unburden your soul to now? No one to share your troubles with? No one to help out when you’re stuck?”

  “What’s your point, Phil? Am I to kiss and make up with that pissant attorney of Murphy’s? Or let bygones be bygones with Danielle, who, if you’ll look in the history books, was lead man on the headhunters team that kicked me out? Is that what you’re angling for?”

  “Might not hurt.”

  “It might get me killed.”

  Carrara just looked at McGarvey for a long moment. “I guess you’ve had your share …”

  “Yes, I have,” McGarvey interrupted, not sure exactly what the DDO was going to say, but not wanting to hear it anyway. “Talk it over with the general, and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “I’ll try,” McGarvey said, and he left.

  After-work traffic was still heavy by the time McGarvey signed out, turned in his visitor’s passes, and drove off. But most of it was coming out of the city so he made good time despite doubling back twice to insure that he wasn’t being followed. Carrara might show some restraint, but he didn’t think Ryan would.

  By 7:30 he had parked his car in a ramp three blocks from his hotel, had gone up to his room where he reassembled his pistol, took a shower and changed clothes, and was again out on the streets.

  Any physical contact with Rencke was out of the question for the moment. Nobody’s tradecraft was good enough to be one hundred percent sure of spotting a sophisticated surveillance operation. If Ryan or Murphy, or whoever, wanted him badly enough they had the capabilities and the resources to tail him without his awareness: High-flying spotter aircraft with backup ground crews was one way in which it could be done.

  Well clear of the hotel McGarvey called Rencke’s number from a pay phone at a service station. He still needed the man’s help.

  The number was answered on the second ring. “At the tone leave your name, or come up on the bulletin board, I’m monitoring.” The answering machine beeped.

  “Is your line clear?” McGarey asked.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?” Rencke answered, laughing. “You’re in the file out there already, but only by number. They want to keep your involvement pretty much on the Q-T. Did you talk to Murphy’s raiders?”

  “I just got back, but I’m going to stay clear of you for a moment.”

  “Good idea. What’s up?”

  “They want me to go after K-1, but the files they showed me were filled with holes. Which means they’re holding something back.”

  “Typical.”

  “But there’s no reason for it,” McGarvey said. “At least none I can see. I want you to get back into Operations and find out all you can about ModTec, and DuVerlie. There’s something going on over there that has the Agency walking on eggshells.”

  “I’m in right now,” Rencke said. “Could be they’re trying to hide something, though I’m getting no sense of what yet. But they’ve yanked a lot of their line numbers which is very atypical.”

  “All right, keep on it,” McGarvey said. “But watch yourself.”

  “I’ve always got Ralph in reserve. Not to worry.”

  “One other thing. Take a look at Tokyo Station’s operations. When I asked Murphy about a possible Japanese connection with the STASI because of the yen payments into their accounts, he damned near swallowed his tongue. They all did.”

  “What do you want specifically?”

  “I don’t know,” McGarvey said. “But it’s my guess that something’s going on over there that’s got them worried.”

  “So, I’ll go shopping.”

  “I’ll talk to you in the morning. But like I said, watch yourself.”

  “I’m out of Twinkies.”

  “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for me to come over there now.”

  “Send them by cab,” Rencke said, and he hung up.

  The service station McGarvey had phoned from sold bread and milk and other convenience store items. He bought out their stock of Twinkies, and a couple of blocks from the ramp where his car was parked he hailed a taxi.

  “I want you to deliver this package to the caretaker’s house in Holy Rood,” McGarvey said. He gav
e the driver the exact location and a twenty dollar bill.

  “Twinkies?” the cabbie said. “This person weird or something?”

  “Or something,” McGarvey said. “But friendly.”

  When the cab was gone, McGarvey retrieved his car from the ramp and headed back up to Chevy Chase. Kathleen would be intransigent after what had happened this morning, but he felt they both deserved another try. If for no other reason than their daughter Elizabeth, who’d been beside herself with joy when she’d learned that her parents might be getting back together. Liz was nineteen now, but that didn’t stop her need for nurturing.

  The sun had set but it was still dusk when he parked his car on the street in front of Kathleen’s house. Something was going on at the country club. Cars were arriving in a steady stream. It struck him just then that this was Kathleen’s life, but that it never could be his. Black tie dinners and receptions were tolerable once in a while, but not as a steady diet.

  He almost got back in his car and drove off, but he wanted to talk to her. At least to apologize for this morning.

  It took her a long time to answer the door, and when she finally did she was dressed in a thick terry cloth robe, a towel around her hair. She’d just stepped out of the shower.

  “You,” she said, but she made no move to close the door.

  “Did you get your car back?”

  “Yes. The police were here this afternoon. There is a warrant for your arrest. Car theft.”

  McGarvey shrugged. “I came to apologize for this morning. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “What was that, Kirk? Your coming here, or the two Neanderthals who came to arrest you?”

  She was beautiful, McGarvey thought, looking at her face and long, delicate neck. Even more so now than twenty years ago when they’d first met. In those days they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They made love in his apartment and in her apartment, in hotel rooms, in his car, in the woods, and on the beaches around the Chesapeake Bay. It had been glorious those first two years.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he started to turn away.

  “Two against one, and they didn’t have a chance,” she said, her voice softening. “Are you in any danger?”

  “No.

  “You wouldn’t tell me if you were, would you,” she asked rhetorically. “Not you. Ever the loner. Ever the stalwart soldier.” Tears formed in her eyes. “But how about the stalwart husband? The stalwart provider? Where the hell were you during our marriage?”

  “Doing my job …”

  “What about me?” she cried. “What about my needs? Didn’t you know how much I wanted you, needed you then?” She shook her head. “Hell, even now …” She turned away and took a few steps back into the dark stair hall.

  McGarvey came after her, and touched her shoulder. “Katy?”

  “What do you want here?”

  “I wanted us to try to get back together.”

  “It won’t work,” she said. “It’s impossible.”

  “Yes,” McGarvey replied. “But I’m glad we at least tried for Elizabeth’s sake.”

  “My sake too,” she said, turning suddenly and coming into his arms. “I wanted to try too.”

  “I know,” McGarvey said. It felt awkward holding her in his arms. Unnatural somehow. Wrong.

  They remained like that for several long seconds, until she pulled away. She half-smiled up at him, the gesture wistful.

  “The next time you hold a woman in your arms, Kirk, take off your gun first,” she said. “It dampens the spirit.”

  24

  SPRANGER WAS SHOWN UPSTAIRS TO THE KGB’s REFERENTURA section of the Russian Embassy in Rome. His escort was a young, attractive blonde woman, who said her name was Tatiana. She was from Leningrad, and her desire was someday to be stationed at the embassy in Washington.

  “Comrade Radvonska is looking forward to seeing you again,” she said, smiling. They spoke in German.

  “I appreciate him taking time from his busy schedule,” Spranger replied graciously. “Will he be long?”

  “I don’t believe so,” the young woman said.

  They entered a small conference room that could accommodate about ten people around a marble-topped table. Frescoes covered two plaster walls. Windows in the third opened down on a pleasant pocket piazza, deserted at this time of the evening. It was after midnight.

  “Is he in the embassy now?”

  “Yes, he is. As a matter of fact he is having supper with his family and some friends. He expressed his regrets in not inviting you to join them, but considering the unexpectedness of your arrival …”

  “I quite understand,” Spranger said. “If he will not be long, I’ll wait. Otherwise I could return in the morning.”

  “Unfortunately, Comrade Radvonska leaves Rome first thing in the morning.”

  “Reassignment?”

  “Nein,” Tatiana said. “May I offer you some refreshment? Vodka, schnapps, cognac?”

  He was being put off, shown his place, because he no longer represented an agency sponsored by a legitimate government. But Radvonska, who until two years ago was the KGB rezident in East Berlin, had agreed to see him because in this business old alliances died hard. There was no telling when old friends might be needed again. And considering the trouble the former Soviet Union was in at the moment, friends were at a premium.

  “No,” Spranger replied. “This is not a social visit. And I too am a busy man.” He glanced toward the door. “Please tell Comrade Radvonska not to concern himself about me. I shall find an alternative source for the information I’m seeking.”

  “I’m sure that will not be necessary. His engagement this evening is a legitimate one.”

  “And so are my needs.”

  The young woman’s smile tightened. “If you will give me just a moment, sir, I will see that Comrade Radvonska is given your message.”

  “Do that.”

  Tatiana left the conference room and when she was gone Spranger went over to the window. A fine mesh screen covered the opening, and he could see where a wire was connected to it in one corner. The lights overhead were fluorescent, there was no telephone, and the only door in or out of the room was thickly padded. The methods were old-fashioned, but the room was for the most part surveillance proof.

  The young woman returned five minutes later with an angry Yegenni Radvonska. The rezident was a barrel-chested man with thick, jet black hair. He was dressed in a warmup suit, CCCP stenciled on the left breast.

  “Ernst,” he said, stiffly embracing Spranger. “It’s been too long since we last worked together.”

  “We’re available any time you need us, Yegenni Sergeevich,” Spranger said. “You know this.”

  “Yes, of course.” Radvonska motioned him to take a seat, and he and Tatiana sat across from him.

  Spranger looked pointedly at her.

  “Tatiana is my trusted and most valuable assistant,” the KGB chief of station said. “You may speak freely.”

  “I need use of KGB archives,” Spranger began. “My people and I are working on a … delicate project, and something has come up for which I must have some information that only you can provide.”

  “Yes, and who is your client in this project?”

  “I can’t say. But I give you my personal assurances that my client’s aims are in no way at cross purposes with the policies or well being of Russia.”

  Radvonska studied him for a moment. “I will hold you to that assurance at a later date, Ernst. Please proceed.”

  “My group was involved in the July Second destruction of the Swissair flight from Orly Field, Paris.”

  Tatiana’s complexion paled slightly, but Radvonska showed no reaction other than mild curiosity.

  “One of my people was killed by French police, but only after he’d been cornered by a man we took to be an outsider. Well-built, tall, dark hair, wearing a British-cut tweed sport coat. At the time we suspected he might have been either a British or an Amer
ican police officer, or even an intelligence service officer.”

  “Something you have subsequently learned has changed that opinion?”

  “We now have reason to believe that he is a civilian. A man with whom we have done contract work in the past monitored a recent conversation in a Paris park between Thomas Lynch, who is the CIA chief of Paris station, and Phillipe Marquand, who is a high ranking officer in the SDECE’s Action Service.”

  Spranger took a copy of an amended version of the transcript out of his jacket pocket and handed it across the table. He’d taken out Marquand’s references to the Japanese yen payments into their Bern account.

  “This came to us less than twenty-four hours ago. There was a delay in getting it out of Paris …” Spranger stopped.

  Radvonska had looked up from the transcript, a knowing smile on his face, his eyes bright. He almost licked his lips. “McGarvey,” he said.

  “Yes, that was what Marquand called him. Do you know this name?”

  Radvonska focused on Spranger. “Yes, my friend, and so should you. In fact I am very surprised that this man hasn’t already killed you and destroyed your organization.”

  “What are you talking about?” Spranger demanded.

  “Do the names General Valentin Baranov and Colonel Arkady Kurshin mean anything to you?”

  “They were legends in their own time. But …” Again Spranger stopped in mid-sentence. “He killed them. It was McGarvey?”

  Radvonska nodded. “Kirk Cullough McGarvey. As I said, if he is involved and was inside Switzerland, you may count yourself a very lucky man to be alive. But if he has gone to Washington to accept the assignment from the CIA, then your luck may not have very long to run.”

  “One man,” Spranger mused.

  “Yes, one man, Ernst.”

  Spranger looked up. “Then my people will kill him. Immediately.”

  Radvonska placed a forefinger on the side of his nose. “Do not become so overconfident. Under the present situation in Moscow the KGB will not be able to offer you much help. But some Russians have very long memories. I will supply you with the information you need.”