Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel Read online

  His program had picked up the anomaly just a minute ago, because he’d asked for anything that could be characterized as an unusual happening. The images he was looking at were in infrared and showed what was more than a hundred bodies formed in a circle around two others. The troop trucks in the background, emitting strong signatures from their engines, were almost certainly military vehicles.

  Otto told her what he was looking at.

  “Is it Mac?” Louise asked.

  “I think so,” Otto said. “Give me probable identifications on the two figures in the middle,” he told his darling.

  “I have ninety percent confidence that the one on the left is a female, and ninety-two percent that the one to her right is male.”

  Pete was on the line with Louise. “Is it Mac and that broad from the Kremlin?”

  “I don’t know. Darling, probability?”

  “Unable to assign.”

  “Your best estimate.”

  “Based on a loose data set, there is a possibility that Ms. Boylan’s query may be accurate.”

  “Can you get a lock on the Tupolev’s tail number?”

  “It is RA-85572, the Russian Defense Ministry aircraft that crashed on takeoff from Sochi into the Black Sea on May 2016, no survivors from ninety-two passengers and crew.”

  “A plane that doesn’t exist,” Pete said.

  “Assuming it is Mac and Putin’s adviser, who sent the plane and who’s holding them at gunpoint?” Louise asked.

  “My guess would be that Putin sent the plane and General Subotin sent his people to stop it,” Otto said. “Your best guess, darling?” he asked his program.

  “No estimate above eight percent from the available data, but extrapolating from previous queries about tension between the SVR and Kremlin, I can assign a very loose possibility of forty-five percent that the troops on the tarmac are SVR,” the computer program replied. “But, Otto darling, that is just a WAG.”

  “A Wild-Ass Guess,” Louise said.

  “That’s good enough for me, goddamnit,” Pete said. She sounded strung out. “How the hell do we get him out of there?”

  “We don’t, but Weaver will, because the president’s going to owe me a favor,” Otto said. “Stay put. I’ll get back to you, soon as.”

  * * *

  Otto caught General Gibson at home in the middle of a dinner party. A violin concerto was playing in the background, and a woman laughed softly.

  “There is a new development that will require a possible immediate action order from the president.”

  “Just a moment, I’ll take it in my study,” the DCI said.

  On the screen, Raya Kuzin, if it was her, stepped away from Mac and held her right arm over her head as she was holding up something. It was impossible to make out what it was, but Otto thought that she had taken out her identification booklet.

  Gibson came on the line. “I assume this is about McGarvey.”

  “Yes, sir,” Otto said, not taking his eyes off the monitor. A figure stepped away from the other soldiers and came forward. “Is your computer up?”

  “It is now.”

  Otto sent the images from his main monitor. “This is the end of the main runway at the Black Sea Fleet HQ in Novorossiysk. I think that the two figures in the middle are Mac and Raya Kuzin, a Putin adviser. The troops surrounding them are most likely SVR sent by General Subotin.”

  “What’s your confidence level?”

  “Low to medium.”

  “Is it good enough for you?”

  “Yes.”

  Gibson was silent for a moment. “Seems as if they’re having a conference.”

  “Figuring out what to do with them. Going up against someone as highly placed inside the Kremlin would be dicey at best, even for the director of the SVR.”

  “There’ve been internal differences. What do you want to tell the president?”

  “Let him see these images and ask that he call Putin immediately before the situation escalates out of hand.”

  “And the favor Weaver will owe you for?”

  “The Russians are missing a nuclear weapon, and I think that if we can get Mac back home, Weaver can promise Putin that we’ll find it for him.”

  At that moment the figure that had broken away from the cordon suddenly stepped back, raised his right hand, and pointed what could only be a pistol at Mac and Raya.

  * * *

  McGarvey spun on his heel inward toward Raya, shielding her with his body as he bulled her to the pavement at the same time the officer in black camos fired one shot that missed high and wide—but not by much.

  Raya screamed something in Russian at the officer, who had stepped closer and held the pistol directly at her head from a distance of less than two feet.

  He started to shout something, when McGarvey swung his prosthetic leg in a sharp, powerful arc that knocked the man off his feet.

  Before the SVR officer could react Mac was on him, snatching the pistol out of his hand and jamming the muzzle in his face.

  The other troops immediately stepped forward, training their automatic weapons on McGarvey alone, ignoring Raya as she scrambled away on her butt.

  “Do you speak English?” Mac asked the officer.

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “Your people fire and I fire,” Mac said.

  One of the troops shouted something, but the officer raised a hand, gesturing him back, and looked up at McGarvey. “You will not get off this base alive, Mr. Director.”

  “Then neither will you, and your boss will be in trouble. You understand this?”

  “I’m following my orders, sir, my very specific orders,” the officer said. “Even if you somehow managed to kill all of my men here and try to get off this base, more would come. You can’t fight the entire Russian Army.”

  “I could try,” McGarvey said.

  The officer hesitated. “I will have to call for further orders.”

  “Captain,” Raya said. She was sitting up and holding out a cell phone. “Our president would like to have a word with you.”

  SIXTY-ONE

  McGarvey sat next to a window on the starboard side of the Tupolev and watched as the rising sun reddened the sky to the east. They’d been airborne, flying toward Moscow, for less than an hour, and Raya had spent most of that time in the aircraft’s communications center, forward, giving him space to work out what the hell had happened on the tarmac.

  The aircraft had been sent by Putin, and the troops holding them at gunpoint had been ordered there by General Subotin. It had been another move of nearly outright rebellion, the SVR against the current Kremlin hierarchy. The delicate and extremely dangerous chess match had been going on for nearly eighteen months, and Mac had a fairly strong suspicion that the missing nuke had something to do with the power struggle.

  But Pete was home safely and at least that worry was off his plate. For the moment.

  Raya came back and sat down across from him. “We’ll have something better for both of us to change into once we reach Moscow.” She had taken a hit to the side of her face when she’d fallen to the pavement, and her cheek was already swelling.

  “Thanks. I don’t think I look very good in a Russian naval uniform.”

  She smiled. “You’ll do,” she said. “And thank you for what you did back there. You risked your life to save mine. But then you’re a romantic, willing to give his life for a cause.”

  “You’re not the bad guy here.”

  “You’ve already said that.”

  “But I’m still a problem. So what next?”

  She shrugged. “The president wants to talk to you. From what I could gather, your president knows that we have you, he wants you back unharmed, and he was willing to strike a bargain. My question is, how did your people know what was happening to us at that exact moment? Unless your spy birds are better than ours.”

  “I don’t know.”

  She smiled again. “Rencke would know, and so would his wife.”

/>   McGarvey glanced out the window again. The nearly cloud-free morning promised a beautiful day. “You guys are still facing a bigger internal problem, and I have a feeling a missing nuke might be a part of it, or maybe even a catalyst.”

  “Or a counterpoise. One thing balancing another. And a little revolution now and then is good for the soul, don’t you think?”

  “When that happens, people get killed in big city squares.”

  “In front of the Kremlin?” Raya said. “I don’t think so this time. But a few officers will most likely be shot.”

  “General Subotin?”

  Raya spread her hands. “That one, I don’t know.”

  “But you’ll never be able to let him out of the country.”

  “Just like you, too many secrets? Which actually is why I think you’ll be sent home.”

  McGarvey turned away again. But there was more. He could feel it gathering on the horizon. But then, there was always more.

  * * *

  They touched down at Kubinka Air Base, about forty miles west of Moscow, a little after nine in the morning local, where they were met by a lieutenant driving a Gazik, who took them over to separate rooms in the base officers’ quarters.

  Neatly pressed jeans, a white shirt, a dark blue blazer, and well-shined loafers had been laid out for Mac on the bed, along with shaving things in the bathroom. After he’d cleaned up and gotten dressed he went downstairs to the day lounge, where Raya, freshly showered and dressed in a skirt and stylish silk blouse, was waiting for him.

  “You look better,” she said.

  “So do you.”

  The same lieutenant drove them over to where a Mil Mi-8 helicopter with 9th Fighter Aviation Division markings was warming up.

  “We have a helipad inside the Kremlin, just like your president does on the White House grounds,” Raya explained.

  “I know,” McGarvey said. “Do you have a cell phone I could use? I think my people might want some answers.”

  “I’m sure they do, but that’ll have to wait until you meet with the president, and then it will depend on him. But I think it is very likely that you’ll be on a plane back to Washington this morning.”

  “Aren’t his security people worried that I’ll try to kill him?” McGarvey asked.

  Raya smiled faintly. “No.”

  * * *

  It took them fifteen minutes to get over the Kremlin Wall, where they set down on a helipad not far from the president’s office in a blunt three-story building made of mustard-yellow bricks with white trim. The flag flew from the roof, indicating that the president was in residence.

  Raya accompanied Mac over to where a man in a Western-cut business suit was waiting for them.

  “Welcome to the Kremlin, Mr. Director. The president is expecting you. But he will be brief; you are expected to leave for Washington on the Aeroflot Air France flight at quarter before noon.”

  “Will the president see me?” Raya asked.

  “Remain here.”

  She nodded.

  McGarvey turned and shook her hand. “Take care of yourself,” he said.

  “I’m very glad to have met you,” she said, and she gave him a brief hug.

  “If you will just come with me, Mr. Director,” the secretary said.

  * * *

  Putin was sitting behind his desk, talking on the phone, when McGarvey was shown in. He said something Mac did not quite catch, and hung up. The secretary withdrew, closing the door, leaving them alone.

  The president of Russia exuded raw power, of the charismatic sort as well physical. He was a much smaller man in person than Mac had imagined him to be, but the expression in his eyes and the set of his chin and the way he held himself, outwardly at ease but ready at an instant’s notice to strike, were the marks of a man well versed in hand-to-hand combat. He had the same look of total confidence as most of the SEAL Team 6 guys Mac had met.

  “We’re pressed for time, so I will be brief, Mr. McGarvey. I need your help.”

  Mac hadn’t been offered a seat. He stood in front of Putin’s desk like a schoolboy facing his principal. “That comes as something of a surprise, Mr. President, considering the circumstances.”

  “Beyond my control, until this moment. But you and I are kindred spirits in many respects. In fact we had a close connection some years ago.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not following you.”

  “I was an officer in the KGB as you were in the CIA. We were adversaries.”

  “Still are.”

  Putin smiled faintly. “Your intelligence information is correct. We are missing a small tactical nuclear warhead. In the wrong hands such a thing could tip the balance of power on just about every continent. You understand this.”

  It was an extraordinary admission that simply didn’t ring true in Mac’s head. Too many strings attached. Too many questions on the table. He nodded.

  Putin wrote a name on a slip of notepaper and held it out. “This is the name of a man at our embassy in Washington who might be able to help you.”

  McGarvey took the slip, but the name meant nothing to him. “Help me do what?”

  “Find the weapon and return it to us before it gets into the wrong hands.”

  “If it already hasn’t,” McGarvey said. “And what about Paris, the Eiffel Tower? And bringing me here?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Putin said. “Will you help?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  PART

  FOUR

  Washington and New York

  SIXTY-TWO

  Pete, Otto, and Louise were all waiting for McGarvey as he emerged from the international terminal at Dulles, weary from the trip, and a little frightened about what would happen next if Pete insisted she had to be involved. Which he figured she would.

  She came to him, limping a little and favoring her left side, and he took her in his arms and held her very close but without pressure. “You feel good,” he said.

  “You too.”

  When they parted, Mac looked into her eyes, to make sure that she had come through in one piece, and he had to smile. Nothing had changed with her.

  “You had us pretty worried,” Louise said, giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek. “Maybe the two of you should consider retiring. Be a lot easier on my heart if you did.”

  “Not quite yet.”

  Otto, who had stood back, gave him a look. “More?”

  “Putin asked me to give him a hand.”

  Pete looked up at him. “It’s not over?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car on the way to my apartment. I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

  “And then?” she asked, as they headed outside to where Otto had parked across from the cab queue, an FBI placard on the dash.

  “Something to do here in town, and then we’ll see.”

  “Putin admitted they had a nuke missing?” Otto asked.

  “Yes, and he wants it back before it gets into the wrong hands.”

  “Could be it’s already too late,” Pete said.

  * * *

  Pete packed a few of Mac’s things in a small bag as he was showering. Louise had suggested that they all circle the wagons at their house in McLean until this business was done and over with. She and Otto were missing Audie, who was in safe hands down at the Farm, where she always stayed when there was trouble of one sort or another.

  “Maybe we should all retire when this is over with,” Pete said on the way over.

  “You will, starting right this minute,” Mac told her.

  She laughed.

  “Good luck with that,” Louise said.

  “I’m serious, goddamnit. I almost lost you in Paris and again in Istanbul. I’m not going to let it happen again.”

  “We can talk about it later. But there’s not one chance in hell that I’m going to let you out of my sight again.”

  “You can brief us all at the house,” Louise said. “I’m making spaghetti and meatballs, and Otto’
s making the 1905 salad from Sarasota that you guys like.”

  “A homecoming,” Pete said. “I like that.”

  * * *

  They sat at the kitchen counter drinking Chianti while Louise cooked and McGarvey took them through everything that had happened, from the time he’d been picked up in Istanbul until his face-to-face with Putin.

  Otto brought up a photo of Raya Kuzin on his laptop. “This the girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she wasn’t lying. She does work for Putin and she made her doctoral chops on studying you.”

  “Pretty lady,” Pete said, raising an eyebrow.

  McGarvey had to grin. “She told me that I was fascinating,” he said, and everyone laughed a little. It was one light moment in the midst of a complicated operation that had almost cost his and Pete’s lives. An op that wasn’t over.

  “He gave me the name of a Russian—Aleksandr Fomin—who works at their embassy here in DC. Said he might be able to help.”

  Otto brought up the name on his laptop. “Fomin is a special adviser to their ambassador.”

  “What’s his topic?” Pete asked.

  “Military affairs.”

  “He’d be a man who could know something about the missing nuke,” McGarvey said. “Send him a message with my name. Tell him I’d like to talk to him about a mutual friend in Moscow.”

  “When?”

  “This evening. Eight, on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.”

  “I’ll drive,” Pete said.

  “No.”

  “We’re covering each other’s back ever since you popped the question in Paris. So you might as well get used to it.”

  * * *

  Fomin answered Otto’s email almost immediately, as if Putin had told him to expect the call. And he showed up at the Lincoln Memorial precisely on time.

  Pete sat on a bench just a short way from the Reflecting Pool, within sight of the steps where Mac was seated.

  Fomin was fairly tall with blond hair and a round, pleasant face. According to his profile he was a well-respected man at the Pentagon who, according to a couple of generals, had the same ambitions as nearly everyone did: to keep Russia and America from going to war with each other. He was dressed in a light sport coat and white shirt but no tie.