The Kill Zone km-9

by David Hagberg

  McGarvey has a very full schedule at Langley, as you can well imagine.”

  “Mr. McGarvey is not the Agency’s director yet,” Brenda Madden interjected. “He is working as interim director, Madam Senator,”

  Paterson said. “And has been for some time now.” “Surely the intelligence professionals at the CIA are used to the comings and goings of political appointees and are capable of doing their jobs unsupervised by a titular director for the time being.” “On the contrary, Senator Madden, as you well know, Mr. McGarvey is a twenty-five-year veteran with the Central Intelligence Agency. He has earned the respect and loyalty of everyone out there.” “Including you, sir?” she gibed. It was well-known that Paterson had only reluctantly left his New York law practice to help straighen out the sometimes sticky legal positions that the CIA found itself in. Because it was a challenge, and because the previous president had asked him to do it, he had agreed. He had no love for the world of the spy, like his predecessor Howard Ryan had, but he was doing a good job. “Yes, including me,” he said. Madden’s expression darkened. It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. Hammond glanced over and gave her a questioning look. She shrugged and sat back. Hammond turned to the first of the fat files piled in front of him. “I think we can dispense with the usual examination of Mr. McGarvey’s personal data. Let it be noted in the record that Kirk Cullough McGarvey was born October 9, 1950 in Garden City, Kansas. Parents were Herbert Cullough and Claire Elizabeth, both deceased. Attended Garden City elementary, middle and high schools, graduating cum laude in 1966. He attended Kansas State University, graduating in 1970, also cum laude. Two bachelors of science, one in mathematics the other in political science.” Hammond looked up. “That is an unusual combination.” “Is that a question, Senator?” McGarvey asked. Kathleen said to push back, and he was already starting to feel irascible. His desk was piled with work.

  “No,” Hammond said after a beat. “I won’t belabor the point, but looking over your high school and college records I see that you were not involved in any extracurricular activities. No sports, no clubs, not the debating team, or the trap and skeet squad. Can you tell us why?”

  McGarvey leaned over to Paterson. “Is this necessary, Carleton? What the hell is he looking for?” “Leadership qualities, and they can ask anything they want to ask.” McGarvey turned back and shook his head.

  “None of that interested me, Senator.” “What did you do with your spare time? Scouting, fishing, hunting, camping?” “I wasn’t in the Scouts, but I did fish and hunt with my father. I helped around the ranch, and when I was fifteen I learned how to fly-fish.” “You were a loner even then,” Hammond said, and before McGarvey could say anything, Madden sat forward, a file open in front of her. “Were you large for your age, Mr. McGarvey,” she asked. “I mean in school, were you bigger than the other kids in your class?” “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Oh, it’s simple. I’d like to know if you were the big kid on the block. You know, the class bully.” McGarvey smiled and shook his head. “I was big, but I wasn’t the bully. My father drummed into my head from the start that fighting never solved anything. We had one rule in our house, and that was: no hitting. My father never even spanked me.” “What if you did something wrong? Did he send you to bed without supper?” Brenda Madden asked with a smirk. “He would explain to me what I did wrong and tell me that he was disappointed in me.

  That’s all. That was worse than a beating.” “That’s a curious view for a man who, along with his wife, worked on nuclear weapons at Los Alamos. Wouldn’t you think?” “No.” “No hitting,” Brenda Madden mused, as if she found the notion quaint. “And no involvement in the glee club, no homecoming king, or football team excuse me, I forgot, no hitting. But you didn’t even join the cheer-leading squad. Or was it because you were barred from those activities?” Paterson’s hand shot out and clamped over the microphone. “What’s she getting at?” “I’d almost forgotten,” McGarvey answered. “Mr. McGarvey?” Brenda Madden prompted. Paterson hesitated a moment, then removed his hand. “No, I was not barred from after-school activities. It was a mutual agreement between my parents and the school board. It was a small town, and I was a good student.”

  “But you agreed not to play sports. Why?” “I was involved in an after-school fight. It was a long time ago.” Brenda Madden held up a Finney County Department of Juvenile Justice file. “There were four of them. Football players. It was strongly suspected that you had used some sort of a weapon. They believe that it might have been a baseball bat. All four of those boys ended up in the hospital, two of them in critical condition.” Senator Hammond was beaming. Some of the other senators, however, looked either uncomfortable or puzzled. “One of them is still confined to a wheelchair,” Brenda Madden hammered. She looked directly at the television cameras. “But I find it terribly odd that nothing happened as a result except to bar Mr. McGarvey from after-school activities. The families of the four boys didn’t even sue. Certainly your parents had enough money. They owned a rather substantial ranch. In fact they were wealthy by the standards of those days. Yet no lawsuits. Unless payments were made under the table.”

  She smiled viciously. “Which was it, Mr. McGarvey? Payments under the table, or were the families simply terrified of retribution from a loner. Maybe by today’s standards a Columbine High School odd duck.”

  “Objection,” Paterson broke in. “I assume that those are sealed juvenile court records, Madam Senator.” “That’s of no consequence “

  “There was no weapon,” McGarvey said. “You don’t have to answer to such an obvious smear tactic,” Paterson warned. He was angry. Madden and Hammond were loving it. “You were saying, Mr. McGarvey?” Madden prompted again. “I didn’t use a weapon.” “You hurt those boys with your bare fists?” “Yes.” Madden looked to Hammond, but he shrugged.

  This was her ball, he would let her run with it. “Over what? Were you arguing over something they said to you. Did they call you a name?”

  “They were gang-raping an eleven-year-old girl in the woods behind the school. I stopped them.” Brenda Madden’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. “We’ll check that,” Hammond said. He shuffled some files.

  “Now, moving-” “If Senator Madden had done her homework, she would have discovered that the four boys were sent to juvenile detention until they were twenty one. One of them died in a knife fight in prison, one of them committed suicide shortly after he got out, and the other two, so far as I know, are still alive. I never followed up.” Except for a few sniggers in the audience, the chamber was silent. “It’s not something I’m proud of, Senator Madden,” he said. “But I don’t like bullies. Never have.” “What sort of chores, Mr. McGarvey?” the committee’s vice chairman Senator John Clawson, asked. He was the senior Republican from Montana, a Westerner, tall, outdoorsy, who felt more comfortable in jeans than in a business suit. He was a rancher.

  “On the ranch?” McGarvey asked. Hammond broke in. “I think that we have spent sufficient time on Mr. McGarvey’s youth.” “Indulge me, Tom,” Clawson said easily. McGarvey shrugged. “Mostly feeding cattle.” “While they were out on the range. Probably during the winter when the grass was scarce for them. You rode in the back of a truck or hay wagon, and tossed hay bales to them.” “Something like that.”

  “That’s not an easy job,” Clawson said to Brenda Madden. “I did it myself as a kid. Builds up your muscles, gives you a huge appetite.

  Puts on pounds real early.” He smiled. “No mystery there.” “I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “At least you have one friend,” Paterson said in an aside to McGarvey. “I would like to move on, if possible,”

  Hammond said. “There are a few areas of concern that I’d like to touch on today. If we can get to them we’ll meet in camera tomorrow.” There were no objections. “You joined the air force directly out of college, finished OCS and were commissioned a second lieutenant in October.

  Subsequently you attended t
he Air Force Intelligence Officers schools at Lackland Air Force Base and Kelly Field in San Antonio, Texas, and then were assigned to embassy duty in Saigon.” Hammond looked up from the file he was reading from. “Is all of that correct?” “Yes.” “What was your job in Saigon?” “Senator, I don’t know if that material is still classified. I’ll have to check on it for you.” “It’s not classified,” Hammond said. He passed a document to one of the Senate pages, who brought it to the witness table. It was a release of documents form under the Freedom of Information Act. Paterson looked it over and gave it to McGarvey. The release contained a list of twenty-one separate operations for a period between the summer of 1970 and the winter of 1972. McGarvey had been there for most of that time.

  “Recognize any of these?” McGarvey glanced through the list, and he knew immediately which operation Hammond would home in on and why.

  “Most of them.” “Operation Phoenix-II,” Hammond said. “Were you involved with it?” “Yes, I was,” McGarvey said. Hammond had not disappointed him. “Could you tell us about it?” “It was a South Vietnamese military operation. Captured VC and North Vietnamese regular army prisoners, especially officers and noncoms, were brought in from the field to a divisional headquarters in Saigon, where they were extensively debriefed. The results were collated and the information was shared with special U.S. and South Vietnamese field units.” “What kind of information?” Hammond asked. “What were they looking for, specifically?” “They were trying to find out the names, ranks and locations of high-ranking North Vietnamese officers.” “For what reason?” “They were targeted for assassination.” “Were you personally involved in any of these hit squads?” Hammond asked. “Did you assassinate any of the targeted officers?” McGarvey glanced again at the list. “Phoenix-II was the fact-finding mission. The field operations themselves are still classified.” “But you were involved, weren’t you,” Brenda Madden said, unable to contain herself. “You were right up to your elbows in blood over there. It must have been a grand time.” McGarvey counted to five, maintaining as close to a neutral expression on his face as he could. But Senator Madden must have seen something, because she flinched. “Fifty thousand American men and women were killed in Vietnam, Senator. I can’t believe that it was a grand time, as you put it, for anyone over there.” He shook his head.

  “Senator Hammond spent a tour in Vietnam. Maybe you should ask him.”

  “There were torture squads conducting Phoenix,” Hammond continued without missing a beat. “What was your part?” “I was an observer.”

  “Did you participate in the torture of any North Vietnamese prisoners of war?” “No, Senator, I did not.” “But you didn’t stop it.” “No.”

  “You spent two tours of duty in Vietnam,” Brenda Madden said. “You must have, at the very least, found the place interesting.” “There was a job to be done, and I thought that I could help make a difference.”

  Brenda Madden could hardly contain herself. She nearly laughed out loud. “Come now ”

  “The CIA recruited you right out of the air force,”

  Senator Clawson broke in. “You spent a third tour in Saigon as a civilian. Do you believe that you made a difference?” McGarvey had asked himself that same question many times. It was one of the questions on his recurring list. He shook his head. “I don’t think that any of us made a difference in Vietnam, Senator. We should not have been there in the first place. But since we were, we should have been allowed to fight the war to win it.” “Then why did you keep going back?” Brenda Madden demanded. “Because I love my country,” McGarvey said. His tone of voice and posture were a direct challenge to her.

  She had been skirting around the issue of his loyalty as well as his abilities to run the CIA, during the hearings and in the media.

  Television cameras were split between focusing on Brenda Madden’s face and on McGarvey, who sat unmoving, looking at her as if he might be looking at an interesting new species of animal in a zoo. Almost no one missed his expression, least of all Senator Madden. Paterson sat forward. “Mr. McGarvey has demonstrated his loyalty to his country time and again over a long and distinguished career,” he said. “I might respectfully remind the senators that Mr. McGarvey took the same oath of office that every CIA officer takes ”

  “The same oath that Aldrich Ames swore to?” Brenda Madden blurted. She immediately recognized her mistake. She tore her eyes away from McGarvey and looked over at Hammond, who had his gavel in hand. “Excuse me, Mr.

  Chairman,” she said. She turned back to McGarvey. “I did not mean to imply in any way a comparsion between you and Mr. Ames.” McGarvey nodded. “I didn’t think you had, Senator.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McGarvey,” she said. “There will be other areas that I’ll want to explore with you.” “But not today.” Senator Hammond jumped into the breach. “These proceedings are adjourned. We will reconvene tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning.” He banged his gavel once, and started gathering his files. An even bigger mob of reporters was waiting for them in the corridor and outside on the Capitol steps.

  Yemm and his security detail kept them at arm’s length, and Paterson thought it best that McGarvey answer no questions on the way out.

  Riding away, McGarvey thought about all the other DCIs who had been called to the Hill and raked over the coals. Now it was his turn, and he was feeling something dark riding over his left shoulder. Maybe it was his past catching up with him. Tomorrow the questions would begin in earnest: in the meantime he had the India-Pakistan problem to deal with.

  TWELVE

  EVERY MAN BELONGED TO HIS OWN AGE.

  LANGLEY

  Otto Rencke stopped at the security gate leading to the CIA, trying to quell the voices inside his head that threatened to drive him nuts.

  He’d been going crazy all of his life. But this time it was serious.

  He was frightened. He rolled down the window of Louise Horn’s RAV4 and handed out his security pass to the civilian guard. He recognized the man. But he thought that he recognized everybody. He couldn’t get the pictures out of his head. “How’re you feeling, Mr. Rencke?” the guard asked. He was a younger man, very short hair, stand up bearing, probably a former marine. He was smiling pleasantly. “Well, ya know, I’ve had better days,” Rencke said. He spread out his arms and let his head droop. “Hell of a way to spend Easter.” The guard didn’t get it, and Rencke saw it at once. He grinned. “Sorry. Bad, bad joke. I feel like I’ve been in a car accident. My head hurts, my shoulder hurts, even my butt hurts.”

  “You’ll be black-and-blue. But from what I heard, you were lucky.” The guard handed Rencke’s ID back. “Anyway, welcome back.” “Yeah, thanks.” The road had been plowed, but it was icy in spots. Rencke drove very carefully though he wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing. Sometimes he was super attuned to his surroundings. At other times, like now, the world around him was an out-of-focus blur. Early in his study of mathematics, when he was seven or eight, he had learned to compartmentalize his brain. Much like a computer works on a complicated problem by breaking it down into its constituent parts and then chewing on each of the parts simultaneously, Rencke had learned to divide his thinking. He’d explained to a mathematician at the University of Wisconsin’s Van Vleck Hall that he was like a juggler keeping a half-dozen balls in the air while balancing on one foot, singing and watching television. He was able to work on a number of different problems at the same time. There were perhaps as many as a half-dozen compartments running as many problems at any given time in his head. When he had the bit in his teeth, like now, the number rose to a dozen or more. He’d never been able to count them all without breaking his concentration. He thought of his abilities like a Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. If you stopped to count the operations, the operations themselves fell apart. But the problem he’d always faced, especially now, was that each compartment in his brain was separated from all the others by a gigantic wall. Sometimes when he wanted to find the doo
rs between the walls he couldn’t. It was like being lost inside a constantly moving kaleidoscope. The images were beautiful, and complex, and very often useful, but he wasn’t able to see the real world because of his fragmented thinking. Usually, if he tried very hard, he could find a ladder and climb over the top of the wall and look out over the entire field. But this time he couldn’t even find the ladder. Which is why he thought that he was going seriously crazy. The driveway through the woods branched off into the various parking lots. It was a few minutes after noon and all but the visitors’ lot were full. Rencke was a high-ranking officer, so he had an assigned spot in the underground garage. This place had become home to him. Everyone else came here to work. He came to live. The nurses had given him a sponge bath at the hospital, and Louise had brought his fresh jeans, a bulky knit sweater, clean socks and new Nike running shoes, and she’d had his MIT jacket cleaned. His long frizzy red hair was covered by the bandage, over which he wore a watch cap. When he came through the doors the guards did a double take. They’d never seen him cleaned up. Upstairs in the computer center he went directly back to the area he’d been using for the past few weeks. He stopped in his tracks. The dozen monitors were still up and running, but the desk and long worktable he’d used were clean of everything except non classified materials. The wastepaper baskets and shredder bins were empty, the photos and charts he’d taped to the wall dividers had been taken down, and the litter on the floor had been picked up. “Sorry, Otto,” Karl Zimmerman, chief of computer services, said. Rencke spun around so fast he almost lost his balance. He was lightheaded from the accident.

  Louise wanted him to stay at home, but he’d left as soon as she’d lain down on the couch and fallen asleep. “Hey, take it easy,” Zimmerman said, reaching for him, but Rencke pulled away. “Where are my things?”