Assassin

by David Hagberg

  “Good morning, Roland,” the President said. “I’d say from the cut of your jib that the news is less than good.”

  “Good morning, Mr. President. There’ve been better days,” Murphy responded. “I think you know Howard Ryan, my Deputy Director of Operations.”

  “Good to see you, Ryan,” the President said.

  “It’s good to be here, Mr. President,” Ryan replied evenly.

  No introductions were needed with Secor, Carter or Landry. They knew Ryan well from briefings before various committees and subcommittees on the Hill.

  “Howard’s more in touch with the nuts and bolts of the situation than I am, so I brought him along to conduct the briefing,” Murphy said.

  “Fine.”

  Ryan handed the President the leather folder. “The last two pages summarize what we know, but I can go over the high points with you, Mr. President.”

  The President motioned for him to take a seat, and he flipped through the bulky report. He didn’t bother with the summary at the back. When he was finished he looked up. “I’ll read this later.” He handed the report to Secor. “In the meantime we have a problem for which I’m going to need some hard information. Prime Minister Kabatov telephoned me this morning, and asked for my help. He means to arrest Yevgenni Tarankov for murder and for destruction of one of their nuclear power plants. He’s asked for my backing, and that of NATO to forestall what might develop into a military coup d’etat. I promised that I would get back to him this morning.”

  “He wants us to use our satellites to help track Tarankov’s train,” Secor said.

  “Mr. President, may I ask what the Prime Minister said to you about President Yeltsin’s death?” Ryan asked. He was on dangerous ground here. Ever since the debacle with the Japanese the President had become a tough bastard. He treated failure harshly.

  “I assume you’ll make a point,” the President said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The funeral has been postponed until next week. He hoped I’d understand, but they have their hands full over there at the moment.”

  “Mr. President, are you saying that Prime Minister Kabatov continues to maintain that President Yeltsin died of a heart attack induced by the car bomb in Red Square?”

  “That’s exactly what he’s saying,” the President said. “Do you know something different?”

  “President Yeltsin was in the limousine that blew up. He was assassinated under Yevgenni Tarankov’s orders because Yeltsin had ordered his arrest in response to the destruction of the Riga Nuclear Power plant.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Secretary of Defense Landry said. “Does the bastard really think he can take over by force?”

  “It’s a possibility that we’re monitoring very closely, Mr. Secretary,” Ryan said.

  President Lindsay ran a hand over his forehead. “What a mess. They’re in over their heads, and they’re finally beginning to realize the sad facts of life.” He glanced at Murphy, then brought his attention back to Ryan. “How reliable is this information?”

  “Unfortunately there were no eyewitnesses, Mr. President. But my people managed to come up with samples of blood and human tissue from the square, minutes after the explosion. A laboratory was set up, and they did in two days what would normally take three or four weeks to do. They came up with an accurate DNA analysis of the blood, and a mass spectrographic study of the tissues. The blood was Yeltsin’s, there’s no doubt about that. And imbedded in the human tissues we found conclusive evidence of Semtex, which is a powerful plastic explosive. The data are on pages seventeen through twenty-one. We’re estimating that the bomb weighed around six kilos, and was placed inside the cabin of President Yeltsin’s limousine—probably beneath the rear seat. The limo’s external armor plating would have effectively contained the primary force of the explosion inside the cabin, tripling its effectiveness. It was radio controlled. Most likely the assassin was in Red Square within sight of the presidential motorcade. He pushed the button and escaped in the confusion.”

  Murphy gave Ryan an odd look, but Ryan shrugged it off. He was in his element now.

  “Tarankov may try to take the government by force before the June elections, Mr. President,” Ryan continued. “He has the support of much of the military, as well as at least half the officers in the Russian missile force. If he is successful it’s likely he’ll reprogram what missiles remain back to their old targets—cities in the United States. He’ll almost certainly have no trouble finding the money to do so.”

  “That sounds a little far fetched, Howard,” Secretary of State Carter said.

  “I’d like to agree, Mr. Secretary, but the facts seem to indicate otherwise,” Ryan replied heavily.

  “What’s the CIA recommending?” the President asked.

  Murphy started to reply, but Ryan beat him to the punch.

  “First, we need to proceed with caution, Mr. President. Meddling in Russia’s internal affairs right now will be dangerous, considering our considerable dollar investment over there.”

  “Now, that I agree with,” Carter said.

  “We cannot ignore the situation,” the President said.

  “No, sir,” Ryan responded. “What we need is a major intelligence investigation into Tarankov’s chances for success, and exactly how deep his power base runs not only in the military and old KGB and Militia, but in the rank and file population as well. The people of Dzerzhinskiy cheered him when he destroyed the power station.

  “I think we need to give Prime Minister Kabatov as much help as possible, but only in the form of assurances until we have more information. The Prime Minister is ordering the very same thing that resulted in President Yeltsin’s death.”

  “What happens if we find out that Tarankov will be successful?” Secor asked evenly. “Do we step in with force?”

  “In that case it would be a political decision. But if the man has popular backing he’ll become president of Russia, and we’ll end up having to deal with him. Perhaps it would be better to start hedging our bets now.”

  The President eyed Ryan coolly. “As you say, Mr. Ryan, the decision would be a political one. But I’m curious. What do you mean by hedging our bets?”

  “We should send out feelers to him. Might kill two birds with one stone.”

  “How so?”

  “Whoever we send as an unofficial envoy from this government would in reality be one of my people. He’d be instructed to explore possible future relations, while keeping his eyes and ears open to learn what he could.”

  “In effect we’d be stabbing Prime Minister Kabatov’s democratic reform government in the back,” the President said, his voice dangerously soft.

  Ryan didn’t miss the warning signals, but he was in too deeply now to back out. He chose his next words with care. “Not exactly, Mr. President. But we would be protecting our own interests, because short of sending direct military help to Prime Minister Kabatov there is very little of a substantive nature that we can do. If Kabatov’s government falls, not because of anything we’ve done or not done, and Tarankov takes over, we should be prepared for him.”

  The President sat back in his rocking chair. “I want to disagree with you, Mr. Ryan. But the hell of it is, I can’t.” He looked at Secor for help, but his National Security Adviser shook his head.

  “Do you have someone in mind for this … diplomatic mission?”

  “Not at the moment, Mr. President.”

  “How soon could you work up a proposal?”

  “Within twenty-four hours, sir.”

  “Very well, do it, Mr. Ryan,” the President said. “In the meantime I’ll telephone Prime Minister Kabatov and tell him that he has my complete support. If there’s anything we can do for him outside of Russia’s borders, we’ll do it. If possible Tarankov should be arrested and placed on trial.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryan said.

  On the way out of the White House Murphy chuckled wryly. “I hope you know that you were had
back there.”

  “What?” Ryan asked.

  “The President set you up, Howard. He has a habit of doing that. But you’ll learn.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’ve named your own poison, man. If the President goes for your proposal you’d better pack your long underwear, because you’ll be the envoy.”

  Ryan’s blood ran cold. “I’m a desk officer.”

  “You just graduated.”

  NINE

  Paris

  Traffic along the Boulevard Haussmann was intense as it was on every weekday except in summer.

  McGarvey sat in the shade beneath an umbrella at a sidewalk cafe across the street from the huge department store Printemps, waiting for Jacqueline to come out. The law offices where she worked were in the next block. He’d expected her to return to work after lunch, but instead she’d come here. To do some shopping, he hoped, though he doubted it.

  She’d been jumpy all weekend no doubt because of his own strange mood. Yemlin’s information about his parents had deeply disturbed him, and he’d been unable to hide it from her. Each time she’d asked what was wrong he told her that he always got this way in the spring in Paris.

  “Then let’s leave the city,” she said.

  “What about your job?”

  “I’ll cut my summer vacation short. We could go to Cannes, or St. Tropez. It would be nice, I promise you.”

  “No.”

  “Porquoi pas?” she cried.

  “I have something to take care of, that’s why. I don’t run away from my obligations.”

  She’d shaken her head. “You’re a strange American.”

  He’d laughed. “We all are.”

  Jacqueline emerged from the department store, and McGarvey was about to get up and pay his bill, when something struck him as wrong. She turned in the opposite direction from her office, and headed off in a rush. McGarvey sat down. She’d been inside for nearly an hour but she’d bought nothing. She carried no shopping bags.

  Ten minutes later he spotted another person he knew emerging with the crowds from the store, Colonel Guy de Galan, chief of the SDECE’s Division R7, in charge of gathering intelligence from and about America and the Western Hemisphere. McGarvey had had a brief run in with the man a couple of years ago.

  Galan stepped to the side, and pretended to look at the displays in one of the windows while he lit a cigarette.

  It was a standard tradecraft procedure, but it would be impossible for him to spot McGarvey here. The point was, however, that he was taking precautions. He expected someone might be watching him.

  After a few moments, Galan turned, scanned the traffic in the street and looked over in McGarvey’s direction. But then he tossed his cigarette aside, and headed in the same direction Jacqueline had gone.

  “How about that,” McGarvey said, even more depressed than before. He’d been ninety-nine percent sure that Jacqueline worked for the SDECE. But there’d been that tiny one percent that he’d been able to delude himself with. Gone now, and it saddened him.

  Time to get out, finally, like he’d been trying to do for any number of years. Each time he thought he had it made, though, someone came for him. Each time they came he jumped through the hoops.

  “Maybe it’s what you are, Compar,” an old friend had told him once. They’d been drinking, and saying anything that came into their heads. “Maybe the leopard doesn’t like its spots, but tough shit. They’re his and he’s got to live with them.”

  “Gee, thanks, Phil, that helps a lot,” McGarvey said. They’d just been bullshitting each other. But sometimes the truth came out like that. And sometimes it wasn’t so pleasant to face.

  McGarvey paid for his coffee and went in search of an imported food shop and then a car rental agency, not yet certain what he was going to do, but at least sure what his next move would be.

  Bonnières

  The thirty-five-mile drive out of Paris on the N13, which for short stretches followed the banks of the Seine, was quite pleasant in the afternoon sun. He’d taken a direct route not bothering to watch for a tail until he was clear of the heaviest traffic. Twice he’d turned off the main highway, and once he stopped at a service station to check his oil, so by the time he reached the small town on the Seine he was sure that he was clean.

  On the other side of the town he got off the main highway again, and followed a series of increasingly narrower roads that wound their way through the farmlands along the river, until he came to an old farm cottage in a valley at the edge of a woods overlooking the Seine. He parked in the protection of the trees five hundred yards from the house, and went to the edge of the field on foot.

  The farm seemed to be deserted except that he could make out the faint sounds of machinery running, and the area immediately to the south of the house contained a compact array of solar electric panels that looked new.

  McGarvey had been thinking about Otto Rencke a lot over the past few weeks, a sort of summing up, he supposed. It was something he’d been doing lately, dredging up old memories, old places and friends as well as enemies. Put them all in perspective. Writing the Voltaire book had got him started on that line of thinking, as history always did.

  The last time McGarvey had used him, Rencke had been living in an ancient brick house that had been the caretaker’s quarters for Holy Rood Cemetery in Georgetown. Rencke was working on a freelance basis as a computer systems consultant for the Pentagon and the National Security Agency. He had the almost superhuman ability to visualize entire complex networks of systems—supercomputers, satellite links, data encryption devices and all the peripheral equipment that tied them together.

  Trained as a Jesuit priest, he’d been at twenty-one one of the youngest professors of mathematics ever to teach at Georgetown University. But he’d been defrocked and fired on the day they’d caught him in the computer lab having sex with the dean’s secretary.

  He’d enlisted in the army as a computer specialist but was kicked out nine months later for having sex with a young staff sergeant—a male. It didn’t make any difference to Otto, he was satisfied with whatever came his way.

  A year later he’d shown up on the CIA’s payroll, his past record wiped completely clean.

  McGarvey had first run into him when Rencke was revamping the Company’s archival section, bringing it into the computer age. They’d worked together from time to time after that in Germany, South America and a few other places where Rencke had been sent to straighten out computer systems, sometimes for the Company, at other times for a friendly government. McGarvey and he had formed a loose friendship, each admiring the other man for their intelligence, dedication and sometimes easy humor.

  During his tenure at Langley Rencke had updated the CIA’s entire communications system, standardized their spy satellite input and analysis systems so that Agency machines could crosstalk, thus share information with the National Security Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office on a realtime basis. He’d also devised a field officer’s briefing system whereby up to date information could be funneled directly to the officer on assignment by satellite when and as he needed it.

  But his past had finally caught up with him, and like McGarvey he’d been dumped. He’d moved to France a couple of years ago, and McGarvey came out from time to time to have lunch and a few drinks.

  McGarvey went back to the car and drove the rest of the way down to the farmhouse, parking in the shade of a big tree in the front yard. He took the package from the imported food shop and went around back where Rencke was sitting cross-legged on a table in the courtyard.

  “Hi ya, Mac,” Rencke said brightly. He still looked like a twenty-year-old kid, with long out-of-control frizzy red hair, wild eyebrows and a gaunt frame, though at forty-one he’d finally begun to develop a pot-belly.

  McGarvey tossed him the package. “I thought you might be getting hungry out here all by yourself.”

  “I’m always hungry, you know that,” Rencke
said. He tore open the bundle, which contained a half-dozen packets of Twinkies, which in the States were cheap, but in Paris cost six dollars each. Rencke was a self-admitted Twinkie freak, and McGarvey had never seen him eat anything else. “Oh boy, but you’ve got the look on you again,” he said, opening one of the packets and stuffing his mouth. “Good. Bad for me, but good.”

  McGarvey pulled a chair over and sat down. “Are you staying out of trouble?”

  Rencke shrugged and spread his hands out, scattering crumbs. He was dressed in filthy cutoffs and a tattered, gray T-shirt. “I try, honest I do. But this is a land of farmers’ daughters. What can I say? But you’re in trouble. It’s a mile wide on your sour mug. Bad guys coming out of the woodwork again. That it? Thinking about tossing your hat back in the ring. Oiling your peashooter? Going hunting, Mac?”

  “Those farmers’ daughters have fathers.” McGarvey smiled. “And one of these days you’re going to get your ass shot off.”

  “The big question would be answered.”

  “What question is that, Otto?”

  Rencke’s face lit up. “The God thing, you know Jesu Cristo, Mohammed, and Harry Krishnakov. All that stuff. Aren’t you just dying to know?” Rencke laughed out loud.

  “You’re nuts,” McGarvey said laughing.

  “Exactamundo, Mac. But I’m the best friggin’ genius in town. Like a willing virgin, I’m ready and able.”

  “Troubles …”

  “The Russian thing, isn’t it,” Rencke bubbled, and when McGarvey tried to speak, Rencke held him off. “Don’t tell me yet. The Russians are up and at it. The Tarantula knocks out a nuke plant. Did them all a favor, if you ask me. Next thing you know old Boris gets himself popped off. His guys don’t carry bombs in their cars. Maybe a shock grenade or two, but not the muscle to blow a car apart. So Tarankov did it because Boris wanted to take him down. Am I right, or what?”

  McGarvey nodded.

  “Oh, boy, I still have the magic!” Rencke opened another packet of Twinkies and stuffed them in his mouth. “So Tarankov means to take over, probably before the June elections. He’s got the balls. From what I read, half the country is behind him. Sorta like a cross between Willie Sutton and Marie Antoinette. If they don’t have bread let ’em cut cake they can buy with money heisted from the banks. But Kabatov’s people think the way to go is arresting the bugger and putting him on trial. Right? Right?”