High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Someone like McGarvey,” Carrara repeated. “I don’t think either of you has any idea who he is, what he’s gone through.”

  “He’s a loser,” Dominique said angrily. “The CIA fired him!”

  “Yes. And since then we’ve given him assignments that our people simply couldn’t manage. Without exception he’s come through for us, because … he loves his country. He’s one of the best men I know. Even his ex-wife will defend him.”

  “Then why’s she his ex?”

  “Because she couldn’t stand seeing what the job was doing to him. She had a hard time living with a man who has the habit of putting his life on the line for nothing more than an ideal while the people around him—supposedly his friends—have the habit of stabbing him in the back.”

  “You’re taking a big risk coming here like this,” Kennedy said.

  “Yes, I am,” Carrara admitted. “But before you write McGarvey off—which I think would be the biggest mistake you’ve ever made—I want you to hear me out. The Bureau knows that you fired him, which is a strike against him. And they know that he spoke to his Russian contact on Guerin’s behalf, which is another strike against him. When the CIA’s Internal Affairs Division finishes with its witch hunt, it’ll be all over unless he can find out who’s after you and stop them.”

  “He’s got a dark secret …”

  “That’s right, and it’s all crap, but they’ll use it against him. When it comes time to corner him he’ll fight back, and he’ll lose. They’ll kill him. I can guarantee it.”

  “Does he know?” Dominique asked.

  “Yes, he does. I told him.”

  “When?” Kennedy asked.

  “Before you fired him.”

  “God,” Dominique said softly.

  “Don and Elsie McGarvey, Kirk’s parents, were graduate students of engineering at the University of Chicago. They worked with Enrico Fermi on the first atomic pile, and then went down to Los Alamos during the war to help develop the atomic bomb. They weren’t outstanding, but they were bright enough to stick around for Teller’s hydrogen bomb program. That was the big deal back then, and they stuck it out. Saved their money, and when Kirk’s sister was born they headed north and bought a big cattle ranch in western Kansas. Did okay for themselves.

  “Funny thing about them. They were friends with Oppenheimer. And Don McGarvey was an avid student of Russian history and the Russian language. It was in their security clearance files. But at the time no one took much of an interest. They were just engineers, not scientists. When Oppenheimer fell, and when Klaus Fuchs was arrested, nothing ever happened to the McGarveys. Nobody thought much about them.”

  “Are you telling us that Kirk’s parents were spies for the Russians?” Dominique demanded.

  “Kirk and his sister were raised on the ranch, and all they ever knew about their parents was that they were a loving, very intelligent couple who doted on their children and who had a deep interest in Russia.

  “They were killed in a car accident in the sixties. Left their money to their daughter, who by then was married and had a family of her own, and the ranch to Kirk. But a few days after their funeral, he put the place up for sale, and took the first offer.”

  “He found out they were Russian spies?”

  “He was working for us by then, and since he spoke pretty good Russian, and he understood them, he was on a debriefing of a KGB defector. The man was one of the bankers for North American operations. He brought out a list of agents, identified only by code names, and what and when they had been paid. One of the names on the list matched something he found going through his parents’ files and records. Some of them, I guess, were hidden on the ranch. But he found out.”

  “He didn’t tell anybody?”

  “No,” Carrara said. “That was the first time someone he loved and trusted betrayed him. There were others. Still are. There was also some evidence that his parents had been assassinated, to keep them quiet.”

  “By the Russians?”

  “It pointed that way.”

  “So he became a super-spy not only to atone for what his parents did but to get back at the Russians.”

  “That’s right. He’s taken a lot of hits since then. Damned near died several times. Lost just about everything he ever had. His first wife died of alcohol poisoning. His second wife and daughter were almost killed by someone trying to get to him. A woman he lived with in Switzerland for five years was killed by the East Germans. And one of his best friends, a man named John Lyman Trotter, who was his control officer, turned out to be a double agent for the Russians.”

  Dominique glanced at Kennedy. “Now us.”

  “It’s even worse than that. Could be the Russians didn’t kill his parents after all. Might have been us. A lot of crazy shit happened in those days.”

  “Does he know?”

  Carrara shook his head. “There’s no proof. And I don’t think I’d care to be in the same room with him when he was told.”

  “What do you want?” Kennedy asked Carrara. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Where to turn. Should I rehire him?”

  “No,” Carrara said. “Just don’t write him off.”

  “I was wrong …”

  “We were wrong, David,” Dominique interrupted. “What happens next, Mr. Carrara?”

  “I’m going to help out. But we don’t have much time, so I’m going to need your cooperation.”

  “You’ve got it,” Kennedy said.

  Dominique nodded. She had started to cry, but she cut it off. “What can we do?”

  “Mac cares about you, and they probably know it. Makes you a target. So you’re going to have to disappear for a while.”

  She wanted to protest, but she didn’t.

  “I’ll talk to him first, and then arrange something. In the meantime both of you should go back to what you were doing.”

  “Should I go to the Bureau for help?” Kennedy asked.

  “Definitely, and then return to Portland.”

  “It’s going to be difficult—” Dominique was shivering.

  Carrara felt genuinely sorry for her, but she was one tough woman. “Welcome to the club,” he said, not unkindly.

  Arimoto Yamagata was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the Hyatt Regency penthouse when Chance Kennedy let herself in. The afternoon sun slanting through the windows gave his skin a golden glow. God-like, the thought popped into her head, and she shivered despite her resolve that she would be objective. She didn’t want him to leave, but if he stayed she was convinced that he would get hurt. They were talking about a multibillion dollar business that Al Vasilanti would do anything to save. He’d hired McGarvey, some ex-paramilitary thug. God only knew who else was out there ready to pounce.

  She watched him from the entry hall. He was doing something to the branches of a very small tree, his movements precise, very liquid. It was the same each time they made love. He made it an experience. Something more than sex. Something almost transcendental. She knew that she was gushing like a teenager, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “The bonsai tree is a horribly mutilated, terribly misshapen dwarf that lives in particular agony for many years,” Yamagata said without turning. “But look closely, and you will see that all of its parts—its stems, its leaves, its flowers—are in perfect proportion. It glories in its perfection.”

  “You have to leave Portland,” Chance said.

  “Only through patience can come perfection. In the doing, one receives tranquility and beauty as a reward.”

  “Did you hear me?” Chance asked, coming into the living room. “My husband knows about us. And Guerin has hired a CIA agent or something to come after you. He knows about us too. He warned me about you.”

  “Are you distressed?”

  The question caught her off guard. “For God’s sake, Ari, aren’t you listening to me?”

  Yamagata got smoothly to his feet and turned to her. He wore a black kimono with a red rose embroidere
d over his left breast. “The feeling of distress is the root of benevolence. This is very important in my society, Chance.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips.

  The intimacy of his touch was staggering. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

  He pushed her coat off her shoulders, and she let it fall to the floor with her purse. Next he unbuttoned her blouse.

  “This man’s name is Kirk Collough McGarvey, is this correct?”

  She nodded. Her entire body was humming, as if she’d been plugged into a high-tension circuit.

  He removed her bra and brushed his fingers so lightly against the nipples that she could barely feel it. Her knees were weak. She wanted to sink to the floor with him and make love now.

  “He knows that I am your lover?” Yamagata asked, his voice distant, dreamy.

  “David told him.”

  “Has David spoken to you about this?”

  “He can’t do a thing until after Sunday, except send McGarvey after you.” Chance’s breath caught in her throat as Yamagata touched her just above the waistband of her skirt. She was more than ready for him.

  “What did Mr. McGarvey tell you about me?”

  “You’re here to hurt Guerin, and you’ll use anything or anyone.”

  Yamagata slowly unzipped her skirt and eased it off her hips. He Steadied her as she stepped out of it.

  “Do you believe him, Chance?”

  “Business is war.”

  “Yes, I know that you learn well. But do you believe the man?”

  It was difficult for her to concentrate. He slid her pantyhose and panties down together, and she held his shoulder as she lifted one foot at a time so that he could pull them all the way off. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “I mean, I’m not sure …”

  He was kneeling in front of her, looking up, his eyes smiling. She took his head in her hands and gently pulled him forward until his lips found her vagina, and she arched her back and sighed with pleasure, all other thoughts gone from her head.

  “Do you know who this is?”

  The voice was muffled, and McGarvey could hear traffic noise in the background, but he knew it was Carrara. “I’m not at a secure number.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Have you made any progress out there since you were fired?”

  “I have a couple of leads,” McGarvey said, not surprised that Carrara had found out. “They’re good people, but they’re running scared. Sunday’s a big day. Do you know about it?”

  “More than I did yesterday. But you may be better off out of Portland, unless your leads are solid. I spoke with some of the … principals. They’re behind you now, one hundred percent. Understand?”

  “Might be too little too late. What about your end?”

  “Nothing officially, but I’m told Guerin is going to ask the Bureau for help.”

  “Will they get it?”

  “No. Can you get out of there clean?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll meet you where you met Viktor. Tomorrow, 8:00.”

  “Take care,” McGarvey said.

  “You too.”

  Reid picked Mueller up at Dulles, but neither of them said much until they were safely in the car heading away from the airport. Reid was extremely tense, and he kept searching in the rearview mirror as if he suspected they were being followed. His actions were as unsettling as his telephone message.

  “Is the Sterling house still safe for us?” Mueller asked.

  “Yes, of course it is,” Reid answered sharply. But then he backed off. “I think it’s as safe as it’s always been. Nobody’s been out there snooping around.”

  “Then what’s the problem? Is it our young friend, Louis?”

  “You can say that again. He built an extra repeater, and he placed it at Andrews Air Force Base. I didn’t know about it until yesterday.”

  “Andrews …” Mueller was drawing a blank, but then suddenly he had it. “The President’s airplane, Air Force One, operates from there. It’s a Guerin 522.”

  “That’s right. The sonofabitch is gunning for the President.”

  Mueller shrugged. “It fits your plans.”

  “No!”

  “You are willing to kill the Vice President.”

  “Larry Cross is a twit. Lindsay is different. He can be predicted. Besides, I’m scheduled to be on that flight. I’m going with the President to Tokyo.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday.”

  Mueller could barely suppress a laugh. In addition to being a sociopath, he had no sense of humor. But the irony of Reid’s predicament was too rich to ignore. “Make your excuses.”

  “Don’t you see that by jumping on Lindsay’s bandwagon the Bureau will have to drop its investigation of me.”

  “Didn’t help your President Nixon.”

  “That was different. Wasn’t the FBI brought him down. It was the media. Thank God they’re not after me.”

  Mueller thought it over, looking for the advantage. “We could convince Louis to exclude Andrews on his program.”

  “We can’t trust him. He could bury the command in his computer somewhere. We’d never know for sure.”

  “You’d never know,” Mueller corrected. “I’ll kill him before Sunday.”

  “Still couldn’t be sure. His programs could be automatic.”

  “How did he find out that Air Force One would be flying on Sunday?” Mueller asked.

  “I don’t know. But you’ll have to go out to Andrews to retrieve the repeater.”

  “It might be difficult to find. It could be anywhere or nowhere. Maybe he is lying.”

  “I don’t think so,” Reid said.

  “Did he say why he did it?”

  “Just that if we were going to do a job, then let’s do it all the way.”

  “He’s right,” Mueller replied, but Reid said nothing else.

  A light in the kitchen of the farmhouse spilled out into the hallway, and one in an upstairs room partially lit the second-floor corridor. There was a fire on the grate in the living room that gave the place a comfortable, homey feel. It struck even Mueller odd that from such a setting mass murder was being arranged.

  Louis was drinking a glass of white wine in front of the fire. An empty bottle, and one half full, were on the floor next to the couch. He was drunk. He looked up bleary-eyed. “Are you done already?”

  “Just the West Coast.” Mueller perched on the arm of the couch. “Mr. Reid thought I should come back and have a chat with you.”

  “I don’t know what the big fucking deal is. He wants to stick it to the Japs. Let’s do it.”

  “Killing the President may be a bit extreme.”

  “Bullshit.” Louis slurred the word. “We’re all fucked anyway. What difference one murder or a thousand? The sonofabitch is in bed with the Japs anyway.”

  Mueller glanced at Reid but the older man wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “We’d like you to tell us where you placed the repeater, Louis,” Mueller said patiently. “I’ll go out tomorrow and get it.”

  “Not a chance. On Sunday Air Force One is a dead duck. Boom.”

  “Mr. Reid may be on that flight with the President.”

  Louis giggled. “It wasn’t on the White House program.”

  “We need your help.”

  Zerkel looked up, his eyes flashing. “You’ve got my help! You finish placing the repeaters, and on Sunday airplanes will fall out of the sky on signals that will definitely be traceable back to Japan!”

  Mueller waited a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough,” he said evenly. “Is the signal train in place?”

  “Just about.”

  “You’ll show me how to work it?”

  Again Louis’s eyes flashed. “Why? So you can kill me?”

  “You have your safeguard in place. It would be stupid of me to harm you. I value my freedom as much as you do yours. When we’re finished Sunday I want to be well away from this place. I want to know how the system
works in case you are incapacitated, or for some reason cannot get to your computers.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If this farmhouse were to be stormed, let’s say, and we had to get out. If we were separated I would want to make sure the signals were sent.”

  Louis was breathing through his mouth, his complexion pale. He looked as if he were about to be sick. “All right,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  “In the morning,” Mueller said.

  “What about me?” Reid asked.

  Mueller looked at him. “You’ll make all the preparations you need for Tokyo on Sunday with the President. Unfortunately on the way out to the airport you will have an automobile accident that will be investigated by the Highway Patrol. You will have a perfect excuse, and a solid alibi.”

  “What do you think about that?” Zerkel said.

  McGarvey stood on the engineering gallery looking down at America. This was a favorite haunt of everyone in the company with enough rank to get in. His security badges had not been yanked. That would probably happen by tomorrow morning, so he’d been able to drive in without subterfuge. He wanted to see the airplane one last time before he headed out.

  “You’re not supposed to be up here, Mr. McGarvey,” Saul Edwards, the Gales Creek operations manager, said.

  “I know, I just had to see it again.”

  “She’s a beauty,” Edwards agreed. He was a short, swarthy man with thick dark hair and wide dark eyes. Like the others he’d been working around the clock and looked it.

  “Tighten up your security. Even without a pass I could have gotten in here easily.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “At least until Sunday.”

  “For what it’s worth, Mr. McGarvey, I think you have been a real gentleman around here. I don’t know why you got the ax, but if we have a problem it’s not going to disappear when you’re gone. You know what I mean?”

  McGarvey nodded. “I’ll do what I can, Saul. Just watch your security until Sunday.”