The Associated Press reporter started to protest, but the President continued to hold him off.
"Let me finish here. In an effort to continue normalizing relations with Iran, we agreed to release certain oil funds that had been frozen here, in this country, and return them to Iran. They specifically requested that the funds be sent over in the form of gold bullion. Which we agreed to. In an effort to insure the safe transport of that much gold, we naturally had to keep the
entire operation under close wraps. There was no trouble with the shipment. And in fact at this moment the gold is safely in Tehran."
"Can you tell us exactly how much gold was shipped, Mr. President?"
"Four thousand ounces," the President said.
There was a collective sigh through the press corps.
The President grinned. "That's enough for them to start their own McDonald's chain."
A few of the reporters guffawed, but the Reuters man was deadly serious. Again his voice cut through the noise.
"Are you denying, Mr. President, that a Soviet-made converted Badger bomber crash-landed in a high valley south of the city of Qom? And that the aircraft had U.S. markings, and brought U.S. troops?"
"As you said, Mr. Spencer, a 'Soviet-made' aircraft," the President said sharply.
"Did the United States try to steal back the gold it was sending to Iran, Mr. President? Can you answer that question?"
'Tes, I can," the President said. "And the answer is no. And now let's let someone else have a chance. After all, everyone here has an editor breathing down his neck. Mine is called the American public." And the President emphasized the word American.
mcgarvey's head was roaring, threatening to split in two at any moment. He became aware that he was strapped into a narrow cot or stretcher. The entire room was moving around, sometimes violently, accompanied by a tremendous noise.
"Mr. Wills," someone shouted at his side. The voice was not familiar. Not American.
McGarvey opened his eyes and looked up as a dark-skinned man dressed in a uniform, a combat helmet on his head, moved aside for Bob Wills. They were aboard a helicopter, McGarvey realized.
"How do you feel?" Wills shouted over the noise.
"Terrible," McGarvey choked. His voice was weak. "Where are we?"
"Turkey. On our way to Van. We would have taken off sooner,
but you'd lost a lot of blood and the medics wanted to stabilize your condition first."
He was beginning to remember. He'd been loaded onto an Iranian air force helicopter. It was extraordinary.
"How is Dick Abbas?"
"His leg is broken, he's badly dehydrated, and he suffered a mild concussion from the beating the Russian gave him." Wills's ruddy jaw tightened. "Did you know that he had been tortured?"
"No."
"The son of a bitch hooked an electrical cord to his balls and plugged it in. At the very least Abbas will be sterile. The medic thinks he'll have to be ... castrated."
McGarvey closed his eyes. He could see Kurshin going down behind the crest of the hill. And then there was nothing. The Iranians wouldn't answer his questions, and no one had mentioned the Russian. It was just like off the coast of Syria. He knew he'd hit Kurshin with at least one shot. He'd seen the man going down with his own eyes, and yet now he knew that he could not be sure if the man was dead.
It was like a ghost story. No matter what happened, you were always sure of one thing: the evil spirit would be back. Each time bigger and more terrible.
"You stopped them, McGarvey," Wills was saying. "You stopped the Russians. The gold got through. It's in Tehran already, as a matter of fact."
McGarvey opened his eyes. "Any word on Kurshin?" he asked.
"Not yet," Wills said. "But the Iranians aren't exactly cooperating with us one hundred percent. As it is, everyone was practically bowled over when we got word that they were bringing you to the border. They even let us come across so that we could carry you back. No one wants to press their luck any further."
"What about the rest of the Russian aircraft and crew?"
"Back in Baku. They've evidently rejoined the KGB barracks there as if nothing happened. Did you know that Didenko had been arrested?"
McGarvey nodded.
"The latest word is that he's already been tried in camera and sentenced to death."
"It won't end," McGarvey said. His brain was spinning. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep for the next two weeks. But
each time darkness came over his vision, he saw two pictures superimposed: one of Kurshin pitching over the rail into the sea, the other of Kurshin being propelled backward behind the hillock. Each time the image faded out with the single close-up of Kurshin's face. The Russian was grinning at him. He was saying something, his lips were moving, but McGarvey couldn't make out what it was.
"What?" Wills asked.
McGarvey focused on him again. "It's Kurshin." "What about him?" "He may still be alive."
"He would never have gotten out of the valley." "I don't know. Christ, I don't know."
Ghfari was suddenly there beside Wills. "You shot the man, I saw it," he said. His dark eyes were wide. He looked very frightened.
McGarvey looked up at him. "You came back?" "Yes, Richard insisted that we come to help you. He said that no one could understand about that Russian." "Did you see his body?"
"I saw you go down, and then I saw him fall back, so I know you hit him. But afterward we were helping you, and then the air force came and arrested us." "From across the field? On foot?" "Yes."
McGarvey visualized the battle scene and the spot where he and Kurshin had fought it out. If the Iranians had come across the valley on foot, they had to have discovered Kurshin's body. If he'd still been there.
"Did you see them picking up the Russian's body?" Ghfari shook his head. "No. But he went down. I can swear to that."
"It's not our problem now," Wills interjected. "At least not for the moment. You've been badly wounded. As soon as we reach Van you'll be loaded onto a jet transport and flown immediately to Wiesbaden. You've still got a bullet in your chest just below your right lung."
"He's alive ..." McGarvey was starting to drift again. He hoped
it was the medication and not his wounds that was causing him
the weakness, because there was still something left to be done.
"The important thing is that you're alive," Wills said. "And
the mission was accomplished. The general sends his thanks for a job well done."
But McGarvey was no longer listening. He was thinking about Paris and Lisbon, and even more importantly about Washington. One thing left to be done
The past twenty-seven hours had been a nightmare for Arkady Kurshin. He'd taken two hits from McGarvey's weapon, the first passing all the way through his left shoulder just beneath his collarbone, and the second lodging in his right hip. That was the hit that had done the most damage. He would probably be a cripple the rest of his life.
But he had his life. For that much he was thankful not only to his own pure blind luck, but to Colonel Berezin, who'd carried him on his shoulders up into the mountains, out of that valley.
It was dawn, and the light filtering through the silk fabric of the Soviet army survival tent was mottled and golden, and warm after the night's chill. He could smell woodsmoke from the campfire the colonel had started, and the odor of something cooking. It made his mouth water.
He pushed the thin plastic survival blanket aside and slowly sat up, the pain so excruciating that it made his head swim. His stomach turned over and he fought down the urge to vomit. He would not give in to his injuries. He was alive, by some quirk of fate, and there was only one thing that mattered to him now.
It was the thing that had gotten him across the valley to the hills just above the downed Badger.
It was the thing that had given him the energy to go on. To lie perfectly still in the darkness as the Iranian air force troops marched past him, one of them nearly stepping on him, then to con
tinue, even though he had no strength because he had lost so much blood.
There had been no choice. To give up would have meant to die before he had made certain of his goal.
At one point he'd watched the Iranians carrying two men away on stretchers, while a third followed at gunpoint. But there'd been no way for him to tell whether McGarvey, one of the bodies on a stretcher, was alive or dead.
Somehow, however, within his heart of hearts he knew that the American was still alive. In his mind's eye he saw McGarvey
rolling over on his back and firing up at him. The man was inhuman, a monster, a machine.
Colonel Berezin's pack lay open at the foot of his survival blanket. Kurshin pulled it over and went through its contents: a small spiral-bound book containing maps of all of Iran and the entire region; more survival clothing and some rations; a spare clip for a TK automatic pistol; and the colonel's identification and KGB pay booklets.
But no weapon. Kurshin parted the tent flap and looked outside.
The colonel, bare-chested, had just finished splashing water on his face, and he dried himself with a small gray towel. A pot of tea was boiling on the small fire. From the smells Kurshin guessed that the other small pot contained soup. A tin of survival bread was open on a flat rock.
Berezin, sensing someone behind him, turned around and grunted his approval. "So, you survived the night. For a time I didn't think you would."
"Where are we?" Kurshin asked, pulling the tent flap open the rest of the way and crawling painfully outside. Berezin made no move to help him.
"About ten kilometers southwest of the valley. I had to carry you most of the way. This was as far as I could go."
Kurshin was impressed. The man was built like a bull with a thick neck and broad shoulders. He had the will to survive and the stamina to pull it off, even up here in the mountains. He would be ... dangerous, Kurshin thought.
"The rodina is north," Kurshin said, hobbling over to the fire.
"We're not going back," Berezin said. "Didenko has been arrested for treason. If we showed up in Moscow they'd arrest us as well. We'd get our nine ounces for sure."
Kurshin digested this news. An eight-inch survival knife, its blade serrated on one side and razor sharp on the other, was lying on a rock. The colonel had used it to open the bread tin.
"Where, then?"
"Iraq. I have friends there who will help us with new identities." Berezin looked calculatingly at him. "For a price, that is. You have access to money? Western currencies?"
"Some," Kurshin said. There were several operating accounts at his disposal: one in Zurich, another in Brussels, and a third on the Channel island of Jersey.
"I'll get you to Iraq, and you will share your money with me. Afterward we will part company."
Kurshin was slightly amused by the colonel's apparent distaste of him. "We could stay together as a team," he said.
Berezin shook his head. "There's the stink of death all over you."
Kurshin shrugged. "How far is it to the border?"
"A long way, maybe four hundred kilometers across the mountains. It will probably take us a week, if we're lucky with the weather. Maybe longer."
"We have the rations?"
"If we conserve."
"Good," Kurshin murmured. "Now, I am hungry. May I have some tea and some soup?"
"Yes," the colonel said, turning to the fire. "The sooner your strength returns, the sooner I will be able to stop carrying you."
Kurshin reached over and picked up the survival knife. The colonel, feeling the movement, started to duck, but he was too late. With his bad left arm, Kurshin pulled Berezin's head back, and with the knife in his right, he sliced the man's neck all the way back to the spinal column.
Berezin let out a huge, blubbering roar with a spray of blood as he swatted Kurshin aside like a rag doll and leaped past the campfire. He scrambled to his feet and, holding his head with both hands, turned around.
For one terrible moment Kurshin thought the man was actually going to come after him, but then the light faded from Berezin's eyes and he fell backward, already drowning in his own blood.
it had snowed again in Paris. When McGarvey came in from Charles de Gaulle Airport a clean white blanket lay over the city. Multicolored lights played off the snow, lending a special air to the City of Light.
He'd checked himself out of the military hospital at Wiesbaden, against doctor's orders.
"You suffered a concussion from the bullet that struck your head," the doctor had said. "Two of your ribs were broken, and you were damned lucky the second bullet didn't penetrate your lung. You were even luckier with the third shot to your right side. If you'd still had that kidney, you might be dead now. As it is, the bullet passed completely through your body."
"I'll take it easy, Doc," McGarvey had promised, getting dressed. He'd lost that kidney two years ago at Kurshin's hands.
The doctor had shaken his head in resignation. "You need bed rest, a couple of weeks of it. Hell, even walking out of here could cause you damage."
"No warranties on your work?"
"Shit."
It was eight in the evening when the cabbie dropped him off at his apartment just off the rue La Fayette. He paid the driver and went up. The television was blaring in the concierge's apartment, and the couple on the second floor were having their usual early-evening argument. Everything was normal. Nothing seemed out of place.
Before he left the hospital he'd telephoned Carrara, who'd assured him that all charges against him and Maria Schimmer had been dropped, except the murder charges against them in Buenos Aires. Esformes was pushing that.
There was still no hard evidence on the embassy bombing, but for now, at least, the Agency was willing to go along with the theory that Kurshin had done it. State was citing a group or groups unknown, but definitely not French. The news media was unhappy, but everyone else concerned seemed reasonably satisfied.
As she had been once before—it seemed like years ago— Carley Webb was waiting in his apartment for him. She was dressed in slacks and a sweater. Her coat lay over a chair, and she'd kicked off her boots.
"Welcome home," she said.
"I'm going to have to change the locks. This place is getting to be like Grand Central Station."
"I wanted to welcome you home, and ... say that I'm sorry."
"For what?" McGarvey asked, taking off the jacket they'd given him at the hospital.
"For ever believing that you might have planted the bomb."
He went into the bedroom, peeled off his shirt, and slipped out of his trousers. He had been sweating profusely all afternoon, and his entire body ached.
"Did you?" he asked, coming back out in his shorts.
She nodded, the motion of her head barely perceptible.
McGarvey shrugged. "You can make yourself useful. Fix me a drink. Bourbon, rocks, no water." He went into the bathroom where he started the water into the tub. He stepped out of his shorts and eased himself into the tub, closing his eyes and lying
back, the porcelain cold at first against his back. He felt as if he were on fire.
"Here," Carley said, coming into the bathroom.
He reached out without opening his eyes and she placed the drink in his hand. "Thanks," he said. "Now go home, Carley, before you get more hurt than you already are."
"Bad grammar," she said. "How are you feeling?"
"Terrible," McGarvey said, taking a long sip of his drink.
"What now?"
He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was perched on the closed toilet lid. "I have some unfinished business in Lisbon. If it's still there."
"She is."
McGarvey looked at her for a moment. She was a pretty girl. But she was a girl, still. Not a woman.
"And then?" she asked.
He shrugged again. "I don't really know, Carley, for sure. But I am fairly certain that I'll be leaving Paris. I might go back to the States. Out west first, then Washington."
'Tes."
"I'm being sent back in a couple of weeks."
"Disciplinary action?"
"No. A promotion, actually," she said. "Maybe we'll be able to see each other."
"I don't think so." McGarvey looked away. He hunched forward because it felt better on his stitches.
Carley knelt beside the tub and began washing his back, gently, mindful of the bandages and the bruises.
"You'll have to settle down with someone sooner or later, Kirk," she said. "You need to be happy."
"You, too," McGarvey said. "But not with me." He looked up at her. "Get out of the Agency before it eats you alive. Find a GS-eighteen somewhere and settle down. Make babies. Cook roasts on Sunday. Become a den mother. Take up knitting."
"Pig," she said.
"Yeah," McGarvey replied absently. "And old-fashioned, too, as it turns out."
It was noon Saturday by the time he reached the city center of Lisbon and entered the Hotel Lisboa Penta on the Avenida
dos Combatentes. He'd confirmed by telephone before leaving Paris that Maria was still there, although he hadn't spoken to her. But he had left a message that he was coming.
He took the elevator to the eleventh floor and hesitated a moment before knocking. Why was he coming back? The question had been with him since he'd left Wiesbaden, yet he still had no satisfactory answer, except that he had promised Maria.
He didn't like unsolved mysteries. And in part, he supposed nervously, he'd returned to Lisbon for the same reason Carley Webb had shown up at his apartment: he wanted to find out what a certain person meant to him.
He was looking for answers. But he knew that whatever they might be, they would probably not be satisfactory.
She opened the door and smiled up at him, her teeth white against her olive complexion. "I didn't think you would come back. But I was afraid to leave in case you might."
"I said I would."
"I got your message this morning," she said, but then Mc-Garvey took her in his arms.
For just an instant she stiffened against him, but then she pressed her body against his and they kissed deeply, the pain from his injuries excruciating.
Crossfire (Kirk McGarvey 3) Page 33