The Kill Zone (18 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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“Hang in there, Doris,” Larsen said. He and Willet attached the neck brace, their movements very gentle, very precise.
Todd could only stand by and watch. But already he was working out the steps he would have to take in the next twenty-four hours to protect his wife and child. They were priority one; everything else was secondary.
IF THE CIA HAD DEFINED (McGARVEY'S) CAREER, THEN KGB GENERAL VALENTIN ILLEN BARANOV HAD DEFINED (HIS) LIFE WITHIN THE COMPANY.
CIA HEADOUARTERS
I
f it hadn't been for Elizabeth's hero worship of her father, Rencke would not have begun his quest, as he thought of it.
He stood on one leg just inside his office in the computer center, staring at his monitors. The lavender displayed as wallpaper on the screens had darkened since the last time he'd checked. His programs were chewing on data, and what they were finding was being evaluated as ominous.
The swing shift operators knew that he was here, but no one had stopped by to say hello. He had no friends here. Only the McGarveys.
“
A friend of mine. His name is Otto Rencke. You haven't seen him, have you
?”
Mac had said that to him, and Otto could feel his presence. He wished that Mac were here now. He wished that he could talk to Mac, tell him what was so bothersome. But Otto didn't know what the problem was himself, except that the walls seemed to be closing in on
all of them. It was lavender, and the color was getting stronger.
He took off his jacket and sat down at one of his monitors. Louise hadn't wanted him to leave. But she understood the necessity for him.
One step at a time.
Ten months ago Elizabeth had begun a biography of her father. It was obvious even then that he would be named DCI. She and Otto both thought that an accouting was important. She decided to begin with his career in the CIA because it was the definition of his life. She would go back later and find out about his life in Kansas, and about her grandparents, whom she'd never known, and about her aunt and nephews in Utah, whom she hadn't seen since she was a little girl.
If the CIA had defined her father's career, then KGB general Valentin Illen Baranov had defined her father's life within the Company.
It was at Otto's suggestion that she had begun there. He had showed her how to enter the CIA's computerized archives, and then how to get into the underground caverns at Fort A.P. Hill, south of Washington in the Virginia countryside, where the old paper records were stored.
He showed her how to read between the lines by paying special attention to the promulgation pages and budget lines in each classified file. The first was a list of everybody who had a need-to-know in the operation, and the second was a detailed summary of where the money to pay for it came.
He who holds the purse strings
as well as
the operational strings is the actual power to be reckoned with.
He showed her how to cross-reference personnel files with operational files to look for the anomalies. John Lyman Trotter, Jr., for instance. He'd become DDO and a friend to Mac. But he turned out to be a traitor, lured into General Baranov's circle. In hindsight the signs had been there. Trotter had spent more money than he'd earned. His name was on more promulgation pages than his early positions should have allowed for. As an operations omcer—this was before he'd become DDO—he had personally signed off on too many budgetary requests.
But the old KGB general had been a master of the game. Starting in the days after Korea and through the Bay of Pigs and Cuban Missile Crises, he had developed and run CESTA and Banco del Sur, the most fabulously successful intellgence networks anywhere at anytime in history. They'd been administered from the Soviet Union's embassy in Mexico City, which was cover for the largest KGB operational unit in the world outside of Moscow. Through a vast network of field agents and governmental connections, General Baranov knew just about everything that went on in the entire western
hemisphere during those years. From Buenos Aires to Toronto, and from Santiago to Washington, he had his ear to the most important doors.
Insiders like Trotter were the frosting on the very rich cake. By feeding Trotter accurate information that sometimes was actually damaging to the Soviet Union, in exchange for even more important details about the inner workings of America's intelligence establishment, Baranov made his prize mole a hero on the Beltway. By making sure that key operations Trotter had backed succeeded as if they were planned by angels, his mole's stock rose to astronomical levels.
All that could have been seen, should have been seen, from the almost reckless abandon with which Trotter flitted from one desk to the next; from one supersuccess to another. Never mind the occasional star agent who was burned while a dozen not-so-hot field officers succeeded. Never mind that Trotter's rise through the ranks was at the expense of some very capable, even brilliant men and women. If they became disenchanted with a system that seemed to reward ass kissing and apparent legerdemain over good, solid and imaginative intelligence work, then all the better for Baranov's plans.
The general was a great success, until in the end Kirk McGarvey had unraveled the entire house of cards. When it was over, Baranov lay shot to death in a KGB safe house outside of East Berlin, and Trotter lay dead in a CIA safe house in West Berlin.
Both assassinations were carried out by McGarvey. And that was the end of the story. A lesson to be learned. The field officer who developed a peripheral awareness, a skill necessary in order to preserve his life, should not lose the skill once he was recalled to a desk assignment.
No place was safe. Hadn't they learned that lesson before?
Rencke focused on the monitor in front of him. Streams of data crossed the screen so fast it was impossible to focus on any one item. They were telephone intercepts that the National Security Agency was supplying him from the Moscow exchange over the past six months.
So far his program had come up with a few bits and pieces, each item deepening the lavender.
In August Dr. Anatoli Nikolayev disappeared from Moscow after stealing sensitive, though unnamed, files from the KGB's paper archives at Lefortovo. Nikolayev had worked in the KGB's Department Viktor during the Baranov years.
Around that same time, retired general Gennadi Zhuralev had been found a suicide in his Moscow apartment. Zhuralev had worked as deputy operations officer for General Baranov.
By October the SVR, with help from Interpol, thought it had found Nikolayev in Paris. But then the leads dried up. Nikolayev knew the city very well. He'd spent a lot of time there working for Baranov.
The fact that one old man could not be found by the combined efforts of the Russian SVR, Interpol and presumably the French intelligence service, or at the very least, the French police, meant that Nikolayev had not simply wandered off. The old spy had gone to ground, using his tradecraft skills.
Rencke had become a skeptic under McGarvey's tutelage. He did not believe in coincidences.
McGarvey was hired as interim DCI until his Senate confirmation hearings. His daughter went looking down his history to write his biography, focusing her energies on General Baranov. And things suddenly began to happen.
An old Baranov man goes walkabout after snatching some files that make the SVR nervous. Another old Baranov man turns up dead. Now the Senate hearings were dredging up ancient history, opening old wounds, exposing old cesspools, revealing desperate Cold War battles that were best left undisturbed.
Rencke had started to look over his shoulder as soon as his programs began to shift to lavender. A dead man was seeking revenge. It was spooky.
The accident with his car had been no accident. He'd done no work on his front wheels, as he told Security. Someone had tried to kill him, and he wanted to give them room to try again.
Neither had the helicopter explosion in the VI been an accident.
Rencke drew a triangle on a sheet of paper. McGarvey's name was at one of the points, Baranov's at the second and Nikolayev's at the third.
Mac was on his way back from the Virgin Islands with Mrs. M. and Dick Yemm.
Baranov was long dead.
Which left Nikolayev.
Rencke felt a sudden stab of fear. He dialed up the CIA's Office of Security's locator service and found out where Todd and Liz were staying at in Vail. He got an outside line and called the number. It was a little after five o'clock there.
“The Lodge at Vail, how may I direct your call?”
“I want to talk to one of your guests. Todd Van Buren.”
“One moment, please,” the operator said. She was back a minute later. “I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Van Buren does not answer.”
“This is an emergency.”
“I'm sorry, sir. Would you care to leave a message on his voice mail?”
Rencke broke the connection. He was starting to sweat.
He composed himself, then called the OD in Operations. This evening it was Chris Walker. Rencke vaguely knew the young man; his impression was that Walker was earnest.
“Operations.”
“This is Rencke in the DCI's office. I want to talk to Todd Van Buren.”
“We have a team en route, sir. Have you tried their hotel? They're staying at the Lodge at Vail.”
“I tried their room, but the hotel operator said there was no answer.” Flashes were going off inside Rencke's head. It was like the Fourth of July, only more intense. “Call hotel security, I want someone to check their room right now. And where the hell is our team, and where's the FBI?”
Walker hesitated. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“I don't know,” Rencke said, calming himself. Nothing happened to them. They were still on the slopes or in the ski lodge having a drink. “Have them paged if they're not in their room. Then call me back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Otto stared at his computer monitor. Nikolayev was the key, of course. It was possible that he had murdered General Zhuralev in Moscow, then disappeared. It was also possible that Nikolayev had arranged for the assassination attempt on Mac.
But why, after all these years? General Baranov was long dead. Surely there weren't any vendettas after all this time. Something like that would be beyond all reason. It would be … insane.
It was equally obvious that someone did not want Mac to become the DCI and was out to stop him. But could a dead man be behind it?
Chris Walker called back ten minutes later. “They're not there, Mr. Rencke. It looks like they weren't there all day. And they don't answer their page.”
Rencke's fear solidified as if his heart had been flash-frozen. “I want them found within the hour. Whatever it takes, find them.”
“Yes, sir,” the OD responded. “We're on it.”
PEOPLE REMEMBERED LIES MUCH LONGER THAN THEY REMEMBERED THE TRUTH.
WASHINGTON
A
s soon as the Gulfstream jet stopped in the Andrews VIP hangar it was surrounded by a dozen Air Force Special Forces troops armed and dressed in BDUs. Watching from a window, McGarvey spotted Dick Adkins climbing out of a CIA car. He was flanked by a couple of bulky men in civilian clothes. Everyone looked grim, expectant. It was the middle of the night.
Kathleen had refused anything to eat or drink during the four-hour flight from San Juan, and McGarvey was worried about her. She held his hand in a death grip, her knuckles turning white when she saw the armed guards.
“It's okay, Katy,” he assured her. “We're home safe now.”
“What about Elizabeth and the baby?” Her voice was strident, her mood brittle despite the sedatives the doctors in San Juan had given her.
“Somebody is with them.”
Yemm went to the hatch and popped it open. He gave a nod to his people standing next to Adkins, assuring himself that the situation in the hangar was under control. He turned back. “Mr. Director.”
McGarvey helped Kathleen out of her seat, and with Yemm's help got her out of the airplane.
Adkins came over, a look of deep concern on his face when he saw what kind of condition Kathleen was in. “Welcome home,” he said. “Do you want an ambulance?”
“No, we're going straight home,” McGarvey said. “Are Todd and my daughter on the way back?”
“Security is with them. They haven't been told anything yet.”
Kathleen clutched his arm. “They're okay, Dick?”
“They'll be okay,” Adkins promised her.
There was a wildness in her eyes that was disturbing, as if she were seeing things that were invisible to the rest of them.
“We'll have them back by noon,” Adkins said.
She suddenly became aware of her surroundings. She straightened up and brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. “We weren't expecting this sort of a reception,” she said. “None of this has been in the news, has it?”
The question caught Adkins by surprise. “No, we have it contained so far. But it won't hold forever.”
She patted his arm maternally. “Nothing ever does, didn't you know?” She managed a weak smile. “How's Ruth?”
“She's back from the hospital. We're going to work it out.”
“Good,” Kathleen said. “Good for you.” She turned to her husband. “It's time to go home now. I'm sleepy.”
“Housekeeping has the Cropley safe house ready—”
“We're going home, Dick,” McGarvey said.
Adkins seemed embarrassed. “Who do you want to handle the debriefing?”
“I'll come in around noon. We'll decide then,” McGarvey said. He helped Kathleen into the back of the limo, then turned back to Adkins. “Ask Dr. Stenzel if he would come out to the house this morning. The earlier the better.”
“Will do,” Adkins said. “I'm glad that you're back in one piece.”
Kathleen said nothing on the way home, leaning back in her seat and looking out the window. The snow had finally stopped, the weather had cleared and the temperature had plunged into the single digits, unusual for Washington.
Yemm, riding shotgun in the front seat, issued a steady stream of orders and instructions on the encrypted radio link with headquarters to make sure that there were no holes in the security arrangements. He'd spent a good deal of time on the radio aboard the Gulfstream setting up their arrival.
Washington seemed like a strange, alien place to McGarvey now. He felt like a boxer who was backed against the ropes. He had the necessary skills to defend himself, but he didn't have the room, not with Kathleen and Elizabeth and the baby to worry about. But he had turned some kind of a corner. He no longer wanted to run. He wanted to stay and meet the enemy head-on; in fact, he looked forward to it. Yet there was the same nagging, scratchy feeling at the back of his head, warning him that this time the situation was different. This was something that he'd never faced before.
The downstairs lights were on when they pulled into the driveway. Security had gone over the house and grounds, including all eighteen holes of the golf course, with infrared and electronics emissions equipment. Motion detectors had been installed, and rapid response monitors had been placed in every room of the house. If anything, no matter how slight, seemed to be out of the ordinary, night or day, a rapid response team would be on-site within minutes. Noises, power surges, unexplained heat or electronic sources, even airborne chemical odors of explosives would trigger the devices.
Yemm got out first and spoke with the watch commander parked in a van at the end of the driveway, then went up to the house. The front door opened as he reached the porch, and a young woman in blue jeans and a GO NAVY sweatshirt was standing there. Yemm said something to her, then came back to the limo.
“We've arranged for you to have a couple of houseguests,” he told McGarvey. “They'll act as internal security, and they'll help with the cooking and housework until we get through this.”
Kathleen was an intensely private person, and McGarvey didn't know how she was going to react. But it would be useless to argue because Yemm was right. This was part and parcel of being DCI. He didn't think that a lot of DCIs before him much cared for the lack of privacy either. But the help would be welcome. There was no possible way that a housekeeper was going to be vetted before the situation was resolved. And Kathleen was not up to keeping the house running. Not now.
She was indifferent toward the two Office of Security agents, both women about Elizabeth's age. They introduced themselves as Peggy Vaccaro and Janis Westlake. Vaccaro was short, voluptuous and homely, but she had
an incandescent smile. Westlake was tall, thin and boyishly attractive. They seemed competent and sympathetic.
They gave McGarvey a reassuring smile and took Kathleen in hand, clucking and cooing over her as they led her upstairs for a nice soak, a cup of tea and fresh sheets on the bed.
Yemm had an earpiece comms unit that picked up his voice from the vibrations in his jawbone. He was speaking softly as he followed McGarvey into the study.
“Security would like to know if you'll make your scheduled appearance on the Hill tomorrow morning.”
McGarvey shook his head. “Not tomorrow. Maybe Tuesday. They can put out the word that we're handling the India-Pakistan problem.”
Yemm relayed the instructions as McGarvey poured a couple of brandies. The workmen had finished over the weekend, and the soft woods of the desk, bookcases and manuscript cabinet gleamed in the soft light from the front hall. McGarvey handed one of the brandies to Yemm. They drank in silence; watching each other for the effects of what they'd gone through on the island.
“That one was close, Dick,” McGarvey said after a long moment.
Yemm nodded. “Mrs. M. saved our lives.” He looked at his drink.
“They're not going to give up.”
“No, sir, not even if you withdraw your nomination,” Yemm agreed. “Somebody wants you.”
“Somebody on the inside,” McGarvey said, fully aware of where such an idea would take him. When you start suspecting your own people, you might as well give up the fight from the git-go. Jim Angleton had finally figured that out; after practically emasculating the CIA with his paranoia. “Somebody who knew about the VI trip.”
This time around the list was way too short for comfort. And giving up wasn't an option, if it had ever been.
 
 
McGarvey got a couple hours of troubled sleep on the couch in the den, while Yemm, a pistol in his lap, dozed in a chair across the room. They couldn't settle down. The andrenaline from the near miss was still pumping.
 
 
McGarvey opened his eyes when Peggy Vaccaro touched his shoulder. Somebody had thrown a blanket over him. Light streamed in the windows; the morning sky was a brilliant blue.
“Mr. Director, it's eight o'clock, and Dr. Stenzel is here.”
He shoved the blanket aside and sat up. Peggy Vaccaro handed him a cup of coffee. “Is my wife awake yet?”
“Yes, sir. The doctor would like to have a word with you before he goes up to see her.”
“Where is he?”
“In your study.”
“Where's Dick?”
“He couldn't sleep. He's in the kitchen making breakfast. Oh, and we've laid out some clothes and your shower things in the spare bedroom upstairs. Actually it was Mrs. M.'s idea. She's worried about you.”
“I'll go up and see her—”
“No, sir. Mrs. M. asked if we would take care of you until she's seen the doctor.”
McGarvey mustered a smile and nodded. “It's been a long time since I've had several women fussing over me at the same time.”
Peggy Vaccaro lit up like a sunrise. “Our pleasure, Mr. Director.”
McGarvey took his coffee across to his study, where Dr. Stenzel, dressed in corduroys, a battered bulky knit sweater and a scarf around his neck, was studying the spines of the books on the shelves.
“Thanks for coming out on a Sunday,” McGarvey said. “Coffee?”
Stenzel turned and gave McGarvey a critical once-over. He shook his head. “No. Is someone making a run on the Agency?”
“Otto was an accident, I'm the target,” he told the psychiatrist. “But my wife isn't holding up very well.”
“I know. I talked to the navy doctors in San Juan this morning. They faxed me their preliminaries, and frankly I'm just as surprised as they are that your wife didn't suffer a total nervous breakdown. She must be a remarkably strong woman.”
“That she is.”
Stenzel held his silence for a few moments. “I may have to hospitalize her.”
McGarvey was afraid of this. But he was resigned. “Whatever it takes. But give us a little lead time, would you. We have some security considerations.”
Stenzel nodded. “I understand.”
“She's had some difficult times because of my job.”
“I'll bet she has,” the Company psychiatrist said. “Does she want you to quit?”
McGarvey shook his head. “No. At least I don't think she does.”
Stenzel smiled reassuringly. “I'll go up and talk to her now. We'll decide what to do afterward.”
One of the girls took the doctor up to see Kathleen. McGarvey checked with Yemm in the kitchen, refilled his coffee cup and went up to the spare bedroom, where he showered, shaved and dressed in the slacks, sweater and tweed sport coat laid out for him.
The assassins had made a big mistake by trying but missing. If there was a next time, and he suspected there would be, he would nail them. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He'd been down this path before, a lot of times in his twenty-five-year career. He knew the moves and countermoves; the feelings, the impatience, the anxiousness and sometimes the fear. And his family had been involved before too. This time he was sticking it out. He would make his stand here on his home ground. He wasn't going to run in an attempt to lead them away.
But now that he had what he really wanted, now that he was exactly where he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to be doing, and loving and being loved by the woman he'd always admired, he was truly afraid of losing it all.
The muscles in his jaw tightened. One last fight. One last confrontation. One last time.
God help the bastards when he caught up with them.
Stenzel was already finished when McGarvey went downstairs. He was in the kitchen with Yemm.
“How is she?” McGarvey asked.
“Better,” Stenzel said. He seemed perplexed. “But she's at her limit, I can tell you that much. If something else happens, I think she'll break.”
McGarvey glanced at Yemm, who pursed his lips. The fight was just starting.
Stenzel caught the exchange. “Either send her away or keep her isolated. I'm telling you that her brain is working overtime right now. Probably has been for a while. And from what I can gather, reading all the reports from San Juan and talking to her just now, the helicopter explosion was a damned close thing.”
“She saved our lives,” McGarvey said. He explained what had happened on the island.
“She probably noticed something, maybe even smelled something wrong,” Stenzel said. He shook his head. “We used to call it women's intuition.
But that's nothing more than a heightened sense of awareness. Her mind, as I said, is working superfast.”
“She won't leave,” McGarvey said. “And trying to keep her isolated might be impossible.” He was trying to work out the logistics of keeping Katy safe. But sending her away would not work. It'd be nothing more than another form of his own running away.

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