Authors: David Hagberg
Countdown (5 page)
KIRK COLLOUGH MCGARVEY had known for several days that someone was coming for him. Call it a sixth sense or simply the intuition of a man who had been a long time in the field, he had begun picking up signs on Wednesday outside the Louvre at the edge of the Tuileries, when he spotted someone watching him.
It had lasted only a fleeting moment. A short, nondescript man in a sport coat, his tie loose, was getting into a cab as McGarvey was coming out of the museum. The man gave a quick backward glance and then was gone.
McGarvey had stepped back into the building, remaining for a few minutes just within the doorway, watching, waiting for someone else to show up. It had been a front tail, he'd been almost certain of it at the time.
On Thursday, coming out of his apartment just off the Rue de la Fayette in the Tenth Arrondissement, he'd spotted a Mercedes sedan slowly passing, and he'd been even more certain that someone was coming. The man in the passenger seat had changed his coat and now wore no tie, but he was the same one from the Louvre.
McGarvey was a tall, well-built man with a thick shock of brown hair and wide honest eyes. Although he was in his early forties, he maintained an almost athletic physique, not because of any regular workoutsâthough he tried to make a practice of running a few miles each morningâbut more because of the luck of some genetic draw.
He was a loner these days, more out of circumstance than out of choice. He had come out of Kansas State University more years ago than he wanted to remember and had joined the Central Intelligence Agency as a case officer. An operation that had gone sour for him in Santiago, Chile, during the Carter days had cost him his job.
They were bad times, he remembered now walking from his apartment toward the quaint Cour des Petites Ecuries. To this day he remembered the face of the general he'd been sent to assassinate. The man had been responsible for thousands of deaths in and around the capital city and the only solution was his elimination. But McGarvey's orders had been changed in midstream without him knowing about it. He returned to Washington not a hero but a pariah.
He had run to Switzerland where for five years he'd maintained a relatively quiet life operating a small bookstore in Lausanne, and living with Marta Fredricks, a woman who'd turned out to be a Swiss Federal police officer assigned to watch him. Ex-CIA officers, especially killers, made the Swiss very nervous.
Across the narrow street from the Brasserie Flo, McGarvey stopped a moment to adjust his tie before he crossed and entered the restaurant's charming courtyard.
“McGarvey,
pour deux, s'il vous plait,
” he told the maitre d'.
pour deux, s'il vous plait,
” he told the maitre d'.
The strait-laced Frenchman glanced over McGarvey's shoulder to see if the second person in his party was coming. “Monsieur?”
“It's a friend. He'll be arriving shortly.”
“Very well.”
McGarvey followed the maitre d' back through the courtyard to a pleasant table and ordered a bottle of red wine. He sat back and lit a cigarette while he waited, the pressure of his gun reassuring at the small of his back.
They were missing on Friday, but they had been there this morning down the block from his apartment. Watching. Waiting to see if he was alone, to catalogue his moves. The same man as before was behind the wheel, but someone else had been seated in the back. Because of the angle from his second-floor window he could only see the man's waist and a part of his torso, but he knew who it was and he knew what was coming. He even had a fair guess what his old friend was coming here for.
It had happened almost like this two years ago, he remembered as the steward brought his bottle of wine and opened it for him, pouring half a glass. It was a house special wine so he was not invited to taste it.
“Merci,”
McGarvey said politely.
McGarvey said politely.
The steward nodded and hurried off.
It was noon and the popular restaurant was beginning to fill up. McGarvey caught the maitre d' giving him severe glances. If monsieur's friend didn't show up soon, McGarvey figured he would be asked to move to a smaller table.
Then, in Lausanne, as now, he'd been watched for several days so that his habits and routines could be established before he was picked up.
Then, as now, the moment he realized that something was about to come down he had run for his gun. It's what had ruined Switzerland for him.
“Only assassins who are still active run for their weapons,” Marta had told him.
Unlike Lausanne, where after five years he had become complacent, these past two years in Paris had been different. He'd not allowed himself to lose his edge. It was simple survival, he told himself often. Because the business that had begun in Lausanne had never been finished. Not in Washington, not in Miami, and certainly not in Mexico City.
He was still out there. Waiting. Biding his time.
The familiar face and figure of John Lyman Trotter, Jr., a thin briefcase in his left hand, appeared at the entrance to the courtyard, hesitated a moment, and then said something to the maitre d', who turned.
Trotter followed the man's gaze, spotting McGarvey seated alone, and he nodded, said something else, then threaded his way between the tables.
McGarvey didn't bother to stand. He hadn't seen his old friend in two years, but the man had the same look on his face as he had had in Switzerlandâone of worry and concern.
“Hello, Kirk,” Trotter said. He was a tall, very thin man, all angles, with a huge misshapen nose and bottle-thick glasses. He could have been classified as truly ugly, but he'd always had a sharp mind. He had begun his career with the CIA but then had gone over to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, working his way up to an associate directorship.
“I thought it was you,” McGarvey said.
Trotter sat down, laying the briefcase on his lap. Languidly, McGarvey reached out and poured him a glass of wine. Their waiter came, handed them menus, and left.
“Don thought you might have spotted him on Wednesday.”
“Outside the Louvre?”
Trotter nodded.
“And Thursday outside my apartment. Not very professional.”
“Professional enough,” Trotter said, looking around at the other diners. “Nice place.”
McGarvey shrugged. “I can watch the door from here.”
Trotter managed a slight smile. “Nothing changes, does it?”
“How about you, John, still with the Bureau?”
Trotter shook his head. “I'm back over at Langley. Assistant deputy director of operations.”
“Larry Danielle still there?”
“Seventh floor. He's our new deputy DCI. Phil Carrara is my boss. I don't think you knew him. He came over last year from NSA.”
“A technologist?”
Again Trotter managed a slight smile. National Security Agency types were very often electronic freaks. “He's a good man.”
McGarvey sipped at his wine. To this point Trotter had studiously avoided any direct eye contact. McGarvey stared at him.
“It's Baranov, isn't it, John. That's why you've come.” Trotter nodded grimly.
“He's on the move again?”
“It looks like it. Larry suggested you this time, though, not me. I swear to God. I told him that you'd had enough. That you wanted to be left alone.”
“But he didn't agree.”
“No.”
“Why all the pussyfooting around again, John?”
“We didn't know your circumstances,” Trotter replied simply.
At this point McGarvey could have been a changed man, could have turned into almost anything. They had to make certain that he was clean, and that the opposition hadn't gotten a line on him. As Trotter unnecessarily explained: “Valentin Baranov has got a very large grudge against you, Kirk. Now that he is director of the KGB he has the power to do something about it.”
“You're here to save my skin, is that it?” McGarvey asked, feeling some of his old meanness coming back. His stomach was sour. It was the thrill of the opening moves of a hunt he'd been waiting for.
“To save all of our skins. The man has got to be stopped.”
This time McGarvey had to smile. “What do you want this time, John? Am I to go to Moscow and assassinate the director of the KGB?”
“If only it were that easy I'd say yes.” Trotter shook his head and glanced again at the other diners. “I don't know if we'll ever
really stop the man in that sense. It's become a continual mop-up operation. You know how it is.”
really stop the man in that sense. It's become a continual mop-up operation. You know how it is.”
“Yes, I do,” McGarvey said pointedly. “So what's the sonofabitch up to this time?”
“We don't know. Leastways not for sure yet. But we need your help.”
“Why?”
The direct question startled Trotter but he recovered nicely. “We're in over our heads, I don't mind admitting that. And you know Baranov better than any man on our side of the fence. His habits, his methods, the way his mind works.”
“And your people are spotted.”
“Yes.”
“And if I start after him, it might draw him out. I'd be bait.”
Trotter nodded. He opened his briefcase and took out a thin file folder. He handed it across and relatched his briefcase.
McGarvey opened the file folder which contained a summary of a KGB officer, with several photographs, one of them a head shot, the others obviously obtained in the field. The man was tall, good-looking in an athletic sort of a way, with deep eyes that even in the photographs seemed cold, distant, and very professional.
“Formerly a Department Viktor hit man. One of the best. Baranov took him under his wing just after he returned to Moscow from the Powers thing, and the man has been busy. I've included a summary of his ⦠feats.”
“Who is he?”
“He's been called the chameleon, because he can be or do damned near everything. His real name is Arkady Aleksandrovich Kurshin.”
“What's he done now that has you coming here to me?”
“We tracked him as far as Marseille, and it looked as if he was getting set to come up here.”
“But?”
“He killed two of our people and then disappeared. Not a trace.”
“He's come out to do something for Baranov?”
“Presumably. Baranov was spotted two weeks ago in East Berlin, at the same time, we believe, this Kurshin was there.”
“One man ⦔ McGarvey mused.
“One man,” Trotter said. “He has us worried because he's ⦠an assassin. The very best in the business. And when a man like him goes on the move, and then disappears, it gets us all worried. Find him, Kirk. Stop him. Find out what he's up to. And quickly.”
ARKADY KURSHIN WAS just a little surprised that they had actually gotten this far, though he was professional enough not to show it.
“Trust in me, Arkasha,” Baranov had told him warmly that night in East Berlin.
Kurshin
could
almost trust in the man, though at this moment he knew that he was closer to death than he'd ever been in his life. He had little doubt that they would be able to pull this off, but it was afterward that weighed on his mind. Their escape. It
was typical of Yegorov not to care, not to look beyond the immediacy of the situation, and the East German was such a cold fish that it was impossible ever to tell what he was thinking. But Kurshin worried about the future ⦠his future.
could
almost trust in the man, though at this moment he knew that he was closer to death than he'd ever been in his life. He had little doubt that they would be able to pull this off, but it was afterward that weighed on his mind. Their escape. It
was typical of Yegorov not to care, not to look beyond the immediacy of the situation, and the East German was such a cold fish that it was impossible ever to tell what he was thinking. But Kurshin worried about the future ⦠his future.
They were racing down the autobahn, heading north at eighty miles per hour. It had been nearly twenty minutes since the missile bay doors had rumbled open and still no one had come after them, nor had Ramstein Missile Control answered their query.
Traffic was heavy, but no one passed them, so that the road ahead was clear. The speed limit even on an autobahn, this close to a city, was 120 kilometers per hour, which was about 75 miles per hour. On the opposite side of the median strip, southbound traffic moved at a normal rate. The sight of a missile transporter on the highway was nothing unusual. Germans had seen it often.
“Whiz Bang, this is Flybaby Six-P-Two,” Kurshin radioed again.
Yegorov motioned toward the skyward radar. “We've got company,” he said tersely.
The radar showed two strong targets incoming from the base, flying low and relatively slow. They were helicopters, Kurshin figured. He was about to key the microphone when the radio blared.
“Flybaby Six-P-Two, this is Whiz Bang. Colonel, what in hell are you doing?”
“Who is this speaking?” Kurshin asked calmly.
“For Christ's sake, stand down immediately. Do you realize what you're toting around out there?”
“I repeat,” Kurshin radioed. “Who am I speaking to?”
There was a pause. “This is Whiz Bang, goddamnit. Officer of the Day, Captain Gerry Stewart. And I repeat, sir, stand down. Pull over to the side of the road immediately.”
Kurshin glanced again at the tiny radar screen. The two blips appeared to be directly behind them. He keyed the radio.
“Listen closely now, Captain Stewart, because I'm not going to repeat myself again, and there are a lot of lives at stake here, so I don't want you making any mistakes. Are you ready to copy?”
Again the radio was silent for a long second or two.
“We're coming up on our turn,” Yegorov said beside him.
“Slow it down a little,” Kurshin replied, keeping his eye on the radar screen.
“You've hijacked a missile,” Captain Stewart radioed shakily. “Do you know what that means? And Major McCann. He's dead.”
“Yes,” Kurshin radioed back. “At this moment there are two aircraft just behind us, I assume they're helicopter gunships. Tell them to back off immediately.”
“Negative,” the OD shouted. “Pull over immediately, or we will destroy your transporter.”
Kurshin smiled slightly. “I don't think you're going to want to do that, Captain, even if those aircraft were capable of it. We have placed fifteen pounds of plastique explosives around the body of the missile itself, twenty-four inches forward of the recessed flight vanes. If you know that missile, you will realize that should the plastique explode, it will spread the warhead's fissionable material over quite a large area.”
There was no answer, nor did the blips move off.
“We have control of the explosives from within the tractor, and we mean to fire them in the next twenty seconds unless you do exactly as I tell you.”
Again there was no answer.
“The clock starts now!” Kurshin said, and he sat back in his seat. He looked over at Yegorov who glanced nervously at him.
“They're not going to risk trying to take us now,” Kurshin said.
Yegorov smiled thinly. “They're damned fools if they don't, considering the alternatives.”
“Who the hell is this?” another voice blared from the radio.
“Your worst nightmare,” Kurshin radioed back. “Fifteen seconds.”
“Pull over now, or I'll give the order to blow your ass all over the highway!”
“Asses,” Kurshin corrected. “There are three of us in control of this missile, and we're about to take the next exit ramp. Ten seconds.”
“This is Colonel Robert Collingwood, chief of Ramstein Security. And you listen to me, you bastard, I'm giving you five seconds to pull over or we'll blow you away.”
“Seven seconds,” Kurshin spoke calmly into the microphone.
Yegorov was downshifting, the big rig slowing, their exit barely half a kilometer away.
“Five seconds,” Kurshin said. “Four ⦠Three ⦠Two ⦔
“There,” Yegorov shouted in triumph.
Kurshin's eyes flicked to the radar screen in time to see the two targets peeling off left and right and gaining altitude. He breathed his first sigh of relief and glanced over his shoulder at Schey whose expression had not changed, his thumb over the electronic trigger for the explosives.
That one, he thought, would just as easily flip the switch he was holding as he would a light switch. But then, what good was a threat unless you meant to carry it out?
“Thank you, Colonel Collingwood,” Kurshin radioed.
“Your transporter has a range of less than one hundred fifty kilometers, so you're not going to get very far,” the security chief radioed.
Kurshin figured he was in one of the helicopters that were still behind them, but now a couple of kilometers off.
Yegorov downshifted again, the big transport shuddering as he turned off the superhighway and they rolled down the exit ramp which was marked: KAISERSLAUTERN, 12 KM.
“We're not going very far, Colonel. Now listen carefully again to me.”
“We're right behind you, I'm listening,” Colonel Collingwood said tightly.
“We're going to bring this missile into the city, where we'll set it up on Hauptbahnhof Strasse, directly in front of the train station.”
“Like hell you will ⦔ Colonel Collingwood sputtered.
“I suggest for the safety of the city that you immediately see about evacuating at least the area surrounding the train station. If we should get nervous and blow the missile, there will be many casualties.”
They had reached the bottom of the long ramp, and ignoring the traffic, Yegorov hauled the big transporter onto the highway leading into the city, sideswiping a small Volkswagen sedan, shoving it off to the side in a mangled heap.
“What do you want? Who are you?” Colonel Collingwood shouted.
“Clear passage into the city, for the moment. Believe me when I tell you, Colonel, that although we wish to hurt no one in Germany, we are determined and well trained.”
“And then what?”
“Then we shall see,” Kurshin said.
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