Jacqueline shook hands. “I need to speak to you in private.”
“May I enquire as to the nature of your business with me?”
The receptionist was paying them no attention, nevertheless Jacqueline lowered her voice. “My name is Jacqueline Belleau. I work for Colonel Guy de Galan in Paris.”
The vapid smile left his face. “We’ll go up to my office,” he said, all business now. “Hold any calls for me, I’ll be in conference,” he told the receptionist.
Five minutes later Jacqueline was speaking by secured telephone to an angry Galan.
“Alexandre returned from the apartment an hour ago to report that you and Elizabeth were gone. Possibly shopping, he told me, although there was evidence that some clothing and personal articles were missing. I was getting ready to tear the city apart looking for you. But instead of that, you telephone from Latvia!”
“Elizabeth had a hunch that her father might be here. But it was just a hunch, mon colonel. Since we’d gotten nowhere with our other hunches I thought we would simply fly here, check it out, and immediately return to Paris if we did not find him.”
“That was stupid and dangerous, Jacqueline. You should have at least warned Alexandre, in case something went wrong. As it stands we would not have had so much as a starting point to look for you.”
Edis had tactfully retreated to another office, leaving her alone. She ran a hand across her eyes. She was as tired as she was stupid.
“Something has gone wrong,” she said.
“Did you find McGarvey?” Galan asked.
“No.”
“Is Elizabeth with you there at the embassy? Please tell me she is.”
“She is not,” Jacqueline said. “We went to the apartment that she thought her father had used on a previous assignment. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, so she went in while I waited at the end of the block. Ten minutes later an unmarked van pulled up to the curb, and a man came out of the building with Elizabeth, put her into the van and drove off.”
“Maybe Riga police,” Galan suggested. “Were your travel documents legitimate?”
“Oui. But I have a hunch they were Russian.”
“Hunch? What hunch is this now?” Galan demanded.
“The man looked Russian.”
“Everybody in Latvia looks Russian, Jacqueline!”
“If it had been the Riga police there would have been squad cars around. Men in uniform. But there was just the van, the driver, and the man with Elizabeth. No sirens, no lights, no radio antennas.”
“I’ll have to turn this over to the Americans. They can make inquiries with the Riga police. It’s out of our hands now.”
“Maybe the Russians tracked McGarvey here. Maybe they were waiting for him at the apartment when Elizabeth showed up.”
“It’s possible, but it’s no longer our problem. McGarvey is out of France, if what you say is—”
“I can’t abandon them,” Jacqueline cut in.
“What can you do?” Galan asked. “Nothing, that’s what! I want you back here on the first available flight.”
“Non.
“Pourqoui pas?”
“Because I’m convinced that McGarvey is in Moscow, and so is Elizabeth. I want you to send me there, in an official capacity.”
“To do what, Jacqueline?” Galan demanded.
“To work with the Russian Police commission searching for Mac. Maybe I can find out something about Elizabeth, or her father. Maybe I can help stop this insanity.”
“Where did you learn about this commission?”
“From Elizabeth. She said she was briefed before she left Washington.”
Galan was silent for several long seconds.
“I think that you are not telling me everything,” Galan said.
“At least let me try, mon colonel. I have done questionable things for France. Allow France to do something for me.”
There was another long silence.
“First we’ll make sure that Elizabeth wasn’t arrested by the Riga police. In the meantime you can continue to watch the apartment building. Perhaps McGarvey will return there.”
“Please hurry,” Jacqueline said.
“Rest assured, ma p’tite, I will.”
Moscow
Touching down at what appeared to be an air force base, the afternoon was clear except to the north where a thick haze defined the city limits of the Russian capital. When they were on the taxiway, a pair of MiGs took off side by side with a mind-numbing roar on tails of black smoke. In the distance several helicopters seemed to be hovering over a stand of white birch. And in some of the hangars they passed, crews were working on partially disassembled fighter/interceptors.
Elizabeth had been allowed to use the bathroom, but she’d not been offered anything to eat or drink a second time. She got the feeling that they didn’t care what she did. None of the crew paid any attention to her, and during the remainder of the two-hour flight Chernov had remained in the conference room with the other men.
Chernov, a smug look of satisfaction on his face, came out of the conference room with the others as the airplane stopped in front of an empty hangar. Several cars were waiting on the tarmac.
“You should have followed your orders, and not tried to interfere,” one of the men said to her as he passed.
“The CIA should not have involved the man’s daughter, Illen,” another of the men countered angrily. “It’s a bad business that will not have a happy ending for anyone.”
The crewman opened the forward door as boarding stairs were pushed into place. Everyone got off the plane, climbed into all but one of the waiting cars and drove off, leaving Elizabeth alone with Chernov.
“Major Gresko is right, you should not have come to Riga, Ms. McGarvey. You’ve accomplished nothing. In fact you’ve jeopardized your father’s safety.”
“Will I be allowed to call my embassy?”
“That won’t be possible.”
“The Chief of Station here will start making noises pretty soon. President Kabatov is a reasonable—”
Chernov dismissed her with a gesture. “While it’s true that you work for the CIA, you’re supposed to be in Paris at this moment staking out your father’s apartment with the French intelligence service in case he returns. No one knows that you came to Riga. That, you did on your own. Inventive, I’ll give you that much. But stupid.”
“My father is on his way to the States.”
“No he’s not. He’s on his way here to Moscow. Probably in some clever disguise, almost certainly traveling under false papers. The last time I saw him was in Nizhny Novgorod where he was dressed as a soldier. I didn’t know that he was coming then, but I know it now. And I know that he is coming here from Riga. There are only so many trains, airplanes, boat ferries and highways between here and there, and I assure you that all of them are being watched.”
“Then what do you need me for?” Elizabeth asked defiantly, although she was sick at heart.
Chernov thought a moment.
“Because quite frankly, your father is very good at what he does, and I have the utmost respect for him, and maybe a little fear. He might somehow make it to Moscow. He might even be in Red Square on May Day when Tarankov makes his speech atop Lenin’s Mausoleum.”
“That’s the day Tarankov will die.”
“I think not,” Chernov said. “Because you will be standing next to him on the reviewing stand. In plain sight for everyone, including your father, to see.
Elizabeth didn’t know what to say.
Chernov had perched on the arm of one of the seats. He got up. “Now it’s time for you to meet him. I think he’ll enjoy talking to you, as I’m sure his wife Liesel will. They’re very persuasive people.”
THIRTY-SIX
Leipzig
At first appearances the banker Herman Dunkel and the car dealer Bernard Legler were cut of different cloth. Dunkel was an arch-conservative who habitually dressed in dark three-piece suits, and was concerned
only with the bottom line. Legler, on the other hand, affected American western dress, spoke garishly, and was only concerned with hiding the bottom line from his accountant, and pocketing the money thus diverted. They had several things in common, however. Both had worked for the East German intelligence service Stasi until the Wall had come down. Both were shrewd businessmen who were profiting from Germany’s reunification. And neither man trusted anybody.
They met for lunch at the Thüringer Hof, a centuries-old restaurant/ tavern downtown, something they hadn’t done in several weeks. They liked to get together occasionally to talk over some of the interesting cases they’d worked on in the Stasi. The darkly paneled bar was quiet and anonymous. Voices did not carry, something of interest to both men who had carefully hidden their true pasts. Legler suspected that this meeting was different, however, because of Dunkel’s abrupt manner this morning on the telephone.
Their drinks came and Dunkel raised his glass. “Prost.”
“Prost,” Legler responded.
When the waitress was gone, Dunkel gave his old friend a quizzical look. “How is your business with Herr Allain proceeding? Have you received any further orders?”
“Just the two units,” Legler said. “But his money is good.”
“He has plenty of money, there is no doubt about that. In fact I made further inquiries into his Barclay’s account—or I should say accounts.” Dunkel glanced toward the door. “I have an old friend over there who has worked for the bank since the mid-eighties. In the past his information was reliable.”
“It’s wise to have such contacts.”
Dunkel nodded sagely. “In part because of what I learned, I’ve asked Karl Franken to join us, I hope you don’t mind.”
Franken was chief investigating officer for the Federal Criminal Bureau for Saxony, also an ex-Stasi officer whose past was buried even deeper than theirs. It was rare that they had any contact with each other.
Legler held his reply for a moment, but he too glanced toward the door. “What are you worried about, Herman?”
“We have built comfortable lives for ourselves in the aftermath.”
Legler acknowledged the obvious. “The future seems bright.”
“I would not like to jeopardize what we have, for the sake of a minor profit.”
“You’re still speaking of Herr Allain,” Legler said, careful to keep his voice neutral. “Admittedly the profit I made on the two units was not excessive. But if his business develops, it could turn into something worthwhile.” He’d dropped his pseudo western mannerisms. “Unless of course his business is something other than he says it is.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Dunkel said.
A heavyset, round-faced man with curly gray hair, appeared in the doorway, spotted them seated near the rear of the bar, and came back.
“Gentlemen,” he said, taking a seat.
“Good of you to join us, Karl,” Dunkel said. “In point of fact we were just discussing you. We need your help with a somewhat … delicate matter.”
The waitress came, and Franken ordered a dark beer.
“Would this have anything to do with, shall we say, past entanglements?”
“Good heavens, no,” Dunkel said. “The past remains the past. All Germans are looking to the future. In that we are steadfast.” Dunkel pursed his lips. “It’s another matter, one possibly of an international criminal nature that Bernard and I may have been unwittingly caught up in.”
“If you’ve gotten yourselves into trouble I don’t know if I can help,” Franken said quietly.
“I’m not talking about that kind of help, Karl. We’ve broken no German laws, nor do we intend doing so.” Dunkel’s voice was just as low as Franken’s. What was being discussed here was nobody’s business. “With the changing situation in the East, a businessman has to operate with care. Sometimes even forgoing an immediate profit if his business would possibly be in jeopardy.”
Legler shot him a dark look, but Dunkel ignored it.
“Go on.”
Dunkel explained the unexpected business deal that had fallen into their laps.
“His explanation to me why he was bringing his business to Leipzig, and not to Stuttgart, didn’t ring true. Nor did his dealings with Bernard. Operating his business as he was, it would be impossible for him to make a profit. It made me wonder that either the man was a fool or he was working to another more, shall I say, mysterious purpose.”
“Es machts nichts,” Franken said, indifferently.
“But it does matter,” Dunkel disagreed. “We have reputations to maintain that might run into difficulties should certain inquiries be made arising from a criminal proceeding.” Dunkel looked frankly at the cop. “I’ll do whatever it takes to maintain my good name. I have too much to lose otherwise. We all do.”
“What can you fear from a Belgian?”
“He’s not a Belgian. The passport he used was a fake. In fact the man is an American.”
“How do you know?”
“His letter of credit arrived in the name of Pierre Allain, drawn on a foreign bank. When I did some checking I discovered, by accident, that Pierre Allain was apparently the name of his business, and was not in fact the name of an actual person. But the Belgian passport he showed me identified him as Allain. In fact the man’s real name is Kirk McGarvey. An American, as I said.”
Franken stiffened slightly, but then he shrugged and took a drink of his beer.
“Did you happen to make a copy of his passport?”
“I did,” Legler said. “We needed it for the licensing and export documents.”
“Fax it to my office this afternoon, would you?” Franken said. “Along with copies of all the paperwork on the cars.”
“Okay.”
“Is this name familiar to you, Karl?” Dunkel asked.
Franken shook his head. “Nein, but I’ll check it out. At the very least he’s broken several of our laws by using a false passport.”
Dunkel hesitated a moment. “This won’t affect us, will it?”
“Not to worry, Herman. You and Bernard have done nothing wrong. In fact you’ve done exactly the correct thing by bringing this to me.”
“Then this is out of our hands now?”
Franken pushed his beer glass aside and got to his feet.
“Completely,” he said to Dunkel. “But if he tries to make contact with you again, call me immediately.”
“We’ll certainly do that,” Dunkel said.
Franken gave them an odd look, then turned and left the bar.
“Gött im Himmel, what the hell was that all about?” Legler demanded. “Who gives a damn what passport the man was using? I have a safe filled with them, as I imagine you do.”
Dunkel smiled benignly. “Herr McGarvey’s account with Barclay’s bank, a secret account that can only be accessed by a number and a code word, is worth in the neighborhood of three and a half million British pounds.”
Legler’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your point, Herman?”
“I am in possession of the account number as well as the code word,” Dunkel said. “If Herr McGarvey were to find himself languishing in a German prison, he would not be in a position to challenge anyone who was to take over his financial holdings.”
This time Legler smiled. “Hot damn,” he said in English.
Paris
Lynch received the telephone call from Colonel Galan at his office in the U.S. Embassy at 2:15 P.M. He’d been working on his daily summary report for transmission to Langley and he was in a foul mood. McGarvey continued to elude them, and Ryan’s star pupil, Elizabeth, had been of no help except for giving them Otto Rencke’s name, which had resulted in a dead end. Galan sounded distant, almost resigned, as if he was at wit’s end and was calling to explain why he could not go on, or even if he should have embarked on this mission in the first place.
“She’s gone,” he said when Lynch answered.
“Who’s gone?” Lynch asked.
“
Elizabeth McGarvey. And there’s a good chance that the Russians have her.”
“What are you talking about?” Lynch demanded angrily. If it was true he had no idea how he would explain this to Ryan, who’d taken a personal interest in the case.
“She and Jacqueline came up with the idea that McGarvey might be hiding out in an apartment he’s used before in Riga. They flew up there early this morning without telling anybody and Elizabeth went in. Jacqueline was supposed to be backing her up, but before she could do anything Elizabeth came out of the apartment with a man, and they drove off together in a van.”
“Was it McGarvey?”
“Jacqueline didn’t get a very close look, but she didn’t think it was him,” Galan said. “My first thought was that the Riga police might have arrested her for some reason, but now I don’t think so. I made a few inquiries up there, but one wants to say anything, beyond the fact that no young American woman was arrested anytime within the past month.”
“Then it was McGarvey,” Lynch said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I don’t think so, and neither does Jacqueline. She was his lover long enough to recognize him even from a distance,” Galan said. “In any event, the Riga police did admit that a Russian woman by the name of Raya Kisnelkov was arrested and turned over to the Russian Militia.”
Lynch thought for a second.
“It’s a long shot, but it could be a coincidence,” he said, even though he didn’t believe it himself. “At any rate how could the Russians have found out where McGarvey was hiding when we haven’t been able to do it?”
“That’s their back yard, Tom,” Galan said. “I don’t think there’s any question that the Russians probably have her. And I don’t think there can be any doubt what they intend using her for.”
“Goddammit, we’re helping the bastards. Is this how they repay us?”
“If they find out that she’s working for the CIA they might ask what we were doing up there without telling about it.”
“I’ll call Colonel Bykov and ask him if he has her.”
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