The Kill Zone Page 29

  “Puts the ball back in my court,” Stenzel said. Which was about what he figured would be the case. Though it would have been easier had they found a small lesion or even a benign tumor somewhere on her temporal lobe. It would have made understanding and then treating her symptoms a lot simpler.

  “Schizophrenia?”

  “That was my first thought, but I’ve gotten a lot of contradictory test results.” Stenzel frowned. “Something else is happening. It’s as if something’s pushing at her. Something that she’s terrified of.”

  Dr. Love closed the folders he’d been reading from. They’d met at the hospital rather than at their offices for convenience sake. “Well, from what you’ve told me about her situation, it’s a wonder she’s not a raving lunatic.”

  “That’s precisely the problem, Bob. She isn’t raving. At least she’s only lost control the one time, so far as we know. But the life she’s had, and especially what’s been going on over the past week or so, should have forced her into nervous collapse.”

  “She’s tough. She’d have to be, to be married to someone in her husband’s position.”

  Stenzel shook his head. “That’s the other part of the problem. Her position. She’s carrying around a load of guilt issues, just like the rest of us. Most of them are crap. But she’s taken on the problems of a half-dozen charities, including her church, as if they were her own. The things they’re saying in her husband’s Senate confirmation hearings are depressing her. And she’s gone through her daughter’s pregnancy and miscarriage as if she had been carrying the baby herself.”

  “She sounds like the typical Beltway wife. But, look, I’ll run the tests again. Maybe we missed something.”

  “No, I don’t think so. If you thought it was necessary to redo the tests, you would go ahead and do it.” Stenzel looked away for a moment, resigned. Dr. Love got up. “We’ll see you and Marie Saturday night, then?”

  Stenzel nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for your help, Bob.”

  When Dr. Love left, Stenzel remained seated at the table to finish his cigarette. He was down to a half a pack a day now. But it was hard.

  He’d seen other cases like Kathleen’s before. The CIA was tough on its employees and their families. The sometimes long absences, the constant pressure to “get it right,” because lives were on the line, the almost constant harping and criticism of the CIA in the media. In polite company admitting that you worked for the CIA was worse than admitting that you worked for the National Enquirer. You got no respect. It took its toll.

  And yet Kathleen McGarvey’s case was different. One day she seemed fine, and the next her test scores were off the charts. Nothing made sense.

  There was a deepening of all of her emotions. She was madly, almost maniacally, in love with her husband, wanting to lash out and crush whoever was trying to do him the slightest harm. Yet a few hours later, sometimes only a few minutes later, she talked with complete candor about why she had left him twenty years ago, and how the pressures of his position since his return were driving her to distraction again.

  One day she talked about raising even more millions for the Red Cross and for Good Shepherd Church. Twist a few arms, dress the President down, if need be. Hell, pick pockets, if it came to that. She’d do it gladly. The next day she wondered aloud why anyone would give her so much as a dime. She was a nudge; pushy, brassy, always with her hand out. She claimed to have no friends except those who could help her causes.

  Some of her tests, including the Rorschach, indicated a suicidal tendency one morning, but by that afternoon her reaction to the inkblots was completely normal. At times she was so irritable that the slightest noise in the corridor would set her off; she would scream obscenities and threats to “kill the next cocksucker” who walked through the door.

  At times she was deeply paranoid, yet minutes later she was normal. But her mood swings did not seem to be getting worse, as if her disease were progressing. Instead, they were steady. They followed the beat of some metronome inside her brain.

  There was an underlying hate there, too. One that was concealed much of the time. It was the pattern of guilt-hate that she was going through that Stenzel was having a tough time unraveling. The simple answer was that she hated the CIA for what it had done to her and her family. But there was something else going on inside her head; something deeper that she was not consciously aware of. Maybe something out of her past. Some guilty secret, just like the ones every one of us carried around in our heads. But it was a secret that bubbled to the surface whenever she was under extreme stress.

  Stenzel bundled up his files and stopped off at Kathleen’s room. He wanted to talk to her for a few minutes to see if it was feasible to release her in the morning as he had promised McGarvey. But she was sleeping, and he didn’t want to wake her, so he headed down to the cafeteria, his stomach rumbling. He had forgotten to eat lunch.

  Otto Rencke stood in the stairhall looking out the narrow window in the fire door as Dr. Stenzel disappeared down the corridor. Janis Westlake sat on a folding chair outside Mrs. M.’s door. She was dressed in a stylish dark suit, and she was armed. Her job was to protect Mrs. M. and limit visitors to those on the list. Otto had learned this afternoon that his name had been removed.

  He used his cell phone to connect with one of his computer programs, which searched for and dialed the direct number to the nurses’ station on this floor. It rang twice.

  “Gale Moulton.”

  “This is Dick Yemm. I need to talk to Ms. Westlake on guard duty at six-eleven. Something’s wrong with her phone. Could you get her for me?”

  “Does she know you, sir?”

  “Yes, she does.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  Otto watched from the stairhall as the nurse came down the hall. She said something to Janis Westlake, who got up and followed her back down the corridor. He broke the connection, pocketed his cell phone, stepped out into the corridor, and, keeping his eye on the backs of the retreating women, hurried down the corridor and slipped into Mrs. M.’s room.

  She was sleeping, but the IV drip of sedatives had been removed from her arm. The room was in semidarkness. Otto jammed the chair under the door handle so that it could not be opened from the outside, then approached the head of the bed.

  His eyes welled with tears, and it became difficult for him to catch his breath. His heart felt as if it were fibrillating in his chest, and his knees threatened to buckle at any second.

  “Oh, wow,” he muttered under his breath. God forgive him for what he was about to do. He knew no other way to get the information he needed to save their lives. But it was like raping your own mother.

  He took out a mesh-covered ampule about the size of a cigarette filter, broke it in two, and held it under Kathleen’s nose.

  She reared back, as if she had received an electric shock, but then the combination of amyl nitrate and sodium pentothal hit her bloodstream, and she opened her eyes.

  “Hello, Otto,” she said sweetly. “What are you doing here?” She looked as if she had awakened from a very good dream.

  “Hiya, Mrs. M. I thought I would stop by to see how you were doing.”

  “My mouth’s a little dry.” She smacked her lips. Otto got the glass of water from the tray and held it for her. When she had taken a drink he put it back. She smiled. Her eyes seemed a little wild. “Thanks, that was peachy.”

  “I have to ask you something,” Otto started.

  “Can I go home now?”

  “Pretty soon. But I want to know if you remember Darby Yarnell?”

  “Oh, sure. He was a peachy guy. My husband killed him, you know. Shot him right through the old eyeball.” She made a pistol of her fingers and fired off a shot. “Bang, bang, el dedo. That’s Spanish for verrrry dead.”

  Otto was sick at his stomach. “Did Darby ever mention the general to you?”

  Kathleen’s face darkened for a moment, but then she grinned. “Oh, sure. He said that Illen had gone too far this t
ime.”

  “Was he talking about General Baranov?”

  Kathleen held a finger to her lips. “Shhh. We’re not supposed to mention that name. Never. Never.”

  “About Dr. Nikolayev? Did you ever hear that name?”

  Her face screwed up in concentration. At any other time she would have looked comical. She shook her head. “Nope.” She suddenly looked sly. “Darby and I had sex, you know. He was pretty good, but not as good as my husband.”

  Otto felt terrible. He didn’t want to hear this. But it was important. “Did you ever go to Mexico with Darby?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about Russia? Did you ever go to Moscow?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you ever leave Washington with him?”

  “Nope. I’m practically a hometown girl. I’ve never been anywhere except with my husband.” She glanced at the door. “I want to go home now. I’m fucking well tired of this shithole.”

  Otto closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, Kathleen was staring at him. “Did you ever meet General Baranov?”

  For several seconds it didn’t seem as if she was going to answer the question. But she nodded. “He came to Darby’s house one night.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “He said that I was beautiful.” Kathleen drifted off, her eyes losing their focus for a little bit.

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “I don’t remember,” she mumbled.

  “Please, Mrs. M., I have to know.”

  She whimpered. “He told me to go away. I didn’t belong there.”

  “What else?”

  “He told me to stop playing games and go back to my husband. My husband needed me.”

  It wasn’t what Otto had expected to hear. Yet coming into this he didn’t think that he had a real idea what she would tell him. He was on a mission of exploration. “Did you stay the rest of the night anyway?”

  “Nope. I went home, and Darby got shot in the eyeball. Poor, beautiful Darby.” She closed her eyes. “He had everything. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly … enough.”

  Otto watched her face for a minute or two, his heart breaking. She’d had an indiscretion. She was human after all, not the flawless woman he’d imagined she was. In the end he’d been disappointed in, or at the very least angered by, every woman he’d ever known, especially his mother. But he wasn’t angry with Mrs. M. He was sad for her, and he wished that he had the magical power to erase some of her past. She was sleeping now.

  He turned away from the bed and removed the chair from the latch. Liz was cool. And he still had Louise.

  He girded himself, then opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. A startled Janis Westlake jumped up.

  “Where were you?” Otto demanded before she could say anything. “This room was left unguarded. Thank God nothing happened to Mrs. M. Where were you?”

  “I was taking a phone call,” she said. “Sir, you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “Since when?” Otto demanded.

  “Since this afternoon, on Mr. Yemm’s orders, sir.”

  “We’ll see about that. In the meantime, where is Dr. Stenzel?”

  “He said that he was going downstairs to the cafeteria,” Janis Westlake said.

  “Don’t leave your post again,” Otto ordered, and he headed for the elevators. At the corner he looked back. Janis Westlake was gone, and the door to Mrs. M.’s room was open.

  Dr. Stenzel was seated alone in the nearly empty cafeteria, eating a cheeseburger and fries with a large Coke. Otto got a couple of cartons of milk and went over to him,

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Stenzel looked up and frowned. “As a matter of fact I do mind. I’d like to eat my lunch in peace.”

  Otto sat down anyway. “Listen, Doc, I’m sorry about being such an asshole the other day. It’s just that I’ve got a lot of shit going on.” He bobbed his head. “You know what’s been happening. Sooner or later they’re going to get really lucky, and it’ll be more than Liz’s baby that gets hurt.”

  Stenzel said nothing. He studied Rencke’s eyes.

  “Look, they’re like family to me, ya know. The only family I ever had. I’d do anything to protect them.” Otto shook his head. “Even if it means pissing you off.” Otto flashed his most charming, sincere smile.

  After a beat Stenzel’s expression softened. “You are an asshole,” he said. “But you’re a fascinating asshole.” He glanced at the cartons of milk. “Milk?”

  “They didn’t have any cream, and no Twinkies. This’ll have to do.”

  “What are you doing here?” Stenzel asked. “Your name has been taken off the visitor’s list, and Elizabeth already checked herself out and went home with her husband.”

  “Is she okay?” Otto asked, alarmed. “She was supposed to spend the night.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  Otto searched Stenzel’s face for any sign that he was lying. But the psychiatrist was telling the truth. “I’ve got a question about Mrs. M.’s visitors.”

  “I don’t know why your name was taken off. You’ll have to talk to Security.”

  “No, I meant who’s been here to see her, besides us, and Mac and Liz. Has there been anyone else?”

  “Her doctors—”

  “No, I mean someone else. Someone not connected with the hospital or with the Company.”

  Stenzel thought for a moment, then started to shake his head, but stopped. “The priest.”

  “What priest?”

  “Vietski, or something like that. He’s the parish priest at Good Shepherd, where Kathleen attends. Mr. McGarvey said that he stopped by.”

  “Is his name on the list?”

  “According to the nurses he’s practically one of the staff. A lot of military and government employees go to Good Shepherd.”

  “Mac knows that he was here?” Otto asked. He wanted to make sure.

  Stenzel nodded.

  “Who else has been to see her?” Otto pressed. “Friends? Someone from one of her charities? Maybe the Red Cross? One of their neighbors?”

  “Nobody,” Stenzel said. “Security is keeping a tight watch on her. Nobody who isn’t supposed to be here has seen her.”

  Otto got up to leave, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “You’re wrong, Doc. I got in to see her.”

  Dick Yemm got off the elevator on the sixth floor and hurried past the nurses’ station to Janis Westlake, who jumped to her feet when she spotted him.

  “How is she?” he demanded.

  “Fine.”

  “Okay, what the hell is going on?”

  “One of the nurses said that there was a call from you. But there was nobody on the line.”

  “I didn’t call—”

  “No, sir. I think that it was Mr. Rencke. When I got back to my station he was coming out of Mrs. McGarvey’s room. I think that he made the call to get me away from the door.”

  Yemm was angry. This shouldn’t have happened. “You checked on her? Nothing’s wrong?”

  “She’s fine,” Janis Westlake assured him.

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He asked where Dr. Stenzel was, and I told him the cafeteria.”

  Dr. Stenzel came up the corridor, stopped in the nurses’ station for a moment, and emerged with a patient clipboard and chart. He looked up, seeing Yemm and Janis Westlake with concerned expressions on their faces.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Have you seen Otto Rencke?” Yemm demanded.

  “In the cafeteria. He left just before I did.”

  “Did he tell you where he was going?”

  Stenzel shook his head. “No, but he told me that he managed to see Mrs. McGarvey.”

  Yemm shot Janis Westlake a dark look, then turned back to the psychiatrist. “What’d he talk to you about?”

  “He wanted to know who’d been here to see Mrs. McGarvey, other than us and the hospital staff. I told him
that so far as I knew the only other person up here was the priest from her church.”

  “Yeah, he checks out, and there’s been no one else,” Yemm said. “What else did he want to know? Did he ask you why his name had been pulled from the list?”

  “No, but like I said, he admitted that he was able to see her anyway.”

  “I’m doubling the guard,” Yemm said.

  “Might be a moot point. I’m going to be discharging her soon.”

  “I’m still doubling the guard, no matter where she is,” Yemm insisted. “Is she ready to go home?”

  “Probably not. But I can’t keep her here against her will. It’s just that going back to the house might not be the best thing for her so soon.”

  “We’re trying to get them to go to a safe house where they’d be easier to watch. Her and Elizabeth. But they’re stubborn.”

  Stenzel managed a faint smile. “Runs in the family,” he said. He pushed open the door and went into Kathleen’s room.

  The television was on and tuned to an episode of ER. She was propped up in bed, smiling. She had fixed her hair and put on a little makeup. She looked up. “Dr. Stenzel,” she said. “When can I go home?”

  “How are you feeling, Kathleen?”

  “Bored—”she said, and the door closed.

  “I’m sorry about the screwup, sir,” Janis Westlake said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Yemm told her. “Rencke is a lot smarter than the rest of us. That’s why I’m calling for backup.”

  She was startled. “Sir, do you think that it’s him?”

  Yemm shrugged. “I don’t know. Hell, I don’t know anything now.”

  FOUR

  BARANOV CHOSE TO BRING DOWN AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE WITH ONE STROKE; EVEN BRING DOWN ENTIRE ORGANIZATIONS. NOT ONLY KILL THE MAN, BUT KILL THE IDEA …

  FORT A.P. HILL, VIRGINIA

  Rencke crossed the river on I-495, but instead of taking the George Washington Memorial Parkway back to the CIA, he continued. to I-95 and headed the fifty miles south to the Agency’s records storage facility outside of Fredericksburg. He wasn’t exactly a welcome figure at the underground installation, but his presence was tolerated because everyone there knew what he could do to the place with the proper computer virus. The records at A.P. Hill were old files, going all the way back to 1946, when the CIA was formed, and some even farther back to the WWII days of the OSS. They were paper documents, stored in file folders, classified by era, and cross-referenced by department, operation or finance track, and tucked away in bins stored on shelves stacked eighteen feet high, that ran row and tier for miles. All of it was eight hundred feet underground in what had been an old salt mine. Lighting had been installed, along with plumbing, tile floors, in some places walls and doors, and offices and conference rooms, along with a sophisticated air-handling system that kept the place at a dust-free constant temperature and humidity. But all of it was run by computer, using, almost exclusively, programs that Otto Rencke had designed and installed some years ago when he had done the freelance work of reorganizing the CIA’s computer system. No one knew more about A.P. Hill than Otto did. So he was never turned away when he came knocking at the door.