The Kill Zone km-9 Read online

  “Mr. Rencke, sir. His emergency locator was activated at one-seventeen on the Parkway a couple of miles this side of Arlington.

  We tried to call him, but there was no response, and by the time Security got down there the Virginia Highway Patrol had already responded.” McGarvey put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “It was Otto,” he told his wife. “Where did they take him?” “Bethesda.

  He’s listed in good but guarded condition. Mr. Yemm is on his way to you right now.” “Right. I’m going to the hospital. Have a unit sent out here to keep a watch on Mrs. McGarvey.” “Mr. Yemm is bringing someone with him.” Kathleen got up, threw on a robe and started picking out clothes for Mac to wear, a pinched expression on her face.

  This was the old days all over again. Nothing had changed. “What about the security problem?” “Mr. Rencke was carrying his laptop along with a number of classified floppies.” “Who gave you the heads-up?” “No one, sir. I know Mr. Rencke personally. He never leaves his shop without a bagful of work. Anyway, Security arrived on scene the same time the EMTs got there, and they tidied up.” “But there was a gap between the accident and the time our people got there?” “Yes, sir. An inventory is being taken right now, but it’ll be slow; he’s probably got everything bugged.” “You can bet on it.

  HowM the accident happen, do we know?” “Apparently he lost control, left the roadway and flipped over. There were no other vehicles involved, according to the VHP. Stand by one, sir ” Kathleen was looking at him. “He’ll be okay,” McGarvey told her. “He worked late and was on his way home when it looks like he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed.” “He never wears a seat belt.” “He got lucky.” Marks was back. “Sir, are we authorizing visitors?” “Only Agency people.”

  “How about Major Horn?” “Her too,” McGarvey said. Otto and Louise Horn lived together. She worked for the NRO. “Mr. Yemm is pulling into your driveway now, sir.”

  “Tell him I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Since he was probably going directly from the hospital to his office, and from there to the Senate subcommittee hearing chambers, Kathleen laid out a dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie. “Why do you want bodyguards out here?” she asked. “Standard procedures,” McGarvey said, getting dressed. “It might not have been an accident, is that what you’re saying?” He nodded. “We don’t know yet, and until we do we’re taking no chances.” She turned away but then looked back. “Give Otto my best. Tell him that I’ll come up to see him later today if it’s allowed.”

  “I’ll tell him.” McGarvey gave his wife a peck on the cheek, went downstairs, got his coat and went out to the waiting limo.

  A dark gray van was parked across the street. It was still snowing heavily, and it was very cold and blustery. Yemm had the door open.

  McGarvey nodded to him. “Did you get any sleep?” “A couple of hours.”

  McGarvey got in, and Yemm headed out, his driving precise in the difficult conditions. “Hammerhead en route Star Seven. ETA twenty,”

  Yemm radioed. “Copy.”

  “What do we have?” McGarvey demanded.

  “The wheel bearing on the front right wheel fell apart, somehow pulled the cotter pin out and sheared the king nut so that the wheel fell off.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a simple mechanical failure.”

  “We’re checking to see if he had any brake work, or anything like that done in the past few days or weeks. But if it was an accident, whoever did the work was a piss poor mechanic.”

  “It’s been known to happen.”

  With all the snow and ice on the roads, the emergency room at the hospital was busy.

  McGarvey and Yemm went up to the seventh floor, where a pair of CIA Office of Security people were stationed at Otto’s door. The police had already left, and the ward was quiet for the night, though breakfast would be served in a couple of hours. McGarvey went inside the darkened room alone. Otto was propped up in bed, asleep, his head swathed in bandages, his left arm in a sling that held it against his chest. Louise Horn, tall, skinny, her angular features making her look more gaunt than usual, sat in the chair next to the bed. She held Otto’s right hand in both of hers. Her cheeks glistened with tears.

  She looked up. “He finally got to sleep, please don’t wake him.”

  McGarvey squeezed her shoulder. “I won’t. How is he?”

  “Couple of broken ribs. He’ll be okay. His left shoulder was dislocated, that’s why they immobilized his arm. And he banged up his left knee on the bottom of the steering wheel or something.”

  McGarvey touched his own head. “What about the bandages?”

  Louise Horn looked back at Otto. “The side of his face got cut up with flying glass. Looks worse than it is. But he was lucky. He was wearing his seat belt. Saved his life.” She looked up again, more tears welling from her eyes. “He really could have been killed out there.”

  “When did he start wearing a seat belt?”

  Louise Horn had a blank expression on her face. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  McGarvey smiled. “He sure picked a good time to start,” he said. “Give me a call as soon as he’s awake, I want to talk to him. And tell him that Mrs. McGarvey will be up later today to see him.”

  “Thanks. That’ll mean a lot to him.”

  “Try to get some sleep yourself.” McGarvey gave Otto a last look, then started to go. He stopped at the door. “He’s been pretty intense lately.”

  She nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  “He’s been pulling some long hours. Working on something that’s bothering him. Has he said anything to you?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “And I don’t pry.” She gave McGarvey a faint smile. “We have that rule in our house.”

  McGarvey nodded. “Good rule.” he said, and he left.

  LANGLEY

  Before they went back to the Agency, they had a word with Otto’s doctor. Heshi Daishong, a slight, dark, high-strung man. “We’re waiting to see signs of concussion. For now he looks okay. His biggest problems are a slight malnutrition and exhaustion.” “He’s been working hard.” The doctor pushed his glasses up. “We all do. But for Pete’s sake, tell the man to slow down.” He looked very tired himself.

  “If all is well, I’ll release him at noon.”

  Back at his office McGarvey had the executive kitchen send up coffee and a basket of muffins. He hadn’t had time for breakfast, and he was hungry. He managed to get in a couple of hours of uninterrupted reading before his secretary showed up. She was followed a few minutes later by a strung-out Dick Adkins.

  “Well, Ruth was right and the rest of us were wrong,” Adkins said. “They found lumps in both of her breasts. How they missed them for so long is anybody’s guess. But no one’s talking.”

  “Is she still at the hospital?” McGarvey asked, concerned. “Yeah. They want to do a bunch of tests, and then, depending on what they find, they’ll want to talk to us about our options.”

  “I’ll ask Katy to stop over. In the meantime I want you to get out of here and get some sleep.”

  Adkins shook his head.

  “If I go home I’ll just sit around and worry myself into drinking. If I go back to the hospital there’s nothing I can do until the tests are done. They won’t let me in the room with her, and they all but kicked me out of the hospital.”

  He looked like he was floundering, but he was determined not to cave in.

  “The hearings are going to keep you busy for at least the rest of the week. In the meantime we have the NIE and Watch Report to get out.”

  “Get out of here anytime you have to, I mean it, Dick.” Adkins nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  Elizabeth called a couple of minutes after nine from the Farm outside Williamsburg.

  “Hi, Daddy, how’s Otto?”

  “Good morning, sweetheart. He was banged up pretty good, but the doctor says he’ll be okay, Should be out of the h
ospital sometime today. What are you doing back at the farm?”

  “We have a class of husband and wife recruits, and Stu has made Todd and me stars of the show. There’s lots to go over.”

  Stewart Walker was the new commandant of the training facility. A former Green Beret full colonel, he’d been McGarvey’s first choice for the spot, and he was doing a very good job.

  “How long are you going to stay there?”

  “We’ll be home for the weekend. Todd doesn’t want to drive back until the snow lets up. Unless you want us to chopper back. Otto is going to be okay, isn’t he?”

  “He’ll be fine. How about you?”

  “Aside from the fact I’m grumpy all the time, and I’m fat, I feel great.” She hesitated. “Tell mom that I’ll call her tonight.”

  “I will.”

  “Good luck with the hearings. Are you sure you don’t want me to come back?”

  “Stay there and do your job.”

  “We’ll definitely be back for the weekend. Give ‘em hell, Dad.”

  WASHINGTON

  The Senate hearing room was filled to capacity, mostly with media. When McGarvey and Paterson came in and made their way to the witness table the noise level rose, flash cameras went off and television lights came on. Under normal circumstances presidential appointees came to their confirmation hearings with a cadre of attorneys and advisers. But McGarvey had vetoed the plan because, he explained to a reluctant Paterson, no one knew his background except himself. And if there was to be any fallout, he wanted all of it on his shoulders. McGarvey recognized many of the people in the audience; friends from the other U.S. intelligence services, the military, the FBI and from at least a half-dozen embassies around town. Dmitri Runkov, the chief of the SVR’s Washington operation was missing, however, which was bothersome to McGarvey. Connections within connections, or the lack thereof. He put the Russian’s absence at the back of his mind. Paterson took a number of file folders out of his briefcase, extracted a four-page document and laid it on the table in front of McGarvey as the clerk of the hearings came to the front. “Hear ye, hear ye. All those having business before the United States Senate Armed Force Subcommitttee on Intelligence rise for the honorable members: Senators Thomas Hammond, Junior, Minnesota, chairman; John Clawson, Montana, vice chairman; Brian Jackman, Mississippi; Brenda Madden, California; Gerald Pilcher, New York; and Arthur Wright, Utah.” Everyone stood as the senators filed in from a door at the side and took their places behind a long oak desk on a raised platform at the head of the chamber. Hammond was a stern-looking man with thick white hair and bushy Dirksen eyebrows. He looked like a Moses without a robe and tablets. He glared down at McGarvey and Paterson as he removed a number of fat file folders from his briefcase. Of the others, according to Paterson, his second worst enemy was Brenda Madden, a raging knee-jerk liberal who’d been one of the original bra burners at Berkeley. Hers was the same goal as Hammond’s. They wanted to punish the CIA for failing to warn the nation about the attacks of September 11. According to them, the Agency was riddled with incompetent, self-serving fools. The U.S.

  intelligence community needed revamping and streamlining from the top to the bottom. They were happy just now to start at the top with McGarvey. Mississippi’s Jackman and Montana’s Clawson were for keeping a strong CIA, though they were asking for more efficiency for the same dollars. New York’s Pilcher and Utah’s Wright, both junior senators, and both fairly new on the committee, were still on the fence. Hammond brought the meeting to order, then swore in McGarvey. C-SPAN’s television cameras continued to roll. “Mr. McGarvey, I see by your witness list that you’ve brought only the CIA’s general counsel Carleton Paterson with you this morning.” “Good morning, Senator.

  Yes, that’s correct.” “Will you be bringing other advisers or witnesses in the coming days? I ask because if you are, their names will first have to be presented to the committee.” “Mr. Paterson will be sufficient to keep me out of serious trouble, Senator,” McGarvey said. There were a few chuckles around the room, and a slight smile played at the edges of Hammond’s mouth. He had been waiting for just this sort of opportunity ever since Lawrence Haynes had become president when the former President had resigned because of health problems. Haynes and Hammond had been rivals and then bitter enemies in the House and in the Senate, their careers nearly paralleling each other’s. Haynes was a tough-talking, no-nonsense conservative Republican, while Hammond was what the New York Times called a “touchy-feely New Democract with teeth.” Haynes wanted a strong military and a national missile defense shield. Hammond wanted billions diverted from defense and plowed into social welfare and health care reform programs. Haynes promised to take back the fear of terrorism on American soil and against Americans anywhere in the world.

  Hammond wanted to close ninety percent of our overseas military installations and start bringing Americans home, where they belonged.

  Haynes was a president of the people. Hammond was a ranking senator for the people. McGarvey was the president’s fair-haired boy at the moment because of an incident last year in San Francisco when diplomacy would have worked much better than guns blazing. Showing the American people, and especially his fellow senators what sort of a monster McGarvey was, and why he should not be allowed to run the CIA, would be striking a blow at the President. One that would not go unnoticed by his party. Hammond wanted to be president. But for the moment Haynes’s numbers were too high. “Very well,” Hammond said. He fiddled with some notes. “We’ll have a light session today. I’ll make a brief opening statement, and I would ask that Mr. McGarvey or his counsel do the same. Afterward I will allow the general, non classified questions concerning Mr. McGarvey’s background.” He looked at his calendar.

  “If we can cover enough ground today to everyone’s satisfaction, the next few days will be in camera.” Most of the operations that McGarvey had been involved with during his twenty-five years with the CIA were still classified. When the committee began delving into those areas the hearings would have to be held in executive session, closed to anyone without the proper security clearances and the need-to-know. “I wouldn’t give so much as a confidential security clearance to any of them,” McGarvey had told Paterson. “If they could get a political boost, they’d leak anything that they could get their hands on. The Bureau’s helpless to stop them.” “Their privilege,” Paterson replied laconically. “They could get people killed.” “That’s the fine line you’ll need to walk,” Paterson warned. “You have to make them think that they’re getting what they want while protecting our current assets. In the process you’ll take the heat.” McGarvey watched Hammond posturing for the TV cameras. It came down to the question of how much he really wanted the job, and why he wanted it. They were questions he’d been asking himself every day since the President had asked him to serve. Questions for which he still didn’t know if he had all the answers. A little over three months ago he and Roland Murphy, then the DCI, had been called over to the White House. They met the President, his chief of staff and adviser on national security affairs in the Oval Office. The meeting was Murphy’s call. He’d announced that he was retiring as DCI because of his health, and that he wanted McGarvey to succeed him. Murphy’s retirement had been hinted at in the media, and just about everybody at Langley knew it was coming, and yet it came as something of a surprise to McGarvey that morning. Probably because he’d been too involved in running the Directorate of Operations to see the larger picture. “I’d like you to take the job,” President Haynes had said. “Or at least give it some serious consideration.”

  “I’m not the right man,” McGarvey replied, shaking his head. “I’m just a field officer-” “You’re a hell of a lot more than that, and you know it,” Murphy interjected. He turned to the President. “Everybody in the Company would be shocked if Mac wasn’t appointed. Right now the DO

  is functioning with a greater efficiency than it ever has, because of him. He’s a born leader. His people practically fa
ll over themselves to do what he wants, because they know that if they didn’t or couldn’t do the job, he’d step in and do it for them.” “I’d probably be impeached if I didn’t hire you,” the President said. McGarvey had to chuckle. “You’ll probably be impeached if you do, if Hammond has anything to say about it.” “You’ll have to face him and his crowd, but you leave handling him to me,” the President said sternly. “The CIA has been run by politicians, or by military men who’ve turned politician, entirely too long,” He glanced at Murphy. “No offense, Roland.” “None taken, Mr. President.” “I need a career intelligence officer at the helm. A man who knows the Agency, what it can and can’t do from the ground floor up.” “I was a shooter,” McGarvey said, no apology in his voice. “Did you ever shoot at anybody in your military career?” the President asked Murphy. “Yes, as a tank commander.”

  “With the intent to kill?” “Yes.” “We’re in trouble right now and you know it.” The President turned back to McGarvey. “Besides fighting terrorists, Pakistan has gone back to its old tricks. They’re on the verge of developing a thermonuclear device that could be strapped atop one of their missiles. The PRC is on the verge of a Pearl Harbor attack on Taiwan. Russia is falling apart faster than we thought would happen. All of Lebanon is on fire again. And half of the African continent is slaughtering the other half. I need information. I need it fast. And I need it unvarnished. You’re the only man I know who can do the job the way I want it done, because you’re not afraid to tell the truth no matter how much it hurts.” The President sat back.

  He’d taken his shot. “I need you to run the CIA. Will you do it?”

  “I’ll think about it,” McGarvey said. “Fair enough. When Roland steps down you’ll take over as interim director until you’re confirmed or until you step down.”

  Once an intelligence officer, always an intelligence officer. God help him, but the past couple of months had been interesting. “The matter before us today is whether this committee should recommend to the full Senate that it consent to or reject the President’s nomination of Kirk Cullough McGarvey as Director of Central Intelligence.” McGarvey took a look at his opening statement, which Paterson had completely rewritten this morning, as Hammond droned on about the procedures for the witnesses, the questions and evidence that could be presented, and the documents that the CIA might be required to turn over. Paterson’s theme was that since the attacks on the World Trade Center in New York and on the Pentagon, it was more important than ever for the United States to be well informed about what was going on in the world. There would almost certainly be more attacks on our military installations and ships, and on civilian targets. It proved that we needed a strong intelligence agency. In order to maintain superiority we needed an experienced man at the helm of the CIA. Not the CEO of a major corporation, but a person well versed in the business. Someone who had worked at every level; from field officer in Germany, France, Russia, Hong Kong, Japan and France to deputy director of Operations at headquarters. A loyal American. A man who obviously and repeatedly had placed his own safety and that of his family second to the security of his country. A man young enough to understand the new millennium with all of its technical means to lead the Agency to the next level of excellence. Hammond had started on his opening statement, but McGarvey wasn’t really listening. He laid Paterson’s document back on the table. This was not going to be so polite, so neat and tidy as the Agency’s general counsel wanted it to be. The hearings would mirror the real world; they would be down and dirty, contentious, and filled with bullshit because Hammond would tell a version of the truth as he saw it, and McGarvey would tell the committee a sanitized version of the way things really were. It would be like two women at an expensive cocktail party telling each other how good they looked while actually despising one another. The other senators on the committee paid no attention to Hammond. They shuffled through their files and notes. The opening hours of these kinds of hearings were usually mild and polite.