Authors: David Hagberg

Countdown (22 page)

BOOK: Countdown

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MCGARVEY STOOD ON A windswept rocky promontory looking out across the azure Aegean Sea toward the mainland fifty miles to the northwest. He was winded and sweating under the fierce Greek summer sun and the breeze felt good on his legs and bare torso.

He was running five miles a day now, up and down the craggy paths around the tiny rock-strewn island. A dozen families of Greek fishermen lived in a tiny village on the north side of the island, leaving him in relative isolation on the south side where he had taken up residence in an abandoned lighthouse.

For the past few days he had known that someone would be coming. He had felt it in his bones. It was a common feeling for him, which had saved his life on more than one occasion. He had picked out the small hydrofoil boat while it was still eight or ten miles out, by its long, creamy wake. Now it was barely a mile off the ancient stone dock in the village below. He had been brought here to this island the same way a month ago, and now someone was coming to him.

Unconsciously he touched the healing scar on the small of his back to the right of his spine. Kurshin's bullet had destroyed one of his kidneys and it had been removed that night in the Bethesda Naval Hospital. He had nearly bled to death on the operating table, and still a weakness would come over him at the odd moment.

But he had been lucky, once again. How long would that hold?

Turning, he started down from the crest of the hill toward the lighthouse two miles away, running lightly so as not to jar his back, but easily because it felt good to be alive and functioning again.

At first an old woman had come up from the village to help tend to his wound and cook his meals. But after the first week he had hiked across the island, showing up at the small taverna. After that he had been left alone; going into the village only once a week for food, newspapers, and other supplies.

A week ago the doctor from Siros on his monthly rounds had come up to see him, pronouncing him reasonably fit for light exercise. But by then he had already been running every day.

The lighthouse was perched on a sheer cliff that dropped ninety feet to the sea. A narrow path led to a stone bridge across to it.

Inside, McGarvey wiped off his face with a towel, and in his bedroom pulled out his Walther automatic, checked its action, and went back outside, across the bridge, and up the path beyond where it branched off toward the village.

It was just noon, and his stomach was rumbling. With all his work, and the fresh sea air and his daily swims before dinner, he had built up a healthy appetite. But who was coming? Only a very few people knew where he had been taken. But as on
that night at the hospital, he had the feeling that Kurshin had another source of information. Someone other than FELIKS in the Pentagon. Someone in the Agency.

He climbed farther up the hill where he took up a position from which he could see the village path. By now the hydrofoil would have landed, and if someone were coming up here to him, they would be showing up at any moment.

Paranoia, the thought came to him as it often had over the past few years. Mistrust. Suspicion. Once he'd thought he knew something about honor, but in this business the opposite seemed true just as often.

A lone figure appeared at the crest of the hill and started down the long side, moving slowly, awkwardly. He was dressed in dark slacks and a light-colored shirt, but it wasn't until he got a little closer that McGarvey could see he walked with a limp and was using a cane. He knew who it was.

Stuffing the pistol in the waistband of his shorts, he scrambled down the hill and went back up to the path. Trotter was just coming around the corner, and he stopped as McGarvey came up.

“I saw the boat coming in, but I didn't know who it was,” McGarvey said.

Trotter's eyes went to the pistol. He nodded. “How are you doing, Kirk?”

“Better. You?”

“They gave me a plastic hip. We'll see how it turns out.” Trotter glanced up toward the lighthouse. “Anyway, I'll be back in the office on Monday.”

“There's been nothing in the papers about En Gedi.”

“No,” Trotter said. He nodded toward the lighthouse. “Let's go inside. It was a long hike up from the village. I'd like to sit down.”

“Sure,” McGarvey said, leading the way. There was an awkwardness between them that he was having difficulty getting a handle on. He could usually anticipate his old friend, this time he didn't know.

They sat on the stone veranda overlooking the sea. McGarvey brought out a bottle of retsina wine, bread, olives, sausages, and
feta cheese. On this side of the island the afternoons were pleasant.

“You hit him, you know,” Trotter said.

“Kurshin?”

“Yes. We found blood at the back doorway, and then across the clearing to where the helicopter was parked. We found it back in Alexandria with a lot of blood in the cockpit.”

The Agency had debriefed him in the hospital but had refused to answer any of his questions.

“No sign of him from that point?”

Trotter shook his head. “He definitely didn't return to the embassy; the Bureau was watching the place around the clock.”

“Then he's disappeared again.”

“He hasn't been spotted anywhere. Not Moscow, not East Berlin.”

“What about the other two men at the house?”

“Baranov's Department Viktor people. Some of the best. They're both dead, of course.”

“What's been done about it, John?” McGarvey asked. “Until now we haven't done anything like that on each other's turf. At least not directly as a KGB operation.”

“I don't know,” Trotter admitted. “Ultimately that's the president's decision.”

“But?” McGarvey said sharply.

Trotter hunched his shoulders as he sipped his wine. He looked out to sea again. Other islands dotted the horizon.

“I owe you my life. Kurshin would have killed us all.”

“But he accomplished his objective. He got to Rand and most likely he got the information he'd come for.”

“We're not so sure, Kirk. The reason you haven't read anything about En Gedi is because absolutely nothing has happened. June thirtieth came and went without incident. For all we know Kurshin could be dead somewhere. And maybe Rand's disk is with his body.”

“Any idea what was on it?”

“No.”

“What about the Israelis?”

“I don't know that either. Our lines of communication have
been severely curtailed. But I do know that Lev Potok will be all right, again thanks to you.”

“Which leaves Baranov,” McGarvey said, beginning to understand finally. “The reason you've come here.”

“Not the only reason, Kirk,” Trotter said, turning back to him. “I came here to thank you, and to see how you were getting along. Whether you know it or not, or care to admit it, you at the very least delayed their plans, and possibly even destroyed them.”

“Still, there's Baranov. Always Baranov.”

Trotter nodded glumly. “The general asked me to come speak with you â¦”

“Authorized you, John,” McGarvey said a little crossly. “Let's get our terminology straight right at the beginning.”

“Yes. Authorized.”

“No bullshit now. Tell it to me straight. What is it you want? Exactly.”

“There is going to be a Law Enforcement conference in East Berlin in seven days. The heads of the police forces from every country in the Warsaw Pact will be there. So will Baranov.”

“Along with half the KGB to guard him.”

“We have come up with a copy of his itinerary.”

“No mean trick â¦”

“We have our sources as well, Kirk, you know this. At any rate there is a possibility, just a possibility, of taking him out.”

“And Murphy is authorizing such a mission?”

“Not yet,” Trotter said. “He's going to the president with it. But first he wants to know if you would be willing to take it on.” Trotter's eyes narrowed. “I am your friend, whether or not you want to believe that, and I'm telling you up front that the Agency will give you all the backup it can â¦ but only to the point that you enter Germany. After that you would be on your own. I mean
totally
on your own. If you were caught we would be able to prove that you were unbalanced, and that your action was totally yours.”

“Why this now? Why the sudden change of heart?”

“The man is insane, and Gorbachev either won't or can't do
anything about him.” Trotter leaned forward. “The man is consolidating his power, Kirk. He has most of the military establishment behind him now. The old guard who believe that Gorbachev has gone too far.”

“When do you need my answer?”

“If he goes ahead with En Gedi, and he is successful, we think he means to take over the entire Middle East.”

“When?”

Trotter sat back again. “Soon, Kirk. The conference begins in seven days and the general still has to go to the president with it.”

“Why me?”

“Again I won't lie to you,” Trotter said. “But the answer should be fairly obvious. You're the right man for the job. It would be a vendetta, something everyone concerned would understand.”

“I appreciate your honesty,” McGarvey said. He got up and went into the house where he found a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It was his first since he had come to the island.

Assassins were meant to assassinate. His sister would say that he was finally developing a conscience. It was war, wasn't it? Kill or be killed. Each time the call to arms came, he had more and more difficulty in accepting his role.

Until now.

Vengeance will be mine, the Lord said. But he wasn't living in the modern world.

Trotter had come to the veranda door. McGarvey could feel his presence behind him.

“All right,” he said, without turning. “I'll do it.”

“We'll brief you in Athens on Tuesday if we get the green light. But we'll have to keep you at arm's length, you understand this?”

“Yes,” McGarvey said tiredly.

There was a small silence.

“Are you up for this, Kirk? I mean if the president gives us his go-ahead.”

McGarvey shrugged. “How do any of us know whether or not we're up to something, unless we actually do it.”

Again there was a silence.

“I'll get back then,” Trotter said. “But I brought someone with me.”

McGarvey turned around. “Who?”

“Lorraine Abbott.”

“Why?”

“Because she insisted.”

“Take her back with you, I don't want to see anyone now.”

“She doesn't know about this, of course, and she mustn't â¦”

“Take her back with you, John, I mean it.”

“I can't.”

THE ISLAND OF SERIFOS

MCGARVEY PUT ON a shirt and walked back to the village with Trotter. They didn't say much to each other on the way over, both of them lost in their own thoughts.

The afternoon sun beat down with a vengeance, the interior of the island extremely hot, and they were sweating freely by the time they made it across. Most of the men were out with the fishing fleet. The village had a deserted air to it.

Lorraine Abbott sat at an outside table in the taverna just across from the dock. The only boat was the long, sleek hydrofoil
that had brought her and Trotter over from LÃ¡vrion on the mainland. She was in the shade, but the mass of her blond hair made it seem as if she were under a spotlight. She wore a short khaki skirt and military blouse with epaulets, a thin gold chain around her long, delicate neck, and simple tortoise-shell sunglasses, which she took off when she spotted them coming across the dusty square.

“Hello, Kirk,” she said, her voice soft, mellifluous.

McGarvey hadn't heard anything like it since he had come to this island, in fact not for years, since his ex-wife. His own reactions were disturbing to him. Excess baggage is the bane of any field officer. Hadn't that been drummed into his head? Wasn't it true?

“What are you doing here?” he asked a little more harshly than he had intended.

“I came to see you.”

“No,” McGarvey said, shaking his head. “Go back on the boat with John. Return to the NPT.”

“I'm no longer with the service.”

“Then return to your lab, Doctor.”

“I'm on a leave of absence.”

“Not here,” McGarvey hissed. “You don't belong anywhere near me. You can't know how close you were to being killed. Christ, this is not polite society.” He turned on Trotter. “Tell her, John. Take her back with you.”

“I tried,” Trotter said, spreading his hands.

“I hope to Christ someone is still watching her.”

“The Bureau is taking care of it.”

“Then why isn't she at the safehouse?”

Again Trotter spread his hands.

“I signed a release,” she said. “I won't be cooped up any longer.”

“Then they'll try again to kill you, and this time they'll probably succeed.”

“Not as long as I'm with you.”

McGarvey's jaw was tight. “You can't know how wrong you are, Doctor. How terribly, tragically wrong you are. Go away from me. Leave now while you still have the chance.”

“No.”

“I'm leaving here in a few days.”

“Then I'll come with you.”

“That will be impossible, Dr. Abbott,” Trotter said.

She looked from McGarvey to him. “You're sending him out again?” she asked incredulously. “You can't be serious.”

“I can't say anything more, you know that,” Trotter said.

“The man was nearly killed. He lost a kidney, for God's sake. Are you all crazy?” She turned again to McGarvey. “Tell him, Kirk â¦” she started, but something in the look in his eyes stopped her.

“Now, will you go back with John?” he asked.

“No,” she replied firmly. “If you're leaving in a few days I'll stay here until then.”

“You don't owe me anything,” McGarvey said, raising his voice.

“Yes I do. I owe you my life. But I didn't deserve that remark. I'm here because I want to be here.”

“Why?”

Her eyes were wide just then, and she blinked. “Because â¦” she started.

McGarvey just stared at her.

“Because I have nowhere else to go,” she finished her sentence.

It was late evening. The air had cooled down as it did every night, and a soft breeze blew across the veranda at the lighthouse.

They had remained in the village taverna until the fishing fleet had come in, and then had had a simple dinner and listened to the concertina player and watched the men dance.

All through the evening they had avoided touching each other, and for the most part their conversation had been desultory. Not once did they bring up what had happened to them since Israel, or that he would soon be going back into the field.

On the way up the path in the darkness, she slipped and nearly fell, so that he reached out and grabbed her arm to steady her. The contact had been electric for both of them, nearly taking McGarvey's breath away.

She was like his ex-wife Kathleen, in many respectsâin a
certain haughtiness, in her makeup and her intelligenceâyet she was different. She was softer around the edges, more sincere, even little-girlâlike at times. It was confusing.

He had taken a shower, and he stood now in his robe smoking a cigarette and staring out across the dark sea, listening to the waves against the rocks below, and wondering what was happening to him. He had come a long way since Santiago, and in many ways an even longer distance from his life in Switzerland, and then Paris. Light-years, in fact.

The question was: Where was he going? But then, that was the question everybody asked themselves. He didn't know if there could ever be any good or accurate answer. You just took it as it came, a step at a time.

She came from inside and stood beside him. He could smell her pleasant, clean odor and see her from out of the corner of his eye, but he did not turn to look at her.

“It's very beautiful here,” she said after a time.

“Yes, it is.”

“But it's odd, somehow. There's a strange flavor to it. Maybe it's just the Greeks, but it feels very, very old. Almost as if we were living in a graveyard. Do you know what I mean?”

McGarvey had felt almost the same thing. “I think so.”

“When I was a little girl, thirteen or fourteen, I think, I went back to the Midwest to visit some of my cousins. There was a county fair we all went to one night. Ferris wheel, bumper cars, Tilt-a-whirl, cotton candy, foot-long hotdogs, all that. And there was a palm reader, an old woman in a tent at the end of the midway. My cousins teased me about it, but I had my palm read. It was something that just hit me at the time.”

McGarvey finally turned to look at her. She was dressed only in a short silk nightgown with thin straps. From the dim light inside he could see that her complexion was slightly flushed. Her chest rose and fell too fast, as if she were trying to catch her breath.

“What did she tell you?” he asked, his voice nearly catching at the back of his throat.

She turned to him and smiled a little uncertainly. “I don't remember all of it,” she said.

He said nothing.

“She told me that I would fall in love, but that my life would be difficult.”

“Why?”

“Because he would be a dangerous man. But she told me it would be all right, that he would be there to protect me.”

“Why?” McGarvey asked softly.

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

He took her in his arms then, and as she came to him she sighed deeply as if she had finally been able to take a deep breath, as if finally she were out of danger. He had tried to tell her, but she hadn't been ready to listen then, and he was of no mind now to repeat his warning.

They kissed deeply, and afterward he picked her up and carried her inside to the big bed upstairs.

THE WHITE HOUSE

“Where is he at this moment?” the president asked.

“On a small Greek island about fifty miles off the mainland,” the DCI Roland Murphy said. They were alone in the president's study. “It's isolated out there, which gives us pretty good control over the situation.”

“Has he given you his answer?”

“Yes, Mr. President, he has. John Trotter went out to talk with him. He said he'd do it.”

“Even under the strict conditions you imposed on him?” the president asked. “Once he enters Germany we totally divorce ourselves from him?”

“Yes, sir.”

After a beat the president shook his head. “I don't like this, General. In fact I like it even less than your last operation.”

“I didn't think you would. But you said yourself that Gorbachev no longer has any real control over Baranov. And it's not inconceivable that an accident could happen and Baranov would rise to power.”

“We lived through the specter of another KGB chief becoming party chairman.”

“Baranov is an entirely different animal, Mr. President. We've been suffering from his handiwork for too long now.”

The president leaned forward. “If we make him a target, you'll be a natural for retaliation.”

“Yes, sir, I've taken that into consideration.”

“Could it be pulled off?”

“If it was anyone else other than McGarvey, I'd say he'd have a less than fifty-fifty shot at it. But with him â¦ he has a habit of doing the impossible.”

“We've treated him shabbily.”

“He is an assassin, Mr. President.”

“Yes,” the president said, nodding thoughtfully. “But have you stopped to ask what that makes us?”

Murphy let the remark pass. “I need your go-ahead, Mr. President.”

“They'd crucify me.”

“Yes, sir. But you've never seen the report. This conversation is not being recorded. And McGarvey will be kept at arm's length throughout the entire operation.”

“What about afterward? Assuming he is successful.”

“We keep him at arm's length.”

Again the president hesitated for a beat.

“You're a tough man, General.”

“It's a tough business, Mr. President,” Murphy said. “Do I have your authorization?”

“Only to put everything in place,” the president said. His eyes bored into the DCI's. “I want you to listen very closely to me now, because I don't want any mistakes. You can put your people into place, but the trigger will not be pulled until you get word from me. Under no circumstances will McGarvey assassinate Baranov until you have personal word from me.”

“It'll put him in a nasty spot. He could be left hanging â¦”

“As you said, General, this is a tough business.”

BOOK: Countdown

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