Assassin

by David Hagberg

  “Did he say how?”

  “No. But it’s getting flaky out there all of a sudden, know what I mean? Somebody is taking this shit mucho seriously, and you’re at the middle of it.”

  “Has anyone made the connection between me and Tarankov yet?”

  “There’s been nothing on any of the circuits. But I think they might be making the leap. Kabatov has asked for U.S. help, and it looks like Lindsay is about to give it to him.”

  It wasn’t surprising. From what McGarvey had seen Kabatov’s government was in serious trouble. “What kind of help?”

  “NATO has been instructed to conduct exercises in Poland, and they’re moving I don’t know how many divisions up there now. All our air bases in Germany are on alert, and the Sixth Fleet has deployed from Naples. The sabres are rattling big time, Mac. Brings you back to the early sixties,”

  “Have you got someplace—?” McGarvey began.

  “That depends on you,” Rencke cut in. “But I found a house with a garage up in Courbevoie. It’s French yuppieville, and I don’t think anyone would expect to find me there. Anyway, there’s a telephone substation fifty meters from my backdoor, the N308 is a block away, and it’s less than twenty minutes to downtown Paris. I should have been a real estate agent, don’t you think?”

  “How long did you rent it for?”

  “A year, but more to the point, are you taking the job? Are you going to kill Tarankov?”

  “Yes, and I’m going to need your help,” McGarvey said.

  “That’s why I rented Courbevoie. Otherwise I was thinking that a winter in Rio wouldn’t be all that bad.”

  McGarvey had to laugh despite the situation. “I don’t think they sell Twinkies down there, Otto.”

  “They do, Mac, I checked. What do you think, I’m crazy or something?” Rencke’s eyes were alive with excitement. “You saw him blow away those apparatchiks in Nizhny Novgorod, Mac? You looked into his eyes and saw—what?”

  “I saw the killings, but it was Leonid Chernov who looked into my eyes.”

  Rencke was suddenly serious. “Bad shit, Mac, because he’s gotta be the baddest dog of all. No records on him. Nada, unless you brought me the SVR’s database number.”

  “Have you still got a secure outside line?” McGarvey asked.

  “For the moment.”

  “Okay. Pull up today’s Le Figaro. The personals column.”

  Rencke went to the one computer that was still running, and within a minute he was scrolling through Le Figaro’s want ads. “What are we looking for?”

  “There,” McGarvey said, stabbing a finger on the screen. Julius loves you, please call at once. 277-8693. “The telephone number is inverted. Add five to each number, and start over again past zero.”

  “All right,” Rencke said. “It’s 722-3148. Did Yemlin place the ad?”

  “Yes.”

  “It could be traced, Mac. Do we want to trust it?”

  “We don’t have any other choice. I need more information on Chernov, because I think that I’ll come up against him sooner or later. If he’s what I think he is Tarankov has given him a free hand, and he’ll probably have his own connections among the old KGB’s Department Viktor people. It means he’s dangerous and I’ll probably have to kill him in order to get out.”

  Rencke looked at McGarvey with wonder. “You’re really going to do it. You’re going to assassinate the bastard.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why?” Rencke asked.

  “Because it’s what I do,” McGarvey replied. “And I’m getting paid one million dollars for the job. But Tarankov certainly won’t be the first politician whose assassination didn’t make any difference in the long run. But just now at this point in time Russia can go either way. Maybe I don’t like the thought of having to fight a cold war all over again. Or have nuclear missiles pointed at us. Maybe by killing this one man I can save some lives. They were apparatchiks in Nizhny Novgorod. Probably corrupt and arrogant as hell, but Tarankov and his men executed them without a second thought. You predicted that if he gains power tens of thousands, maybe millions of people would die. I might be able to prevent that.”

  Rencke had become subdued, his face long. “It’s something else too, isn’t it Mac? It’s about your parents.”

  “I guess,” McGarvey said.

  The house was suddenly closing in. He went out to the courtyard, and lit a cigarette. He had the fleeting thought that if someone was out there in the trees the flare of his match and the glowing tip of the cigarette would make him a perfect target for assassination. It was a thought he’d had from time to time. It would answer the ultimate question, as Rencke had suggested, of finding out what came afterward. And it would be a release from his dreams in which he clearly saw the faces of every person he’d ever killed. His sister in Utah had stopped speaking to him years ago, so his nieces and nephews had grown up without knowing their uncle. It was at times like these he missed the sense of family. His wife couldn’t live with him, and he’d been frightened for the safety of every woman he’d ever known intimately. Lately he’d even tried to keep his daughter at arm’s length for fear that she would come to harm’s way. Yemlin showing up in Paris had shaken him more than he wanted to admit, because despite his expertise in the business he was just as vulnerable as any other man. This kill would be the ultimate for him, because although he knew in his heart of hearts that he would never be able to reduce the odds of success to fifty-fifty he was still going ahead with it. He wasn’t invincible, but he didn’t care because the prize was worth the risk.

  “I never knew my parents, so I can only guess what you must be feeling,”

  Rencke said from the darkness behind McGarvey. “But at least you had them when you were growing up. You had family. A sister, and then a wife and a daughter. No matter how bad it gets, you had that much, Mac. Which was more than I ever had. I don’t even have my cats anymore. I’ve got nobody except for you.”

  McGarvey turned around. Rencke had extinguished the house lights and he stood in the deeper shadows beneath the eaves. He looked like the silhouette of a comic figure, except that it was painfully obvious from his words that he was hurting.

  It seemed to McGarvey that he had given of himself for most of his life. He’d given himself to his country, which since Santiago didn’t seem to care, or even want to know about him. He’d given everything he was capable of to women, but in the end they’d all rejected him for one reason or another. Because of his fears, of course, but because he was apparently incapable of giving them what they needed, on their terms. Elizabeth was the only exception, but she was young and she still idolized him. In time her eyes would be opened and though she might not reject him, she would at least keep him at arm’s length.

  He’d fared no better with men either. He’d looked up to his father, who he’d been told was a traitor. He’d looked up to John Lymann Trotter, a former DDO, who’d tried to kill him. He’d looked up to Phil Carrara, another DDO, who’d died trying to help him. And he’d looked up to CIA director Roland Murphy, who thought that at best McGarvey was a sometimes necessary evil.

  “We’re a couple of misfits, aren’t we, Mac?” Rencke said. “You’re an assassin and I’m a flake. But you know, it’s sometimes the misfits who get the job done.”

  “If you’re a misfit, Otto, I wish the rest of the world were misfits too,” McGarvey said gently.

  Rencke laughed. “That makes us family.”

  “Sure does. But until the job is done we’re going to be a busy family and you’re going to have to do exactly as I say.”

  “I’ll do it, Mac.”

  “When can you take possession of your new house?”

  “I signed the lease two days ago. It’s mine right now. I just wanted to wait until you came back.”

  “We’re going up there tonight. What we can’t take with us, we’re going to destroy, as if you’d suddenly left here and vandals broke in.”

  “It’s rare in France.”<
br />
  “It’s rare, but it happens. Maybe the brothers of one of your conquests in the neighborhood decided to get even. We’ll let the local cops figure that out.”

  “If you’ll help me we can be out of here within the hour,” Rencke said.

  “Okay. But I’m not going to tell you what I’m planning so that if something goes wrong you’ll be able to get out. No matter what happens, if something starts to go bad you’re going to run. To Rio if you want. If I come out okay, I’ll find you. Are you all right for money?”

  “I have plenty. Most of it outside of France.”

  “Once I start, you won’t be able to contact me, so you’ll have to set up a very secure number where I can reach you if I need information.”

  “Can do.”

  “We’ll arrange a code phrase so that when you answer I’ll know that everything is okay. Yemlin and his people might be the weak link. If he falls they won’t know what I’ve planned, but they’ll know that I’m coming. You’re going to have to do what you can to get back into the CIA’s computers. And hopefully the SVR’s number that Yemlin gave us is a valid one.”

  “I’ll say your daughter called and she’s fine,” Rencke said.

  McGarvey had a sudden odd feeling, like butterflies fluttering inside his head.

  “The code phrase,” Rencke prompted. “I’ll use that one if everything is okay.”

  McGarvey nodded. “That’ll work. She’d be pleased if she knew.”

  “She’s a pretty girl.”

  “When did you meet her?” McGarvey asked a little too sharply.

  “It’s okay, Mac. I’ve kept up with you and your family. I wanted to make sure everything was going okay. Your ex-wife is doing fine, but I’m glad she didn’t marry that attorney puke. And Elizabeth’s marks finally came up, and she was doing fine for the UN last time I checked.” Rencke smiled. “Think of me as an uncle. When this is all over with, maybe you can ask her to write me a letter now and then. Maybe invite me to the wedding when she gets married.” Rencke’s face lit up. “I’d made a terrific godfather. I mean it’d be great, don’t you think?”

  McGarvey laughed and shook his head. “You are a flake, Otto, but you’re my flake now.”

  Rencke laughed out loud and hopped from one foot to another.

  “But if you ever touch her, you’ll die,” McGarvey said, trying to keep the grin off his face, but it only made Rencke laugh all the harder.

  Gallows humor, McGarvey thought as he went inside and helped Rencke dismantle the equipment he needed, and destroy the rest.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Le Bourget

  Elizabeth estimated that it was past one in the morning, and she was tired, hungry and just a little bit frightened. They’d taken her to what looked like an army post or police barracks somewhere on the outskirts of Paris, placed her in a small windowless room furnished with a steel table and three chairs, returned her cigarettes and matches, gave her a bottle of Evian and a plastic glass, and had left. But that had been hours ago, and now she was bored out of her skull and she had to pee.

  She got up, smoothed her hair with her fingers, then lit another cigarette and perched on the edge of the table and stared pointedly at the small square of plastic imbedded in the wall. Behind it was either an observation port, or a closed circuit television camera. Either way, they were watching her, and they damned well knew that she knew it. It was irritating because they were treating her like a criminal, and when she finally showed up in Tom Lynch’s office she’d have some explaining to do. At the very least she figured Ryan would fire her, and she didn’t have much of a leg to stand on. But she wasn’t going to give the French the satisfaction of watching her fall apart.

  She stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, raised her middle finger at the plastic square and threw herself down on the chair.

  “Les salopards,” she swore softly.

  The door opened and a kindly looking man with a wrinkled face and thinning white hair came in with a file folder, which he placed on the table. He pulled up a chair, and sat down across from Elizabeth.

  “Good evening, ma p’tite. My name is Alexandre Levy, and I would like to ask you a few questions, after which you will be free to leave. Someone will take you back to your hotel. I’m sure that you would like to have a hot bath, perhaps have a bite to eat and then go to bed. You must be exhausted.”

  “Why was I arrested?”

  “Oh, good heavens, young lady, you’re not under arrest. We merely wish to ask you a few questions, as I said. Showing up on your father’s doorstep came as something of a surprise to us. We weren’t expecting you.”

  “Isn’t it the custom in France for children to visit their parents?” Elizabeth shot back. She felt as if Levy was toying with her, and her eyes were drawn to the file folder.

  “Indeed it is. Lamentably, however, my children don’t visit me or their mother as often as we would like. I sincerely hope you treat your filial duties with more respect.” Levy tapped a blunt finger on the file folder. “As you may guess, we take a sincere interest in your father and his current activities. So long as he remains retired he is welcome to reside in France. However a question of the exact nature of his most recent activities has arisen for which we would sincerely like to talk to him.”

  Elizabeth tried to interrupt, but Levy held up a hand.

  “Please, Mademoiselle. Your father is in no trouble. His arrest has not been ordered, nor do we wish to interfere with his quiet enjoyment of Paris, or of all of France for that matter. So I am asking for your help. Either tell us where your father might have gone, or short of that, simply take a message to him that we’d like to speak with him. We would even agree to a telephone interview. Nothing more than that. Totally harmless. Can you find fault with us?”

  “Look, I told Colonel Galan that I was just as surprised as you guys that my father is gone. I’ve got a few days off and I wanted to surprise him. I suppose I should have called first.” Elizabeth shrugged. “But now you’re getting me worried. Maybe something has happened to him. Maybe I should file a missing persons report.”

  A faint flicker of a smile crossed Levy’s face. “Your mother is a rich woman?”

  The question caught Elizabeth by surprise. “She does okay.”

  Levy flipped open the file folder, and extracted a single sheet of paper which he passed to her. “You only have a few days off in which to see your father, so your mother generously allows you the use of her Visa card. The Concorde flight alone cost nearly six thousand dollars, not to mention the ATM cash withdrawal of two thousand francs at Charles de Gaulle.”

  The paper with a Chase Manhattan Bank logo was a brief computer reply to a query from Air France verifying the validity of the charge.

  “I assume you did not borrow the card without your mother’s knowledge.”

  “My mother is a generous woman.”

  “Indeed. Would she know where your father is at the moment? Would she speak to us?”

  “Probably not,” Elizabeth said disconsolately. If they knew that much, they probably knew the rest. “May I telephone my embassy?”

  “They won’t be awake over there at this hour,” Levy said. He withdrew a plain manila envelope from the file folder, opened it, and dumped the contents, which included a U.S. passport, a Maryland driver’s license, insurance card, voter registration card, and two credit cards, on the table.

  Elizabeth recognized them, and her spirits sank even lower.

  Levy opened the passport, studied the photograph, then looked up at Elizabeth. “This says that your name is Elizabeth Swanson. The picture matches.” He laid the passport down. “We found these where you hid them in your hotel room. Good stuff, not amateur. I’d say that the CIA supplied you with these documents. Is that so?”

  “If that were the case you would know that I couldn’t talk about it.”

  “On the other hand the papers could be first class forgeries, in which case you would be charged in France with consp
iracy to conduct terrorism.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Elizabeth flared.

  Levy was unimpressed. “It is not I who am the fool, Mademoiselle. Nor is it I who am sitting without rights in an interrogation cell. So let me ask you one last time. Do you know your father’s current whereabouts?”

  “I wouldn’t have gone to his apartment if I did,” Elizabeth said.

  Levy stared thoughtfully at her for several moments, then gathered up the papers and documents and stuffed them back into the file folder. “It is a good thing that you came into France under your real name. If you had used these we would have arrested you and deported you immediately.” He got up.

  “How did you know I arrived in France?” Elizabeth asked.

  Levy smiled indulgently. “Your father is a famous man. The names of his family and friends are all flagged.”

  “May I go now?”

  “In a few minutes, Mademoiselle,” Levy said and he left.

  Tom Lynch, the Chief of Paris station, came in a moment later, a sharp look of disapproval on his narrow, delicate face.

  “What the hell are you doing here thirty-six hours ahead of time?” he demanded, his voice as sharply pitched as his manner.

  “They’re probably watching and listening to us—”

  “I had them shut it off. I asked you a question. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Looking for my father. It’s my job,” Elizabeth answered defiantly.

  “How exactly did you intend accomplishing that? Did you think that he left you a note on his door? Didn’t you think that since we and the French are looking for him that his apartment would be under surveillance?”

  “I didn’t see anybody.”

  “You didn’t look,” Lynch shouted. “We’ll have to apologize to the French government, of course, then I’ll talk to Mr. Ryan and arrange to send you back to Washington.”

  “I don’t think so,” Elizabeth said.

  “We’ll see,” Lynch shot back.

  “Have you found my father yet?”

  “As a matter of fact we have not,” Lynch said, eyeing her. “I don’t know how extensive your briefing was, but your father’s life may be in danger. We simply want to get word to him, nothing more. But your little trick hasn’t helped one bit. The French are going to be convinced that he’s working for us again, and they’ll probably try to arrest him, unless we can find him first.” Lynch shook his head. “I don’t even want to think what might happen.”