The Expediter

by David Hagberg

  Just a few months ago he’d been involved with an operation in Mexico City involving a Chinese intelligence service general that ultimately ended up in an attack against the U.S. that was still under investigation by the CIA.

  Now this, involving another Chinese intelligence service general at the center of an operation that could ultimately end up being an even stronger blow against the U.S.

  Coincidence? He couldn’t make himself believe it.

  “I’ll call him in the morning.”

  “He’s camped out upstairs until this shit blows over,” Rencke said. “Everyone on this side of the pond is going nuts. But I can hold him off a little longer.”

  “I’ll call him now,” McGarvey said.

  “The directions to Turov’s place in Uneo are in your phone. Watch yourself, this guy’s good.”

  McGarvey broke the connection and speed dialed Adkins’s private number at his seventh-floor office. The DCI answered on the second ring, and he sounded irascible.

  “What?”

  “How’d you know that I was in Seoul?” McGarvey asked.

  Adkins hesitated only a beat. “Christ, make me a happy man and tell me that you’re on the way home.”

  “Who told you?” McGarvey pressed.

  “Howard told me this morning. Said someone from the NIS called him. Evidently you got one of their officers shot up, and she damned near died.”

  “The guy’s name is Alexandar Turov. He hired a pair of South Korean shooters to go up to Pyongyang and take out the general.”

  “You’re not listening, Mac. If it gets out that an American, especially a former DCI, is meddling in this business there’ll be no end to the international complications. The general’s assassination might even be laid on our doorstep.”

  McGarvey had always liked Adkins. The man was honest, well-meaning, and a damned fine administrator. But he was no spy. He didn’t know when to take a chance, or even how to evaluate a risk to see if the possible outcome was worth it.

  “I’ll come home as soon as I can.”

  “Not good enough!” Adkins shouted. “For Christ’s sake, Mac, we’re looking down the barrel of a nuclear war out there that could spread not only to Japan, but to Taiwan as well, and we’d be right in the middle of it. You sat in this office, you know what’s at stake. If need be we’ll turn this over to the Japanese authorities to have you arrested and forcibly sent home. But Howard’s afraid that you just might resist and there’d be another shooting.”

  “Turov is nothing more than the middleman, an expediter, and I’m going to ask him for a name.”

  Adkins hesitated for a moment. “I’ll give you a few hours, Mac. It’s all I can do, and then I’ll have to turn this over to the COS there in Tokyo and ask him to bring you in, even if it means going to the Japanese authorities for help.”

  “I’ll be out of here first thing in the morning, no matter what happens,” McGarvey said. “Twelve hours from now. But it’s too important and I’m too close to back off now.”

  “My hands are tied,” Adkins said.

  “So are mine,” McGarvey said, and he broke the connection and stared out the window at the lights of the city.

  FIFTY

  Of the four restaurants in the hotel, McGarvey had enjoyed the French best from his last time here. The chef was from Paris, and had studied at the Cordon Bleu, earning the Asakusa’s kitchen three stars. By seven when McGarvey arrived, the elegant dining room with its Louis XIV furnishings was only half-filled with Western businessmen meeting their Japanese counterparts. No one seemed to be in a hurry, and the noise level in the tall-ceilinged room was muted.

  The maître d’ brought McGarvey a tie then took him to a small table at a window. “Will someone be joining you for dinner this evening, sir?” He unfolded the linen napkin and draped it across McGarvey’s lap.

  “Somebody might drop by and ask for me.”

  “Would you care to leave your name, or would you rather not be disturbed?”

  “McGarvey.”

  “Very good, sir,” the man said with a half bow and he returned to his station.

  Two waiters came, one to pour Evian in a stemmed glass, the other with bread and butter. When they left a third brought the menu.

  “Good evening, sir. May I get you something to drink?

  “A cognac, something nice,” McGarvey said. “I’m celebrating.”

  “Yes, sir,” the waiter said and he left. Like the other staff he was French, and unlike the Japanese at the desk this afternoon, their attitude was no different toward Americans than toward anyone else.

  McGarvey guessed that at least one-third of the Westerners here this evening were probably Americans. It made him wonder if they knew something about the impending war that that no one else was aware of, or did they have faith in Washington brokering a peace between North Korea and China? The Americans who’d been caught in Baghdad during the first and second Gulf wars might have felt the same way. Either that or they were men seeking to make a profit from the war. Only in this case, if Kim Jong Il did launch one of his nukes, Tokyo would probably become an unhealthy place in which to do business.

  The waiter returned with the cognac and withdrew to allow McGarvey time to look at the menu, making him also wonder about the French and other foreigners working and doing business here in Japan. The situation was serious, but no one he’d met, other than the Japanese, seemed to be concerned.

  He felt an odd sense of unreality, as if he were caught up in some sort of a time warp, someplace outside the current world order.

  McGarvey looked up as a short Japanese man in a Western business suit came across the room from the maître d’s station. He moved like an athlete, his step light, poised to move very fast if the need suddenly arose.

  “McGarvey-san,” he said with a slight bow. “May I have a seat?

  “That depends on who you are.”

  “My name is of no importance. But my employer’s name may be of some significance to you. Alexandar Turov.”

  McGarvey took a sip of his drink. It was a Napoleon brandy and good. “Do you mean Nikolai Boyko? I think our paths may have crossed recently in Seoul.”

  The Japanese man showed no reaction. “May I sit down?”

  McGarvey motioned for him to take a seat, and as he did the waiter came over, but McGarvey waved him off.

  “The gentleman won’t be joining me for dinner.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  When he was gone, McGarvey turned his attention back to Turov’s messenger. “Well?” he asked coolly.

  “Mr. Turov wishes to invite you to dinner this evening, if you haven’t already dined, or for drinks if you have.”

  “Why?”

  “He would like to discuss with you a recent offer made on your behalf.”

  “Do you mean President Haynes?”

  “I wouldn’t know, McGarvey-san. I’m simply a messenger this evening.”

  McGarvey studied the man who looked like anything but a simple messenger. Close up it was obvious he was in superb physical condition, and able to keep his emotions in check. Bushido, probably. But something else was in the messenger’s eyes and facial structure, maybe a hint of Chinese. If he were of mixed heritage his life here in Japan could never have been easy.

  “Tomorrow evening. I’m tired now, jet lag.”

  “Mr. Turov was most anxious to meet with you to night.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  The Japanese man didn’t bother to answer. He was being toyed with and he knew it.

  “Have him come here, if he wants to see me to night,” McGarvey said. “I’ll meet him downstairs in the lobby bar.”

  “That’s not possible, sir,” the Japanese man said. He produced a business card, English on one side, Japanese on the other, and held it out. “Hand this to your cab driver, it gives directions.”

  McGarvey ignored it. “I know my way,” he said. “Let’s say eight tomorrow evening?”

  “I’ll pass you
r message along.”

  “If there is a problem, he can leave word for me with the desk,” McGarvey said. “Now if you don’t mind, whatever your name is, I’d like to order my dinner in peace.”

  If the insult bothered the man, he didn’t show it. He pocketed the business card, got to his feet, bowed slightly, and left.

  Two hours later McGarvey was back in his room, where he telephoned Rencke, and told him about the conversation he’d had with Turov’s messenger. He pulled out his dark slacks and dark pullover from his bag, plus the extra magazine of 9 mm ammunition and the silencer.

  “Dick was down here raising hell. Wanted me to call Mrs. M and have her put some pressure on you.”

  McGarvey had to smile. “What did you tell him?”

  “That if he wanted to try to involve her I’d crash every computer in the building, and it’d probably take a couple of months before we got back to normal.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “I don’t know,” Rencke said. “But I’ve never seen a DCI do a one-eighty so fast in my life.”

  “I’m going up there sometime after midnight. Do we have a satellite in position to give me some real-time shots of his house and the immediate surroundings? I’d like to see if he’s making any preparations.”

  “Give me five minutes and I’ll have something for you,” Rencke said. “But be careful, Mac, he’s no good to us dead.”

  “That’s the tough part,” McGarvey agreed. “And there’s something else I want you to start looking for. Something in Turov’s background, maybe even as far back as his KGB days.”

  “You looking for connections? A bridge from then to now?”

  “American connections.”

  “Shit,” Rencke said softly.

  “Yeah,” McGarvey said. “Shit is right.”

  FIFTY–ONE

  Turov rarely smoked, which was unusual for a Russian, even a modern Russian, but just now he felt the need, and he got an American Marlboro from a cigarette box at his bedside, lit it, and walked out onto the broad platform looking onto the garden.

  His American contractor had not called back, which wasn’t surprising. And even if he had, Turov had decided that he would take care of Kirk McGarvey in his own fashion. As Minoru had warned, if only half of the stories about the former CIA director were true, he was a dangerous man. And Turov valued his personal freedom too highly to allow a dangerous man to stalk him.

  Minoru came out of the main house at the far end of the veranda and stopped for a moment in the shadows, as if he were a bearer of bad news and hesitated to bring it forward.

  The night was still. Only the muted hum of traffic down the hill near the Ueno Station and Metropolitan Festival Hall slightly marred the peaceful silence. The prime house rules were for silence, discretion, and invisibility. All the staff members, except for Minoru, were to carry out their duties as discreetly as possible while at all other times remain in their own wing of the compound. No radios or television were allowed, no voices raised, no musical instruments or games be played. If and when someone needed to celebrate, they would leave the compound. No one complained because the money Turov paid was very good.

  Turov remembered his childhood as one of nearly monastic silence. “The man who babbles ceaselessly is the man who is unsure of himself or who does not know what he is doing, and wants to convince you otherwise,” his stern father had told him.

  Later, at the beginning of his KGB career, he’d learned interrogation techniques from Sergey Kuzin, a master, who taught that the fewer questions asked, the more likely the prisoner will believe he has to say something merely to fill the silence.

  “All of them want to cleanse the sins from their souls,” Kuzin advised. “In the end they want absolution. Become a sympathetic listener, a Catholic priest who will hear their confessions.”

  Turov had used the same techniques during his assassinations, sometimes learning the most amazing things. Men and women on their deathbeds had no loyalties to anything other than their own lives. It was one of the other lessons that he’d learned early on, that knowledge is power. More often than not he would return from a kill knowing more about his masters than they wanted.

  It would be the same tonight with McGarvey who would confess who had sent him here and why. The information would undoubtedly be valuable.

  “Come,” Turov called softly.

  Minoru came down the veranda to where Turov was standing.

  “He refused your invitation for this evening, but said he will come tomorrow at eight.”

  It was about what Turov expected would happen. “Where did you speak with him?”

  “In one of the dining rooms.”

  “Let me guess, French?”

  Minoru nodded. “He also refused your card. Said that he knew the way.”

  That, however, was unexpected, but Turov held back a frown. “Was he very rude?”

  Minoru shrugged. “When he is dead his past inelegancies will not matter. But he will come here tonight, possibly very early in the morning when he believes we are asleep.”

  “I expect that you are correct,” Turov said. “But since he didn’t accept the card, we shall have to reset the trap. I would like that taken care of within the hour.”

  Minoru nodded. “Naturally.”

  “I do not want him damaged too badly. Bring him to me and I’ll kill him myself, but first I would like to ask him a few questions.”

  “As you wish. I have several people in or near the hotel who will call when he makes his move. It will give us plenty of warning.”

  “Very good, Hirobumi-san,” Turov said, using the honorific, and a brief flash of pleasure crossed Minoru’s face. “Everything is happening according to my plan. I allowed him to see me in Seoul and he came here as I expected he would. I sent you to speak to him and he will come here.”

  “One other thing, Colonel,” Minoru said. “He referred to you by the name of Nikolai Boyko.”

  Turov was physically rocked for an instant before he recovered his poise.

  “Is this of some significance that we should be aware of?” Minoru asked. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “It’s a name I used a very long time ago. But it has no meaning now.”

  “Except that Mr. McGarvey’s sources of intelligence must be very good. Best that he be eliminated as soon as possible.”

  “Yes,” Turov mumbled, but he was lost in thought about exactly how he would conduct his interrogation of McGarvey.

  FIFTY–TWO

  McGarvey rose from a sound sleep a few minutes after three in the morning, and went into the bathroom where he splashed some cold water on his face and rinsed out his mouth.

  Back in the bedroom he dressed in dark slacks and a dark pullover and placed the Wilson in its holster at the small of his back. He pocketed the silencer, two spare magazines of ammunition, and sat phone, then pulled on his dark sports coat and opened the door a crack so that he could make sure the corridor was empty before he slipped out and headed to the elevators.

  Before he’d gone to sleep he’d spent a half hour watching the realtime downloads of satellite images of Turov’s compound from a Key-Hole bird. But if they had been making any preparations for his arrival, which he was certain they had, they’d been discreet.

  He got off on the mezzanine, took the stairs down to the main floor where he made his way past the gift shops to the lobby, and held up just short of the corner. No one was behind the front desk, nor did there seem to be any cleaning or maintenance people doing their work. Only one figure in a bellman’s uniform was stationed near the front doors. Outside a lone cab was waiting.

  McGarvey stepped back. It was a setup, of course. The bellman was there to report to Turov the moment McGarvey showed up and got into the cab. His people would be waiting, which was what McGarvey had expected.

  He went back to the stairs and took them one floor down to the service area in the basement. At this level the hotel was already alive for the coming day, in fa
ct areas such as the laundry never shut down. Everyone was busy here, so he had no difficulty reaching the loading dock area without trouble. It was the same everywhere, the man who moved smartly as if he had a purpose and he belonged usually never attracted more than a passing glance.

  Three small delivery trucks were pulled up and deliverymen in white gloves, white coveralls, and bright yellow caps were busy unloading cartons of what were probably canned goods, along with fresh-cut flowers in long boxes, and three large aluminum cases covered in frost that were removed from the truck by a small forklift.

  As inside, no one paid the slightest attention as McGarvey jumped down from the dock, made his way between the trucks, and up the ramp to the street level where he turned away and headed down the all but deserted street.

  Under ordinary circumstances if he were stopped by a cop who wondered what a gaijin was doing wandering around the streets at this hour of the morning he might be questioned. But if that happened and the cop called in the incident, he would probably be told to forget it. No one in Tokyo wanted trouble from the former CIA director. If he wanted to go for an early-morning walk he was breaking no laws. In any event PSIA had taken an interest and that would be enough for any beat cop unless there was some serious trouble involving a Japanese citizen and/or a firearm.

  The only vehicles on the streets at this hour were delivery vans, street cleaners, and garbage trucks, plus the occasional car or SUV. The nearest subway station was at Tawaramachi on the Ginza Line where McGarvey figured he would find cabs waiting for the early wave of workers coming into the city. Although he would stick out he didn’t think he would be refused a ride.

  He reached the station without trouble, where again he held up in the shadows across the street. A half-dozen tiny vans with green lights were parked at the cab stand in front, the drivers gathered outside for a smoke before the rush began. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to him. If he had been spotted leaving the hotel he hadn’t picked up any indication of a tail, nor did it appear as if Turov had sent someone here to wait for him.