Assassin km-6

by David Hagberg

  “Kill him,” Chernov said.

  “Then I think we should 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?”

  “Out. 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, man 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?” “Mats out, 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 Credit bank 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 Credit bank’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.

  “How may this bank be of service to you?” Dunkel asked, cautious now, but extremely interested.

  McGarvey had purposely brought too small a letter of credit so that the banker he dealt with would have to verify the much larger amount. It was less flashy that way. Germans instinctively mistrusted flash.

  “You can act as my banker, of course. Transferring funds, establishing my credit. And I expect you may be of value in expediting the necessary licenses.”

  “Yes, we can do all of that,” Dunkel said. “But one final question. Why did you chose Leipzig to do your business? Why not Stuttgart where the home office of Mercedes is located?”

  “This is a delicate subject, Herr Dunkel, may I be frank?” McGarvey asked.

  “By all means.”

  “Businessmen in Stuttgart, and Munich, and Frankfurt-am-Main have a reputation for being rigid, sometimes overly so. While here, in what was once the GDR, that unbending, unimaginative attitude has not yet developed.”

  Dunkel smiled knowingly. “Sadly it is happening here too, Herr Allain. Perhaps it’s unavoidable.”

  “Perhaps,” McGarvey said.

  “Now, who do you plan on doing business with?” Dunkel asked, straightening up. “Mercedes Rossplatz.”

  “Very good.” Dunkel wrote a brief note of introduction on his letterhead, put it in an envelope and handed it to McGarvey. “Ask to speak with Bernard Legler. He is the president of the company, and a very honorable man. The western sickness hasn’t affected him yet.”

  The banker had called ahead, because Bernard Legler was waiting on the main showroom floor when McGarvey showed up, and he didn’t bother reading Dunkel’s note. He was a very tall, rawboned man with craggy features who looked more like an ex-rodeo cowboy than a German businessman. But his broad smile seemed genuine. “You want to buy cars and I want to sell them to you, but I don’t know a lot of folks in Latvia who can afford to buy one.”

  “I do,” McGarvey said.

  “Well then, let’s do some business. What do you have in mind?”

  Legler spoke German as if he were translating an American western movie. It was old hat in the west, but here it was the fad.

  “The sport utility four-by-four.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Two for now. But I expect to eventually handle a dozen or more each month.”

  “Equipment?”

  “Load them up.”

  “Cell phones, leather, the Bose stereo systems?”

  “Everything,” McGarvey said.

  Legler sat back, and gave McGarvey an appraising look. “I’ve got one coming in this afternoon that we can ship tomorrow. It’ll take me about two weeks to round up another. What kind of price did you have in mind?”

  “Ten percent over invoice,” McGarvey said.

  “Twenty.”

  “Twelve,” McGarvey countered.

  “Eighteen, and I handle all the export licenses, prepping and shipping to Riga. We’ll truck them up there.”

  “Fifteen, and you can handle the-shipping but I’ll pay for it separately.”

  “Throw in an extra five hundred marks per unit, and we have a deal,” Legler said.

  “All right. How soon can you have the paperwork ready?”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Intercontinental,” McGarvey said.

  “I can be there first thing in the morning.”

  “I’m going to drive the first car to Riga myself. So I want it equipped with an extra spare tire, a couple of cans of gasoline, and the papers I need to cross the borders. The second car should be exactly the same.”

  “Make it noon,” Legler said. “I’ll need a shipping address in Riga. We’ll truck it up there.”

  “I’ll send it to you when I get there,” McGarvey said.

  “On the way out, let my secretary make copies of your passport and driving license. We’ll need it for the documents.”

  McGarvey gave the man a hard look. “This business we have together will remain confidential.”

  “As long as you break no German laws, that’s fine with me.”

  “Good.”

  Paris

  Tom Lynch met Guy de Galan at a sidewalk cafe within sight of the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs-Elyse’es, a few minutes before 5:00 p.m.” rush-hour traffic in full swing.

  “I assume that you’ve received your instructions from Washington,” Galan said.

  Lynch nodded. “Did General Baillot brief you?”

  “Oui,” Galan replied heavily. “So now what do we do? He’s^broken no French laws that I know of, unless he’s crossed our borders under false papers.”

  “He’s done at least that much,” Lynch said. “And if he’s actually accepted this assignment, he’s broken our anti-terrorism laws.”

  “Do you think there’s any doubt of it?”

  Lynch shook his head. “He may still be in Moscow for all we know, in which case it’s up to Bykov and their special commission.”

  “We have nothing on Bykov in our files,” Galan said.

  “Neither do we, which makes me wonder. But it’s something else t can’t do a damn thing about. Fact is McGarvey is too good for us to find him, unless he makes a mistake. And if that happens he’s a dead man.”

  “My general wants us to stop him before he comes to harm.”

  “That’s the signal I’m getting from Washington. We’d rather see him in a French or American jail, than a marble slab in Moscow.” Lynch gave Galan a bleak look. “Hell of it is he might pull it off. He’s done some amazing things in his career, and it doesn’t look like he’s slowing down.”

  Galan shrugged.

  “Let’s assume he does kill Tarankov, and comes back here,” Lynch said. “What will your government do about it?” “That depends on whether the Russians can prove he did it. But you and I both know that if ever there was a political figure who needed assassinating, it’s Tarankov. If he comes to power, God help us all. McGarvey migh
t be doing us a favor.”

  Lynch nodded. “That’s the hell of it. But I have my orders and I intend doing everything I can to carry them out.”

  “As will I,” Galan said. “One idea comes immediately to mind, but I don’t know if I’m enough of a bastard to try it.”

  “Are you talking about his daughter?”

  “Oui. And Jacqueline. McGarvey cares more about them than anything in the world if half of their conversations we’ve monitored are true. If they were to be’ placed in the middle of this investigation in such a way that McGarvey could find out, he would back off for their sakes.”

  “Are you thinking about sending them to Moscow to work for Bykov?”

  “It’s a thought. McGarvey will find out about the commission from Yemlin, there’s no doubt about it. If he also finds out that Jacqueline and his daughter are there as well, it might cause him to pull out.”

  Lynch shook his head. “I’ve got to sleep on that one,” he said. “In the meantime we keep looking for him.” “Out. Like finding a needle in the haystack, when we don’t even know which farmyard it’s in.”

  Leipzig

  McGarvey spent a pleasant evening at the hotel, which featured an excellent Japanese restaurant. After dinner, he watched CNN for an hour or so, and went to sleep early. In the morning he had a vigorous workout in the hotel’s health spa, swam two hundred laps in the pool, and had a gargantuan breakfast of ham, eggs, potatoes, spinach, and very good German Brotchen.

  He took a cab to the Thomaskirche where Bach had been the choirmaster and organist. A young woman was practicing the “Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor” for an upcoming concert. He sat at the back of the church to listen until it was time to return to the hotel, and walking to the end of the block where he caught a cab, he could still hear the music on the corner. He’d never cared much for Germans, but they had written some good music. Bach was technical, and the Toccatas appealed to him.

  Legler was waiting in the lobby, and they went up to McGarvey’s suite where the automobile dealer laid out the contract, bank draft, registration and export paperwork on the big coffee table.

  “Would you like to see what you’re buying before you sign these?” Legler asked.