The Kill Zone (36 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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THE 23RD PSALM
The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways—I to die and you to live. Which is better God only knows.
—Plato's Apology
 
Man is a prisoner who has no right to open the door of his prison and run away … A man should wait, and not take his own life until God summons him.
—Plato's Phaedo
“VASHA WAS FAMOUS FOR SPREADING LIES AND DISUNITY LIKE ROSE PETALS ON FRESH GRAVES. HE ALWAYS MANAGED TO INCLUDE THE THORNS.”
OVER THE ATLANTIC
S
ix miles above the unforgiving winter ocean, Otto Rencke tried to put a cap on his fear.
The cabin aboard the Company's VIP Gulfstream was luxurious compared to the cramped cockpit of the Aurora. But the jet was slow, and Rencke was impatient. The only light came from the open cockpit door. It was four in the morning, and the crew thought that he was sleeping. They left him alone, which is what he wanted, what he needed, so that he could put his thoughts in order.
Nikolayev was the key to the puzzle. Otto had known it almost from the very beginning, in August, when the KGB psychiatrist had walked away from Moscow. Some premonition, some inner voice, something inside of his gut started telling him that there was an operation brewing. Sometimes they started that way. A spy drops out of sight. Classified records turn up missing. The authorities in the host country pick up their heads and the hunt begins.
But he hadn't been one hundred percent sure, so he brought Elizabeth into his confidence. She was in the middle of researching her father's old files for his CIA biography, so she had become something of an expert on the subject. Nikolayev was an old man, a name out of the Baranov past. He had been a Department Viktor man, which meant that he knew about ruthlessness. And he was suddenly a loose cannon.
But he had not dropped out of sight inside Russia, something that was apparently quite easy to do these days. He had come to the West, first to establish a safe haven for himself, then to make contact with the CIA. He had used a supposedly anonymous remailer to send a sample of his information to the address that Rencke had provided. But it was just a sample. Tantalizing. A glimpse into Baranov's mind, a mad genius from the past. But useless in terms of finding out who was gunning for McGarvey.
Rencke looked at his hands, which were shaking. He had gone without sleep for a couple of days now, living mostly on Cokes and on black beauties. Another day or so, and he would crash. It was inevitable.
Baranov, according to Nikolayev, had set up Network Martyrs, which was a group of sleeper agents in the States. That had been more than twenty years ago. When the time was right for a particular unit of the network to accomplish its task, he would be awakened.
One of Network Martyrs sleepers had been reactivated. The target was McGarvey.
But after that brief message, Nikolayev no longer responded. He didn't answer his e-mails. Nor did he reply to Rencke's queries at the letter drops in Paris that he had established to initiate the first contact.
It could be something so simple as Nikolayev's own death. Perhaps the SVR had found him after all and put a bullet in his brain. Or perhaps he had died of a heart attack; he was an old man.
The real mystery were the misdirections, if that's what they were. If McGarvey was the target of Network Martyrs, and if the sleeper assassin had been awakened, by whatever means, then why hadn't a simple, straightforward attempt been made on the DCI's life? Why target Otto? Why sabotage Elizabeth's skis in Colorado? And, if the sleeper was a Baranov-trained assassin, why the clumsy attempts on Mac's life in the Virgin Islands and again just hours ago in front of his house?
Were they the missteps of an amateur, Rencke wondered. Or signals that something else was happening. Something that was just outside of his understanding.
Rencke laid his head back. Their ETA was 6:00 A.M., which was 11:00
A.M. in France. Two hours from now. He had time to catch a little sleep. He needed it to keep his head on straight. He was starting to lose track of his logic. Nikolayev's anonymous remailer hadn't been so anonymous after all. The service providers in the Czech Republic were not on the cutting edge. Cracking them had been easy. But not now. He couldn't think straight.
When Otto woke up, the Gulfstream was coming in for a landing at Pontoise Air Force Base outside of Paris. They were far enough north that the winter sun, even at eleven in the morning, was low in the hard blue sky. But unlike Washington there was little or no snow on the ground. France had had a mild winter. Tough on the skiiers, but easy on everyone else.
He popped a black beauty and looked out the window, bleary-eyed, as a dark gray Citröen sedan came across the tarmac and pulled up in front of base operations. When the Gulfstream rolled to a stop and the door was opened, Rencke pulled on his jacket and got his laptop. His head was already beginning to clear, though he felt a little disjointed.
“Get some sleep,” he told the cockpit crew. “We're heading home in a couple of hours.”
“What do we tell the French?” Captain John Brunner asked. He'd been called away from what was supposed to have been an early night. But this was part of his job.
“They won't ask,” Rencke said. “But they'll probably offer you something to eat and a bed at the BOQ. Don't get too comfortable.”
The Citröen's driver came over and took Rencke back to the car. Like all the officers in the
Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionage,
Action Service, the young man was built like a Chicago Bears linebacker.
He politely held the door for Rencke to get in. A man in civilian clothes was waiting in the backseat.
Action Service major Jean Serrou, the man Rencke had contacted yesterday, was not much older than his driver and just as competent-looking.
“M. Rencke, I presume. You had a good flight?”
They shook hands. “Yes, but it was a little long.”
Major Serrou smiled and nodded. “The Aurora is much faster.”
“But not very roomy. I'll be taking him back with me,” Rencke said. “If you've found him.”
“We have,” Serrou said. He motioned for the driver to head out. “He is staying at a small hotel in Olivet, just outside of Orleáns. It is less than one hundred kilometers from here. We can be there within the hour.”
“That is very good work, Major,” Rencke said. He was starting to fly a little.
“It was simple once you told us from where he was sending his computer messages.” This was a back channels request, not an official one, from a high-ranking officer of the American intelligence establishment to the SDECE's Service 5. Not too many questions would be asked. But Serrou did have his people to think about. “Is this the same man the Russians are looking for?”
Rencke nodded. “But they mustn't know that we have found him. Not just yet.”
“He is a very old man then, not very dangerous?”
“Don't underestimate him,” Rencke warned. “I hope that you told this to your operators?”
Serrou smiled knowingly. “They are quite well prepared.” The French Action Service was somewhat like a combination of the British SAS and the American SEALs, with a bit of the FBI thrown in. They were well trained and bright. “But tell me, do you expect any trouble?”
Rencke had thought about that on the flight over. He shook his head. “No. He might even be expecting me. In any event I'll go in alone. On my own responsibility.”
Serrou shrugged. “As you wish.”
OLIVET
They parked at the end of the block one hundred meters from the small five-story Hotel Rivage. It was right on the river, and next door, diners were seated at a very small sidewalk café. The sun was high enough now so that it provided a little warmth.
Rencke was homesick for his life here. He had been lonely, but content and even happy at times in France. Yet he didn't want to be doing anything else, except what he was doing; helping his friends. He had a family now.
“I have two people posted in a third-floor apartment across the street,” Serrou said. “In addition there are three teams of two operators each circulating on the street. On foot, pushing a baby carriage, driving a delivery van. And I have one team on the river aboard a barge.”
Rencke looked sharply at the Frenchman. “That's a bit much for one old man.”
Serrou shrugged. “So was calling us.” He held up a hand before Rencke could comment. “In the old days when you were fighting with the Russians, we French didn't mean much to you. So, correctly, DeGaulle kicked your military asses out of our country. He allowed the CIA to remain, but not
the military. He was a practical president. And now that the Russians threaten only themselves, you still don't think much of us.”
“I have lived here.”
“Yes, and for the most part we had no objections. As long as you did not conduct business on French soil, and as long as you did not endanger French citizens, we were content with your presence. Yours and Kirk McGarvey's.” He held Rencke's gaze. “Now we only wish for the truth sometimes. Even perhaps just a little truth.”
Rencke glanced out the window at the hotel. A young couple was just coming out. The woman pushed a baby carriage. “Someone tried to assassinate our Director of Central Intelligence,” he said. “Once in the Caribbean and once again in front of his own house.”
“This is fantastic.” Serrou pursed his lips. “The Russians searching for Dr. Nikolayev, your bringing the Aurora here, and then your telephone call yesterday all begin to make perfect sense.” He looked down the street. The young couple had disappeared around the corner. “Is he an important man?”
“I think he came to warn us,” Rencke admitted.
“The SVR wants to stop him from telling his story and thus embarrassing Moscow.”
“Something like that.”
“
Oui
,” Serrou said. “So that is why we took this job so seriously. In the end perhaps we will protect him from the Russians.”
“Have there been any signs that they're on to him?” Rencke asked.
“No. But we have our eyes open.” Serrou was assessing Rencke. “Do you still mean to see him alone?”
“I think it's what he wants,” Rencke said. “Has he been out of the hotel?”
“Three times since yesterday. Once for his newspapers this morning—Paris, Washington, and New York—and twice for his meals.”
“He hasn't used the phone, or tried to return to L'Empereur to send another e-mail?”
“Non,”
Serrou said. “He is in three-eleven. At the end of the corridor in front.”
Rencke watched the street for a few seconds. “If he agrees to come with me, we'll need to get back to Pontoise as quickly as possible.”
“We want him out of France. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Rencke mumbled. He got out of the car, crossed the narrow street and walked past the sidewalk café to the hotel. He could smell the river mingled with odors from the restaurant. It was very French.
The concierge and deskman looked up but said nothing as Rencke
crossed the lobby and took the stairs up to the third floor. He had not brought a pistol, but he had brought his laptop. If Nikolayev did not want to come back to Washington, shooting him would do no good. But perhaps he had something else to download from his computer. It is what he had promised at in his first message. There was more.
The third-floor corridor was empty and quiet. Not even the occasional street noise penetrated this far. The air smelled neutral, or perhaps a little musty. Age. The building was probably more than two hundred years old.
Rencke went down the corridor to three-eleven and listened at the door. If there was anyone inside, they were being very quiet. No movement. No sounds whatsoever.
He shifted his laptop to his left hand and knocked. Someone stirred inside, and a moment later the dead bolt was withdrawn and the door opened. A tall man, very old and thin, the skin on his cheeks and around his eyes shiny and papery, like blue-tinged parchment, stood there. He wore gray trousers and an old fisherman's sweater. His thin white hair was mussed, but he did not look surprised.
“Well, you're not a Russian or a Frenchman, which means that you must be Otto Rencke,” Nikolayev said in English. His accent was British, and his voice was whisper-soft, yet Rencke could hear the Russian in him.
“I got your message, Dr. Nikolayev.”
“And you want more. But you wonder why I stopped sending.” Nikolayev turned away from the door and went to a writing table, where his laptop was open and running.
Rencke entered the small room and closed the door, but did not bother locking it. With luck he wouldn't be here long. “Your remailer is not very secure.”
“I discovered that for myself after the fact,” Nikolayev said. He stood with his back to Rencke, looking out the window, watching the comings and goings down on the street. “Once I sent you the first batch of material I got nervous. I sent myself an e-mail, then traced it to where it originated. It was not easy for me, but I did it. So I assumed others could.” He turned around. “I figured that I had a fifty-fifty chance that it would be either you or my own people coming for me. There are still friends in the Czech Republic who cooperate with the SVR.”
“Why didn't you disappear?”
“I was on the verge of it when the French Action Service showed up and threw a cordon around me.” He had a warm smile. “Marvelous young boys. I actually felt safe for the first time since August.”
“Okay. You sent us a message about General Baranov's Network Martyrs. Someone has tried to assassinate McGarvey, so here I am. We need your help.”
A hint of amusement came into Nikolayev's eyes. “It's refreshing for a Russian to hear an American ask for help—”
“Don't jerk me around, Anatoli Nikolaevich,” Rencke said harshly. He tossed his laptop on the bed and brushed the Russian aside so that he could get at his computer. But Nikolayev reached out and touched the escape key, and the screen went blank.
“First we will establish some ground rules, as you call them,” Nikolayev said.
“It'll take me sixty seconds longer without your help than with it to get inside your computer,” Rencke told him. “I've followed you for six months because a very good friend of mine has been put in a dangerous position. I know what you were, who you worked for and why. So don't try to bullshit me. You're shaking in your slippers. First it was Zhuralev in Moscow, then Trofimov in Paris. You're next.”
“You're right, of course,” Nikolayev said softly. He was struggling with himself. Trying to make a decision that made sense. Yet he was a Russian. And that died hard. He took two CDs from the writing table's drawer and gave them to Rencke. “That's everything I found. Where are you at now?”
“I'll look at these on the way back,” Rencke said. “Somebody is trying to kill Kirk McGarvey, and they're not going to quit until they succeed. But a lot of what I've come up with doesn't make any sense yet. It doesn't fit a pattern.”
“Tell me.”
“Okay, so Baranov realized twenty years ago that McGarvey was going to be a somebody if he survived long enough. Baranov was a vain sonofabitch, maybe even nuts, so he put a sleeper in the States, and when the time was right the sleeper would be activated and set up the kill. Well, the time is apparently right, so why hasn't Baranov's sleeper done the job?”
“You said they already tried.”
“But it was crude. Everything I've learned about General Baranov tells me that he was anything but a crude operator. And there have been attempts on my life, and on the lives of McGarvey's wife and daughter and his personal bodyguard.”
“And what conclusions are you drawing?” Nikolayev asked. He was an instructor filled with patience for a student. Rencke didn't mind.
“Everybody suspects everybody else.”
“That isn't so crude,” Nikolayev observed. “It's what Baranov planned to happen. Are you familiar with the Donald Powers operation and the Darby Yarnell files?”
“I've read them.”
“Vasha was famous for spreading lies and disunity like rose petals on fresh graves. He always managed to include the thorns.” Nikolayev studied Rencke for a few moments. “You are close to McGarvey, yet you yourself are a suspect. Isn't that true?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone in his inner circle could be the killer.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps even his son-in-law.”
It was a bridge that Rencke had not wanted to cross. And now that he had he felt no better than he had before. He shook his head. “Todd's too young.”
“Then it's someone else. Maybe the SVR in Washington. Perhaps someone from his past. Someone who twenty years ago might have been a nobody and is now a power in Washington. Or perhaps someone who was a nothing then, and still is a nothing, someone completely out of sight. A janitor, a former lover, a cop with the FBI, an officer inside the CIA.”
“It has to be someone on the inside who knows Mac's movements.”
Nikolayev dismissed the objection. “That kind of information is easy to acquire. The CIA, just like our KGB, is filled with holes like Swiss cheese through which the mice scurry.”
“I wanted to set a trap,” Rencke said bleakly. “But now—”
“But now you're not sure of your information,” Nikolayev said. He glanced out the window again. “Do you know what I did in Department Viktor?”
“You were a psychologist.”
Nikolayev nodded. “I worked on a number of projects in those days with LSD and a dozen other mind-altering drugs. We were trying to perfect the brainwashing techniques that the Chinese had used during the fighting on the Korean peninsula. Deprogramming and reprogramming, mostly. Autohypnosis. Reinforcement. Guilt. Hate. Anger. Gullibility. All the strong human emotions.”
“The CIA tried the same thing, but we dropped it. Supposedly your guys dropped it, too.”
“Everyone except for Vasha. It was to be his ultimate weapon.”
“Did it work?”
Nikolayev cocked his head as if he was listening for something. Perhaps an inner voice. “It worked,” he said. “With drugs we needed only a few days, a week at most, for the conversions. Some religious organizations have come to use almost the same techniques. We found people who were convinced that something was wrong with them. People who were facing what were, to them, troubling and complex problems. We gave them the simple answers they were looking for. We gave them a sense of belonging, of self-worth, of well-being. In return they gave us their free will.”
“Did you have to bring them to Moscow to do it?”
Nikolayev shook his head. “It could be done anywhere. Moscow. Paris. London. Washington.” He looked down. “It took eight steps with drugs. First, seclusion. No one else was with the subject except for their handlers. Second, was instant intimacy. The subject was given a strong sense of hierarchy. Who's the boss. Who's the leader. Who is the one with all the answers. Third, was giving them the instant sense of community. They belonged. Fourth, they were made to feel guilty for everything around them. Fifth, was sensory overload: lights, noise, hot- and cold-water baths, sleep deprivation, hunger, pain. That was the hardest step to accomplish because we were erasing what amounted to the surface manifestations of their personalities. We could never achieve a complete blank slate, we couldn't go that deep. But we could wipe the surface slate clean. Of course that set up a lot of serious problems in the subjects. But it didn't matter to Baranov that we were driving people to the edge of insanity, so long as we accomplished his missions.
“When that was accomplished, the subjects were indoctrinated to our way of thinking, which we tested in steps seven and eight. First they had to appeal to their control officer for something, anything, it didn't matter what. The right to use the toilet, maybe. Then for graduation the subjects would recite their personal testimonies. Who they had become, what their mission was.”
Rencke understood that as smart as he thought he was, he had no answers now. No suggestions. He knew machines, not people. The killers could be anyone. Finding them could be impossible. “That's horrible,” he murmured.
“It's worse than that,” Nikolayev said, his voice whisper-soft. “Monstrously worse, because the subject is never aware that they had been brainwashed.”

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