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  “Where shall I go?”

  “Out front. If it looks clear we’ll get a cab together.”

  “How will you know?”

  “Leave that to me,” Shirley said, and after a hesitation Dunée closed his attaché case, and left without looking back.

  Shirley remained seated, sipping his rice wine. No one had seemed particularly interested in them, or in Dunée’s departure. In all likelihood the Belgian had managed to lose his tail, if there’d even been one in the first place.

  After one minute, Shirley followed the man outside. Two taxis were waiting in the long driveway. One of the drivers had gotten out and was speaking with the doorman and a bellman. Just ahead of the first cab, two workmen in white coveralls, hard hats on their heads and paper air filters covering their faces, were unloading five-gallon paint cans from the back of a small, open truck. No one else was around at that moment, except for Dunée, who stood to one side a few yards from the lead cab. Shirley went down to him.

  “Let’s go.”

  “It’s them, I think,” Dunée said excitedly. “Below, on the street.”

  Shirley stepped around the Belgian to get a better look, and he stupidly tripped over the man’s feet and went down heavily, a sharp pain stabbing at his right ankle.

  For a dazed moment or two he didn’t understand what had happened, except that he’d probably broken his leg. He looked up as Dunée walked back into the hotel, and a second later he was completely doused from behind with something very cold and wet.

  Gasoline, the horrifying thought crystalized in his brain. Burned like acid.

  He turned around in time to see one of the men from the open truck lighting a book of matches.

  “No!” Shirley shouted at the same moment the workman tossed the burning matches. “No!”

  The gasoline and fumes ignited instantly with an explosive thump. Shirley reflexively took a deep breath as the first massive pain struck him, drawing burning fumes deeply into his lungs. Mercifully a red haze began to blot out his vision, his hearing and his other senses, and his last thought was that he was too ridiculously young to be dying.

  13

  CIA OPERATIONS HAD BEEN MOVED TO THE U.S. CONSULATE until a new embassy could be built a couple of blocks away on the Avenue Gabriel. Just around the corner from the Tuileries Gardens, the building was old and very French with slow iron cage elevators, creaking wooden floors and terrible plumbing.

  It was past lunch by the time McGarvey arrived with Tom Lynch, and they went immediately up to a small conference room on the fourth floor. The Station had been on emergency footing all morning because of the air crash, and its effects could be seen on the faces of everyone they met. This was the second serious attack on the CIA’s French operation in seven months.

  The French were starting to ask some tough questions, for which there were no answers that were satisfactory to either side. It was a common understanding that the CIA operated within the country, as did the SDECE—the French secret service—in the U.S. But as long as neither side attracted too much attention to itself, the status quo could be maintained.

  McGarvey, however, was a common denominator between this attack and the one that had destroyed the embassy seven months ago. A lot of French citizens had died in each event, and now the Sureté National, which headed the French Police, had taken notice.

  “It’s only a matter of time before the SDECE takes an interest in you … an official interest,” Lynch told him on the way back from the airport. The chief of station was a slender man with light brown hair and delicate, almost English features. He’d been with the Company for nearly ten years, and was one of the rising stars. He was a corporate man; a team player.

  “It had nothing to do with me, Tom, and you know it,” McGarvey said. “They were after your people.”

  “Possibly. But why the hell did you call airport security about them?”

  “Because everytime I look over my shoulder it seems like one of your people is back there. And I’m starting to get tired of it.”

  “Then go back home, McGarvey. Nobody wants you over here. You make people nervous. You make me nervous.”

  “As soon as the French are done with me, I’ll leave Paris.”

  “Good,” Lynch had said, and they’d driven the rest of the way back to the city in silence.

  McGarvey went to the windows which overlooked a courtyard. Two women were seated on a bench, the remains of a late lunch spread out beside them. He and Marta had often brownbagged it in the parks of Lausanne. It was an American custom she’d found particularly charming.

  “Wait here,” Lynch said. “I’ll be back in a minute and we can get started with your debriefing.”

  McGarvey didn’t bother to reply, staying instead with his thoughts about Marta. There was no reason for her or the others aboard 145 to have been killed. And there especially was no reason for an ex-STASI hitman to have committed such an act of terrorism.

  But it had happened, and like the crash a few years ago at Lockerbie, the official investigation might drag on for a very long time before producing any results. Most likely the real reason for the attack would never be known for sure, because any official investigation was of necessity ponderous, allowing the terrorists ample time to sidestep any move made against them.

  It was one of the reasons he’d not told anyone about Boorsch. The French had his body. If they identified him, well and good, but in the meantime McGarvey would have some autonomy of movement as soon as he was finished with his testimony.

  His other reason, of course, was Marta. She’d wanted to stay with him in Paris for a couple of days longer, but he had insisted she leave. He’d forced her on that flight, and it had cost her her life. He owed her something, and it was a debt he meant to repay.

  His starting point would be Boorsch. It was unlikely that the man had worked alone. STASI, as a secret police organization, had been dismantled when the East German government fell. But not all of its officers had been caught. It was possible they had linked up with each other to do … what?

  Lynch came back a couple of minutes later with an attractive woman in her early to mid-forties whom he introduced as Lillian Tyson, a special assistant to the ambassador.

  “Are you with the Company?” McGarvey asked her.

  “Actually she’s in charge of legal affairs here,” Lynch said. “For all American interests in France.”

  “I’m going to try to keep you out of jail, Mr. McGarvey, if that’s all right with you,” she said. Her voice and manner were sharp and self-assured, as was the smartly tailored gray suit she wore over a ruffled silk blouse and textured nylons.

  “Los Angeles?” McGarvey asked.

  “Chicago,” she said, taking a small cassette recorder out of her purse and laying it on the table. “Please sit down, Mr. McGarvey. I want you to give us your statement, and afterwards we’ll see just what we’ll want you to tell the French authorities when they question you on Monday.”

  “Who will it be, the Sûreté National?”

  “No,” Lillian Tyson said. “The SDECE wants to interview you at Mortier.”

  The compound just off the Boulevard Mortier on the northeast side of Paris housed the SDECE’s Service 5, known simply as Action. It was the counterespionage branch of the agency.

  “The bully boys,” Lillian Tyson said. “They’re particularly interested in you.” She turned to Lynch. “What was it Colonel Marquand asked? ‘Why is it this bastard’s name keeps cropping up?’” She turned back. “Pay attention and you’ll come out of this in one piece.”

  “Why are they involved?” McGarvey directed his question to the station chief.

  “The attackers weren’t French.”

  “Do they have an ID already?”

  “I only know what was waiting on my desk for me, and what Lillian told me.”

  “They went directly to the ambassador about you, Mr. McGarvey, which is why I’m here.”

  “You said attackers, Tom. Plural.”


  “They apparently found a walkie-talkie.”

  “May we get started now?” Lillian Tyson asked.

  McGarvey ignored her. “What were they after? Who did we have on that plane?”

  “I can’t tell you, but I’m sure you’ll be told something in Washington. The message was on my desk. You’re wanted as soon as the French are finished with you.”

  “Sit down,” Lillian Tyson said sharply.

  “I don’t think so, counselor,” McGarvey replied. “Not unless you and Tom would like to answer some questions as well. I had a friend on that flight.”

  “Yes, we know, and we’d like to ask you about her, as well.”

  “Tell Murphy, not this time,” McGarvey said to Lynch, and he started for the door.

  “Hold it right there, mister,” Lillian Tyson shouted.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet,” Lynch said. “But I’m sure the general will order it if you refuse to help out.”

  “Step out that door, McGarvey, and I’ll turn you over to the French authorities,” Lillian Tyson warned.

  “Then I’d have to tell them everything I know, counselor. Everything. I’d suggest you talk that over with your boss.”

  McGarvey opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

  “Goddamn you …” Lillian Tyson swore.

  “I’ll be in touch, Tom,” McGarvey said, and he left.

  “Who in the hell does that son of a bitch think he is?” Lillian Tyson asked.

  Lynch was shaking his head. What little he personally knew, plus what he’d been told and had read about the man, all added up to the same thing. He looked at the woman.

  “I don’t believe you’d really want to know that.”

  McGarvey’s apartment was in a pleasantly quiet neighborhood just off the rue Lafayette a few blocks from the Gare du Nord. He paid off his taxi at the corner and out of old habit went the rest of the way on foot, watching for the out-of-place car or van, the odd man or woman lingering in a doorway, the telltale flash of sunlight off a camera lens in an upper-story window.

  There was nothing this time, though the feeling that the business was starting all over again for him was strong. No doubt Murphy was convinced that McGarvey’s presence at Orly this morning had been no coincidence. And the fact that the general had taken a personal interest meant the presence of the CIA officers aboard that flight had been very important.

  But the Cold War was over. It was a line he’d told himself over and over for the past seven months since he’d killed the Russian, Kurshin, in Portugal. He’d been a soldier, but all the battles were done. He was retired.

  It was time now for him to return to his ex-wife Kathleen in Washington and try to pick up the threads of his former life before he’d joined the Company. Before he’d become … what?

  He stopped across the narrow street from his building. He had killed, therefore he’d become a killer. He’d killed silently, and from a distance, on occasion, which meant he’d become an assassin. Ugly, but the business had been necessary.

  No night went by without the memories of the people he’d killed parading through his sleep, like macabre sheep to be counted before he could rest. Those memories would never stop haunting him until he was dead. It was one of the prices he’d paid for becoming what he’d become.

  The other price he’d paid, and continued to pay besides the estrangement of his wife and daughter, was the enmity of his own government. The general had called him a “necessary evil” and despised him. Yet when there’d been trouble, of a nature that the CIA couldn’t or wouldn’t handle itself, McGarvey was pushed into the corner in such a way that he could not refuse to help.

  Complicated, he thought. His life had never been easy; on the contrary, it had been complicated.

  Waiting for a small Renault to pass, McGarvey crossed the street and entered his building. The concierge’s window was closed, so he went directly up to his third-floor apartment. If there was mail he would get it later.

  For now he wanted to finish packing. Most of his things would go into temporary storage here in Paris until he knew for certain where he was going to end up, while the rest, except for an overnight bag, he was sending ahead to Washington.

  His apartment door was wide open. Two uniformed French policemen were in the corridor talking with a broad-shouldered man in civilian clothes. There seemed to be a lot of activity inside.

  The civilian turned around as McGarvey came up. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is McGarvey, this is my apartment. Now who the hell are you and what do you think you’re doing?”

  A short, very dark, extremely dangerous-looking man, also dressed in civilian clothes, appeared in the doorway. “Searching your apartment, Monsieur McGarvey. Do you have any objections?”

  “You’re damned right I do.”

  “Then come in please, and we will discuss them. I’m sure something can be worked out.”

  “First of all, who are you?”

  “Phillipe Marquand,” the swarthy man said. He was built like a Sherman tank. “Are you presently carrying a weapon?”

  “No,” McGarvey said. Marquand was with the SDECE.

  “Then it is only the one automatic pistol which we have found in your apartment—for which you apparently have no French permit to carry—that you own. Is that correct?”

  “I would like to speak to Tom Lynch at my embassy.”

  “In due time, Monsieur. First you and I will have a little chat.”

  “Monday …”

  “Now. By Monday you will be out of France in good health, I assure you. That is, if you cooperate.”

  “There’s nothing I can tell you, Colonel. If you know who Tom Lynch is, and what I was, then you will understand.”

  “Ah, but you have it wrong,” the SDECE colonel said. “I don’t have many questions for you, rather it is I who am going to answer your questions.”

  McGarvey’s eyes narrowed, and Marquand smiled.

  “The man’s name was Karl Boorsch, and he had been a field officer for the East German Secret Service. Both facts you know, of course. But what you may not know is that Boorsch had help, a great deal of help, and a great deal of money.”

  “What do you want from me?” McGarvey asked.

  “Your help in tracking them down and eliminating them, of course.”

  BOOK TWO

  14

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  JULY 5, 1992

  A THICK HAZE HAD SETTLED OVER THE WASHINGTON AREA AS night fell, lending the city a mysterious air that Kelley Fuller found intimidating. She paid off her cab in front of an eight-story apartment building near Howard University Hospital, and hefting her single overnight bag, hurried into the lobby and impatiently punched the elevator call button.

  She was a thin woman in her mid-thirties with long, dark hair, delicately proportioned Oriental features and a soft, yellow cast to her skin. She wore a white blouse, dark skirt and high heels, not exactly traveling clothes, but she’d been in a hurry.

  The elevator was on the sixth floor, and as she waited for it to descend to the lobby, she put down her bag, went back to the glass doors and looked outside.

  No one had followed her so far as she could tell. But she was certain that it would only be a matter of time before they came for her like they had Jim Shirley.

  She closed her eyes tightly for just a moment, Shirley’s screams echoing in her head. She’d seen everything from where she’d hidden in the shadows in front of the hotel, and when Dunée had calmly walked past, she’d been frozen, unable to take her eyes off the horrible spectacle below for more than a split instant.

  Shirley had screamed for such a long time, but no one even attempted to help him or stop the two delivery men who’d simply gotten back into their truck and driven off. By the time someone brought a fire extinguisher from the hotel it was all over, Shirley’s body burned to an unrecognizable charred mass where it had fallen to the left.
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br />   She had run, and had kept running without sleep for the past forty-eight hours, hoping that once she reached Washington everything would be better, that she would be safely among friends. But now that she was here, she wasn’t so sure that anyplace would be safe for her ever again.

  She’d gotten a clear, if brief, look at Dunée’s face as he’d passed. He’d been smiling. Behind him, a man was being burned alive, his screams inhuman, and Dunée seemed to be enjoying himself.

  The elevator dinged, but Kelley lingered at the glass doors for a moment longer, wondering if she’d done the right thing coming back. But she was so frightened she couldn’t go on. Not after what she’d witnessed. She needed to talk to someone. She needed to be among people she knew and trusted. She needed to be told what to do next.

  Kelley had telephoned from the airport, and Lana Toy was waiting in the corridor as the elevator opened on the fifth floor, a look of puzzled concern on her small, round Oriental features. They’d been friends for a number of years, working together as translators for the State Department.

  “What happened to you?” she demanded, taking Kelley by the arm and leading her back to her apartment.

  “You didn’t tell anybody I’m back, did you?”

  “No, but what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Tokyo. What happened?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Kelley said. “But I might have to stay with you for a little while, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is. But are you in some sort of trouble?”

  “Just lock the door, Lana, and get me a drink,” Kelley said. She put down her bag and went to the window where she carefully parted the curtain and looked down at the street.

  The cab was gone, and as she watched, a city bus passed, but there was no other traffic. No movement. But God, she could almost feel that someone was down there, watching from the darkness, and she shivered.

  Jim Shirley’s screams would stay with her for the rest of her life. One of the reasons she’d not been able to sleep for the past two days was because she’d been on the run. But the other, even darker reason was because she was afraid to sleep. Afraid what her nightmares would be. She knew that she was going to relive the experience. She was frightened that she might relive it from another point of view, from someone else’s perspective.