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Authors: David Hagberg

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BOOK: Critical Mass
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McGarvey signed them both, then followed Adams through security and outside. No one even bothered to look up as he left.
Tom Lynch was waiting in the back seat of the car.
“Trouble seems to have a habit of following you around, McGarvey,” he said.
“So it would seem,” McGarvey replied, getting in.
“Who was the shooter?”
“I don't know.”
“Somebody said he recognized you just before Bellus shot him to death.”
McGarvey looked at the CIA chief of Paris station with a straight face, but said nothing.
IT WAS A FEW MINUTES BEFORE EIGHT IN THE MORNING, Washington time, when CIA Deputy Director of Operations Phillip Carrara answered the phone on his desk.
“Yes,” he said sharply. It had been a long night.
“He's here, are you ready?” Lawrence Danielle asked in his soft voice. Danielle was the deputy director of the CIA.
“No, but I'll be right up, Larry. How's his mood?”
“What do you think?”
“I'll be right up.”
Carrara replaced his phone, and cinching up his tie went to the door. His secretary, Mildred Anderson, was at the copy machine. “Are you about finished, Millie?”
“By the time you roll down your sleeves and put on your coat, I will be,” she said without turning around.
She'd been here since 4:00 A.M. in response to the emergency call, and would probably be here until midnight, as would most of the others on the European desk. Gathering a crisis management team had never been a problem for Carrara. He was a well-liked DDO, despite the fact he was tough. “An Hispanic has to work three times as hard as a WASP to achieve the same rate of advancement. And that's a fact of life you cannot sidestep.” He would tell that to anyone who asked, though he was not a proselytizer, nor was he bitter. He was, however, diligent, and he expected nothing less from his staff.
Cuffs buttoned and coat on, Carrara took the half-dozen copies of the hastily prepared report his secretary had readied up to the seventh floor where he was immediately ushered
into the director's large, well-appointed office. Big windows looked out onto the rolling Virginia countryside.
The DCI, Roland Murphy, was seated behind his desk watching the morning news programs from the three major U.S. networks plus CNN on a bank of monitors to his left. A retired Army major general, he was a large man, with a bull neck, hamhock arms, and thick Brezhnev eyebrows over deep-set eyes. He was one of the toughest, most decisive men to have sat behind that desk since Dulles. And when the general barked, his people jumped.
With him were the Company's general counsel, Howard Ryan, and the Deputy Director of Intelligence, Thomas Doyle, as well as Danielle.
Danielle was a small, pinched man, just the opposite of Murphy. He'd been with the Company for twenty-five years, and had even served briefly as interim DCI a few years ago. Ryan, who had come over from the National Security Agency at Murphy's request a couple of years ago, was a precise man whose father ran one of New York's top law firms. No one in the Agency had ever seen him dressed in anything but three-piece suits. Doyle, on the other hand, looked like a rumpled bed, but he was probably the smartest man in the room. He and Carrara, who'd also never paid much attention to his clothing, were good friends.
Murphy and the others looked up when Carrara came in. All four television monitors were showing pictures of the downed Airbus.
“I hope you know more than these jokers,” Murphy said sharply. “Because no two of them can even agree on the number of people killed.”
“One hundred fifty-seven,” Carrara said. “Including six French security officers—three on the field and three in the terminal—a female employee in the Orly Public Relations department, and two other innocent civilians—one in the men's room at the airport, and the other standing in a crowd on the mezzanine level. Plus, of course, the terrorist himself.”
Carrara handed the copies of his report around, then
poured a cup of coffee from the sideboard before he took his seat across from the DCI.
As they were reading, Carrara's eyes strayed to the CNN monitor. He'd been working with Tom Lynch and their people in Paris since early this morning, but this was the first opportunity he'd had to see actual pictures of the crashed airliner. He didn't like to fly, and seeing the news reports live and in color did nothing to dispel his fears.
Ryan looked up sharply from his reading, and moments later Murphy did the same, slamming his open palm on the desk top. “McGarvey?” he roared.
“At this point it looks as if his presence at Orly was purely coincidental,” Carrara said, expecting the reaction. Neither the DCI nor Ryan had any love lost for McGarvey, though for completely different reasons. “But if you will read on, General, you'll learn that he was instrumental in catching up with one of the terrorists.”
“Who is dead, no doubt,” Ryan said.
Carrara nodded, but before he could continue Ryan turned to the DCI.
“Our Mr. McGarvey strikes again, conveniently eliminating everyone in his path. But I'm willing to bet that it was no coincidence, his being there.”
“I'm sorry, Howard, but I disagree,” Carrara cut in. “McGarvey was apparently saying goodbye to an old friend of his.”
“Who?”
“A woman by the name of Marta Fredricks.”
Danielle looked up from his reading. “Wasn't she the Swiss cop who lived with him in Lausanne a few years back?”
“Yes …” Carrara said, but again Ryan interrupted.
“Need more be said?”
“That's a little pat, don't you think?” Danielle asked.
“On the surface, yes,” Carrara admitted. “But McGarvey did not kill the terrorist, the chief of Orly security did that. And at this point he seems willing to cooperate with us and the French authorities.”
“I mean about Lausanne, that connection. It's where DuVerlie was leading us. Same city, same flight.” Danielle glanced at the report. “And you say here that minutes before the flight McGarvey telephoned Orly security to ask about our people. On the surface, as you put it, Phil, couldn't it be construed that McGarvey wanted to make sure they were actually aboard one-four-five?”
“He's gun-shy,” Carrara said.
“What's that supposed to mean?” Ryan asked.
“It means that everytime he spots our people hanging around we come to him with one of our dirty little insoluble problems. And each time he agrees to help, it nearly costs him his life. He wanted to find out what was going on. In his mind
our
people being there was the coincidence.”
“What do the Swiss authorities say?” Danielle asked.
“They haven't replied to our query about Miss Fredricks, except to confirm that she is a Federal Police officer.”
“On assignment to Paris?”
“Unknown at this point,” Carrara said.
“Which brings us back to our original problem,” Murphy said. “DuVerlie's fantastic story.”
“It would seem that he was telling the truth after all,” Danielle put in.
“Have the French identified the terrorist?”
“Not yet,” Carrara said. “But they're working on it. He was carrying no identification.”
“What about the rocket he used to bring down the airliner?”
“One of ours, a Stinger. I just received the serial number of the launching device. My people are checking it out, but I don't think it'll get us much. The Stinger is a fairly common item on the open market. But we might have another lead. Orly security found some kind of a walkie-talkie in the back of the van the terrorist used to get out to the end of the runway. Which means he may have been communicating with someone.”
“So?” Ryan asked. “We didn't think this would turn out to be a one-man operation.”
“It may not be so simple,” Carrara said. “The French have invited us to take a look. The walkie-talkie is evidently special, its signal not monitorable by normal means. They weren't clear on that point, probably because they didn't have it figured out themselves. But there are no manufacturer's labels or markings on the device. No way of determining its origin.”
“So they used a high-tech toy,” Danielle said. “The French are cooperating with us, that's the main thing.”
“Another piece out of our French operations,” Ryan said. “We might as well take out a newspaper ad announcing our presence.”
“How about DuVerlie's story?” Murphy asked, bringing them back on track. It was clear that he was not happy.
“Tom Lynch thinks he might be able to put an asset into ModTec within thirty days. It's possible that Leitner talked to someone else. Or DuVerlie might have said something. He was nervous enough.”
“What about the Swiss authorities?” Ryan asked. It was his job to keep the Agency out of legal trouble, so far as that was possible. He was an expert on international law, and certified to practice before the International Court at The Hague.
“I suggest we keep them out of this for the moment,” Carrara said. “They would only slow us down.”
“We're treading on dangerous ground here, General,” Ryan warned, turning again to Murphy.
“Until today I might have agreed with you,” Murphy replied. “But shooting down that airliner was no random act of terrorism, and I don't think we need to discuss that possibility. Which means DuVerlie was telling us the truth … at least that part about their ruthlessness and apparent organization.”
“There weren't many people who knew that DuVerlie was going to be aboard one-four-five,” Carrara said.
“No. Which means we're dealing with professionals. Well disciplined, and well financed. And when someone like that
goes after a key component for a nuclear weapon, it makes me nervous. Extremely nervous.”
“Takes more than an electronic switch to make a bomb,” Danielle pointed out. “Even if they've already got the device, which we're not sure about, they'll need a sufficient quantity of fissionable material.”
“Eighty pounds of plutonium would be enough,” Doyle said, speaking for the first time. “Along with a component called an initiator, to get the chain reaction going once the critical mass was achieved.”
“Yes,” Murphy said. “But we'll assume for the moment that if they're after the switch, they're after the rest.”
“I'll give Lynch the go-ahead,” Carrara said.
“I want you directly involved with this, Phil. Tom Lynch is to have every resource available to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about McGarvey?” Ryan asked, his hate obvious.
“As soon as the French are through with him, bring him here to Washington,” Murphy said.
“He may not want to return,” Carrara said.
“That wasn't under discussion. As soon as he's free,
bring
him here.”
THE EVENING WAS WARM AND EXCEEDINGLY HUMID, AND AS usual traffic throughout the gigantic city of Tokyo was horrendous. People seemed to be everywhere; omnipresent in crushing numbers; endless streams of bodies scurrying back and forth almost as if they were ants intent on some mysterious, unknowable purpose.
Within a twenty-mile radius of downtown lived thirty million people crammed into twenty-three wards, twenty-six small cities, seven towns, and eight villages. Stretching fifty-five miles east to west, but only fifteen miles north to south, everything about the megalopolis was outrageous and contradictory. Prices were astronomical while average salaries were low; space which was at a premium was squandered—land was sold by the square yard, yet the Japanese preferred to build outward, rather than upward; the culture of the people was stylish and elegant, yet the city on the whole was ugly, a monstrosity by Western standards.
A tall, well-built American got out of a taxi in front of the Roppongi Prince Hotel about a mile and a half from the Imperial Palace and paid off his driver. He wore a well-cut dark business suit, and as usual for meetings such as the one he'd arranged for this evening he wore a wire.
His name was James Shirley, and he worked as chief of station for CIA activities in Japan, a post he'd held for nearly five years. Both he and his wife (they had no children) loved the country, and had no intention of ever returning to Washington, no matter what the Company desired. If and when his reassignment came, he'd decided to resign rather
than accept it. He was nearly fluent in Japanese, so he didn't think he would have much trouble finding a well-paying job with a large Japanese corporation that did business in the West.
He waited just within the main doors into the lobby for several minutes after his cab left, making certain that he'd not been followed. He'd taken great pains with his tradecraft to get here tonight.
Satisfied at length, he crossed the lobby and went out to the courtyard where on a lower level tables were placed around the acrylic swimming pool, the sides of which were transparent so that the swimmers looked like fish in an aquarium. The man he'd come to meet was seated alone at a small table, his alligator-hide attaché case open in front of him, his dark horn-rimmed glasses pushed up on top of his head.
Shirley went directly across to him. “Monsieur Dunée? Armand Dunée?”
The short, swarthy Belgian looked up with a scowl. “Who is it wishes to disturb me? Are you English, or American?”
“American,” Shirley said. “I believe we met last year in Brussels.”
Dunée nodded toward the empty chair opposite. “Anything is possible.”
Shirley sat down, and a waiter came over immediately. He ordered saki, cool.
“You were not followed?” Dunée asked when they were alone.
“No. Did you bring it?”
“Yes, but I'm not going to hand it over here. I think I may have been followed.”
Shirley stiffened slightly, but then smiled. “By whom?”
“I don't know for sure. It was the same two cars behind me all the way across town.”
“Japanese?”
“I think so.”
“Are they here at the hotel?”
“I don't know. I doubled back on the subway, then walked
a half-dozen blocks before I caught a cab here. But I'm no spy.”
Shirley glanced across the room. Two other men had come in behind him, but neither of them seemed suspicious. He kept talking.
“It sounds as if you did all right. But the next time I'll want you to abort the meeting if you think you're being watched. I'll explain how to make the proper signal.”
Dunée seemed concerned, but so far as Shirley could tell the man was holding together. It was a good sign this early into the recruitment—although Dunée had come to him, not the other way around.
The Belgian worked for a consortium of seven Japanese companies that did extensive business in the West. His job was to act as liaison between them and banks in Europe and the U.S. In actuality he claimed to work for the Banque Du Credit Belgique as an undercover man here in Tokyo. His real employers, he claimed, were concerned that these Japanese companies were planning a series of currency manipulation raids on the West—a theory that just now was getting a lot of play in Washington. He was a spy after all, but of a different type than Shirley.
They had arranged to meet this evening so that Dunée could hand over a series of documents that outlined the consortium's plans concerning eighteen U.S. savings and loan institutions. He said he'd not told his Japanese or his Belgian employers about his contact with the Americans, and he had refused up to this point to tell Shirley what he wanted in exchange. But that would come tonight, at or just before the handover.
What would happen afterwards remained to be seen so far as Shirley was concerned. Japan was his home now, and he wasn't about to do anything anti-Japanese unless the Belgian's charges were very serious, and completely substantiated. Shirley was not a traitor, merely cautious.
The waiter returned with the saki, and Shirley paid him. “You leave first,” he told Dunée. “I'll be one minute behind you.”
“Where shall I go?”
“Out front. If it looks clear we'll get a cab together.”
“How will you know?”
“Leave that to me,” Shirley said, and after a hesitation Dunée closed his attaché case, and left without looking back.
Shirley remained seated, sipping his rice wine. No one had seemed particularly interested in them, or in Dunée's departure. In all likelihood the Belgian had managed to lose his tail, if there'd even been one in the first place.
After one minute, Shirley followed the man outside. Two taxis were waiting in the long driveway. One of the drivers had gotten out and was speaking with the doorman and a bellman. Just ahead of the first cab, two workmen in white coveralls, hard hats on their heads and paper air filters covering their faces, were unloading five-gallon paint cans from the back of a small, open truck. No one else was around at that moment, except for Dunée, who stood to one side a few yards from the lead cab. Shirley went down to him.
“Let's go.”
“It's them, I think,” Dunée said excitedly. “Below, on the street.”
Shirley stepped around the Belgian to get a better look, and he stupidly tripped over the man's feet and went down heavily, a sharp pain stabbing at his right ankle.
For a dazed moment or two he didn't understand what had happened, except that he'd probably broken his leg. He looked up as Dunée walked back into the hotel, and a second later he was completely doused from behind with something very cold and wet.
Gasoline, the horrifying thought crystalized in his brain. Burned like acid.
He turned around in time to see one of the men from the open truck lighting a book of matches.
“No!” Shirley shouted at the same moment the workman tossed the burning matches. “No!”
The gasoline and fumes ignited instantly with an explosive thump. Shirley reflexively took a deep breath as the first
massive pain struck him, drawing burning fumes deeply into his lungs. Mercifully a red haze began to blot out his vision, his hearing and his other senses, and his last thought was that he was too ridiculously young to be dying.
BOOK: Critical Mass
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