Crossfire Page 16

  “Your name is Schimmer,” Jones said. “What’s down there?”

  “Shut up,” Maria said.

  “Is it the U-boat?” Jones asked, ignoring her.

  “What U-boat is that?” McGarvey asked, careful to keep his tone conversational, his manner light. Jorge had released the strap that held his big skinning knife in its sheath at his hip.

  “The one that was here in 1945.”

  “What are you talking about?” Maria asked, the words not quite even.

  “One of the old fishermen said he saw the periscope. No one believed him, but he insisted.”

  “Where is this fisherman of yours?” McGarvey asked.

  “Dead.”

  “What do you suppose a German submarine was doing here at the end of the war?”

  Jones grinned. “You haven’t been in Argentina very long, have you?” he said. “There’ve been two big German immigrations to this country in this century. One in 1918 and 1919, and again in 1944 and 1945.”

  “So?”

  “A lot of them didn’t come empty-handed. A lot of money changed hands. An Argentinan passport in those days was very expensive.”

  “So what we have here is a German submarine filled with the bodies of Nazis trying to escape Nuremberg,” McGarvey said.

  Maria was white with anger.

  “And money,” Jones said. “Gold, I’d suspect. Maybe diamonds. Artwork. A lot of stuff was never found.”

  “But you don’t dive,” McGarvey said gently.

  Jones shrugged. “Within forty-eight hours, probably less, I could have a topnotch marine salvage team here. And you two would be shit out of luck.”

  “But then you wouldn’t get as big a share, assuming there is gold down there,” McGarvey said. “In fact you might attract enough attention to get the government interested, in which case you might get nothing.”

  Jones glanced up at the sky. “Less than an hour’s good light yet. You’ll have to wait until morning to dive. That is, if you’re up for a dive that deep.”

  “We are,” Maria said, and she turned on her heel and stalked down to her cabin.

  23

  PHIL CARRARA CAME THROUGH the glass doors on the seventh floor as Thomas Doyle, deputy director of Intelligence, was coming out of Murphy’s office.

  “Hope you’re prepared,” Doyle said half under his breath in passing. “He’s loaded for bear this morning.”

  “When isn’t he?” Carrara replied, and the DCI’s secretary waved him through.

  Lawrence Danielle and the Agency’s general counsel, Howard Ryan, were seated across from Murphy. Ryan had a yellow legal pad balanced on his lap.

  Murphy looked up and motioned for Carrara to take the lone vacant chair in front of his desk. “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, General,” Carrara said, sitting down.

  It was just nine in the morning, and it had begun to snow again a couple of hours ago. The light coming from outside was a flat gray. It matched Carrara’s mood.

  “Well, where is he?” Murphy asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. Carrara didn’t think what the DCI was about to hear would cheer him up.

  “We have reason to believe that he’s in Buenos Aires. At least he was there four days ago.”

  Murphy was surprised. He exchanged a look with Danielle. “What the hell’s he doing in Argentina?”

  “Apparently he went down there with Maria Schimmer, the woman he dug out of the embassy—”

  “Yes, yes, we know all about that. But what’s he up to, and more important, why isn’t he in custody by now?”

  “He’s a dangerous man,” Ryan added. “Surely you must agree with that, Phil.”

  Carrara avoided the general counsel’s eyes. He had never liked or trusted the man, but Murphy had come to depend upon Ryan’s advice more and more over the past year.

  “There have been three additional murders,” Carrara said, “with strong circumstantial ties to McGarvey and the woman. But I must stress that the evidence to this point is circumstantial.”

  “Since we spoke Saturday evening?” Danielle asked sharply.

  “Our knowledge of them has come since then,” Carrara said. “In fact we’re only just now unraveling what may have happened in the first instance. And in the second the reports are still uncertain.”

  “Let me ask you something before you continue,” Murphy interrupted. “Have your people come up with any ties between these killings and Iran? Iranian interests, Iranian citizens?”

  “No,” Carrara answered, mystified.

  Murphy was definitely disappointed. “Well, who has he killed now?”

  “We don’t know for a fact that he’s guilty of killing anyone,” Carrara said.

  “We will take note of the ‘circumstantial’ nature of your evidence, Phil,” Ryan said.

  “Interpol out of Bonn are looking for McGarvey and the woman for questioning in connection with the murders of Dr. Heinrich Hesse and his housekeeper sometime Friday evening or early Saturday morning in Freiburg.”

  “That’s where the Germans keep their naval records from the war, I believe,” Ryan said.

  “That’s correct,” Carrara said. “McGarvey and the Schimmer woman were evidently seen at the professor’s house Friday afternoon. But they were not seen after that time.”

  “But you have traced them to Buenos Aires,” Ryan said. “Which means you know how and when they left Germany.”

  “The next morning,” Carrara said. “Lufthansa out of Munich.”

  “Giving McGarvey and this woman time to sneak back to Freiburg, kill the professor and his housekeeper, and get out.”

  “Presumably,” Carrara admitted.

  “What did they want with this German professor?” Murphy asked.

  “Unknown,” Carrara said.

  Danielle had been deep in thought. He looked up. “Did Dr. Hesse have access to the naval archives in Freiburg?”

  “I don’t know. But I presume he would have.”

  “What is it?” Murphy asked.

  “We have a report from the SDECE that the woman met with a French intelligence officer, a man from Simon Wiesenthal’s office, and Carleton Reid at the Inter-Continental just prior to the explosion. She told them that she was looking for a Nazi submarine but was getting no cooperation in Freiburg.”

  “Evidently she convinced McGarvey to help her,” Carrara said. “That doesn’t mean McGarvey killed the man.”

  “Who was the third victim?”

  “Dr. Albert Rothmann, the assistant director of the Natural History Museum of Buenos Aires.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday evening.”

  “Were McGarvey and the woman in Buenos Aires at the time?” Ryan asked.

  Carrara nodded.

  The general counsel turned to Danielle and Murphy. “At least in this, there can be no doubt. For whatever reason, he and Maria Schimmer are on some sort of an operation … a rampage might be a better description.”

  “For what purpose?” Danielle asked.

  “God only knows,” Ryan replied. He sat forward to emphasize his point. “But you can be damned sure of one thing,” he said. “Whatever McGarvey is up to this time, it will ultimately involve some sort of revenge against the Agency.”

  “For Chrissake, why?” Carrara asked angrily.

  “Because of John Lyman Trotter, Jr., McGarvey’s pal. The man was a traitor and a murderer. He damned near managed to kill McGarvey,” Ryan said, turning again back to Murphy. “And in part because of you, Mr. Director. Or at least because of how you treated McGarvey after his involvement with Dr. Abbott a couple of years ago.”

  “We treated the man shabbily,” Carrara said. “But only a madman, a maniac would blow up an embassy merely out of revenge.”

  “I agree,” Ryan said with a slight smile.

  There was a tight silence for a few long seconds, Ryan’s statement hanging in the air, until Danielle spoke.

  “You say they were in Buenos Aires four days ago.
Where are they now, Phil? Any hints, any leads?”

  “No. They simply disappeared.”

  “Let me guess,” Ryan said. “They dropped out of sight immediately following Rothmann’s murder.”

  “That’s enough, Howard,” Murphy said. “Are they still in the country to the best of our knowledge?”

  “As far as we can tell, General.”

  “Have we the resources down there to find them?”

  “Probably not,” Carrara admitted. “Argentina is a big country. Lots of places to hide if you know what you’re doing. Presumably Maria Schimmer does.”

  “And McGarvey,” Ryan said.

  “How about the Buenos Aires police?” Danielle asked.

  “The federal police are apparently interested, but we don’t have much on that. I’ve told our people to stay at arm’s length. It wouldn’t help our operations down there to advertise our presence.”

  Again Danielle had drifted off for a moment. “Makes one wonder about the connection between this woman’s search for a Nazi submarine and her disappearance in Argentina.”

  “What do you mean?” Murphy asked.

  “A lot of Nazis went down there at the end of the war to escape retribution from the Allies. A lot of money went with them. Gold. Artwork. Diamonds. All taken from the bodies of their Jewish victims, or looted from museums across Europe. A lot of it has never turned up.”

  “She’s a treasure hunter?” Murphy asked.

  Danielle shrugged.

  “Which has nothing to do with the attack on our embassy,” Ryan said.

  Murphy nodded. “He has to be brought in, Phil.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Her, too, if getting her out of Argentina poses no serious threat to our operations down there. But McGarvey has to be brought in at all costs. It wouldn’t do to let the Argentinians get their hands on him.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” Carrara said, rising.

  “See that your people do,” Murphy said. “Light a fire under them if need be, but get it done. Soon.”

  At the door Carrara turned back. “What about this Iranian connection, sir?”

  “You’ll hear about it soon enough,” Murphy said. “There’ve been rumblings about an assassination attempt on Richard Abbas.”

  “My chief of station in Tehrn?”

  Murphy nodded. “Doyle thought there might be a connection with McGarvey.”

  “Where’d we hear about this?”

  “I’m not sure,” Murphy said, turning to Danielle.

  “Came from Mike Oreck’s office, I think,” the DDCI said.

  “Yes, sir,” Carrara said, and he left.

  Back in his own office, Carrara looked up Oreck’s number in the headquarters directory. The man headed what was called the Office of Economic Research; Thomas Doyle was his immediate superior.

  He telephoned the man directly, even though he should have gone through the Directorate of Intelligence.

  “Phil Carrara. Wonder if you could spare me a couple of minutes this morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Oreck said. “Have you spoken with Mr. Doyle?”

  “Saw him this morning in the general’s office,” Carrara said.

  “Yes, sir. Could you tell me what this is in reference to?”

  “I’m told that your office has heard rumors of a threat against one of my people.”

  “Oh, that, sir,” Oreck said, his voice suddenly guarded. “I think you’re right: it would be better if I came up and personally briefed you.”

  “Has my man been warned?”

  “Ah, yes, sir,” Oreck said. “I believe that message went out with the overnights. I’ll be right up.”

  Oreck was a heavily built man with dark hair, thick black eyebrows, and a square face. His handshake was bone-crushing.

  “Sorry to have been so mysterious on the telephone, sir, but this has an extremely tight distribution list, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t know,” Carrara said. “I was told this morning that a death threat against my chief of Tehrn station was uncovered by your office, which I found odd.”

  “Not so odd, sir, considering the project.”

  Carrara said nothing.

  “You’ll be receiving your briefing package today or tomorrow sometime. A planning and implementation conference will be scheduled for early in the week.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, sir, the President has apparently signed a secret agreement with the Iranian government to return monies we have been holding in frozen bank assets. Oil payments mostly, from what I gather.”

  “What does Dick Abbas have to do with this?”

  “The Iranians have demanded payment in gold. We’ve agreed, and the gold will be shipped to Bushehr on the Persian Gulf sometime within the next ten or fifteen days.”

  “By ship?” Carrara asked, surprised. “Why not by air?”

  “Because we are sending them approximately four million ounces, sir. One hundred twenty-five tons of gold.”

  Carrara sat back.

  “Yes, sir, it affects all of us that way. On the present market it’s worth a bit more than one and a half billion dollars.”

  “What about my chief of station?”

  “He’s to make certain that the shipment makes it overland from Bushehr to Tehrn. There are certain people within the Iranian army who would like to get their hands on that gold.”

  “No doubt,” Carrara said. “But Abbas is under deep cover.”

  “Yes, sir. His job is simply to keep a watchful eye. If anything should begin to develop, he’s to use the SatCom system to call for help. We need the impartial observer there. And we need the secrecy, of course.”

  “Once it’s on Iranian soil it’s their problem, so why are we involved? And why wasn’t I informed earlier?”

  “This just developed, sir. And it came from the White House. I believe the current thinking is that with everything that’s been going on in the region, we need a friend, even if it is Iran. Or maybe especially. At any rate, apparently we’ve guaranteed delivery at Tehrn. We’re looking for stability in the region, and we’ll do whatever it takes to insure it.”

  “Then it should have been shipped by air. Our air force could have brought it in.”

  Oreck said nothing.

  “But you’re also trying to tell me that someone may have gotten wind of the shipment and Dick’s role as a watchdog, and they want to eliminate him because of it. Is that correct?”

  “That’s what we believe.”

  “I see,” Carrara said absently, his mind racing to a dozen different possibilities and problems.

  “If there’ll be nothing else, sir … ?” Oreck said.

  “No,” Carrara replied. “Thanks for coming up this morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” Oreck said, and he let himself out.

  Where were the connections? Carrara asked himself. There had to be connections. A gold shipment to Iran. The possibility of a treasure aboard a Nazi submarine that an Argentinian woman was seeking. The attack on the U.S. embassy in Paris. McGarvey’s initial fears that somehow Arkady Kurshin, the chameleon, was alive and involved. Of course, there had been the rumors out of Moscow.

  Or was it all simply revenge, as Howard Ryan argued? Revenge and insanity. And was everything else merely coincidence?

  He didn’t think so.

  24

  THE DAWN BROKE COLD and gray over the Golfo San Matías. In the night the wind had risen sharply, and it was now kicking up steep six-foot waves from the east. The motion aboard the Chris-Craft was unpleasant.

  McGarvey got a mug of coffee from the galley on the starboard side of the main saloon directly across from the dining table, and bracing himself against the pitch and roll made his way topside.

  Maria was going over their scuba gear with Jones. Jorge was back on the bridge, preparing to bring them into the wind to make the boat a more stable platform for the dive. Angry dark clouds scudded in very low from the open ocean.
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  “How long will this weather hold?” McGarvey asked.

  Jones looked up, then at the horizon and the sea. “Not long,” he said. “You will get one dive this morning. After that it’ll be too rough.”

  “It’s enough,” Maria said. She’d been in a taciturn mood since yesterday afternoon’s confrontation with Jones, after they’d found what they took to be the submarine.

  Jones had not elaborated on what he knew of the U-boat’s sighting forty-six years ago, nor had they asked him to do so. But the mystery would be solved in the next hour or so, McGarvey figured, and then he would be able to return to Paris.

  He’d known all along that sooner or later he was going to have to go back to Europe. Whether or not the embassy attack had anything to do with the murders of Dr. Hesse and Albert Rothmann—a long shot, he thought, but nagging nonetheless —he was starting to have the same over-the-shoulder feeling that he’d had in Freiburg.

  Someone was behind him. The awareness was like the throb of a mild toothache. Insistent. A presence.

  Turn around, he’d been telling himself for the past few days. This adventure with Maria was becoming even less than a diversion. He did not care about Argentinian politics, and he cared even less about Nazi war criminals of nearly a half century ago. Yet at times he found that he was almost afraid to look over his shoulder lest he come face-to-face with himself. Something his sister said he’d never done, especially not since the deaths of their parents. But that had been years ago. Where had his life gone? Into what place had it leaked?

  “Bring me back a sample,” Jones said dryly.

  Maria didn’t bother answering him. “We’re just going down to take a look. Confirm that it’s what we’re looking for. I don’t think we’ll be able to do more in this weather.”

  “Can we stay here until it passes?” McGarvey asked.

  “That’s probably not such a good idea,” Jones said. “We’re in for a big blow. The barometer is down and going farther.”

  “We’ll come back,” Maria said, an odd note in her voice.

  She was lying again, which McGarvey found disturbing. They’d come this far, had gotten this close, yet she said she was willing merely to take a look and then leave.