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Authors: David Hagberg

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BOOK: Critical Mass
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CIA OPERATIONS HAD BEEN MOVED TO THE U.S. CONSULATE until a new embassy could be built a couple of blocks away on the Avenue Gabriel. Just around the corner from the Tuileries Gardens, the building was old and very French with slow iron cage elevators, creaking wooden floors and terrible plumbing.
It was past lunch by the time McGarvey arrived with Tom Lynch, and they went immediately up to a small conference room on the fourth floor. The Station had been on emergency footing all morning because of the air crash, and its effects could be seen on the faces of everyone they met. This was the second serious attack on the CIA's French operation in seven months.
The French were starting to ask some tough questions, for which there were no answers that were satisfactory to either side. It was a common understanding that the CIA operated within the country, as did the SDECE—the French secret service—in the U.S. But as long as neither side attracted too much attention to itself, the status quo could be maintained.
McGarvey, however, was a common denominator between this attack and the one that had destroyed the embassy seven months ago. A lot of French citizens had died in each event, and now the Sureté National, which headed the French Police, had taken notice.
“It's only a matter of time before the SDECE takes an interest in you … an official interest,” Lynch told him on the way back from the airport. The chief of station was a slender man with light brown hair and delicate, almost
English features. He'd been with the Company for nearly ten years, and was one of the rising stars. He was a corporate man; a team player.
“It had nothing to do with me, Tom, and you know it,” McGarvey said. “They were after your people.”
“Possibly. But why the hell did you call airport security about them?”
“Because everytime I look over my shoulder it seems like one of your people is back there. And I'm starting to get tired of it.”
“Then go back home, McGarvey. Nobody wants you over here. You make people nervous. You make me nervous.”
“As soon as the French are done with me, I'll leave Paris.”
“Good,” Lynch had said, and they'd driven the rest of the way back to the city in silence.
McGarvey went to the windows which overlooked a courtyard. Two women were seated on a bench, the remains of a late lunch spread out beside them. He and Marta had often brownbagged it in the parks of Lausanne. It was an American custom she'd found particularly charming.
“Wait here,” Lynch said. “I'll be back in a minute and we can get started with your debriefing.”
McGarvey didn't bother to reply, staying instead with his thoughts about Marta. There was no reason for her or the others aboard 145 to have been killed. And there especially was no reason for an ex-STASI hitman to have committed such an act of terrorism.
But it had happened, and like the crash a few years ago at Lockerbie, the official investigation might drag on for a very long time before producing any results. Most likely the real reason for the attack would never be known for sure, because any official investigation was of necessity ponderous, allowing the terrorists ample time to sidestep any move made against them.
It was one of the reasons he'd not told anyone about Boorsch. The French had his body. If they identified him, well and good, but in the meantime McGarvey would have
some autonomy of movement as soon as he was finished with his testimony.
His other reason, of course, was Marta. She'd wanted to stay with him in Paris for a couple of days longer, but he had insisted she leave. He'd forced her on that flight, and it had cost her her life. He owed her something, and it was a debt he meant to repay.
His starting point would be Boorsch. It was unlikely that the man had worked alone. STASI, as a secret police organization, had been dismantled when the East German government fell. But not all of its officers had been caught. It was possible they had linked up with each other to do … what?
Lynch came back a couple of minutes later with an attractive woman in her early to mid-forties whom he introduced as Lillian Tyson, a special assistant to the ambassador.
“Are you with the Company?” McGarvey asked her.
“Actually she's in charge of legal affairs here,” Lynch said. “For all American interests in France.”
“I'm going to try to keep you out of jail, Mr. McGarvey, if that's all right with you,” she said. Her voice and manner were sharp and self-assured, as was the smartly tailored gray suit she wore over a ruffled silk blouse and textured nylons.
“Los Angeles?” McGarvey asked.
“Chicago,” she said, taking a small cassette recorder out of her purse and laying it on the table. “Please sit down, Mr. McGarvey. I want you to give us your statement, and afterwards we'll see just what we'll want you to tell the French authorities when they question you on Monday.”
“Who will it be, the Sûreté National?”
“No,” Lillian Tyson said. “The SDECE wants to interview you at Mortier.”
The compound just off the Boulevard Mortier on the northeast side of Paris housed the SDECE's Service 5, known simply as
Action.
It was the counterespionage branch of the agency.
“The bully boys,” Lillian Tyson said. “They're particularly
interested in you.” She turned to Lynch. “What was it Colonel Marquand asked? ‘Why is it this bastard's name keeps cropping up?'” She turned back. “Pay attention and you'll come out of this in one piece.”
“Why are they involved?” McGarvey directed his question to the station chief.
“The attackers weren't French.”
“Do they have an ID already?”
“I only know what was waiting on my desk for me, and what Lillian told me.”
“They went directly to the ambassador about you, Mr. McGarvey, which is why I'm here.”
“You said attackers, Tom. Plural.”
“They apparently found a walkie-talkie.”
“May we get started now?” Lillian Tyson asked.
McGarvey ignored her. “What were they after? Who did we have on that plane?”
“I can't tell you, but I'm sure you'll be told something in Washington. The message was on my desk. You're wanted as soon as the French are finished with you.”
“Sit down,” Lillian Tyson said sharply.
“I don't think so, counselor,” McGarvey replied. “Not unless you and Tom would like to answer some questions as well. I had a friend on that flight.”
“Yes, we know, and we'd like to ask you about her, as well.”
“Tell Murphy, not this time,” McGarvey said to Lynch, and he started for the door.
“Hold it right there, mister,” Lillian Tyson shouted.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet,” Lynch said. “But I'm sure the general will order it if you refuse to help out.”
“Step out that door, McGarvey, and I'll turn you over to the French authorities,” Lillian Tyson warned.
“Then I'd have to tell them everything I know, counselor.
Everything.
I'd suggest you talk that over with your boss.”
McGarvey opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
“Goddamn you …” Lillian Tyson swore.
“I'll be in touch, Tom,” McGarvey said, and he left.
“Who in the hell does that son of a bitch think he is?” Lillian Tyson asked.
Lynch was shaking his head. What little he personally knew, plus what he'd been told and had read about the man, all added up to the same thing. He looked at the woman.
“I don't believe you'd really want to know that.”
 
McGarvey's apartment was in a pleasantly quiet neighborhood just off the rue Lafayette a few blocks from the Gare du Nord. He paid off his taxi at the corner and out of old habit went the rest of the way on foot, watching for the out-of-place car or van, the odd man or woman lingering in a doorway, the telltale flash of sunlight off a camera lens in an upper-story window.
There was nothing this time, though the feeling that the business was starting all over again for him was strong. No doubt Murphy was convinced that McGarvey's presence at Orly this morning had been no coincidence. And the fact that the general had taken a personal interest meant the presence of the CIA officers aboard that flight had been very important.
But the Cold War was over. It was a line he'd told himself over and over for the past seven months since he'd killed the Russian, Kurshin, in Portugal. He'd been a soldier, but all the battles were done. He was retired.
It was time now for him to return to his ex-wife Kathleen in Washington and try to pick up the threads of his former life before he'd joined the Company. Before he'd become … what?
He stopped across the narrow street from his building. He had killed, therefore he'd become a killer. He'd killed silently, and from a distance, on occasion, which meant he'd become an assassin. Ugly, but the business had been necessary.
No night went by without the memories of the people he'd killed parading through his sleep, like macabre sheep to be
counted before he could rest. Those memories would never stop haunting him until he was dead. It was one of the prices he'd paid for becoming what he'd become.
The other price he'd paid, and continued to pay besides the estrangement of his wife and daughter, was the enmity of his own government. The general had called him a “necessary evil” and despised him. Yet when there'd been trouble, of a nature that the CIA couldn't or wouldn't handle itself, McGarvey was pushed into the corner in such a way that he could not refuse to help.
Complicated, he thought. His life had never been easy; on the contrary, it had been complicated.
Waiting for a small Renault to pass, McGarvey crossed the street and entered his building. The concierge's window was closed, so he went directly up to his third-floor apartment. If there was mail he would get it later.
For now he wanted to finish packing. Most of his things would go into temporary storage here in Paris until he knew for certain where he was going to end up, while the rest, except for an overnight bag, he was sending ahead to Washington.
His apartment door was wide open. Two uniformed French policemen were in the corridor talking with a broad-shouldered man in civilian clothes. There seemed to be a lot of activity inside.
The civilian turned around as McGarvey came up. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name is McGarvey, this is my apartment. Now who the hell are you and what do you think you're doing?”
A short, very dark, extremely dangerous-looking man, also dressed in civilian clothes, appeared in the doorway. “Searching your apartment, Monsieur McGarvey. Do you have any objections?”
“You're damned right I do.”
“Then come in please, and we will discuss them. I'm sure something can be worked out.”
“First of all, who are you?”
“Phillipe Marquand,” the swarthy man said. He was built
like a Sherman tank. “Are you presently carrying a weapon?”
“No,” McGarvey said. Marquand was with the SDECE.
“Then it is only the one automatic pistol which we have found in your apartment—for which you apparently have no French permit to carry—that you own. Is that correct?”
“I would like to speak to Tom Lynch at my embassy.”
“In due time, Monsieur. First you and I will have a little chat.”
“Monday …”
“Now. By Monday you will be out of France in good health, I assure you. That is, if you cooperate.”
“There's nothing I can tell you, Colonel. If you know who Tom Lynch is, and what I was, then you will understand.”
“Ah, but you have it wrong,” the SDECE colonel said. “I don't have many questions for you, rather it is I who am going to answer your questions.”
McGarvey's eyes narrowed, and Marquand smiled.
“The man's name was Karl Boorsch, and he had been a field officer for the East German Secret Service. Both facts you know, of course. But what you may not know is that Boorsch had help, a great deal of help, and a great deal of money.”
“What do you want from me?” McGarvey asked.
“Your help in tracking them down and eliminating them, of course.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 5, 1992
A THICK HAZE HAD SETTLED OVER THE WASHINGTON AREA AS night fell, lending the city a mysterious air that Kelley Fuller found intimidating. She paid off her cab in front of an eight-story apartment building near Howard University Hospital, and hefting her single overnight bag, hurried into the lobby and impatiently punched the elevator call button.
She was a thin woman in her mid-thirties with long, dark hair, delicately proportioned Oriental features and a soft, yellow cast to her skin. She wore a white blouse, dark skirt and high heels, not exactly traveling clothes, but she'd been in a hurry.
The elevator was on the sixth floor, and as she waited for it to descend to the lobby, she put down her bag, went back to the glass doors and looked outside.
No one had followed her so far as she could tell. But she was certain that it would only be a matter of time before they came for her like they had Jim Shirley.
She closed her eyes tightly for just a moment, Shirley's screams echoing in her head. She'd seen everything from where she'd hidden in the shadows in front of the hotel, and when Dunée had calmly walked past, she'd been frozen, unable to take her eyes off the horrible spectacle below for more than a split instant.
Shirley had screamed for such a long time, but no one even attempted to help him or stop the two delivery men who'd
simply gotten back into their truck and driven off. By the time someone brought a fire extinguisher from the hotel it was all over, Shirley's body burned to an unrecognizable charred mass where it had fallen to the left.
She had run, and had kept running without sleep for the past forty-eight hours, hoping that once she reached Washington everything would be better, that she would be safely among friends. But now that she was here, she wasn't so sure that anyplace would be safe for her ever again.
She'd gotten a clear, if brief, look at Dunée's face as he'd passed. He'd been smiling. Behind him, a man was being burned alive, his screams inhuman, and Dunée seemed to be enjoying himself.
The elevator dinged, but Kelley lingered at the glass doors for a moment longer, wondering if she'd done the right thing coming back. But she was so frightened she couldn't go on. Not after what she'd witnessed. She needed to talk to someone. She needed to be among people she knew and trusted. She needed to be told what to do next.
Kelley had telephoned from the airport, and Lana Toy was waiting in the corridor as the elevator opened on the fifth floor, a look of puzzled concern on her small, round Oriental features. They'd been friends for a number of years, working together as translators for the State Department.
“What happened to you?” she demanded, taking Kelley by the arm and leading her back to her apartment.
“You didn't tell anybody I'm back, did you?”
“No, but what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Tokyo. What happened?”
“I can't tell you that,” Kelley said. “But I might have to stay with you for a little while, if that's okay.”
“Of course it is. But are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Just lock the door, Lana, and get me a drink,” Kelley said. She put down her bag and went to the window where she carefully parted the curtain and looked down at the street.
The cab was gone, and as she watched, a city bus passed, but there was no other traffic. No movement. But God, she
could almost feel that someone was down there, watching from the darkness, and she shivered.
Jim Shirley's screams would stay with her for the rest of her life. One of the reasons she'd not been able to sleep for the past two days was because she'd been on the run. But the other, even darker reason was because she was afraid to sleep. Afraid what her nightmares would be. She knew that she was going to relive the experience. She was frightened that she might relive it from another point of view, from someone else's perspective.
Lana Toy, a bottle of vodka in one hand and two glasses in the other, came back from the kitchen. She stopped short. “You are in trouble,” she said, her face serious.
“I'm going to need your help, Lana. But I don't want you to ask me any questions. Please. It's for your own sake.”
The other woman nodded her reluctant agreement, then came the rest of the way into the small but nicely furnished living room and set the bottle and glasses on the coffee table.
“I need to use your phone.”
“Sure,” Lana Toy said, pouring the drinks as Kelley went to the phone and dialed a number.
It was answered on the first ring, by a man who simply repeated the number.
“This is Yaeko Hataya,” Kelley said softly. “I'm here in Washington.”
“We've been worried. Can we come for you?”
“No,” Kelley said sharply. She glanced at Lana Toy, who was watching her. “I'll call back in … five minutes.”
“Are you safe?”
“For the moment,” Kelley said. “Five minutes.” She hung up. “Now I'll take that drink,” she told her friend.
 
Phil Carrara was one of four men in the small third-floor briefing room listening to Sargent Anders, the director of Technical Services, explain what they had learned from Tokyo. Actually, he thought, they had nothing concrete yet, and the way things were going they might never find Shirley's killers or their actual motives.
Within three hours of the attack a team of four forensics people from Technical Services had been sent over, along with two of the best covert operations muscle currently in house and not on some field assignment somewhere.
During the thirteen-plus hours it took to get to Japan (they'd gone via commercial carrier to attract less attention) Tokyo Station had all but closed down. The Japanese were extremely sensitive about spies in their midst.
Shirley's cover had been as a special economic affairs adviser to the ambassador, the actual day-to-day work of which fell naturally to his staff. The Japanese Federal Police accepted this ruse so long as there was no trouble. With this incident, everyone over there was keeping a low profile, and would continue to do so for at least the next few days.
The other three men with Carrara were his Assistant Deputy Director of Operations, Ned Tyllia, the Chief of the Far East Desk, Nicholas Wuori, and the Chief of Operations Covert Action Staff, Don Ziegler.
“The delivery truck has been found abandoned in a parking area near the Ikebukuro train station in northeast Tokyo. About five miles, as the crow flies, north of the Roppongi Prince,” Anders was saying.
It was something new. Carrara sat forward. “Who discovered the truck, Sargent, certainly not one of our people?”
“No, sir, it was Tokyo Police. The call came from a local
koban
after one of their officers stumbled across the truck. Its license tag had been removed. A mistake on their part, I'd say. Naturally we monitored the call, as we do all police and military calls, and once the truck had been picked up and brought to the impound yard, one of my people got in for a quick look.”
Anders looked more like a bookkeeper than a cop, which is what he'd been with the New York City Police Department for eleven years before coming to the CIA. He was a precise little man, who sometimes affected a British accent because he thought it made him sound like James Bond. (Ian Fleming
had been and still was the most widely read author by CIA employees.)
“Did we get anything?”
“Unknown yet, but there's the possibility. According to eyewitnesses, the two bad guys wore hard hats and paper air filters. We recovered two used filters and one plastic hard hat from the truck. The items are enroute to our lab in Yokosuka where we should be able to come up with a DNA profile from hair out of the hat and from saliva off the filters. Won't give us a name or names, but we'll have something to match if they're eventually bagged.”
“Fingerprints, anything like that?” Carrara asked.
“No time, it was a quick in-out. But we managed to get a sample of the gasoline they used. It was normal unleaded, but it was laced with hydrochloric acid. Ten percent.”
Everyone was shaken.
“Even if the fire hadn't killed Jim, the fumes would have burned out his lungs,” Anders said.
“Determined bastards,” Tyllia commented.
“And ruthless,” Anders agreed.
The telephone at Carrara's elbow buzzed softly and he picked it up. “Carrara.”
“This is Tony. Kelley Fuller just called.”
Carrara raised his hand for Anders to hold up. “Where is she?”
“Apparently here in Washington. But she used her workname, and she sounded strung out, though she says she's safe. She'll call back at 8:32.”
Carrara glanced up at the wall clock. Four minutes. “Did you get a trace?”
“I brought it up, but she was too fast. I'll get her when she calls back. I offered to send someone for her, sir, but she refused.”
“We'll keep her at arm's length for the moment. I don't want her contaminated.”
“Yes, sir,” the communications man downstairs said, and Carrara hung up.
The Resource and Evaluation Committee for most deep-cover
operations in which a blind asset (an agent unknown to the local station) was used included the men in this room along with the Director of Central Intelligence and his deputy, and sometimes the Deputy Director of Intelligence and his assistant.
“Kelley Fuller has surfaced,” Carrara told the others.
“Where?” Wuori, the Far East Desk chief, asked sharply. He'd known Kelley since she was a little girl growing up in Honolulu, his home town.
“Here in Washington. She's made initial contact and her next call comes in a few minutes.” Carrara picked up the phone and punched the number for the DCI's locator service. It was Saturday. Murphy had left his office at noon.
“She's on the run, then. Must have seen something.”
“Presumably,” Carrara said, waiting for his call to be patched through.
“How'd she sound? What'd Tony say?” For a time Wuori had been like a father to Kelley. It hurt now that she was in Washington, apparently in trouble, and had not called him.
“Shook up, but safe.” Carrara's call was going through. It rang, and Murphy's bodyguard answered gruffly.
“Yes.
“This is a yellow light for the general.”
A moment later Murphy was on the line. “Murphy.”
“She's surfaced here in Washington,” Carrara said without preamble. Murphy would recognize his voice, and there was no doubt who he was talking about. “She'll be calling again in a couple of minutes.”
“Is she all right?”
“Tony said she sounded strung out, but she was safe.”
“Any sign that she's been compromised in Tokyo?”
“We've seen or heard nothing,” Carrara said, knowing what was coming next.
“Then send her back, Phil. The bastards hit Jim, there's no telling if they'll be content to stop at that.”
“It's a warning …”
“You're damned right it is,” Murphy growled. “Considering
the billions in foreign trade that's at stake, you and I both know they won't stop.”
“I'll meet her tonight.”
“Don't queer it by being spotted with her,” Murphy said. The instruction stung a little because Carrara was enough of a professional to know as much.
“Sure thing.”
“Listen, Phil, there's more than just money at stake here. Tokyo Station, among its other troubles, leaks like a sieve. Everytime we sneeze, the Japanese have the handkerchief out even before we start.”
“But this is something new.” Carrara said. Murphy disagreed.
“You're wrong. Murder is one of the oldest of crimes. Read your Bible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carrara hung up, thought for a moment, then looked at the others. “If she's not blown her cover by running, we're to send her back.”
“For God's sake, Phil, we'd be signing her death warrant,” Wuori argued.
“We have no evidence that whoever hit Jim was also after her, have we?” Carrara asked.
Anders shook his head.
The phone at Carrara's elbow buzzed.
“We'll do what we can to insure her safety, but she goes back,” Carrara said, and he picked up the phone.
“She's in an apartment on the north side, leased by Lana Toy,” Tony said. “A friend of hers.”
“Right,” Carrara said. “Put her on.” A moment later the incoming call was transferred to the briefing room. “Is that you?” he asked.
BOOK: Critical Mass
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