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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Countdown
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IT HAD BEEN A long time since McGarvey had been to the headquarters building. The last time he'd left in disgrace and had packed himself off to Switzerland. It was odd coming back like this.
Driving up the broad road from the main gate where Trotter had left him a grounds pass, he could see that the new section of the main building had been completed. The Russians, it was said, were adding on to their Foreign Operations Building on the Circumferential Highway outside of Moscow. When that building had been constructed in 1972 it had been a nearly
exact copy of CIA headquarters. It was a safe bet that their new addition would closely resemble the CIA's. Spying was a big business, and the KGB admired the Americans' way of doing it.
He parked the Taurus in the visitors' lot and walked across to the main entrance of the building, where he signed in and was searched with a metal detector.
Trotter himself came down a couple of minutes later to fetch him. “Has she settled down?” he asked on the way up to the seventh floor.
“She's still grumbling, but she's beginning to understand. How about O'Sheay—do you think he'll blow the whistle?”
“No,” Trotter said.
McGarvey hadn't thought so either. The man had been cowed. But they had probably made some sort of a deal with him. After all, his job in a large measure depended on National Security Agency spy satellites. The NPT Inspection Service would be hard pressed to do without the KH-11.
“How about her computer?”
“Barker will have it to her by this afternoon. We're just waiting for some of her research materials to come in from California.” Trotter looked at him. “She'll be all right out there, Kirk.”
“Any word on Kurshin?”
“No, he's gone to ground again.”
“If he's found out about her, he might try something.”
“That's why you're here,” Trotter said.
“We want him to come to Washington, after me.”
“Which he will do, once you start poking around Baranov's main source.”
“He's pretty good, John.”
“Yes he is, but now we know his target.”
“And he knows that we know,” McGarvey said.
They had to sign in with the seventh-floor security people, where they were again subjected to a metal detector search before they were allowed across the corridor and through the glass doors into the huge outer office of the CIA's director.
Lawrence Danielle was just coming from his office adjacent to the general's, a pleasantly neutral expression on his face when he spotted McGarvey.
“Hello, Kirk. Welcome back.”
They shook hands. Danielle had headed the review board which had recommended McGarvey's dismissal. McGarvey was surprised at his own self-control now. He had done a lot of thinking, though, and years ago he had come to the conclusion that it had been time for him to get out anyway. It didn't matter that Danielle had made the decision for him.
“This go-around it's just a part-time job.”
“Yes, well, they're waiting for us inside.”
The DCI's secretary buzzed them through and they went into the general's vast office with its magnificent view of the rolling hills to the southwest. Howard Ryan and another man were seated across from Murphy, who rose from behind his massive desk.
“Kirk McGarvey, I assume,” the general said.
“Yes, sir,” McGarvey said, crossing the room and shaking his hand.
“I don't believe you've met Phil Carrara, our deputy director of operations.”
“No,” McGarvey said.
Carrara got to his feet and they shook hands. “A hell of a job you did for us in Germany,” he said.
“I had help.”
“Yes, it's too bad about Jim Hunte. He was a good man from what I understand.”
“Yes, he was.”
“I believe you know Howard Ryan, our general counsel,” the general said.
Ryan didn't bother to rise nor did McGarvey even look at him. “Yes, sir, we've met.”
In the awkward silence that followed, Murphy waved them to the three vacant chairs. It was an odd little group, McGarvey thought. But then the need-to-know list for this operation would have to be kept very small. Washington was a town filled with ears, and Baranov had his share of them. A basic assumption of every secret intelligence service was that the enemy almost certainly had his own people on the payroll. Not very often the Kim Philbys, but certainly the odd reader or analyst here and there. Ultra-sensitive operations of necessity were often top-heavy with brass.
“I've read John's overnight report, which included Dr. Abbott's assessment of what you found at En Gedi,” the general said. “And I think we're all agreed here—and the president concurs—that the Israelis do have battle-ready nuclear weapons, that they are stored beneath En Gedi, and that the Russians know about it and will certainly make their next attempt to destroy the facility on June thirtieth. That gives us eleven days.”
The date was something new. But McGarvey kept a poker face. “Not enough time for the Israelis to move the depot and maintain any kind of security.”
“No, nor have they confirmed or denied the real purpose of En Gedi. I have spoken with Isser Shamir, and the president with Prime Minister Peres. They're angry, of course, that you got as far as you did, but when we explained our position—fully explained it—they agreed to your release. Contingent on two things.”
“The first would be that the NPT Inspection Service was to be cut out of the deal,” McGarvey said. “What about the second?”
“That you're to have help on this one,” the general said. He glanced at Trotter.
“Mossad?”
“Yes,” the general said. “I want you to understand something up front, McGarvey. I think you handled Germany brilliantly, but I think you fucked up at En Gedi. It was a damned fool stunt that could have gotten you killed, and certainly pissed off our only ally in the Middle East who is worth a damn.”
“I got what I was sent to get,” McGarvey said. He'd expected the little morality speech.
“I also want you to understand that the reason your name came up in the first place was because of the way you handled yourself two years ago.”
McGarvey leaned forward. “Let's cut the bullshit, Mr. Director,” he said. “We all know why I've been brought back into the fold. I'm to be used as bait for Baranov and his trigger man, Arkady Kurshin.”
Ryan started to say something, and Danielle was hiding a little grin, but the general held them off.
“All right, we'll cut the bullshit, McGarvey. You make me nervous, and it's not because you're a maverick who wants to
do things his own way, but because you are an assassin. Very probably you are unbalanced, and certainly you are dangerous.”
“You're most likely right, General, but at the moment I'm needed,” McGarvey said, surprised at the hurt he was feeling. This was like coming back from Vietnam all over again. He touched his face, remembering the spit.
“Yes, you are. But if you want out you have my word that no one on this side of the Atlantic will ever bother you again.”
“I'm along for the ride.”
“Why?” Murphy asked him point-blank.
Why indeed, McGarvey wondered. He didn't know, it was as simple as that. Or was it? What
did
he believe in? Truth, he supposed. Justice, though he hadn't seen much of it in his life. Honor? Was that it?
“It's a job,” he finally said.
The general grunted. He tossed a fat file folder across the desk to McGarvey.
“We want you to find FELIKS for us, and we hope your doing so will draw Arkady Kurshin out of hiding before the thirtieth. He'll try to kill you, of course. We want you to kill him first.”
“And afterward?” McGarvey asked, not yet reaching for the file.
“Go back where you came from.”
 
Carrara, who had done most of the actual briefing on the FELIKS file, rode down to Operations on the third floor with Trotter and McGarvey.
“There has already been a lot of fallout on this one,” he said. “NATO has been raising hell about our security, and the president has a tight lid on the entire mess. And it's a mess. We're all under a lot of pressure here. With the addition of the Israelis, it's made things doubly difficult.”
“It's the business,” McGarvey said, getting him off the hook for the general's comments.
“Yes. John will take it from here. He'll set up your cutout procedures and security arrangements. Good luck.”
“Yeah,” McGarvey said. “Thanks.”
“He's a good man,” Trotter said as Carrara headed down the corridor to his own office.
McGarvey turned to him. “They all are,” he said. “Or at least most of them start that way.”
“I'm sorry about upstairs …”
“Don't be, John. Murphy knows what he's talking about. Possibly the only man in this town who does. Nothing has changed.”
Trotter just shook his head.
“Let's go meet my Mossad partner, maybe he'll be willing to tell me how we've suddenly come up with such a specific date.”
“Not here. From this point on we're keeping both of you at arm's length from the Agency. Murphy's orders. We've got a place set up for you in Georgetown. It should be okay for a few days, maybe longer. At least we've got secure phone lines in and out.”
“Anything on the opposition yet?”
“No, but watch yourself.”
“Are you coming over?”
“No. But I'll give you a contact number and physical handover procedures.”
“They'll try again.”
“No doubt of it, Kirk, no doubt whatsoever. Just take care of yourself, and when it's over I'll see that you're treated right. I promise you that, Kirk. I swear to God.”
“Sure,” McGarvey said.
THE SAFEHOUSE WAS A three-story brownstone a couple of blocks from Georgetown University in a nondescript but obviously expensive neighborhood.
McGarvey had parked his car by the Naval Observatory and had taken a cab past the place, watching for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. But he had seen nothing. Still, his instincts were telling him that Kurshin was very near. He could almost taste it in the air.
Paranoia? he wondered. With age and experience sometimes
comes overcaution. He was back on the hunt, and only Trotter, it seemed, was minding his back door. And exactly what
fallout
had Carrara been talking about? As with every operation he'd been involved in, the unanswered questions were a legion in the beginning, among them the participation of the Mossad.
“We're helping them out, Kirk. Naturally they'd insist on inserting one of their own people into the operation,” Trotter had explained.
“We're talking about a Soviet penetration agent somewhere within the Pentagon. That covers a lot of territory.”
Trotter had nodded glumly. “We all know it, but your arrest put us against the wall.”
McGarvey said nothing.
“It'll be up to you to see that they don't get into too much mischief …”
“For Christ's sake, John, we've been around too long for that kind of crap. Talk to me. Murphy must have safeguards.”
“Yes, he does.”
“If they get in my way someone could get hurt.”
“I know,” Trotter said. “In this my hands are practically tied, Kirk. I'll do what I can to keep them off your back, but when it gets down to the last analysis, it'll be up to you to make peace with the Mossad.”
McGarvey hadn't bothered asking what he'd meant by that; he figured he'd be finding out soon enough.
He got his car from the Naval Observatory, parked it on a narrow side street a block away from the safehouse, and went the rest of the way on foot, reasonably certain, at least for the moment, that he had not been followed.
Mounting the steps at three in the afternoon, McGarvey had the impression that he was passing from one time zone into another, and no matter what had come before, once he crossed the threshold there would be no turning back.
He let himself into the stairhall and stood in the shadows for a few moments listening to the sounds of the house. They would be alone, Trotter had assured him. “Complete privacy. Hash out whatever it is you two have to hash out there, inside the safehouse, away from prying eyes and ears, and then do your job.”
Lev Potok, wearing khaki trousers and a light V-neck sweater, appeared at the head of the stairs.
“You,” McGarvey said, once again amazed at his own self-control.
“There's some cold beer up here. I think you and I are going to have to get some things straight between us before we get started.”
“You bet,” McGarvey growled, starting up the stairs.
He followed Potok down the hall into the long, narrow living room, with large bowed windows that looked down on the street. A white noise generator had been attached to the windowpanes so that conversations could not be picked up from outside.
“When did you get to Washington?” McGarvey asked.
“Last night.”
“Have you been briefed?”
Potok had stepped into the small utility kitchen. He came back with two beers, handing one to McGarvey.
“Yes. I was allowed to read the FELIKS file.” He shook his head. “This man has been very damaging to you, I think. And to us.”
“Who briefed you?”
“Howard Ryan. He is your Agency's general counsel, I believe …”
“I know the man,” McGarvey said. He went to the window, parted the curtains, and looked down at the street. Normal traffic, nothing out of the ordinary, but there was something. “Who knows you're here?”
“The prime minister. My boss. A few people in travel and historical section …”
“And the Russians.”
Potok started to object, but then he nodded. “You are probably correct.”
“Your service is just like any other …”
“You've made your point,” Potok said. “But before we start, let me apologize for … Lod.”
“You were doing your job.”
“Yes. But would you have tried to kill me had I slapped you a second time?”
McGarvey turned away from the window where he had been studying the Israeli's reflection in the glass. “Yes.”
Whether it was the answer Potok had expected or not, it didn't show on his face. “I see.”
“Like you said, we've got a few things to get straight between us. You are working for me on this project. I won't lie to you, nor will you lie to me. The first time it happens, I'll have your ass on a plane back to Israel.”
“Fair enough, within certain limitations,” the Israeli said cautiously.
“Whatever your instructions were, the Pentagon will not be a Mossad supermarket.”
“Understood.”
McGarvey stared at him for several long seconds, trying to work out in his own mind exactly how he felt about working with the man. He was a professional, otherwise he wouldn't have been sent here. Was that enough?
“We have a lot of ground to cover,” McGarvey said. “I'm going to ask you a question, for which you'll give me the truth. And then you can ask me a question, which I will answer truthfully.”
Potok nodded, the caution still in his eyes.
“There was an incident at En Gedi, which the NPT investigated. It was picked up by our KH-11 surveillance satellite. We believe that the Soviets penetrated you. Is this correct?”
“Yes. His name was Benjamin Rothstein.”
“Where is he now? Do you have him?”
“He is dead. Where is Dr. Abbott at this moment?”
“In a CIA safehouse about fifty miles from here. The NPT has been cut out of this operation until it's over. At that time it'll be up to the politicians to negotiate some sort of a deal.” McGarvey had perched on the edge of the couch. “We know what is stored at En Gedi.”
Potok's jaw tightened.
“Now, tell me exactly what happened out there with Rothstein. I want to know everything.”
The Israeli glanced at the windows. “If I cannot?” he asked.
“Then our association ends here and now. I won't work with you.”
“Is this place bugged?”
“I was told it was not.”
“Did you believe them?”
McGarvey shrugged. It was hard sometimes to know exactly what he believed. “I don't think either of us has much choice. They know a hell of a lot more than they've told either of us. But we've got a job to do.”
“Yes,” Potok said. “We have a job to do and it will not be pleasant. Nor do we have much time.”
“No.”
“We were penetrated twice,” Potok said. “The first time by Rothstein, who was almost definitely a Russian, and by a nuclear technician named Simon Asher.”
“Rothstein was in the vault? He saw the weapons?”
Potok was very uncomfortable. “Yes. He managed to get clear of the base, and we think that he managed to call his contact with the information.”
“What about Asher, did he escape as well?”
“No. Nor have we found a Russian connection yet. In fact, he was born in New York City and educated here in the States.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died of radiation poisoning,” Potok said. “Our scientists say that he was attempting to install an … initiator into one of the weapons. But he made a mistake, spilled radioactive material, and died.”
“When did this happen?”
“At the same moment Rothstein was in the vault.”
“That doesn't make any sense,” McGarvey said half to himself. What the hell was he being told? “If Rothstein was working for the Russians, to confirm the existence of your weapons stockpile, then why was Asher down there trying to destroy the place?” He looked up. “That's what he was trying to do, wasn't it?”
“Yes. Maybe it was a safeguard. The Pershing missile would be sent if Asher had failed. But …”
“What?” McGarvey said, sitting forward.
“We have been monitoring the telephone lines from the Hungarian Embassy for some time now. We have a new technique that allows us to do this without being detected, no matter how
sophisticated their telephone equipment is. There were a series of telephone calls between the Soviet Interests section of the embassy and a man we arrested a few days ago. They discussed the failure in Germany, and they said that another attempt would be made on June thirtieth.”
It was the date, finally.
“What about this man?”
“His name was Viktor Voronsky. A KGB field officer who had until a few months ago been seen in Damascus. It is possible that he was Rothstein's contact.”
“He's dead?”
“Unfortunately. He committed suicide. But, no mention was made of Asher's attempt to destroy the facility.”
McGarvey nodded. “Then something else is going on. But it's Baranov. It's the way he works.”
“My turn,” Potok said. “There were three men who hijacked your Pershing missile.”
“Arkady Kurshin, whose file I've brought for you. He managed to escape. And it'll be he who is going to make the next attempt. Ivan Yegorov, who I killed. And an East German rocket scientist by the name of Dieter Schey.”
“What happened to him?”
“He'd been shot in the head, probably by Kurshin, and left there to die. We have him here in Washington. He's alive, but not conscious.”
Potok's mind was racing, McGarvey could see it in his expression. “In order to get to Arkady Kurshin we must uncover FELIKS.”
“Who almost certainly is Baranov's source for technical information,” McGarvey said. “Of the sort Kurshin would have needed to operate the missile.”
“Information that their
East German
rocket scientist needed to operate the missile,” Potok took the thought a step forward. “If we therefore make an announcement that Dieter Schey is alive and well, angry that his own people left him for dead, and that he is willing to cooperate with us in naming his Pentagon source, Kurshin will come after him. Schey will be the bait.”
“Something like that,” McGarvey said. “But there's more.”
“Yes?”
“Kurshin will be coming here to kill me as well.”
“Why?”
“I stopped him in Germany.”
“There's more?”
Again McGarvey nodded. “It's a long story, Lev, one I'm going to have to tell you on the run. But it goes directly back to Baranov. The man has got a price on my head.”
The four-seat Ranger helicopter came in low from the southwest for the third time in the past half hour. FBI agent Tom Sills watched it through binoculars from the edge of the clearing by the driveway. He could see the pilot and three other men, one of whom had a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes.
Sills keyed his walkie-talkie. “Goddamnit, it's the same bird. Have we gotten anything out of the FAA yet?”
“Just got off the blower with them,” Bert Langerford radioed from the house. “Registered to Bekins Real Estate Company out of Alexandria.”
“Well, I don't like it.”
“They're showing property, Tom. Do it all the time.”
“I said I don't like it,” Sills barked. “On this pass the sonofabitches were scoping us. Call operations and have them send a couple of men over to Alexandria—wherever that chopper took off from—and check these guys out.”
“Christ, we're supposed to be keeping this low-key.”
“Do it now, Bert, goddamnit!” Sills snapped. He laid the walkie-talkie down and watched the helicopter as it disappeared to the northeast. He had been a field agent for a long time, long enough to trust his hunches. And he had a bad feeling about this one.

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