The Kill Zone Page 36

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said.

  He took her in his arms and gently held her for a few moments, a lump in his throat. The bastards had hurt his baby girl. They had killed his granddaughter. They would pay. God, how they would pay.

  “You should be in bed,” McGarvey told her.

  “Later,” she said. “Has Otto found Nikolayev, yet?”

  “He went back to France to look for him. How long have you two suspected that something was going to happen?”

  “Since early September, but we weren’t sure of anything.” She looked inward and shook her head. “I wish we had said something. Maybe none of this would have happened. But we just didn’t know.”

  “They would have found another way,” McGarvey said. “But, yes, you and Otto should have given us the heads-up. We could have put some more resources on it.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” Elizabeth said, her eyes brimming. She was angry with herself for being so weak. Her internal struggle was plain on her face. “I left a disk for you in the front study. It has everything that we managed to come up with.”

  “I saw Otto’s copy,” McGarvey said. He glanced at his son-in-law, who looked as if he was ready to rip the arms off someone. Anyone. “I’m sending Todd back to Langley to wait for Otto.”

  “I want to go, too,” Elizabeth said.

  “Don’t be a dumbbell,” Todd told her.

  She flared, but backed down. “He’s a friend of the family, so don’t go playing macho man.”

  “He’s my friend, too,” Todd told her.

  Grassinger had come in with Blatnik. “Right,” he said. “I’d like to hold a security briefing now, then I suggest that we all settle down for a few hours. It’s been a long night, and it could get even longer.”

  McGarvey was tired, but Grassinger’s security briefing had been short and to the point. Anything within a mile or two of the house was in detectable range. That included vehicles passing on the highway and anything in the sky. The first lines of defense were the perimeter sensors and alarms. The second line were the stop sticks that would shred tires and the explosives that would shred bodies. The final line was the house itself, which had bulletproof polycarbonate windows, steel-reinforced doors and a bombproof safe room in the basement. The phone and electrical lines were encased in flexible steel sheaths and buried deeply. In addition there were wireless links to the outside world from every room in the house. And there were silent alarms connecting to the CIA, FBI, Maryland Highway Patrol, and Montgomery County Sheriff’s offices.

  Terrorists had breached the house a couple of years ago, but the security measures had been considerably beefed up since then. Such an attack could not succeed this time.

  Yet everyone felt gloomy. It was a bunker mentality that was almost as bad as it had been for some people in the aftermath of the World Trade Center attacks. McGarvey had seen the mood in the eyes of his staff during the afternoon’s teleconference. And he could hear it in their voices as he spoke to them at various times during the interminably long day.

  Fred Rudolph from the FBI was having no luck tracking the blue Mercedes, at least not in the immediate area of Washington, D.C., so the search had gone nationwide.

  Nor were there any signs that the Russian intelligence operation in Washington and New York was getting back to normal.

  “Runkov and everyone else are hunkered down and staying there,” Rudolph said. “It’s unprecedented. They know something that we don’t, but they’re not talking to us.”

  McGarvey looked in on Kathleen after lunch but she was still sound asleep. Stenzel said that she might sleep the rest of the day and through the night.

  “It would be the best thing for her,” the psychiatrist said. He came down to the kitchen with McGarvey to get something to eat. The refrigerator, freezer and pantry were well stocked, but no one had developed an appetite for much of anything other than coffee and sandwiches.

  Elizabeth came in from the study. “I just talked to Todd. Otto is on his way back. Nikolayev is with him.”

  “When do they get here?”

  “Late tonight,” Elizabeth said. “I talked to Tom Lynch, too, and he said everything went well. The French were cooperative, and there was no trouble whatsoever.”

  “That’s good to hear. Can we talk to Otto in the air?”

  “I tried. He’s probably turned off his phone for some reason, so unless you want to call the crew on an unsecured channel, we’ll have to wait until they get here.”

  “We’ll wait,” McGarvey told his daughter. “I want Todd to call me the minute they land. Nikolayev can be put up in the VIP quarters at Andrews until we find out what he knows.”

  “It has to be something, Dad. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bugged out of Moscow the way he did, and the SVR wouldn’t be so hot to find him.”

  “We’ll see soon enough,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime, did you get any sleep this afternoon?”

  “A couple of hours,” she said. “I’m too keyed up.”

  “Nightmares?” Stenzel asked gently.

  She shot him a defiant look. But then nodded. “I’m holding my baby and someone is coming to take her away from me.” She lowered her eyes.

  McGarvey almost lost it. Like Todd, he wanted to lash out, to rip off somebody’s arms. But he didn’t have a target. Yet.

  “I can give you something,” Stenzel suggested, but Elizabeth shook her head.

  “No drugs,” she said. “At least I know the nightmares are my own.”

  “How do you feel, sweetheart?” McGarvey asked her. “Physically, I mean.”

  “A lot better than I think I should.” She gave Stenzel another defiant look. “How about going for a walk?”

  Grassinger came to the kitchen door. He gave McGarvey a nod. “Now, but not after dark, Mr. Director.”

  “A short walk,” McGarvey told his daughter.

  They got their coats and boots, and when they were dressed, McGarvey transferred his Walther PPK into an outer pocket. Elizabeth also carried the compact German police pistol, and she put hers in an outside pocket, too.

  The snow had stopped for the moment, and it had turned sharply colder, so they could see their breath. They started off behind the house toward the riding arena that was housed in a long, corrugated metal building that was even bigger than the barn. The only footprints in the snow along the path were their own. The sky was dark and low, casting a gloomy pall over the dark woods and gray fields.

  “I was starting to get claustrophobic in there,” Elizabeth said.

  “I know how you feel,” McGarvey replied absently. He couldn’t stop thinking about her nightmare.

  “What’s wrong with Mother?” she asked.

  “She’s overloaded with everything that’s been happening—”

  “That’s not true,” Elizabeth cut him off. “Not Mother. She’s stronger than that. A lot stronger.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” McGarvey admitted tiredly. “Hell, even Stenzel doesn’t know for sure. She’s had every test in the world, and they’ve all come up negative. There’s nothing physical that they can find.”

  “She acts like a zombie one minute, and completely normal the next. I’m telling you that being around her is like being in the Twilight Zone. She’s my mother, and yet she’s not. She’s like a stranger.”

  They stopped. “Part of it is because of what happened to you in Vail. It tipped her over the edge.”

  Elizabeth looked inward. “Todd said that she called the hospital a bunch of times. He said she was like a crazy woman.”

  “I know, sweetheart. All we can do is get over this hump, then we’ll get her some help.”

  Elizabeth touched her father’s sleeve. “Is this almost over?”

  He looked into her eyes, which were older than her years. He gave her a reassuring smile. “Soon, Liz. Real soon. I promise.”

  THURSDAY

  THREE

  “WHO IS MY ASSASSIN?” McGARVEY ASKED.

 
ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE

  On the bridge across the Potomac south of the city the sodium vapor lights were a harsh violet, interfering with McGarvey’s view of the White House, the Capitol Building and the Washington Monument. He rode shotgun beside an unhappy Grassinger in an Office of Security Ford Explorer. It was after two-thirty in the morning, and Nikolayev was ready to talk. Despite Security’s sharp warnings to stay put, McGarvey felt that he had no other choice but to go see the man. Find out what they were facing. Whatever was going to happen would go down within the next twenty-four hours or so. McGarvey was certain of it. They would lay out the bait, set the trap and sit back to wait. Nikolayev was the key, as he had been since he’d gone walkabout in August.

  The Capital Beltway was all but deserted. The weather system that had dumped eleven inches of snow on the Washington area in the last week was gone, leaving behind near-zero temperatures and a crystal-clear sky. It was as if the entire city was holding its collective breath, waiting for the next shoe to drop. This was ancient Rome, with her granite buildings, senators and monuments. And the barbarians were massing at the gates.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Director, but wouldn’t it have been easier to bring this Russian to Cropley,” Grassinger asked. He drove with his eyes constantly scanning his mirrors. A Mac 10 was ready in the rack in front of him, and another was lying on the seat between him and McGarvey.

  “Someone might be watching,” McGarvey said. “I don’t want him spotted, and I definitely don’t want to lead anybody back to the safe house yet.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Grassinger said. “The ‘yet.’”

  “This won’t be easy,” McGarvey said.

  They took the Beltway exit to Andrews main gate.

  “Bad police work,” Grassinger murmured.

  “Maybe. But we’ll do it my way.”

  The air force cops at the gate stiffened to attention and passed them through when they realized who McGarvey was. The base was as quiet as the highway. The CIA’s Gulfstream had been the last flight of the night, and nothing was leaving until after dawn.

  Grassinger drove them directly across the base to the VIP quarters housed on the top floor of a three-story building next to base headquarters. The Charge of Quarters was expecting them, and he passed them directly up.

  Todd met them in the dayroom that looked off toward the runways and rotating beacon atop the control tower. He’d been going for forty-eight hours straight without rest, and he looked haggard, but determined.

  “He won’t talk to me,” Todd said. “He keeps repeating that he’ll wait until he sees you.”

  “Where’s Otto?” McGarvey asked.

  “In there with him. They’ve been drinking vodka and talking about old times.”

  “Which old times are those?” McGarvey asked.

  “I don’t know. That’s what Otto says every time he comes out to ask for more vodka.” Todd turned to Grassinger. “You guys shouldn’t have left Mac off the reservation. We could have brought Nikolayev out to the house.”

  “My call,” McGarvey said. “Wait out here with Jim, I shouldn’t be too long.”

  “I want to sit in—” Todd started.

  “No.” McGarvey went down the hall to the west suite, knocked once and went inside.

  Otto and Nikolayev sat across from each other, a coffee table laden with vodka, glasses and trays of crackers and cheeses and caviar, between them. A stack of file folders was piled up on the floor next to where Nikolayev sat. They looked up, Otto with a startled expression, like a deer caught in headlights, and Nikolayev with an expectant, interested smile, like a scholar ready for a student’s question.

  “Oh, wow, Mac, I got him,” Otto gushed. He jumped up. “This is Dr. Nikolayev. He promised to help us.”

  “Good job, Otto,” McGarvey said. His eyes never left Nikolayev’s. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes alone to get acquainted?”

  Otto hopped hesitantly from one foot to the other, but then he nodded. “Sure.” He glanced at the Russian. “Anyway, we’re almost there.” He went out the door, closing it softly behind him.

  “Dawbra Ootra, Guspadyna Nikolayev,” McGarvey said. Good morning, Mr. Nikolayev.

  “Actually it’s Dr. Nikolayev, Mr. Director. But please, you may call me Anatoli Nikolaevich.” Nikolayev motioned for McGarvey to have a seat. “Please.”

  “Why did you leave Moscow?” McGarvey asked. He went to the door and checked the corridor to make sure that no one was there, listening.

  “Because of something I found out,” Nikolayev said, watching McGarvey’s movements.

  “What was that, exactly?” McGarvey checked the windows and drew the blinds. He stopped and directed his gaze toward the Russian.

  “I was doing research for a book, about the KGB during the Cold War years, when I stumbled across references to a General Baranov operation that I thought had been discussed but never implemented. Network Martyrs.”

  “What next?” McGarvey prompted. He checked the telephone, but the line was dead. Nevertheless, he unplugged it from the wall.

  “When I began to realize that the operation might be closing down, I made an appointment to see an old Department Viktor chief of staff. Gennadi Zhuralev. But they got to him before we could talk.”

  McGarvey took out what appeared to be a penlight from a pocket and used it to scan the lights, wall sockets, switches and pictures hanging on the walls. If there was a bug, the penlight’s bulb would flash. But nothing happened. The room was clean.

  “Who are the they?”

  “I didn’t know at the time. But now I think they were probably mafiosa hired by someone inside the SVR, or maybe in the Kremlin. Someone possibly in Putin’s office, or very close, who wants to sweep everything under the rug.” Nikolayev shrugged. “It’s happening all over Russia, but especially Moscow. America’s cooperation is too valuable to jeopardize.”

  McGarvey motioned Nikolayev to his feet. The old man stiffly complied, and McGarvey quickly frisked him for weapons. But Nikolayev came up clean. He sat back down.

  “Why’d you run? Did you think that they would come after you for disturbing the files?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Nikolayev said. “So I pulled the file I needed and took the first train to Leningrad and from there Helsinki and then a flight to Paris.”

  “How about Vladimir Trofimov?”

  “He was General Baranov’s chief of staff in the early days. The sixties and seventies. I thought that he might have some of the answers.”

  “That was going too far back, wasn’t it?”

  “No. Actually it was the beginning of the project. Baranov’s dream.”

  McGarvey stood across from the old Russian, but he said nothing. He waited for Nikolayev to continue.

  “Like your people, we were working on behavior modification techniques using a combination of psychological means, and of hallucinogenic drugs such as LSD and derivatives from peyote and some other plants that Banco del Sur supplied us with from Mexico. It was brainwashing. An extension of what the North Koreans and Chinese were doing in the fifties.”

  The realization of the full measure of Baranov’s scheme began to dawn on McGarvey. “You’re saying that the sleeper agents Baranov sent over here, the assassins, were brainwashed?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Gennadi Zhuralev had made a copy of the list of assassins and their targets for insurance. He left a marginal note, apparently by mistake, in one of the files. He was the director of resources, so he certainly had the means.” Nikolayev shook his head. “But they got to him first.”

  “What about Trofimov?”

  “He was chief of staff, as I said, so I thought that he would have seen the list and maybe he would remember some of the names. But he only told me one. It was you. Baranov had placed you at the head of the list.”

  “How many others were there?”

  Nikolayev spread his hands. “Maybe as many as a dozen. But it’s highly unlikely
that all of those people are still alive.”

  “Who is my assassin?” McGarvey asked.

  “I never saw that list. But from what Otto tells me, it has to be someone very close to you. Or at least someone with reliable intelligence about your movements.” Nikolayev picked up the stack of file folders and offered it to McGarvey. “These are his suspects.”

  McGarvey hesitated a moment before he took the files. There were seven of them. He was almost afraid to look at the names. “Did you recognize any of these?”

  “Not beyond the obvious,” Nikolayev said. “But Otto told me that there might be one more name to add to the list. He wasn’t completely sure yet, but when he was, he would name the person.”

  The first of the folders was Dick Yemm’s. McGarvey looked up. “This man is dead.”

  “I know. But Otto said that Mr. Yemm remained a suspect, which in effect would mean that the threat was over.” Nikolayev seemed suddenly very tired. He idly rubbed his chest. “Remember that if the SVR had these names, they would all be targets for assassination themselves.”

  The second file folder was a dossier on Dmitri Runkov, the Russian SVR rezident at the Washington embassy. He was hiding out in his house, but Fred Rudolph had admitted that if the Russian intelligence officer wanted to get out of there without being seen, it was possible.

  “I don’t think it would be Runkov himself,” Nikolayev said. “But rather someone who Runkov knows here in the States. A sleeper resource. An agent buried so deep that he’s beyond detection by U.S. authorities, but who could be accessed by a handful of people in an emergency. The Washington rezident being one of them.”

  The third file folder was marked UNKNOWN. In it, Otto had laid out the parameters for the assassin. A bulletproof identity, good intelligence, nearness to McGarvey, knowledge of explosives and a dozen other traits.

  The fourth file folder contained the dossier of Bob Johnson, Jared Kraus’s number two in Technical Services. According to Otto’s notes he was Senator Hammond’s source within the CIA. Otto had learned that from various computer and telephone taps he had conducted of his own accord. He had not blown the whistle on Johnson’s talking to the senator because the man was one of the suspects as McGarvey’s would-be assassin.