Assassin

by David Hagberg

  Dr. Denisov looked again at the sketch. “Then he is a very dangerous man, perhaps even more dangerous than you suspect.”

  “What makes you say that?” Paporov asked.

  “Because the man in the photograph and in my drawing must be a master of deception. The man I’m seeing is determined, and probably hard, but he gives the appearance of a kind person. With perhaps a sense of humor.”

  “He’s probably schizophrenic in that case, Doctor, because he is a killer.”

  “Then I wish you luck in catching him,” Dr. Denisov said.

  Chernov tore off the sketch and the next four blank pages. “Don’t speak to anyone about this.”

  “Believe me, I won’t.”

  While Paporov was taking the professor back to the university, Chernov compared the sketch to the dozen photographs in McGarvey’s file. Whatever lingering doubts he might have had about the validity of Yuryn’s report were dispelled. McGarvey had come to Russia to stalk his prey. There was no doubt that he meant to kill Tarankov. The only questions now were the where and the when. With a man such as McGarvey the assassination could come at any time and at any place, especially when it was least expected. But he wasn’t a martyr, which meant he not only knew how and where he was going to kill Tarankov, but he also knew how he was going to escape afterward.

  It was nearly 11:30 by the time Paporov returned. He tossed his coat aside and went to the desk where the sketch and McGarvey’s photographs were laid out.

  “Where did you see him?” he asked.

  Chernov sat perched on the edge of one of the desks smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of tea. He looked languidly at his aide. “What makes you think I did?”

  “McGarvey’s photo file was sealed. You never looked at his pictures before you described him to Dr. Denisov.”

  “I remembered his file from the old days. He has a face that’s not easily forgotten.”

  “But this doesn’t look like any of the photographs,” Paporov said, glancing at the sketch.

  “I was told that he was here in Moscow, and I thought how he must have aged, and the probability that he was here in disguise.” Chernov shrugged.

  Paporov gave him an odd look, then chuckled. “You’re even better than I thought you were, Yuri.”

  Chernov forced a smile. “If you’re going to run around masquerading as a major, I’d better become a general.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Chernov glanced at his watch. “I want you to make several copies of the sketch, and one of the photographs. We’ll give them to the Militia and FSK and let them hunt for the mass murderer.”

  “That’ll get it out in public okay without tipping our hand. But where do we look besides here in Moscow?”

  “Wherever Tarankov is expected to show up.”

  “How do we find that out?”

  “Leave that to me, Major. I have a few sources of my own.”

  “I’ll bet you do, General,” Paporov said.

  It was precisely noon when FSK Major Porfiri Gresko and Militia Captain Illen Petrovsky showed up at Lefortovo Prison and were directed back to the special operations office, where Chernov let them read the letter that President Kabatov had sent over this morning.

  “I wondered what this was all about,” Major Gresko said, impressed. He was division chief of the intelligence service’s Special Investigations Unit, the same position Captain Petrovsky held in the Militia.

  When Petrovsky looked up, his dark eyes narrowed. “If you ask me we ought to let the American kill him. Save us all a pain in the ass.”

  “You’re not being asked,” Chernov said coldly. “You can refuse this assignment if you wish, in which case a replacement will be found.”

  “Right,” the Militia captain said. “How can we help?”

  Paporov handed them copies of McGarvey’s photograph and the sketch.

  “His name is Kirk McGarvey. He’s a former CIA field officer, who for a number of years has worked freelance,” Chernov said. “Believe me, gentlemen, when I tell you that he is very good at what he does.”

  “Was he a shooter?” Gresko asked.

  “One of the best.”

  “I think I heard of him. Something or other with General Baranov and that crowd a while back,” Gresko said. “Who’s hired him to kill the Tarantula? The CIA?”

  “No, it’s our own people,” Paporov said. He gave them copies of Yuryn’s report. “Needless to say this entire affair is to be considered most secret.”

  “You’ll have no problem from me,” Petrovsky said. “I’m just a cop, and I’d rather Tarankov never know my name.”

  Both men read the report, which with transcripts ran to about forty pages. When they were finished they sat in silence for a few moments.

  “I was told that I would receive special instructions from General Yuryn when I got back from this meeting,” Gresko said. “I didn’t know about this operation, except that Colonel Yemlin has been under investigation for something. Those pricks out on the ring highway think they’re almighty gods.” He laughed and shook his head. “And here all the time they were nothing but a bunch of cocksuckers and traitors.

  “From this point both your services are to conduct the surveillance operation on Yemlin and on all of his contacts. Wherever the man goes, whatever he does, I want to know about it. But he mustn’t suspect anything. Nothing is to get back to the SVR. Not even a hint.”

  “Why not just arrest the bastard?” Gresko asked.

  “Because there’s a possibility that he’ll make contact with McGarvey at some point,” Chernov said.

  “How about McGarvey?” Petrovsky said. “How far can we take this?”

  “For the moment he’s to be considered a mass murder suspect. Initially you’ll start your investigation here in Moscow. Hotels, the railway stations, airports, restaurants.”

  “The Mafia?”

  “If you have the solid contacts,” Chernov said. “I don’t want some Mafia boss finding McGarvey first, and then selling us out. He’s a wealthy man. If he offered enough money to the right people we’d lose him.”

  “Is he still here in Moscow?” Petrovsky asked.

  “I don’t know, but I suspect not. He probably came here for information, and he may have gone back to France where he’s making his preparations. But we’ll have help. The CIA and French SDECE have agreed to find and detain McGarvey for us.”

  “On what charge?” the Militia cop asked. “The Americans are especially touchy on that issue. So long as McGarvey breaks no laws in his own country, or in France, there’s not much they could do.”

  “If they find him, they’ll hold him long enough for us to send someone over to interview him. Afterwards we watch him.”

  “But he’s good, the best, you said,” Gresko pointed out. “Which presents us with a number of unique problems. We don’t know where he is, nor do we know his plan or his timetable. We can’t use the services of our own SVR, nor apparently can we make public the real reason we’re hunting for him, although I don’t understand that all.”

  “It’s political,” Chernov said. “President Kabatov does not want Tarankov assassinated. He wants the man arrested and brought here for trial.”

  Petrovsky laughed out loud. “Not likely to happen,” he said. “But we do know our timetable. It’s ten weeks before the elections. Kabatov’s people must either arrest Tarankov before then, or McGarvey has to kill him, or else all this becomes a moot point. Tarankov will win the election.”

  “Why not concentrate our efforts on arresting Tarankov?” Gresko asked.

  “The military is working on it.”

  Gresko smirked. “Then they’d better pull their heads out of their asses, because from what I heard some good boys lost their lives outside Nizhny Novgorod.”

  “That’s not our job,” Chernov said.

  “What do we do if we find him?” Petrovsky asked.

  “Kill him,” Chernov said.

  “Then I think we sho
uld distribute his photograph to all of our border crossings. If the man is as good as you say he is, we can’t leave anything to chance.”

  “If you have the manpower to do it, go ahead,” Chernov said.

  CIA Headquarters

  Howard Ryan was an early riser and he habitually got to his office before 8:00 A.M. This morning a message was waiting for him in his e-mail to come to the director’s office the moment he arrived. It wasn’t unusual. The general often held early morning meetings before the workday began. Ryan hung up his coat and took the elevator to the seventh floor where Murphy sat behind his desk staring out the window. He was alone. His secretary wasn’t due for another hour.

  “Good morning, General,” Ryan said, walking in.

  “Close the door, Howard,” Murphy said, without turning around.

  Ryan did so then took a chair in front of the desk. Normally at this hour Murphy would be watching CNN and the three network news broadcasts on the bank of television monitors beside his desk. This morning the screens were blank.

  “How is the McGarvey thing coming?” Murphy asked. “Any luck finding him yet?”

  “No. But we’re working with the French on it. Seems as if he might have been tipped off, because a lead we thought we had turned up empty. Apparently we missed him by a few hours or less.”

  “Would McGarvey have known that Tarankov once worked for us?”

  The question was startling. “There was nothing in the files,” Ryan said. “I can’t think of any reason for him to have known. But with a man like McGarvey anything is possible.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Murphy said and he turned around. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. And the hell of it, Howard, is that for the first time in my career I don’t know what to do.” He waved the comment off. “I don’t mean that. I know what to do. It’s just that I’m not sure what’s right or wrong.” He focused on Ryan. “Am I making any sense, Howard?”

  “No, sir. What the hell has McGarvey done this time?”

  “Apparently he’s been hired by a group of Russian reformers, among them Eduard Shevardnadze, to assassinate Tarankov sometime between now and the June elections.”

  “Let him. If he’s successful it would eliminate a potentially very large problem for us.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  It never was, Ryan thought, not at all surprised by the news. Killing Tarankov was right down McGarvey’s alley. He and that computer freak friend of his had probably already hatched some bizarre scheme to put a bullet in the Russian’s brain. Whatever the plan, it would be good.

  “I don’t mean to suggest that we help him,” Ryan said.

  “We have to find him before he does it, by whatever means we can. Russian President Kabatov called President Lindsay and asked for our help. The President agreed.” Murphy handed a leather-bound report to Ryan. “This came over the weekend from Kabatov’s office. They’ve formed an independent investigatory commission to find McGarvey. A former KGB special investigations officer by the name of Bykov has been named to head it, and he sounds like a good man.”

  “Mr. Director, are you suggesting that we open our Moscow station to these people?”

  “No,” Murphy replied heavily. “We’re not going to compromise any of our ongoing operations over there. But we can send someone from here, or from one of our stations outside Russia. I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

  “Well, we can’t do anything here in the States.”

  “The FBI has agreed to a nationwide manhunt for McGarvey. A very quiet manhunt.”

  “We can certainly step up our operation in France.”

  “The Russians have asked the French for help, and Chirac agreed.”

  “The son of a bitch,” Ryan said under his breath.

  “Do whatever it takes, Howard, but find McGarvey before it’s too late and he gets himself killed, or even worse, starts a civil war over there.”

  SDECE Headquarters

  Colonel Galan came to attention in front of General Baillot’s desk, and saluted.

  “Have you any progress to report in your search for McGarvey?” the general demanded brusquely.

  “He and a computer expert friend of his—also a former CIA officer—have disappeared, mon general. It is possible that they are no longer in France.”

  “Our customs police have been informed?”

  “Oui. But if he was disguised, and carried false papers, he could have gotten through.”

  “Yet you continue to use Mademoiselle Belleau, and McGarvey’s young daughter in an effort to lure him back to his apartment. Is that not correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The general snorted in irritation. “A bad business using the child against its father.”

  “The Americans offered her the assignment and she agreed. She hopes to intercept her father before he takes the assignment and places himself in danger.”

  “He was in Moscow last week, but it is believed he has left, probably back here to France.”

  “Sir?” Galan muttered to cover his surprise.

  “We have a report from President Kabatov who has set up a special police commission to find and stop McGarvey, who has been hired to assassinate Yevgenni Tarankov for a group of Russian moderates.”

  “Then it is no longer our problem, mon general,” Galan said, relieved.

  “On the contrary, Colonel Galan. President Kabatov telephoned President Chirac and personally asked for his help. Our president agreed. So it is our problem. It is your problem.” General Baillot handed a leather folder across the desk to Galan. “This is the Russian report. Find Monsieur McGarvey. For now it is your only assignment, and will receive the utmost priority. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Mais oui, mon general.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Leipzig

  McGarvey landed at Berlin’s Templehof Airport a little before ten, cleared customs, and took the shuttle bus to the imposing Japanese-owned Hotel Intercontinental on Gerberstrasse in Liepzig seventy-five miles south, arriving at the front desk at 12:30 P.M.

  He booked a very expensive suite for three days, paying for it with his Allain credit card. The obsequious day manager personally escorted him upstairs, and showed him around the luxurious accommodations, which included a palatial marble bathroom with gold fixtures.

  “This will have to do, I suppose,” McGarvey said in passable German. He tipped the man five hundred francs, and handed him another five thousand. “Change this into German currency, would you, I didn’t have time at the airport.”

  “Yes, sir,” the impressed manager said with a slight bow and he left.

  McGarvey locked his laptop in the room safe then made two telephone calls. The first was to the Creditbank where he made an appointment for 2:00 P.M. with the business accounts manager Herman Dunkel. The second was to Leipzig’s largest Mercedes dealer, whose number he got from the telephone book, and made an appointment with a salesman for 3:00 P.M.

  The hotel day manager returned with an envelope filled with deutchmarks while McGarvey was changing into a dove-gray business suit.

  “It comes to one thousand six hundred and—”

  “Just lay it on the desk,” McGarvey said indifferently, as he knotted his silk Hermes tie.

  “If there’s anything else I can do for you, Herr Allain, please inform me.”

  McGarvey turned and gave him a hard stare. “Not now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the manager said, again with a slight bow and he left.

  When McGarvey was finished dressing, he went downstairs to the atrium bar where he had a half-bottle of good Riesling and a Wienerschnitzel with spaetzle and dark bread. Afterward he had coffee and a cognac and signed for the bill, and by 1:40 P.M. he climbed into a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the Creditbank’s main branch on Ritterstrasse near the opera house.

  The city was being renovated from the ground up after forty-five years of communist rule in which the place had deteriorated badly. Traffic was heavy
, and every second car it seemed was a Mercedes or a BMW. Shop windows displayed goods from all over the world, and the stinking pall of coal smoke that had hung like a cloud over the city for so long was finally beginning to clear away.

  Herr Dunkel, who’d been mildly cool on the telephone, practically fell over himself as he escorted McGarvey into his office. “Let me tell you how pleased I am to meet you, Herr Allain,” he said. “Your letter of credit arrived just an hour ago.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” McGarvey said. “I’d like to begin conducting my business as soon as possible.”

  “What is your business, sir?”

  “Exporting automobiles.”

  “To what country or countries?”

  “Latvia.”

  “I see. And what type of automobiles would you be interested in, Herr Allain?”

  “Mercedes, of course,” McGarvey said. “At low volumes, at first. I think an initial order of two units might be profitable.”

  The bank manager opened a folder, and looked at the single piece of paper it contained. “Would this be your total capital for this venture?”

  “No.”

  “Forgive me, Herr Allain, for belaboring this point. But two Mercedes automobiles, plus shipping and export fees, could, depending on the models of course, exceed this amount.”

  McGarvey got a pen and slip of notepaper from the manager, and wrote down a nine digit number. “This is an account at Barclay’s on Guernsey. The code phrase is variable. You will not use my name, but you may verify an amount not to exceed one million pounds sterling, an addition to this letter of credit.”

  “May I see your passport?”

  McGarvey handed it over. The manager studied it for a moment, comparing the photograph to McGarvey’s face, then handed it back.

  He picked up his telephone and asked his secretary to ring up Barclay’s Bank. The call went through immediately, and within ninety seconds McGarvey’s account was verified.