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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Countdown
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ROLAND MURPHY HAD been in plenty of tough spots in his life, but he'd never been known to walk away from a fight, or hang his head in submission no matter how he had conducted the battle.
This was the day, however, when the shit was very likely to hit the fan. He had taken a calculated risk, and it was about to come back and bite him.
It was just seven-thirty. The president had agreed to see him in his study. He rose from behind his desk when Murphy came
in. He was a large man, who like the general preferred rolled-up shirtsleeves and loosened ties and had some years ago served a brief term as director of the CIA. He was a no-nonsense man. “Harry S told his people that the buck stopped at his desk. I tell mine that this is where the bullshit stops!”
“We have a developing problem on our hands, Mr. President, that could turn into something very political.”
“You wouldn't be here at this hour of the evening if it wasn't serious, General,” the president said wryly. “Coffee?”
“I'd prefer something a little stronger this time.”
The president's thick eyebrows rose. “This
is
serious,” he said. He poured them both a good measure of Jack Daniel's.
Murphy knocked his back, set the glass down, and then extracted a group of satellite reconnaissance photographs from his briefcase and laid them out on the desk.
The president set his whiskey aside, picked up a large magnifying glass, and hunched over the photographs, studying each one carefully. “En Gedi?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. These were taken shortly after midnight, local time. They showed up on my desk an hour ago.”
“They're having another alert over there?”
“Someone may have been injured. That's an ambulance at the main gate in the first frames. It headed for the dispensary, but then made a turn and went back across the facility, entering what we have been identifying to this point as a warehouse.”
“To this point?” the president asked.
“We now believe that the building may contain something else. Something that might point to another purpose for the facility's existence.”
“Namely as a weapons depot?”
“We now believe that is very likely.”
“The Russians know about it, as well, otherwise they wouldn't have pulled that jackass missile stunt,” the president said, shaking his head. “You know, General, I've been behind this desk for one hundred sixty-three days, but it only took half that long for me to lose my capacity for surprise.” He glanced down at the photographs. “This is no coincidence.”
“No, sir, it is not,” Murphy said. “But I'm afraid I've made a mistake that could cost us.”
“Welcome to the club,” the president said not unkindly. “What sort of a mess have we gotten ourselves into this time?”
Murphy extracted a thin, buff-colored file folder from his briefcase. It was stamped top and bottom Top Secret, a pair of orange stripes diagonally across the cover, beneath which was stamped the legend: STANDHOPE. He passed it across to the president, who made no immediate move to open it.
“We believe that the previous En Gedi incident may have involved a penetration of the facility by the Russians, which led them to hijack the Pershing.”
“Yes, we've gone over that.”
“We also have very good reason to believe that the Russians have a knowledgeable source within the Pentagon. Someone who would have had the data about the Pershing's Radar Area Guidance system.”
“The one you are calling FELIKS.”
“Yes, sir,” Murphy said, girding himself. “But the impetus for our investigation is and always has been whether or not the Israelis are in actuality maintaining a stockpile of battle-ready nuclear weapons. At En Gedi, or anywhere else for that matter.”
“Your rationale for believing that Valentin Baranov is personally involved.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“He brought down your predecessor. Is this a vendetta?”
“No, Mr. President, it certainly is not,” Murphy said, careful to keep his voice as inflectionless as possible, letting the meaning of his words convey his anger.
“Sorry, Roland,” the president said. “But get on with it.”
“We need to know what is going on at En Gedi.”
“You have sent someone there?” the president asked sharply. “And you think he has been arrested?” He glanced again at the photographs.
“It's most likely that he has been arrested, yes, Mr. President.”
The president stared long and hard at him. But when Murphy started to say something, the president shook his head. “Wait.”
He put on his glasses, opened the STANDHOPE file, and began reading. It took him less than five minutes; like Jack Kennedy, he was a speed reader. When he looked up and took off his glasses, there was an angry set to his mouth.
“Yes, General,” he said. “You definitely have made a mistake. I would never have authorized this.”
“Then we would have been stopped in our tracks. Baranov is almost certainly going to try again.” Murphy had decided that no matter what happened he was not going to back down. Presidents came and went, the problems remained. If he wanted the resignation of his DCI, he would have it, but Murphy was not going to cower.
“I could have your ass for this,” the president said coldly. “But I'm probably just as guilty. I should have telephoned Peres and told him about the Pershing. So you see, General, you are not the only one to make a mistake.”
No answer was expected.
“What do we do about it, Roland?”
“I need your authority to call Isser Shamir and tell him what we know,” Murphy said.
“The timing is off, he'll know that.”
“I'll lie. We weren't certain until this moment.”
“You want him to release McGarvey, a lone ranger who is in possession of Israel's most vital state secret?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why should he do that for us?”
“Because of Baranov's continued threat. We mean to set McGarvey after FELIKS with the hope that it will force Baranov's hand and pull Arkady Kurshin out of hiding. At the very least it may delay another strike against En Gedi, possibly giving the Israelis enough time to move their weapons.”
“You'll invite the Mossad to participate in this investigation?” the president asked.
“Naturally,” Murphy said, although until this moment the thought hadn't occurred to him.
“We have our sensitive secrets as well, Roland,” the president said with a dangerous edge to his voice.
“It will be a tightly controlled operation.”
The president closed the STANDHOPE file and sat back in his chair. He finished his drink. “McGarvey was involved with Baranov the last time, wasn't he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Baranov would naturally have a grudge against him.”
Murphy nodded.
“If the Russians succeed this time the entire Middle East could fall. At the very least the entire region would become embroiled in an all-out war.” The president gathered up the photographs and STANDHOPE file and handed them back to Murphy. “You have my authorization, Roland. Make your call to Shamir. Let's just hope that this doesn't blow up too badly, because a lot of people will start getting killed.”
Isser Shamir was an extremely early riser. Murphy knew that for a fact. The two of them went way back together, and when they'd both been promoted to head their respective secret intelligence services, they had continued their warm relationship. Shamir had even been Murphy's house guest on a visit to Washington a few years ago. He was up every morning before five, making his own tea and then taking a long walk.
Even so, Murphy held off calling until well after ten o'clock, making it after six in the morning in Tel Aviv. He wanted Shamir to be well rested and wide awake.
He telephoned Shamir's blind number. The director of the Mossad answered on the first ring, and Murphy would forever be left with the impression that the man had been waiting for the call.
“Do you know who this is?” Murphy asked.
“Yes,” Shamir answered.
“Let's go over.”
In this instance, the Israelis were using American-made telephone encryption equipment, as they had begun to do nearly ten years ago, like the secret services of a half-dozen other allies.
“Good morning, Isser,” Murphy said when the switch had been made. “Can you hear me all right?”
“Yes, just fine, General. How is the weather in Washington?”
“It's warming up.”
Shamir chuckled. “Here as well.”
There was no doubt in either man's mind that they were speaking about the same subject, and it wasn't the weather.
“There has been another incident at En Gedi,” Murphy said.
“We were hoping for cloud cover, but then we cannot have everything.”
“I'd like to propose a trade,” Murphy said, getting right to it.
“Yes, I am listening.”
“I will give you some information, and then you will give me something of equal importance.” At this point there was no ironclad guarantee that McGarvey had been arrested, or, if he had that he was still alive. But all the signs pointed toward something happening out there at the same time Lorraine Abbott had said he was there. If there was one thing Murphy did not believe in, it was coincidences.
“We always appreciate anything that you can do for us,” Shamir said noncommittally.
“You were aware, of course, of our recent troubles in West Germany involving a nuclear-armed Pershing missile.”
“Of course.”
“We've just learned that the rocket had been reprogrammed. Its target, which it would have almost certainly reached had it actually been launched, was En Gedi.”
“I see,” Shamir said, and even in those two words Murphy could hear the man's surprise.
“The man who stopped the launch, at great risk to his life, was one of our people.”
“A true hero.”
“His name is Kirk McGarvey. And at this moment he is there in Israel.”
“Yes, we know this.”
“We need him back in Washington, Isser.”
“What is he doing here, General?” Shamir asked pointedly.
It was time now, Murphy thought. To every operation came moments of truth, sometimes so stunning they seemed larger than life.
“We
know,
Isser. He was sent to confirm …”
“To spy on Israel, is that what you are telling me? Is that what you meant to say? Is that exactly your meaning now?”
“Let's stop screwing around,” Murphy snapped. “Here is the deal.”
“I'm listening.”
“The Russians broke in out there and almost certainly know what's going on. It's the only reason they would have gone to such extraordinary lengths, to steal a Pershing and reprogram it. The operation is, we believe, being handled by Valentin Baranov, and he won't stop, you know this. We also believe that he has an agent highly placed within the Pentagon. We would like McGarvey back here to find him. We would be willing, under the circumstances, to make this a joint operation. It would be to both our interests.”
The line was silent.
“Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, General,” Shamir said distantly. “I will have to take this up with my … superiors. I assume you have or will be doing the same?”
“The president is waiting for a call from Mr. Peres, if it comes to that. But I believe we can handle this among ourselves.”
“I will see what can be done,” Shamir said. “But there will be at least one condition that we will insist upon. The NPT must be kept out of this. Completely.”
“I don't understand …”
“Dr. Abbott was arrested earlier this morning by AMAN on a charge of espionage.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Murphy swore softly.
“If you say so,” Shamir said.
THE ROOM WAS LARGE, the bare walls and ceiling whitewashed, the floors tiled so that sounds seemed sharp and angular. McGarvey sat in a chair in the middle of the room. His five interrogators sat behind or perched on the edge of a long table, facing him.
It was dawn finally and his head was splitting. He suspected they were in a Mossad safehouse somewhere in or near Tel Aviv. From time to time he could hear the sounds of traffic, and once he thought he might have heard a ship's whistle from a long way off.
Lev Potok got up and came over to McGarvey. He had been the toughest of the interrogators, his face was now screwed up in a grimace of disgust. “You are an assassin, McGarvey, this much we know for certain. What we would like to know is who you planned on killing out there.”
“No one,” McGarvey said softly, relaxing, saving his strength. By now Lorraine Abbott would have realized that something had gone wrong and would have called the general.
“Then what were you doing out there with an NPT identification badge and a gun? Can you tell me this?”
“Not yet,” McGarvey replied, giving the same answer he'd given all night. It would be up to the Agency to decide what to tell the Israelis. He had gotten the information they'd wanted.
“Not yet,” Potok said. “It is a bullshit answer. What does this mean?”
“You'll find out in due course.”
Potok suddenly swung around and slapped McGarvey in the face with his open hand, the blow rocking McGarvey backward, nearly tipping the chair over.
“Talk to me, you bastard, or you'll never leave this room alive,” Potok shouted.
McGarvey shook his head to clear the fuzziness. He reached up with his right hand and touched his upper lip. His fingers came away bloody.
“I'll tell you this much,” he said. “If you do that again,
you
won't leave this room alive.”
Potok wanted to come after him, McGarvey could see that much in his eyes. But there was something else there as well, and it wasn't fear.
“Lev,” one of the men at the table said gently.
Potok turned away and went back to the table, where he hesitated for a moment, but then turned around again to face McGarvey. He leaned against the table.
“We know quite a bit about you, McGarvey,” the Israeli said, calm again for the moment. “For instance, we know that you once worked for the CIA, and that you were, until a couple of years ago, in retirement in Switzerland. What has happened since?”
“I moved to Paris.”
“Yes, and what were you doing in Germany just last week?”
McGarvey said nothing.
Potok shook his head. “We have reason to suspect that the Pershing missile which you so valiantly disarmed was aimed at us. For that we thank you. We are not the enemy.”
“If you know or have guessed that much, then you know that I'm not the enemy either.”
“Then why did you come to Israel, Mr. McGarvey? You came to spy, I think, and not to kill anyone. But why? Are you a free lance these days, or has the CIA rehired you?”
“I can't tell you that yet.”
Potok threw up his hands in disgust. “You are treading on exceedingly dangerous grounds with us. In Israel we shoot spies.”
“We might have to start shooting yours then as well,” McGarvey retorted. It had been Israel's big embarrassment that their operation to steal U.S. cruise missile plans had been discovered by the FBI. It had been called a “maverick” operation by Jerusalem, a statement that no one believed, but that everyone could live with.
Potok was getting worked up again. “Everybody out of the room,” he ordered.
The others looked up at him in surprise.
“We can't do that, Lev,” one of them said.
“That's a direct order, Abraham; you know what's at stake here. Out. All of you!”
The man started to say something in Hebrew, but Potok cut him off.
“Now!” he shouted.
“All right,” the man said, and he got up and left the room with the other three without a backward glance.
When the door closed Potok managed a tight little smile. He reached over and shut off the tape recorder. “Now it is just you and I.”
McGarvey did not want to hurt the man who was only doing his job the best he knew how. His back was against the wall. Twice in barely a week Israel's most important secret had been compromised. First by the Russians and now by the CIA. But
McGarvey wasn't going to simply sit back and take whatever the Mossad wanted to do to him. He tensed.
“Tell me about your relationship with Dr. Abbott, are you fucking her?” Potok asked, the question completely unexpected.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“She was under surveillance. When you and she pulled your little trick so that you could break out, she was arrested. Right now her main concern seems to be your well-being.”
McGarvey was careful to show no reaction. Had she had the time to call the general? If not, it would be up to Trotter to realize that something had gone wrong and to blow the whistle. But that could take time.
“She has nothing to do with this,” he said.
“Ah, your concern is equally touching. But the fact of the matter is that she does have something very much to do with this. Enough for our charge of espionage against her to stick in court. But I asked you a question. Are you fucking her?”
“Up your ass.”
Potok snatched up a pistol from the table and pointed it directly at McGarvey's head. “One question. Yes or no?”
“You will have a hard time justifying my death, Major Potok,” McGarvey said, revealing for the first time that he knew who and what Potok was.
“You were shot trying to escape.”
“No,” McGarvey said. He folded his hands on his lap and crossed his legs.
Potok cocked the pistol's hammer, his aim never wavering. “How does it feel to have the tables reversed, assassin? No one will mourn your passing, I think.”
The door opened. Potok's gaze shifted beyond McGarvey. Liebowitz said something in Hebrew, his tone definitely urgent.
Potok seemed to waver.
Liebowitz said something else.
Slowly Potok's gun hand came down. He uncocked the pistol, looked bleakly at McGarvey for several long seconds, and then left the room.
Potok sat in stunned silence across the desk from Isser Shamir. What he had just been told confirmed their worst fears and suspicions. The Russians definitely knew about En Gedi and they were going to destroy the place at all costs. June thirtieth was the date.
“As I said before, Israel is in a delicate position,” Shamir continued. “We cannot bring diplomatic pressures to bear without admitting the truth.”
“All the work … all the years, the security.”
Shamir shook his leonine head, his eyes sad. “Haven't you learned by now that trying to hold a secret is more difficult than trying to hold water in your hands? Ultimately impossible.”
“Then the weapons must be moved.”
“I agree. But this will take time, which you and Mr. McGarvey will provide for us.”
Potok sat forward. “What?”
“The Russians apparently have a source within the Pentagon, someone the CIA has code-named FELIKS. You and Mr. McGarvey are going to return to Washington to find this leak and plug it.”
Potok was shaking his head in disbelief. “I don't understand …”
“The information that the Russians needed to reprogram the Pershing missile to strike En Gedi came from this Pentagon source.”
“Surely they won't try to steal another missile,” Potok argued. “Every American installation in the world will be watching for just such an attempt.”
“Perhaps you are right, Lev, perhaps not. The real issue, however, is somewhat more complicated. Valentin Baranov has planned this strike. Your Mr. McGarvey stopped him two years ago. Once he learns that McGarvey is again trying to interfere with one of his operations, the Russians will almost certainly go after him.”
“He will be a marked man.”
“Yes, but a man not to be underestimated. Once the Russians are drawn out, it will be up to the two of you to stop them.”
“I'm to work with him, then?”
“For him,” Shamir corrected. “It is a strange world, isn't it?”
Kurshin could hardly believe his ears. He was seated in the embassy's basement communications room where he had come to find out about the American bitch, Lorraine Abbott, and now he was being told that she and McGarvey had left Israel.
“You are sure?” he asked.
“Yes, Comrade,” Piotrovsky said. “I watched them board the flight for Paris.”
Why? Kurshin asked himself. First McGarvey had disappeared. Then the woman had been arrested, and now the two of them were on their way to Paris. It made no sense.
“Can you get aboard that flight?”
“No.”
“Then we will have lost them!” Kurshin screamed.
“Pardon me, Comrade, but we do have resources in Paris. It should be a simple matter to trail them from there.”
The bastard was correct, of course. But Kurshin still could not get rid of the vision of McGarvey pulling the Pershing's plugs, just as he might have unplugged a night light.
They were not going to Paris, though. It was just a way point for them. Kurshin was almost one hundred percent convinced they were returning to Washington.
“Make certain they do not go into Paris. They'll probably be switching planes. For Washington. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Comrade.”
“Once they have left French soil your job will be done.”
Kurshin slammed down the telephone. Within twenty-four hours, forty-eight at the most, they would be dead. Both of them. He would see to it himself.

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