The Kill Zone km-9

by David Hagberg

  “It was Mr. McGarveys call. We put everything in the safe room. Are you okay?” “What about the stuff in my car?” “We’ve got that, too,”

  Zimmerman said. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve been working on? We burned a couple of your disks trying to find out.” Rencke glanced at his monitors. “We didn’t dare touch them,” Zimmerman said.

  “The whole place would probably blow up.” The chief of computer services was a slightly built man with thinning gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He was very bright, although his real strength was administration: “If you can direct the gee ks you can run the system,” he said, not unkindly. “It’s too early,” Rencke mumbled.

  “Lavender, you know. Bad. Getting badder.” There was light spilling over some of the walls in his head, like the sun on the horizon, or like the blue glow from the core of a swimming pool reactor. That in itself was a thought: a chain reaction building like a chain letter.

  What if there were impurities in the core? What if just the right impurities were added, would the results tell what was going on inside.

  Like an alloy. “Bring my things back,” he said, absently. He took off his jacket, tossed it toward a chair, which it missed, then started bringing his search engines back on-line one at a time.

  Even now when his head was fragmenting he could appreciate the simple beauty of his programs. His machines had no opinions except for an appreciation of a deft touch on the keyboard. They didn’t care about his background, about how he looked, his clothes, his hair, his mannerisms, which he knew were sometimes odd, out of the ordinary. They did things for him without question or judgment. When he looked up it was a few minutes after six and he was surprised to see that someone had brought back all of his files. The table was piled, the floor was littered and several satellite shots of downtown Moscow were pinned to the divider. Zimmerman was gone and McGarvey stood in the doorway in his place. He seemed tired to Rencke, maybe even a little battered and bruised, as if he, too, had been in a car accident. He looked sad, the thought popped into Rencke’s head. “Oh, wow, Mac,” Rencke said. “What are you doing here?” “Trying to find out what the hell is happening to a friend of mine. His name is Otto Rencke. You haven’t seen him, have you?” Rencke turned back to face his monitor. He was inside the SVR’s Washington embassy computer center. He touched the escape key and the monitor went blank. His narrow shoulders were hunched forward. He was aware of the aches and pains from his accident; he wasn’t taking the pills the doctor had given him. He wanted his head screwed on as straight as possible under the circumstances. For the first time ever he didn’t know what to say to Mac. Something terrible was about to happen, and he had no idea how to explain it to anyone. Even his own thoughts were so compartmentalized that his brain was a jumble; a jagged mishmash of garishly colored shards of glass. He remembered when Mac had come to him the first time here in Washington, in Georgetown, at the Holy Rood house. The CIA had dumped them both. Mac had gone to ground in Switzerland, and Otto had hidden out in the open at home. Neither one of them had been doing much of any significance.

  But then Mac had come calling with a little problem that had wound up with the deaths of Baranov and the Company’s DDO, John Lyman Trotter, Jr. But more than that, Mac’s coming back had legitimized Otto. Given him a fresh purpose for his life. It was a gift that he could never repay. Not in a thousand years, not in ten thousand million years of trying. He could see McGarvey’s reflection in the blank screen of his monitor. “I’m busy, what do you want?”

  “I want to know what’s going on?” “What do you mean?” “Louise called.

  She’s worried. You should be at home.” Rencke shrugged. “How about that.” He spoke to the computer screen. “My girlfriend calls, and the DCI comes running. What are you really doing down here?” “The Russians have been looking for one of their people from the old days.

  They’ve asked Interpol and the DGSE for help. He disappeared in August, and you requested his file not too long after that. You’ve got Liz involved now, and Karl is worried that you’re going to fry his entire system. Put all of us out of work.” Rencke had been holding a pent-up breath. He blew it out all at once as if he was trying to fog up his monitor. His fingers flew over the keyboard, burying the program he’d been working with to a place where it could not be retrieved by anyone but himself. “It’s lavender, didn’t I tell you?”

  He glanced at the extremely high-altitude Moscow photos on the wall, then turned to McGarvey. “I’m down here in my lair doing my job, just like you hired me to do, ya know,” he grumbled. “But I can’t do it like this. People coming and going, screwing with me.” Some of the files on the table lay open, some of them displayed the old KGB’s sword-and-shield logo. Post-it notes were stuck to some of the pages.

  “The hospital was boring,” he said, looking away again. “Nothing to do. The nurses were as bad as Louise. She’s trying, ya know, but trying too hard. Sometimes it drives you crazy, ya know?” He grinned and shook his head. It was the best he could do, but he was bleeding inside. Hemorrhaging. “She should be at work. We should all be at work. Twenty-four, seven.” McGarvey cleared a spot on the table and perched on the edge. Otto kept trying to avoid eye contact, but McGarvey was patient. As if he had all the time in the world.

  “Sometimes it’s easier to see than other times. Then Zimmerman comes in here and wipes out everything I was trying to do. Tossed some of it, cause I can’t find a whole bunch of stuff. Shelved the rest. I lost good time here.” His left hand rested on the keyboard, as if he were making reassuring contact with an old, troubled friend. “His name is Nikolayev,” McGarvey said. “The Russians haven’t been able to find him, and neither has Interpol. He was one of Baranov’s Department Viktor experts. I think maybe you’ve found him.” Rencke shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You requested his file.” “No.” “Jay Newby said you did,” McGarvey said, suddenly angry. His patience was wearing thin. “What the hell are you playing at, Otto?” Rencke’s eyes were wide. “If I pulled his file, it had to be something routine. Probably the Interpol request.

  But I don’t remember, Mac. Honest injun.” He waved his arms. “Circle the wagons, but I’m on the inside, kimo sabe, not on the outside.”

  “You’re lying-” “No!” Rencke cried. “Liz is just looking down your track to write the history. She wants to be her father’s biographer.

  But it’s hard on her, too, ya know?” “What are you talking about?”

  Rencke was frightened. His eyes were filling. He couldn’t control his hands. “It was the pictures of your folks. The accident. She saw the file. I tried to stop her.” McGarvey’s parents had been engineers at Los Alamos toward the end of the Manhattan Project. For a few years they were suspected of being spies for the Russians. The taint had carried over to their only son. But it wasn’t true, of course. The whole thing had been a complicated Baranov plot to discredit McGarvey before he rose to become a power in the CIA. They had been killed in an automobile accident that had probably been engineered by the Russians. The Kansas Highway Patrol accident scene photographs had been explicitly grisly. Elizabeth had a chip on her shoulder. Maybe she was angry at her father for not sharing the details about her grandparents’ deaths. Seeing those pictures now had to have been a terrible shock. “What are you doing rummaging around inside the old KGB files?” “It’s for Liz.” “She can run a computer,” McGarvey said.

  “You were supposed to be working up the NIE in-depths on Pakistan’s and India’s technical capabilities.” “I transferred the file to your machine two days ago,” Rencke said. He was defensive, like a cornered animal. McGarvey glanced at the Moscow photos. They were date-and time-stamped for sometime in August. “You’re lying to me, Otto. You’re into something down here that you’re not telling anybody. Lavender, you said. What’s lavender?” “Maybe it’s you who are lying,” Rencke shot back. There was a cold, distant edge in his voice. “Maybe you don�
�t want to be DCI after all.”

  The remark took McGarvey’s breath away. It was so unlike Rencke. He was practically family. It was as if a favored son had turned on his father for no reason.

  “You’re right, it is lavender, and it’s getting worse,” Rencke said.

  “Two weeks, maybe less, then I’ll tell you.”

  “Now-“

  Rencke shook his head. “You can’t be boss of everything. You lost that right the first time you pulled a trigger.” Rencke suddenly clasped his hands in his lap, and his jaw tightened. He was on the verge of something terrible.

  McGarvey nodded. “Get out of here, Otto. Go home and get some rest.”

  “Are you firing me?”

  “Go home and get some sleep. We’ll talk later.” McGarvey walked out without looking back.

  Rencke closed his eyes and saw bright flashes of color: spikes of blue, circles of orange, shards of red; violets, purples, lavender.

  The dark beast was coming, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He was sure that he was finally going crazy.

  McGarvey went downstairs to the indoor pistol range in the basement more than a little confused. Otto was an odd duck, but he was a friend. He’d never thrown a tantrum like this before. Something was eating at him; something serious enough to change him. He’d had a maniacal look in his eyes that McGarvey had never seen. He was on the verge of fragmenting into a billion pieces. McGarvey was afraid that if Otto fell apart, there’d be no one strong enough or bright enough to put him back together. And the CIA needed Otto. McGarvey had always used the compact Walther PPK autoloader in its 7.65mm version. But recently he’d been convinced to upgrade to the 9mm version, and he was still having a little trouble with the placement of his second and third shots. The more powerful ammunition tended to raise his pattern.

  But he was quickly getting a handle on the problem. Yemm went with him, and they each fired two hundred rounds. Afterward McGarvey went back to his office. He had to get some help for Otto before it was too late. Dr. Norman Stenzel, chief of the CIA’s Office of Medical Services Psychology Clinic, came right up. Ms. Swanfeld was gone for the day, and Yemm waited in the outer office, the door to McGarvey’s office open.

  It was snowing again. McGarvey watched how it blew around the lights, and he shivered. Every man belonged to his own age. It was a snatch of something he’d picked up somewhere. Voltaire would not have liked the twenty-first century. Nobody these days cared about the primacy of the Catholic Church. Religion was not such a big part of most people’s lives as it had been in the eighteenth century, though Voltaire would have perfectly understood the current struggle between Islam, Christianity and Judaism. McGarvey turned when he heard the Company psychologist come in. Dr. Stenzel looked like an academic, as did a lot of the people in the CIA. Beard, longish hair, tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, even corduroy trousers and a serious, studious demeanor; all of it was right out of the sixties. He reminded McGarvey of the actor Robin Williams, with his boyish, off-center smile. “Have a seat, Doc,” McGarvey said. “It’s not me who needs you, I’m asking for a friend.” Dr. Stenzel’s grin widened. “That’s what they all say.” “It’s Otto Rencke.” Stenzel had started to sit down, but he stopped, his good cheer instantly evaporating. “I see.” He sat down.

  “What’s the problem.” “He’s under a lot of strain. I think that he might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.” “I’m not surprised, Mr.

  Director. In fact I’ve expected it for a long time.” Stenzel tried to regain his smile, but it was uncertain. “People like him are always on the edge. Classic.” “I’d like you to talk to him.” Stenzel thought about it for a few moments. “I’ll try, if you can get him to come to my office. We’ll have to do this on my turf. God only knows any shrink would love to get his hands on someone like Otto Rencke. The man is fascinating. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything for him.”

  “But you’ll try.” “Sure. It’s guys like him who design the tests I’m going to use. If he doesn’t want to open up, it’ll be me who comes out looking like a basket case.” Stenzel shrugged. “What’s he done that made you call me?” “He’s irritable, forgetful, off in another world.

  More than normal. Maybe even dangerous. It’s like he’s ready to explode. The person I used to know as Otto Rencke isn’t the same person working for me now. It’s like somebody’s impersonating him.”

  “That’s not possible, is it? A double?” “No,” McGarvey said. “He’s coming apart, Doc. I think he needs help.”

  “I’ll do what I can. How about tomorrow morning. Ten?” “He’ll be there.” Dr. Stenzel eyed McGarvey with some curiosity. “What about yourself, Mr. Director? You look as if you could use some R and R.”

  “It’s the season.” Stenzel waited. McGarvey got up and came around the desk. “We’re putting in a lot of hours because of my confirmation hearings and because in the meantime the real work still has to get done around here.” The meeting was obviously over, but Stenzel didn’t get up. “My job description is real simple. I’m supposed to look after the mental health of everyone in this building. A lot of bad stuff can happen if someone goes nuts around here. Including you, Mr.

  McGarvey. Maybe especially you.” “No, I didn’t hate my mother.”

  “That’s nice,” Stenzel said, grinning like he was getting a joke.

  “It’s overwork. We’re all tired.” “I understand that you and your ex-wife got remarried. Congratulations. How is she handling what they’re trying to do to you on the Hill?” Yemm had come to the door.

  McGarvey glanced over at him, and Yemm shrugged. Stenzel was doing his job. “It’s depressing her,” McGarvey said. “She’s tired, like the rest of us. Distant sometimes, forgetful. She and our daughter are going round and round.” “Speed bumps,” Stenzel said. He got up. “We all get them from time to time. Tells us to slow down and smell the roses.” “That simple?” “Yup. You need a vacation.” “Tell me about it,” McGarvey said. Stenzel made to leave, but McGarvey stopped him at the door. “How can you be so sure about my wife without first talking to her?” “When you were put up for DCI, another background check was automatically put into motion. That includes the backgrounds of your wife and daughter, as well as your friends. I’m a part of the process.” Speed bumps, McGarvey thought. They all were going a little crazy because of the hearings, because of the workload and, in Liz’s case, because she was pregnant. His daughter hadn’t been herself for several months. Part of it was the pregnancy; she was a little frightened about losing the baby again, and a little angry because her physical abilities were diminishing. But that was only a part of it.

  According to Otto she had set herself up as her father’s biographer.

  Looking down his track would affect her. But he didn’t know if he could help her come to terms with what she was discovering, because he himself hadn’t fully come to terms with his own past.

  Rencke was already gone, so McGarvey phoned the apartment and got a worried Louise Horn. “I made an appointment for Otto to see Dr.

  Stenzel in Medical Services tomorrow at ten. Make sure he’s there, would you?” “I’m worried about him, Mr. Director.” “Yeah, so am I.”

  After he hung up he stared out the windows for a long time. The entire world around him was going crazy. But thinking like that was in itself crazy. What price? he asked himself. What price?

  THURSDAY

  THIRTEEN

  THEY WERE COMING FOR HIM NOW. BACK FROM THE GRAVE. FROM A PAST THAT HE COULD NOT CHANGE.

  WASHINGTON

  They arrived at the committee hearing room a couple of minutes before 10:00 A.M. McGarvey hadn’t slept well last night, and he looked forward to being here with a sense of despair, of uselessness, of wasted effort. The same media crowd waited on the steps and in the broad marble corridor, but civilian guards at the chamber doors barred their entry. Only those with the proper passes were allowed inside. This morning’s session was to be held in camera. Da
rk secrets were to be revealed, senators exercising their oversight duties. All patriotic and necessary. But it was a horrible joke as far as McGarvey was concerned. DCIs had been testifying before Congress in secret sessions since before Colby, and reading their exact words the very next morning in the Washington Post or New Tork Times. There were more people in attendance than McGarvey had expected He didn’t know most of them, but the senators had the right to invite anybody they chose. A Senate page brought over a manila envelope to Carleton Paterson. “Senator Clawson sends this to you with his compliments, sir,” the young girl said. The envelope contained lists of everyone who’d attended the hearings on Tuesday and Wednesday, as well as a list of those expected to be here this morning. Dmitri Runkov, the Russian intelligence service Washington rezidenrt name wasn’t on either of the first two days’ lists. Neither were any Russian embassy representatives. Their absence struck McGarvey as ominous. Something was happening.

  Something just beyond his grasp. Otto knew about it and was lying.

  The Russians not being here meant something. “Problem?” Paterson asked. “I don’t know. Maybe. But it’s nothing urgent.” “Wouldn’t do me any good to press you, I suppose,” Paterson said. He handed another list to McGarvey. This one contained a couple of lines on each of ten supersensitive Track III operations that McGarvey had been involved with during his twenty-five-plus-year career with the CIA. Track I operations were intelligence-gathering missions. Track II, which were more sensitive, involved some type of covert action. Track III actions, the most secret and most sensitive, involved the use of deadly force. In each of the cases on McGarvey’s list there had been a death.

  In some cases many deaths. The list brought back a lot of very bad memories for Mac. Too late to erase them now, he thought. Too late to go back and undo what had already been done. We can only hope to change the future, and even that hope is a slim possibility. “Those are the problem areas we discussed,” Paterson explained. “Whatever you do, don’t volunteer information. But if Hammond or Madden has this same list, or even a part of it, we’re in a fair bit of trouble.”