Assassin

by David Hagberg

  Murphy wondered how he could have been so blind for so long about Ryan, except that the man knew his way around the Hill. Relations between Congress and the CIA had never been better. They had half the Senate practically eating out of their hands. All of it attributable to Ryan’s skills. But at what price, Murphy asked himself. At what terrible price?

  “You shouldn’t have used her.”

  “You’re right, Roland,” Ryan admitted. “I know that now. But at the time it was the only way I could see we had even a remote chance of finding him.” Ryan spread his hands. “Mea culpa, Roland. Mea culpa, what else can I say?”

  Murphy wanted to take a poke at the smug bastard, but knowing the New York lawyer, he’d probably sue.

  “Well, the President is going to ask you some tough questions, and I suggest that you answer him directly, and with the truth. No artifice this time.”

  “What?”

  “Jacqueline Belleau did not go to Moscow on her own to help McGarvey kill Tarankov, as you suggest, you sleazy bastard. The SDECE sent her to help find him. And as for Elizabeth, she was kidnapped by Tarankov’s people, who are probably going to use her as a human shield if they can’t use her to draw Kirk out of hiding. And as DCI it’s my fault as much as it is yours. So I’m going to have to answer some tough questions as well.”

  Ryan’s face turned ashen.

  “Get your ass in gear, the President is waiting for us.”

  Lubyanka Metro Station

  Jacqueline’s Russian driver got her to Dzerzhinsky Square at 2:45 A.M. They’d encountered a great deal of military and Militia activity downtown but they weren’t stopped until they reached the barricades across from the metro station.

  She jumped out of the car and gave her passport to one of the Militia officers, her knees shaking so badly she was afraid she was going to trip over her own feet. What she was going to try to do could very well end up getting her and Kirk killed.

  “Get word to Colonel Bykov that I’m here, and I can help him,” she said in French. Her driver translated for her.

  “I’m sorry, madam, but you’ll have to stay here—” the guard said.

  “Merde. If you value your stripes, just get word to him. I’m trying to save lives here!”

  The cop looked nervously from her to the translator, then studied her passport. Making a decision, he walked over to a squad car, its blue lights flashing, and spoke to the Militia officer there. The officer looked at Jacqueline’s passport, glanced over at her, then got on the radio. A minute later he came over, and handed back her passport.

  “Do you speak English, madam?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me, but your driver must remain here.”

  “Return to the embassy,” she told her driver, then followed the Militia officer across the square and into the metro station where Chernov met her on the platform, Militia and military everywhere.

  “How did you know to come here?” Chernov asked.

  “We monitor your police frequencies,” Jacqueline said. “Have you found him yet?”

  “No, but it won’t be long now. He’s in the storm sewer system, but we’ve blocked every tunnel within a kilometer.”

  “How many people has he killed so far?”

  “None. But he is wounded.”

  “He’ll fight back, and believe me some of your people are going to come out of there in body bags unless you let me help out.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Tell your people to hold their positions for the moment. I’ll go down there and find him for you. When he hears my voice he’ll give himself up. But you need to promise me something.”

  Chernov looked amused. “What is that?”

  “If I find him, you’ll allow him to come out unharmed.”

  “He’ll be placed under arrest.”

  “I understand. But I don’t want any trigger-happy cop shooting at shadows. I want to bring him out alive.”

  “Why?” Chernov asked.

  Jacqueline looked into his flat, gray eyes. “Because I happen to be in love with the man.”

  “Ah, charming,” Chernov said. “But then you haven’t been completely honest with me.”

  “None of us ever are, Colonel,” Jacqueline said. “How about it?”

  Chernov nodded. “Very well,” he said. “It’ll take several minutes to get word to our people in the tunnels. It’s a problem of radio communication. When we’re ready I’ll have you escorted below.” He gave her an appraising look. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

  “Not especially,” Jacqueline said.

  “Do you want a weapon?”

  She shook her head. “We’re wasting time.”

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Murphy and Ryan were ushered into the Oval Office at 7:10 P.M. Besides the President, also present were his National Security Adviser Harold Secor, and the Secretaries of State, Jonathan Carter, and Defense, Paul Landry. No one looked happy.

  “If what you suggested to me on the phone this afternoon is true, Roland, we don’t have much time,” the President said.

  “Yes, sir. President Kabatov will have to be informed immediately. He’s the only one who can stop this now.”

  “Spell it out.”

  “We believe that Yevgenni Tarankov will not wait until the elections to make his move,” Murphy said. “It’s probable that he’ll attempt a military coup later today during the May Day rally in Red Square, with a very good chance of succeeding. If Kabatov has surrounded himself with enough moderates and government loyalists he still has a chance of preventing it, but only if he acts now, and only if he has all the facts.”

  “That’s not a course of action I could recommend,” Ryan broke in.

  “When I want your advice, you chickenshit, I’ll ask for it,” said the President, his voice hard. “In the meantime keep your mouth shut.”

  Ryan was stunned speechless.

  “Kirk McGarvey has made it to Moscow, and there’s still a better than even chance that if Tarankov shows up in Red Square McGarvey will assassinate him. Or try to do it, and there’s nothing we can do to stop him because now he has a personal stake. His daughter Elizabeth, who works for us, was kidnapped by Tarankov’s people, and he’ll do everything in his power to rescue her.”

  “Did you send her over there?” the President asked Ryan.

  “I sent her to Paris, not Moscow, Mr. President,” said Ryan, subdued.

  “Go on,” the President told Murphy. The others in the room glared at Ryan, who sank down in his chair.

  “The former KGB officer who heads the police commission trying to find McGarvey, is in fact a man by the name of Leonid Chernov. He’s actually Tarankov’s chief of staff, and from what we can piece together is a former KGB assassin whose brother McGarvey killed a few years ago.”

  “Jesus,” President Lindsay said softly. “That’s quite a bombshell you’re asking me to hand Kabatov.”

  “I’m afraid there’s more, Mr. President,” Murphy said. “We also learned that as a young missile service officer Tarankov worked for us.”

  The President and his advisers were caught completely off guard.

  “His code name was Hammer, and his contact was our chief of Moscow station. It didn’t last long, but what he gave us was so good that we paid him a great deal of money for it. So much money, in fact, that when he quit he was able to buy and equip the train he’s been using for the past five years.”

  “Do we have proof?”

  “Yes, sir,” Murphy said. He withdrew four thick file folders from his briefcase and laid them on the President’s desk. “These came to light recently, but it was my decision to sit on the information because it was so potentially damaging to us. If we were to let it become public knowledge Tarankov could accuse the United States of trying to manipulate Russian politics by inventing something which, on the surface, seems so patently ridiculous that it must be a lie.”

  “Why weren’t we given this informat
ion earlier?” Secor asked. “It would seem to be a bad decision.”

  “Let’s not become Monday morning quarterbacks. We’ve all made bad decisions,” the President said. “What specifically are you suggesting I tell Kabatov?” he asked Murphy.

  “Just the truth, Mr. President, something he’s probably short of at the moment. After that it’ll be up to him, but at least he’ll know what he’s actually facing.”

  The President glanced up at the clock. “It’s three in the morning over there, they’ll have to get him out of bed.” He turned to Ryan. “If you’ll be good enough to leave now, we have work to do.”

  Ryan got to his feet. “Yes, Mr. President,” he said. He looked at Murphy. “I’ll get back to my office and finish the daily summary.”

  “You and Tom Moore are relieved of duty as of this moment, Howard,” Murphy said. “I’ve instructed security not to allow you back in. I’ll have your personal items sent to you within the next day or two.”

  “You can’t do this,” Ryan said indignantly. “I’ll fight you in Congress—”

  “That would be the worst mistake of your life, Ryan,” the President said coldly. “Everything that has taken place here this evening is top secret. Discuss the situation with anybody, and I’ll have you prosecuted under the National Secrets Act.”

  Ryan backed up a step.

  The President picked up the phone to his secretary. “Mr. Ryan is leaving, would you have a taxi pick him up?”

  Ryan’s color was bad.

  “Not at the West Portico,” the President said. “Mr. Ryan will meet the cab at the front gate.”

  Subterranean Moscow

  McGarvey hunched in the absolute darkness of a side tunnel that sloped sharply downward as he tried to catch his breath. The sounds of running water thundered in the narrow confines of the outflow tube, and a sharply cold wind came up from below. The floor here was greasy with mud and algae, making footing treacherous. If he fell he would slide into the underground river, and be swept away and probably drowned.

  It was a mistake calling Jacqueline from the metro station. But he’d thought he would have enough time to make the call, reach the street level and get away before Chernov’s people closed. it. But they were closer than he thought. It was just rotten luck that Chernov himself had been nearby. He only hoped that Jacqueline had heeded his warning to remain at her embassy.

  Even over the roar of the water he’d been able to pick out the noise that his pursuers made and see the beams of their flashlights on the walls. They’d been coming at him from all directions, finally driving him down here, when suddenly about five minutes ago they’d stopped for some reason.

  That worried him, because he could think of a number of methods Chernov could use to literally flush him out, such as opening a series of fire hydrants to flood this section of storm sewer tunnels, or even using chlorine gas.

  Slinging the leather satchel over his shoulder, he cautiously made his way back up to the main sewer tunnel, where he stopped again to listen. He was about a hundred yards from where he’d re-entered the storm sewers beneath the Lubyanka metro station, and about fifty yards from one of the main tunnel intersections where he’d been driven back by the soldiers.

  If the search parties had either pulled back, or were holding their positions in the darkness, he thought it might be possible to sneak past them. Once clear he could make his way through one of the metro stations back up to the streets.

  Short of that, he would either spend the rest of his life being herded aimlessly down one dark tunnel after another, or he would finally be corned.

  He spotted the reflection of a flashlight beam on the wet tunnel walls at the same instant he heard Jacqueline calling his name, and he pulled back hardly believing his own senses.

  “Kirk, it’s me,” her voice echoed down the tunnel.

  What was she doing here? What could she hope to accomplish? It was beyond reason.

  “Colonel Bykov has pulled back his men,” Jacqueline called, much closer now. “If you come out with me you won’t be harmed. They’ll arrest you, but it can be worked out.”

  She was a trained French intelligence officer, not some giddy girl. Which meant she had a plan, and somehow she’d convinced Chernov to go along with it. There was no way they were going to let him out of here alive, no matter what she’d been promised, and she knew that.

  “Kirk, thank God,” she said.

  McGarvey looked up half expecting to see the beam of her flashlight shining down the side tunnel, but she was at least ten yards away.

  “I’m here to help you,” she called. “Someone tell Colonel Bykov we’re coming out as soon as he pulls his people back,” she shouted loudly.

  McGarvey knew exactly what she was trying to do. She meant to lead the search party away, giving him a chance of escaping. She was taking the chance that he was somewhere close, which meant she knew that all of his escape routes were blocked. But it wouldn’t work, because Chernov wouldn’t let either of them out of here alive.

  “Mademoiselle, stay where you are,” Chernov called in French.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Jacqueline shouted.

  McGarvey could hear her up in the tunnel heading toward him. She had done exactly the wrong thing but for the right reason. Instead of leading the search parties away, she had inadvertently led them to him.

  “Don’t move, or we will be forced to open fire,” Chernov warned.

  “Merde, you dumb bastard, he’ll come out with me as soon as you pull back and nobody will get hurt!”

  “McGarvey!” Chernov shouted. “Say something so that we know you’re there. You have my word we will not open fire!”

  Jacqueline reached the side tunnel as powerful spotlights suddenly flashed on, fixing her in their bright glare.

  McGarvey reached out, grabbed the sleeve of her jacket and pulled her bodily into the tunnel at the same moment Chernov’s people opened fire. Her flashlight clattered down the tunnel and disappeared below.

  She struggled wildly for a few seconds until in the lights reflecting from the main tunnel she realized who it was, and the color drained from her face.

  “Oh, my God—”

  McGarvey clamped a hand over her mouth, until she understood that their lives depended on her silence.

  The firing stopped and for several seconds nothing moved in the tunnel. But then more lights flashed on, and soldiers pounded toward them from both directions.

  “I hope you can swim,” McGarvey whispered urgently.

  She nodded, her eyes wide.

  He grabbed her hand, and together they raced down the outflow tunnel that almost immediately steepened. Jacqueline lost her footing on the slippery floor and she pulled McGarvey off balance with her. They slid in the muck, faster and faster, until suddenly the tunnel ended and they plunged ten feet down into the swiftly moving underground river.

  McGarvey was pulled under water by the weight of the satchel on his back, losing his grip on Jacqueline’s hand, the extremely strong current tumbling him end over end.

  His knee struck the river bottom, sending a sharp pain shooting up to his hip, and he pushed upward with everything he had. His head broke the surface of the water just long enough for him to take a deep breath before he was sucked under again as the river raced down a completely submerged narrow tunnel.

  He could do nothing but protect his head with his arms, as his body was tumbled end over end slamming into the tunnel walls, floor and ceiling.

  Almost as quickly as he had been sucked into the underwater tunnel, he was spit out the other end, plunging another eight or ten feet into a big pool of water. His right shoulder slammed into the concrete bottom and he managed to rear up, his head once again breaking the surface long enough for him to take a breath before the waterfall from the tunnel shoved him aside.

  But the water was shallow here, less than waist deep, and he struggled to his feet again, stumbling away from the outflow until his hand brushed up against a rough
stone block wall.

  “Jacqueline,” he shouted. His voice echoed back at him. He was apparently in a large chamber. In the distance he could hear another waterfall, probably where this collection pool flowed farther down toward the Moscow River.

  Jacqueline had been in front of him in the first tunnel, but it was possible that she’d never made it through the underwater tunnel. Her clothing could have snagged on a rough outcropping.

  “Kirk,” Jacqueline’s voice came weakly from the right. “Kirk.”

  “I’m here,” McGarvey called. “Keep talking.” He started along the wall toward the sound of her voice, when he spotted a glow under the water ahead of him.

  “I’m here,” Jacqueline said, her voice regaining strength. “I lost you.”

  “Wait,” McGarvey called to her. He dove into the water to the glow, and came up with Jacqueline’s still-working flashlight.

  “Kirk,” Jacqueline screamed in panic as he surfaced.

  McGarvey spotted her with the beam of the flashlight where she clung to a large iron ring hanging from a stone shelf or platform. He hurriedly slogged over to her, where she threw her arms around his neck.

  “Oh, God, oh, God, I thought you were dead!” she cried. “I thought I’d never see you! I thought you were gone! I didn’t know what to do! I almost didn’t make it! And then you were gone, and I was alone! Oh, God, Kirk!”

  He held her closely for a long time, until her cries subsided and she stopped shivering. Then he kissed her.

  “I guess I was right about you in Paris,” he said gently. “You have become a crusty old bastard from being around me.”

  She laughed, half-hysterically, although she was nearly back in control of herself. “Anatomically impossible, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  “You can swim.”