The Kill Zone (8 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

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That had been McGarvey's personal philosophy from the beginning of his career; you could not protect a flag that you didn't understand.
He'd always thought that he understood what it was to be an American. But suddenly he wasn't so sure any longer. Perhaps people like Hammond and Madden were correct after all; perhaps he was unfit for the job.
That was a question that had plagued him ever since the President asked him to take the job. Maybe he didn't have the moral or philosophical equipment.
He was, or at least he had been, an assassin. Such acts were against the law. Yet the law had never stopped him.
A few years ago someone had asked him who the hell he thought he was. “What gives you the right to be judge, jury and executioner?”
And now someone or something was coming after him; stalking him and his family; some dark, malevolent beast out of his past. Something. It was something whispering at his shoulder. He couldn't shake the growing feeling of dread.
He looked again over his shoulder for the Russian SVR
rezident,
but the man wasn't there. His absence meant something.
“Mr. McGarvey,” Senator Hammond prompted.
“I'll reserve my opening remarks until later, Senator Hammond. But I'd like a written version to be entered into the record at this time.”
“Very well,” Hammond said.
A clerk came over, and Paterson handed him a copy of McGarvey's opening statement, a puzzled but resigned expression on his face.
Senator Madden sat forward, an almost radiant expression on her round face. “Excuse me, Senator Hammond, I would like to ask Mr. McGarvey a question before we proceed.”
Hammond motioned for her to go ahead.
“It has come to my attention that you might not even want this job,” she said. “Is that true?”
“Frankly no, I never wanted the job,” McGarvey replied before Paterson could stop him.
“Well then—”
“I have a great deal of respect for President Haynes. He asked me if I would take the job. I couldn't say no. If I'm confirmed, it's my intention to remake the Agency completely.”
Madden smiled warmly. “Maybe you and I are in agreement after all. I've been campaigning for quite a while to revamp the CIA. It's long overdue.”
“I agree,” McGarvey said. “But probably not along the same lines you've been talking about. I firmly believe that there remains a very strong need for the CIA. But for an agency that's leaner, meaner, better funded and equipped, and without three-quarters of the bureaucracy that has hamstrung almost every operation before it ever got off the ground.”
“There's a great deal of inertia in an organization as vast as the CIA, wouldn't you say?”
“Too much.”
“So it would take a very capable administrator to accomplish such a reorganization as you envision. Isn't that correct?”
“I might say yes, Senator, if we were talking about almost any other organization than the CIA.”
“I expect so,” Senator Madden responded smugly. “But isn't it a fact you have admitted that you are no administrator?”
“An officer in the field, whose life may very well be jeopardized by the
kinds of policies being put in place at headquarters, respects professional competence over administrative expertise.”
“Spies managing spies?”
“Yes, Senator. Just like the old days, when spies like Dulles and Donovan grew the Agency from nothing.”
“But they were gentlemen.”
Paterson reached for the microphone, but McGarvey responded to Madden's thinly veiled insult.
“Yes, they were, Senator. They came from the old school, when people believed in building institutions to help make this country strong, not tear them apart with no clear idea what should replace them.”
The
Washington Post
had quoted Madden on more than one occasion calling for the dismantling of the CIA. The Agency, in her estimation, had cost the United States far more money and far more embarrassment than it was ever worth even on its best day. “A den of thugs,” she had said.
She caught his insult, but if it bothered her, she didn't let it show. “You are going to tell us how you mean to bring the CIA back to the good old days?”
“If that's what you want to call it, yes, I will.” McGarvey returned her smile. “I think it's time that we stop apologizing to the rest of the world for who and what we are.” He looked at the other senators. “I'm here this morning to answer your questions, but not to make excuses.”
“That's all well and good,” Senator Hammond said. “But today has been reserved for opening statements. Are we to understand that you are passing on that opportunity?”
“That's correct.”
“Why?”
“As I said, Senator, I'm here to answer your questions, not to make any kind of a political statement that would in any event be misunderstood.”
Hammond laughed, and glanced at the others on the committee. “Very well, we'll leave it at that for today.”
 
 
On the drive back to Langley Paterson was in an odd, buoyant mood, as if he was happy the way things had gone.
“They're either going to hire me, or they're not, Carleton. But I'm not going to screw around. I'll tell it like it is.”
“When haven't you?” Paterson asked. “I'm surprised that the President hasn't phoned already to tell you to cooperate.”
“We had the discussion two weeks ago. He told me to call them as I saw them.” McGarvey had to smile. “He did ask me to promise not to shoot any of them.”
Paterson laughed. “There's at least that.”
 
 
It was around four when McGarvey got back to his office. His desk was stacked with memos, letters and files. In the couple of hours before he left for home he fended off a dozen phone calls congratulating him on his performance at the hearing. The calls were mostly from old friends, but not from the President.
One of the files on his desk was the Nikolayev dossier. There wasn't much to it, only one grainy black-and-white photograph showing him in a group at the Frunze Military Academy, and a few pages of dry facts. He had been an experimental psychologist in Baranov's old Department Viktor, though there was almost nothing on what his duties were. He was an old man now; his wife dead, no children or any other relatives alive. It was a wonder the SVR was still interested in him. McGarvey couldn't fathom why Otto was also interested.
Adkins had the NIE and Watch Report in good shape for Thursday's meeting of the U.S. Intelligence Board. By throwing himself into work Adkins was in much better shape than he had been this morning. He was going back to the hospital around six, and he asked McGarvey to thank Kathleen for stopping by.
“It cheered her up having another woman to talk to.”
“How'd she know that Ruth was in the hospital?” McGarvey asked.
“I assumed that you told her.”
McGarvey shook his head. “I didn't have a chance. But she knows more people in this town than I do. Somebody must have told her. Anyway, I'm glad she got up there.”
Kathleen's ability to find out things apparently without working at it, was another trait he found attractive. She was bright, intuitive and seemed to know when and where someone needed her. She would have made a great spy. Like the good ones she was able to see connections between seemingly unrelated bits and pieces. And it was just this sort of activity, helping other people, that would bring her out of the blue funk she'd gotten herself into.
He got word from Security that their Bethesda detail would have to be extended through the night because Rencke had not yet been released. Louise
Horn was still not back at the NRO, nor was there any answer at the apartment. She was staying at Otto's bedside around the clock. She was like a lioness with her cub; no one would get near him without answering to her.
It took several minutes for Dr. Daishong to answer his page at the hospital. He sounded cheerful but all out of breath as if he had just run up a flight of stairs. He'd been on duty a straight twenty-four hours, and he was finally on his way home, he explained.
“I'm keeping him until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Why? What's wrong with him?” McGarvey asked.
“His injuries from the accident are superficial. Not serious. But the poor man is tired, anemic and quite possibly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Good heavens, I'm told that he possibly eats nothing but junk food.”
“He's been under a lot of pressure.”
“He's sleeping now, and we're filling him with vitamins to build up his system. I suggest that you go easy on him.”
“Yes, thank you, I'll try.”
“I have told your security people that he is to have no further visitors.”
“Who has come to see him?”
“In addition to his friend who will stay the night, only Mrs. McGarvey.”
“Take care of him, Doctor. We need him back here.”
“Better that you take care of him so that he doesn't come back to me.”
On the way home, traffic snarled because of the heavy snow, McGarvey had time to put everything that had been happening into some sort of perspective. Troubles came in threes. There were weird weeks in which everything seemed to go wrong at once. The trick was to take it a step at a time. All things would pass, even the bad times.
“Has Liz called yet?” he asked Kathleen. “They're back down at the Farm for the next couple of days. But she promised that she would call you.”
“Not yet, but she will,” Kathleen said brightly. Her dark mood of last night and this morning seemed to have dissipated.
They kissed, and he sat down at the counter as she stirred a pot on the stove. “Smells good whatever it is.”
“Spaghetti. Is that okay?”
“More than okay, I'm starved.”
She gave him a smile. “What'll it be, a double or a triple?”
“How about a beer?”
She laughed as she got him his beer. “Tom Hammond must be slipping.”
“Did you watch any of it?”
She shook her head. “Between that arrogant prick, and that tight-assed Madden broad I didn't dare. I might have been tempted to storm down there and rip out their tongues.”
McGarvey was shocked. He'd never heard his wife talk like that.
“Close your mouth, dear,” she said sweetly. “There are times when only a certain kind of language seems appropriate.”
“It's a good thing that you didn't watch.”
“That bad?”
He nodded. “Yeah. But from their standpoint they're right.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, think about what you're saying.”
“When we get into the closed sessions there'll be a lot of … incidents out of my past laid on the table.” He looked inward for the flash of an instant. The image that remained in his mind's eye, like a sunspot on his retina, was of a hell in which dozens of people were falling back in slow motion; blood splashing in every direction; rivers of blood; people screaming in terror, their hands out in supplication. He flinched.
Kathleen poured a glass of wine. She put it down and came around the counter to him, a look of deep concern on her face. “What's the matter, Kirk?”
For a moment longer McGarvey couldn't speak. He shook his head and looked up into her eyes. “I've done the right things, haven't I?”
She took him in her arms. “Not always, my darling. None of us ever do, didn't you know that?” She looked down at him and offered a small reassuring smile. “But on balance you've always been headed in the right direction. That's a lot more than most people can say.”
“They were bad.”
“Yes, they were. And if you didn't have a conscience, if you didn't feel remorse almost all the time, you would be no different than they were. Nothing more than mindless, immoral thugs.”
MAYBE IT WAS HIS PAST CATCHING UP WITH HIM.
WASHINGTON
M
cGarvey arrived at the Hart Senate Office Building a few minutes before 10:00 A.M. wearing a dark blue suit with side vents, a pale blue shirt and plain matching tie. Kathleen had laid out the clothes for him, as she did most mornings. If Hammond and the others were going to shoot him down, at least he'd crash in style.
Two dozen newspaper and television reporters were waiting in front of the Capitol as McGarvey's limousine pulled up.
Yemm headed a phalanx of four bodyguards, who escorted McGarvey and Paterson across the sidewalk and up the broad marble stairs, keeping the media at arm's length. The extra muscle was the Office of Security's idea, and though McGarvey initially objected Paterson convinced him to go along with it. “Hell, if nothing else a little extra show of force right now might put a burr under Hammond's saddle.”
McGarvey had to smile. He was being manipulated. But it was for his own good, though it was still another thing he was having trouble getting used to. “Well then, I guess it's the least we can do.”
McGarvey's name had never been exactly a household word, but after yesterday's televised hearing and the front-page stories in the
Washington
Post and
New York Times
, in which he was characterized as having drawn the battle line in the sand, he was becoming fair game for the crazies.
Before they left Langley Yemm insisted that McGarvey wear body armor under his shirt. “You're a tempting target now, boss,” Yemm said, trying to keep it light. But he was deadly serious.
“If they know what they're doing, they'll go for a headshot.”
“Nothing we can do about that, but even guys like Begin would have come out alive if they'd been wearing.”
The vest was light, and not noticeable, but it was hot. McGarvey figured that it was going to be a bitch of a day on more than one account. But at least the process had begun. There would be no more waiting for the other shoe to fall, no more wondering if he should take the job or even if he was going to be confirmed.
Like yesterday the hearing chamber was packed. Capitol security officers at the tall double doors were turning people away. As McGarvey and Paterson worked their way to the witness table, McGarvey scanned the crowd for any sign of Dmitri Runkov, the SVR
rezident.
But he didn't spot the Russian, who would have been sitting with the other foreign service officers.
“Can we get a list of who was here yesterday and today?” McGarvey asked Paterson as they took their seats.
“Sure,” Paterson said. “Do you have a reason?”
“I'll tell you about it later.”
Almost immediately the clerk of the hearings came in and announced the committee members. Opening the sessions this way was Hammond's idea. He'd been a circuit court judge in St. Paul before being elected to the Senate. He thought that the clerk added dignity to the proceedings.
The senators filed in, and when they'd taken their places and the audience was settled, Hammond reminded McGarvey that he was still under oath.
“I had hoped to be further along then we are,” Senator Hammond said. “But it seems as if there is even more material to cover than I first supposed.” He gave Paterson a stern look. “I would hope that we can keep today's session on a more businesslike basis in the interest of saving time.”
“If that is your hope, Senator, it's our hope as well,” Paterson said with
a straight face. “Mr. McGarvey has a very full schedule at Langley, as you can well imagine.”
“Mr. McGarvey is not the Agency's director yet,” Brenda Madden interjected.
“He is working as interim director, Madam Senator,” Paterson said. “And has been for some time now.”
“Surely the intelligence professionals at the CIA are used to the comings and goings of political appointees and are capable of doing their jobs unsupervised by a titular director for the time being.”
“On the contrary, Senator Madden, as you well know, Mr. McGarvey is a twenty-five-year veteran with the Central Intelligence Agency. He has earned the respect and loyalty of everyone out there.”
“Including you, sir?” she gibed. It was well-known that Paterson had only reluctantly left his New York law practice to help straighen out the sometimes sticky legal positions that the CIA found itself in. Because it was a challenge, and because the previous president had asked him to do it, he had agreed. He had no love for the world of the spy, like his predecessor Howard Ryan had, but he was doing a good job.
“Yes, including me,” he said.
Madden's expression darkened. It wasn't the answer she'd wanted.
Hammond glanced over and gave her a questioning look. She shrugged and sat back. Hammond turned to the first of the fat files piled in front of him.
“I think we can dispense with the usual examination of Mr. McGarvey's personal data. Let it be noted in the record that Kirk Cullough McGarvey was born October 9, 1950 in Garden City, Kansas. Parents were Herbert Cullough and Claire Elizabeth, both deceased. Attended Garden City elementary, middle and high schools, graduating cum laude in 1966. He attended Kansas State University, graduating in 1970, also cum laude. Two bachelors of science, one in mathematics the other in political science.” Hammond looked up. “That is an unusual combination.”
“Is that a question, Senator?” McGarvey asked. Kathleen said to push back, and he was already starting to feel irascible. His desk was piled with work.
“No,” Hammond said after a beat. “I won't belabor the point, but looking over your high school and college records I see that you were not involved in any extracurricular activities. No sports, no clubs, not the debating team, or the trap and skeet squad. Can you tell us why?”
McGarvey leaned over to Paterson. “Is this necessary, Carleton? What the hell is he looking for?”
“Leadership qualities, and they can ask anything they want to ask.”
McGarvey turned back and shook his head. “None of that interested me, Senator.”
“What did you do with your spare time? Scouting, fishing, hunting, camping?”
“I wasn't in the Scouts, but I did fish and hunt with my father. I helped around the ranch, and when I was fifteen I learned how to fly-fish.”
“You were a loner even then,” Hammond said, and before McGarvey could say anything, Madden sat forward, a file open in front of her.
“Were you large for your age, Mr. McGarvey,” she asked. “I mean in school, were you bigger than the other kids in your class?”
“I don't understand the question.”
“Oh, it's simple. I'd like to know if you were the big kid on the block. You know, the class bully.”
McGarvey smiled and shook his head. “I was big, but I wasn't the bully. My father drummed into my head from the start that fighting never solved anything. We had one rule in our house, and that was: no hitting. My father never even spanked me.”
“What if you did something wrong? Did he send you to bed without supper?” Brenda Madden asked with a smirk.
“He would explain to me what I did wrong and tell me that he was disappointed in me. That's all. That was worse than a beating.”
“That's a curious view for a man who, along with his wife, worked on nuclear weapons at Los Alamos. Wouldn't you think?”
“No.”
“No hitting,” Brenda Madden mused, as if she found the notion quaint. “And no involvement in the glee club, no homecoming king, or football team—excuse me, I forgot, no hitting. But you didn't even join the cheerleading squad. Or was it because you were barred from those activities?”
Paterson's hand shot out and clamped over the microphone. “What's she getting at?”
“I'd almost forgotten,” McGarvey answered.
“Mr. McGarvey?” Brenda Madden prompted.
Paterson hesitated a moment, then removed his hand.
“No, I was not barred from after-school activities. It was a mutual agreement between my parents and the school board. It was a small town, and I was a good student.”
“But you agreed not to play sports. Why?”
“I was involved in an after-school fight. It was a long time ago.”
Brenda Madden held up a Finney County Department of Juvenile Justice file. “There were four of them. Football players. It was strongly suspected that you had used some sort of a weapon. They believe that it might have been a baseball bat. All four of those boys ended up in the hospital, two of them in critical condition.”
Senator Hammond was beaming. Some of the other senators, however, looked either uncomfortable or puzzled.
“One of them is still confined to a wheelchair,” Brenda Madden hammered. She looked directly at the television cameras. “But I find it terribly odd that nothing happened as a result except to bar Mr. McGarvey from after-school activities. The families of the four boys didn't even sue. Certainly your parents had enough money. They owned a rather substantial ranch. In fact they were wealthy by the standards of those days. Yet no lawsuits. Unless payments were made under the table.” She smiled viciously. “Which was it, Mr. McGarvey? Payments under the table, or were the families simply terrified of retribution from a loner. Maybe by today's standards a Columbine High School odd duck.”
“Objection,” Paterson broke in. “I assume that those are sealed juvenile court records, Madam Senator.”
“That's of no consequence—”
“There was no weapon,” McGarvey said.
“You don't have to answer to such an obvious smear tactic,” Paterson warned. He was angry. Madden and Hammond were loving it.
“You were saying, Mr. McGarvey?” Madden prompted again.
“I didn't use a weapon.”
“You hurt those boys with your bare fists?”
“Yes.”
Madden looked to Hammond, but he shrugged. This was her ball, he would let her run with it. “Over what? Were you arguing over something they said to you. Did they call you a name?”
“They were gang-raping an eleven-year-old girl in the woods behind the school. I stopped them.”
Brenda Madden's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“We'll check that,” Hammond said. He shuffled some files. “Now, moving—”
“If Senator Madden had done her homework, she would have discovered that the four boys were sent to juvenile detention until they were twenty-one.
One of them died in a knife fight in prison, one of them committed suicide shortly after he got out, and the other two, so far as I know, are still alive. I never followed up.”
Except for a few sniggers in the audience, the chamber was silent.
“It's not something I'm proud of, Senator Madden,” he said. “But I don't like bullies. Never have.”
“What sort of chores, Mr. McGarvey?” the committee's vice chairman Senator John Clawson, asked. He was the senior Republican from Montana, a Westerner, tall, outdoorsy, who felt more comfortable in jeans than in a business suit. He was a rancher.
“On the ranch?” McGarvey asked.
Hammond broke in. “I think that we have spent sufficient time on Mr. McGarvey's youth.”
“Indulge me, Tom,” Clawson said easily.
McGarvey shrugged. “Mostly feeding cattle.”
“While they were out on the range. Probably during the winter when the grass was scarce for them. You rode in the back of a truck or hay wagon, and tossed hay bales to them.”
“Something like that.”
“That's not an easy job,” Clawson said to Brenda Madden. “I did it myself as a kid. Builds up your muscles, gives you a huge appetite. Puts on pounds real early.” He smiled. “No mystery there.”
“I wouldn't know,” she replied.
“At least you have one friend,” Paterson said in an aside to McGarvey.
“I would like to move on, if possible,” Hammond said. “There are a few areas of concern that I'd like to touch on today. If we can get to them we'll meet in camera tomorrow.”
There were no objections.
“You joined the air force directly out of college, finished OCS and were commissioned a second lieutenant in October. Subsequently you attended the Air Force Intelligence Officers schools at Lackland Air Force Base and Kelly Field in San Antonio, Texas, and then were assigned to embassy duty in Saigon.” Hammond looked up from the file he was reading from. “Is all of that correct?”
“Yes.”
“What was your job in Saigon?”
“Senator, I don't know if that material is still classified. I'll have to check on it for you.”
“It's not classified,” Hammond said. He passed a document to one of
the Senate pages, who brought it to the witness table. It was a release of documents form under the Freedom of Information Act.

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