First Kill--A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  EIGHTEEN

  Torres agreed to meet at a sidewalk café on the Avenida José V. Lastarria just around the corner from the U.S. embassy. It was a joke, of course, because the café was a hangout for norteamericanos.

  It was just four in the afternoon when Baranov came around the corner from where he had parked his car, spotted the intelligence officer at a table and joined him. Traffic was heavy and the café was crowded. Four men and a couple of women who were probably American were seated nearby.

  “Thanks for being prompt, unusual for a Russian,” Torres said. His voice was thin, and still held a hint of his rural background. Aside from Varga and his wife, Torres was possibly the cruelest man in Chile. It was he who routinely ordered the death warrants that his general carried out in Valparaíso.

  Karina said that Torres had several of her paintings hanging in a secret room in his house. “He’s a big fan, actually.”

  “Has he ever visited the stadium?”

  Karina had smiled. “Never, though I think he would enjoy himself.”

  Her husband had agreed. “Be very careful with this man,” he said at the door as Baranov was leaving. “By comparison el Presidente is a reasonable man.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  A waiter came and Baranov ordered a coffee, with a de Jerez on the side.

  “You and Señora Varga have apparently hit it off,” Torres said. He was dressed in a blazer and open-collar white shirt, but he held himself erect as if he were in uniform attending an official function.

  Or signing another death warrant, the thought struck Baranov. “Interesting people, doing a necessary job. But possibly with too much zeal for some.”

  “That sentiment has never bothered Moscow.”

  “No, but then we are a very large country, with more than nuclear parity and the means to deliver.”

  “Mutual assured destruction.”

  “Keeps the wolves away from our door.”

  Baranov’s coffee and brandy came.

  “So, you have come to Chile to do what for us? And are here today to ask me what?”

  “Not so complicated, señor. I explained it to your president.”

  “Si, he warned me that you would probably come to see me. But you’ve apparently brought nothing but the name of the assassin that Langley is sending us. And your attempt at eliminating the man in Washington was a failure.”

  “It was meant to fail.”

  Torres’s expression didn’t change, though his eyes narrowed a little. “Did you tell el Presidente?”

  “No, I thought that you would have done so by now.”

  “You’re not here for copper, of course, or even to keep the Japanese or Americans away from it. This has to do with your Mexican intelligence network, and ultimately with Cuba. We would be a feather in your cap, we understand this. But I’m not clear on what you meant to accomplish for your CESTA del Sur by telling us about the assassin.”

  “For starters, your goodwill.”

  “Save it for a believer, señor,” Torres said. “If you mean to embarrass the Americans by capturing this assassin and possibly putting him on trial, it wouldn’t work. He’s coming as a sacrificial lamb. And his coming here is to be an act by Washington to show its solidarity with us. He is a rogue killer with no charter from the CIA.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Of course you did; otherwise, you would not have come here with your story, nor would you have ordered the failure in Washington. You’ve come here for the same reason Washington is sending the poor bastard on what they know will be a one-way mission. When it is over—whether he succeeds or not, it won’t matter—he’ll never be able to go home. They’re hoping that the KGB will become involved. They know about your network, and they know what Chile means to you. At the very least they want to embarrass you.”

  “And at the very most?”

  “Have us declare you a persona non grata.”

  Baranov held back a smile. “How do you know this, señor?”

  “We have our sources.”

  “I’m sure that you do. I meant to ask, how did you learn that an assassin was coming for General Varga?”

  “As I said, we have very good people in Washington and New York.”

  “But I would like to know the name of the man who told you about the American.”

  “Certainly, in exchange for the name of your source.”

  “His work name is Henry; he’s a medium-ranking officer at the CIA’s headquarters in Langley.”

  Torres was startled, and he couldn’t hide it. “If you are telling me the truth, which I sincerely doubt, then our sources are not the same.”

  “It’s not likely that two different people would have given up the operation. One to us, one to your government.”

  “No, but I understand what you’re trying to do. The real reason you’re here. You don’t care about an American assassin; you came to trade information. My source for yours.”

  Baranov nodded. “You’re right, and you were also right about Chile’s role in containing the Americans’ adventures in Cuba.”

  “You have further plans.”

  “Indeed,” Baranov said. “Do we have an agreement?”

  “I would need to see and evaluate the dossier on your source before I made such an exchange.”

  “I’ll have to get authorization from Moscow.”

  “Then get it,” Torres said. He laid some money on the table and got up as a black Cadillac came down the street and pulled over to the curb. He didn’t look back as he climbed in and the car took off.

  * * *

  Baranov finished his coffee and brandy then walked back to where he’d parked his car. Even with heavy traffic it only took a few minutes to get back to the embassy on Calle Cristobal Colon, where he went up to the referentura.

  KGB Director Leonov had aides equipped with detailed briefing books standing by 24/7. It was the middle of the night in Moscow when Baranov’s call went through to Leonov’s private number. Viktor Mendikov answered.

  “Da.”

  “I’m calling from Chile. I need an authorization for an exchange of information. An amended file for DKHENRY, but I need it by cable no later than noon my time.”

  The Washington source was highly placed, a gold seam. Only Jesus Christ Himself showing up in Moscow would be bigger.

  “Just a moment, Captain,” Mendikov said. He was a very bright man, bright enough to understand the importance of any decision he made on behalf of Leonov in terms of his own survival. The KGB director did not tolerate mistakes by his staff.

  Mendikov was back moments later, apparently the briefing book open in front of him. “An exchange of what information, with whom and for what purpose?”

  Baranov quickly outlined what he had been doing over the past weeks that had culminated in this afternoon meeting with the deputy director of the DINA.

  “He says that he has a source at the Farm that could be vital to my operation here.”

  “Perhaps he is working you.”

  “He almost certainly is, which is why I need only a sanitized version of Henry’s file. Under no circumstances should we give them the means of direct contact.”

  “You’ll have your answer within eight hours. In the meantime do nothing, Captain. Am I perfectly clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Baranov said.

  NINETEEN

  Plonski met Trotter a few minutes after six at Clyde’s on M Street in Georgetown. It was an older restaurant with leather booths, small tables with white tablecloths and memorabilia on just about every possible surface.

  A waiter led him to one of the booths in back where Trotter, his suit, shirt and tie looking as if they had just come from the cleaners, sat drinking a glass of white wine. Plonski ordered a draft Bud.

  “I’ll get right to the point, Janos,” Trotter said. He didn’t seem angry, just neutral. “Your zeal for making absolutely certain that our records would hold up to close scrutiny is admira
ble. I’ll be the first to give you that. Believe me, you turn a necessary and vital cog in the wheel of intelligence gathering.”

  Plonski almost laughed out loud at the man’s theatrics, except that this was trouble. Mac trouble, Pat would call it. “Some things were not adding up, sir.”

  “What things? Specifically, if you please.”

  “Santiago Station’s request for the laser.”

  “Fully one-third of our stations have made the same request and some have already received the equipment.”

  “Yes, sir. For primary operations, and many of those have been denied or delayed.”

  “Your point?”

  “All the requisitions were sent to the DO for an authorizing signature. In many instances yours, sir. But not Santiago’s. It was sent to Science and Technology, where it was approved. But when I checked, the signature had been redacted.”

  “That happens in some instances.”

  “Why?”

  “In this case, you’re not on the need-to-know list.”

  “I still need the authorizations for the expenditure. Mr. Danielle made that perfectly clear to me on more than one occasion. I’m just following orders.”

  “In this case your orders are different.”

  “Whose orders?”

  “Mine.”

  “Was it your name redacted on the request?”

  The waiter came to see if they were ready to place their dinner orders, but Trotter shook his head. “Give us a minute,” he said.

  “I just wanted to know if it should be charged to S and T or to the DO.”

  Trotter glanced at the other diners. The place wouldn’t be full for another couple of hours, but still, there were a few people within earshot. “But that isn’t the real reason you went looking. Is it still McGarvey you’re worried about?”

  “Too many anomalies for me.”

  “We’ve already had this discussion, and I made it perfectly clear that you’re not on the need-to-know list.”

  “I can read vouchers, and I can add the numbers and match the dates. Accountability, sir. For the laser request. For the two Chilean intelligence officers we’re putting up here. And for Mac’s request for a specific training routine, including a mock-up of some sort being constructed at the Farm. Unspecified purposes, sir, but for a fair sum of money.”

  “Black Budget funds, I might remind you, are not reportable to Congress.”

  “Until after the fact.”

  “Not in all cases.”

  “But I need the numbers.”

  Trotter held his silence for several beats, but then nodded, his expression still neutral. “You’ll have your numbers, Janos. First thing in the morning. But I’ll ask only one thing from you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Stop snooping.”

  “My job—”

  “It’s an order.”

  “Do you want my resignation?”

  Trotter was pained. “Good heavens, no. What do you take me for?”

  “I don’t know,” Plonski said. “I’d like to see the vouchers for the laser, for the mock-up and for the American who visited our Santiago Station, but whose name was missing.”

  “You shall. Now, shall we order?”

  “No, sir, I’m not very hungry,” Plonski said. He got up and walked out.

  * * *

  He’d parked his car across the street and halfway up the block over a bridge across a narrow canal. Just at the corner McGarvey stepped part of the way out of the shadows. “Janos.”

  Plonski practically jumped out of his skin. “Jesus, you gave me a fright.”

  “Hold up a moment.”

  From where they stood they could see the front of the restaurant. McGarvey had been watching from here.

  Plonski turned and looked back at the same moment that Trotter came out and got into the backseat of a Caddy limo that just pulled up. The driver headed back toward the city.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Following me?”

  “Trotter. He lives out in Arlington, and I wanted to see who might come to visit, but he had his limo bring him here, so I figured he was meeting someone. You came as a surprise.”

  “He found out that I was down at McGillis.”

  “Let’s walk,” McGarvey said. They headed up the hill toward a little bridge. There was no traffic up here, the street mostly in darkness.

  “Whoever your American is probably signed off on Beckett’s request for the laser gear,” Janos said. “But his name was not on the request form, nor did it show up in the visitors’ log. When I asked Trotter, he denied that it was him. I think he was telling the truth, about that, at least.”

  “How’d he seem to you?”

  “I’m not sure. Be he’s hiding something, and I think it has to be pretty important. Maybe something to do with Baranov and CESTA del Sur.”

  “Not Varga?”

  “He knows that I’m aware of your op, and I told him that things weren’t adding up, which is why I went down to McGillis. He told me to stop snooping.”

  “I’ll bet he did.”

  “Mac, he ordered me to keep out of it. But he did promise to send me the travel vouchers and the vouchers for the mock-up they’re building for you at the Farm.”

  McGarvey stopped him. “What mock-up?”

  Plonski was surprised. “I don’t know what it is, but for Christ’s sake, it’s for your operation.”

  “They’re building stuff down there all the time. Are you certain it’s for me?”

  “Your name was on the request almost four months ago.”

  “Over whose signature?”

  “It was redacted.”

  “I never knew,” McGarvey said.

  “Trotter’s?”

  “I don’t know,” McGarvey said. He shook his head. “But I think he’s the point man; someone else is pulling the strings.”

  “On the seventh floor?”

  “Probably. But listen, I want you to back away from this thing at least for now. Something is going to happen—I don’t know what—but there’ll be unintended consequences, I’m damned sure of that much.”

  “Why don’t you walk away?”

  “Not a chance, Janos. Not a chance in hell.”

  TWENTY

  After Janos was safely away, McGarvey drove out to Dulles, where he returned the rental Sierra and picked up his red Mustang from the long-term lot. He no longer cared if he was being followed; in fact, he hoped Trotter had sent someone to find out what he was up to.

  Twenty minutes later he was waved through the main gate at Langley, but instead of going directly to the OHB he drove over to the Hartley House.

  One of the beefy minders in shirtsleeves, his hair cropped short in military style, came to the door and McGarvey showed the man his credentials.

  “These guys aren’t supposed to have any visitors other than Mr. Trotter.”

  “And me,” McGarvey said. “I was out here before, and I just need to ask them another question. Won’t take more than a few minutes. Call John if you need authorization.”

  “Mr. Trotter doesn’t like to be disturbed in the evenings.”

  “Then call Paul Reubens—he knows me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I understand,” McGarvey said. “John can sometimes be a pain in the ass for details. I’ll go down to the OHB and phone him myself. What’s your name again?”

  “Tom Steed.”

  “Your call, Tom.”

  Steed stepped aside. “They’re in the kitchen watching TV.”

  “Anyone else here?”

  “Al Cannon in the back.

  “You might want to let him know that I showed up.”

  “He already knows, sir.”

  The kitchen was at the rear of the house just across from the small dining room. Munoz and Campos were sitting at an old, beat-up wooden table watching what looked like a game show on a small black-and-white television set on a stand with wheels.

  They looked up, startled wh
en McGarvey walked in and switched off the TV. “I want to know more about this American in the minister’s office. Did you ever get the impression that you were supposed to overhear them talking?”

  Munoz shook his head. “I think it was just an accident. Anyway, we didn’t hear very much.”

  “Your control officer left the door open.”

  Both men shrugged.

  “But you guys were frightened. Why’s that? No one was threatening you, or did your control officer tell you to keep your mouths shut?”

  “We never mentioned it to him,” Campos said.

  “Why not?”

  “It didn’t seem significant. Anyway, as I said, the conversation wasn’t meant for us.”

  “Bullshit. It was staged for your benefit, because your mission was to go after the Russian who was in Chile trying to chip away Washington’s hold on el Presidente.”

  “That was way beyond our pay grade,” Munoz said. “Baranov, yes, but anything else, no.”

  “Why did you go to ground in Mexico City?”

  “The setup didn’t feel right.”

  “Then why didn’t you simply go home and explain it to your control officer? Why defect, unless you were afraid for your lives?” McGarvey asked. A pack of Marlboros and a battered Zippo were lying on the table. He took a cigarette and lit it. “I’m just trying to understand. Were you being threatened? I mean, did your control officer tell you to turn Baranov or you would be handed to General Varga? Was that the real reason you guys jumped at the chance to get out of Dodge? Things were crazy in Mexico City but at least it was away from home, and a lot easier to get to the U.S. from there than from Santiago.”

  “We weren’t thinking about anything like that, at least not until the last minute,” Campos said. “At any rate you people were closer to our government than Moscow was.”

  “It never occurred to you that Washington and Santiago were so close that you might be sent home the minute you made contact?”

  “It never occurred to us,” Munoz said.

  “We’d never been briefed on the connections between the DINA and the CIA,” Campos added.

  “You’re lying, of course, but I just can’t put my finger on what your real brief was.”