First Kill--A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  “We’ve told you the truth—I swear to God,” Munoz said.

  “Your English is too good. Beyond your pay grade, I think you said. You told Trotter to screw himself, and that you’d already given him the crown jewels. You told me that you were way out of your league dealing with Baranov. And just a minute ago when I asked you why you jumped at the chance to get out of Dodge, you didn’t ask what I meant.”

  Neither of the Chileans said a thing.

  “Your assignment was to go after Baranov, but someone did a good job teaching you idiomatic English—American slang, not Russian. Can you explain that, and why you lied about it, and how you knew to get our attention?”

  Trotter came to the door. “Could I have a word with you, Kirk?”

  “First I want an answer.”

  “I can give that to you; just come outside with me for a minute.”

  McGarvey let it hold for a longish moment, then stubbed out his cigarette in the overfull ashtray, and followed Trotter to the stair hall and out the front door.

  “Who the hell are these guys and why was I dragged out here to listen to their bullshit story?”

  “We think that there is a mole very highly placed in the Company. We think we might have the list narrowed down to eight or ten people. But we’re not going to risk tossing out the baby with the bathwater, if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Are you talking about the American these guys overheard?”

  “Yes. It’s how we narrowed the list. We think that he’s working with Baranov’s CESTA del Sur, and the current target is Chile.”

  “But he also has the ear of at least the foreign minister.”

  “That came as a complete surprise to us—you can believe me.”

  McGarvey did. “What’s the real reason for my op?”

  “You’re to assassinate Varga, if for no other reason than simple decency. Humanity.”

  “What other reason?”

  “Varga has become close to Pinochet, and the mass murders are important enough to el Presidente that the White House wants the general to be eliminated. We’ve practically invented Chile and it would look bad if we turned a blind eye to what’s happening in Valparaíso. At the same token we can’t afford to lose Chile to the Russians. We’re walking a very fine line here.”

  “It doesn’t add up,” McGarvey said. “Why would assassinating Varga have anything to do with finding the mole?” But then he had it. “I’m to be bait. Your mole will out me to make points with Pinochet.” He looked back at the house. “The scumbags’ job was to help recruit me. I was going to Chile to kill Varga, whose compound was practically next door to Baranov’s.”

  Trotter didn’t say anything.

  “All you had to do was draw me a diagram of Varga’s compound, give me some decent intel about the security in place, firepower, detection systems, things like that. You didn’t have to build a mock-up at the Farm unless it was to hit your mole over the head with a hammer. Maybe just talking about sending me wasn’t enough. It had to be made real. What else?”

  “I don’t know all of the details, but I was told that we’re sending a piece of surveillance equipment—a rather expensive laser, actually—to Chile, to the DINA.”

  “Whose technicians will install it at Varga’s compound to let him know when I’m trying to get over the wall. Microvibrations in the concrete.”

  “It’s possible, though no one seems to be sure,” Trotter admitted. “Janos stumbled across it, but of course he believes it went to Beckett. Thing is our mole knows about it too. We made sure of it.”

  “Couldn’t two lasers have been sent—one to Beckett and the other to the DINA?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Why wouldn’t the mole, whoever he is, just order the op to be canceled?”

  “It’s exactly what we’re hoping he’ll do. Could be he’ll tip his hand.”

  “Me, the mock-up, the laser and now these two DINA guys, and he’s not taken your bait.”

  “No. But he’ll have to stop you, or at least try. We’ll have to wait him out.”

  “Me, John, not we,” McGarvey said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  A car, driver and bodyguard picked Baranov up at noon at the Russian embassy for the ride over to La Moneda Palace. The men were silent. The car was a black Cadillac limousine, its rear side windows nearly opaque to anyone on the outside. He’d gotten the heavily redacted dossier on his CIA resource four hours earlier, and had phoned Torres’s office at DINA headquarters.

  “Shall we compare notes?” he’d asked.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Torres said. “Where shall I have you picked up?”

  “At the embassy, but I can get to your office on my own.”

  “We’ll be meeting at the Presidential Palace, and you can’t imagine the preparations that I would have to make to allow you inside without an escort.”

  “As you wish,” Baranov agreed, hiding his surprise.

  Downtown along the broad Alameda, traffic was heavy, and no one seemed to pay attention to the lights or speed limits. Bicycles and pedestrians mixed freely with the cars, trucks and buses, and overall, everyone seemed to be in a hurry and happy. Very much unlike downtown Moscow, with its somber weather, somber government and somber people.

  A big problem for the KGB with its agents abroad was defections. All the propaganda and strict training in the raison d’etre of the socialist state, the workers’ paradise, the real government of the people, couldn’t deny the prosperity and freedom in places like Paris, London, New York, which began to work on the agents the moment they stepped off the plane.

  And here, Baranov thought. But for him especially Mexico City, where the biggest game in town was unfolding, Santiago was just a stepping-stone, a small but important chip on the table, that he meant to win before returning to his real love.

  The massive palace that had housed the mint until the mid-1800s was now the office of the president as well as the minister of the interior, the General Secretariat of the Presidency and the General Secretariat of the Government. It served roughly the same function as did the Kremlin, only it wasn’t behind tall walls.

  They pulled up at the main entrance to the building, which stretched for a full city block. The smartly dressed honor guard came to attention as the bodyguard escorted Baranov inside to a large entry hall. A short, pleasant-looking man in an ordinary business suit met them and dismissed the guard.

  “Señor Baranov, I am Alex Molina, chief liaison officer with our DINA. Welcome to La Moneda. If you will just follow me, you’ll be meeting in the Blue Room.”

  They headed down a broad marble-floored corridor, busy now, toward the rear of the building

  Baranov was startled. “That’s where the president meets with visitors.”

  “You know the history of this building. We have long known that ceremony and a certain amount of pomp are necessary for the proper functioning of a government. Great Britain’s monarchy and the changing of the guards at Buckingham and all that lead to a majesty. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “We have Lenin’s tomb.”

  Molina smiled faintly. “Indeed,” he said.

  The ornately draped French doors in the Blue Room looked out on the Orange Trees Yard, a green courtyard on the palace grounds where actual orange trees grew. It was a popular lunch spot in good weather for employees, and the general public was often let inside. An ornate chandelier looked down upon a grouping of antique furniture, to one side of which was the Chilean flag.

  Torres stood looking outside and when Baranov was shown in, he turned around. “You’ve brought the information I asked for.”

  “It was to be a trade,” Baranov said. Torres held nothing in his hands nor was there anything like a file folder or envelope on any of the tables.

  “But nothing in writing from me. My part of the trade will be verbal.”

  “Shall I keep this?” Baranov asked, raising the folder.

  “As you wish. I’m sure that it’s so h
eavily censored that it would be of very little use to me, as my report would be to you.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Your request has created even more issues than your presence here has.”

  “The Americans know of our meeting?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Señor Torres. I’m here at my government’s request to offer you help out of what could turn into a rather ugly diplomatic situation. We’re offering you a lifeline.”

  “Then throw it.”

  Baranov laid the file on the table. “A sign of our good faith. He is an officer in the CIA’s Langley headquarters.”

  “Which directorate does he work in?”

  “Clandestine Services.”

  “Am I to take this on faith?” Torres asked.

  “His immediate supervisor is Lawrence Danielle.”

  Torres thought a moment. “That narrows it to a dozen, perhaps twice as many people. I’ll need something more specific.”

  “Quid pro quo, señor,” Baranov said.

  “Ours is code-named Leon, and he is a senior instructor at the Farm.”

  “A simple instructor, not such a valuable resource as mine.”

  “He is the man who trains operatives for special missions.”

  “It would put him in a position to know a great many things,” Baranov said. “You knew McGarvey’s name and his mission even before I came with that information.”

  “We knew of the mission but the officer wasn’t picked until a few days ago.”

  Baranov knew of the mission and McGarvey’s name nearly one month ago. His source was the lead officer, but there was more—he was sure of it. He’d long suspected that what Henry was giving them was disinformation, but so far everything had panned out, including two separate instances of airliner hijackings, and two position papers on rapprochement with Vietnam, and plans for Cuba.

  “I learned of the mission and McGarvey’s name four days ago. It’s why I was sent here, to make a deal.”

  “Then your source is McGarvey’s operations officer.”

  “And yours is his trainer.”

  “Si, but as of yesterday Señor McGarvey had not yet begun his training. It is possible that your attempt to have him assassinated has either altered his schedule or has made him rethink accepting the mission.”

  “I was told this morning that the mission is still on point.”

  “It’s your opinion that McGarvey will come here after all.”

  “It’s what I was told.”

  Torres came across the room, picked up the file folder and quickly looked over the three pages. “This man is a very important resource for you.”

  “He is.”

  “I would like access to him—through you, of course.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  “Access to mine.”

  “Not an equal exchange.”

  “We have other resources.”

  “So do we,” Baranov said. “But the real reason I was sent here was to learn about the CIA’s activities in Chile, along with the work of other U.S. agencies, especially in the financial sector.”

  Molina opened the door and stepped aside to let Pinochet enter the room. The president took an earbud from his right ear. He’d been listening to their conversation. “Which would allow you to easily sabotage their efforts, replacing their friendship with Moscow’s,” he said.

  “We have much more to offer, Señor Presidente,” Baranov said.

  “I would listen to a delegation of senior Kremlin officials, in secret, of course.”

  “I’ll arrange it immediately, sir.”

  Pinochet turned to Torres. “I want McGarvey eliminated as soon as possible.”

  “He will begin his training at the Farm soon, Señor Presidente. Accidents do happen there.”

  “Make it so,” Pinochet said. He gave Baranov a look of indifference then left.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Katy had her Red Cross board meeting at three, and afterward she called and said she was having drinks with several of her friends at the Hay-Adams across from the White House. It was six-thirty when she finally got home, and McGarvey was in their bedroom packing his bags.

  “Are you off, then?” she asked. She laid her purse on the dresser and kicked off her shoes. Her mood was brittle, which Mac had thought it would be.

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Katy.”

  “Kathleen,” she automatically corrected. “Any hint where you’re going, or how long you’ll be gone? Into badland I think is the term you people use, isn’t it?”

  Whatever he said or didn’t say would be the wrong thing. They had been down this path for a year or so now. “I’m going to the Farm first thing in the morning for a couple days of training, maybe a bit longer, and then I’ll be off.”

  “To where?”

  “I can’t say, but it shouldn’t be for more than a week, probably less this time.”

  “If you come home at all,” she said. “I assume you’ll be going into harm’s way. Someplace where they’ll want to shoot you, or at the very least arrest you. But of course you know that even if you do survive this … whatever, the White House is very strong in not bargaining with hostage takers. And Tom Friedman agreed with me.”

  McGarvey held himself in check. “Who’s Friedman?”

  “He’s the executive director for Red Cross overseas disaster relief.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing that he didn’t already know.”

  “Specifically, Katy—it could be important.”

  “If you’re going to press me, I told him about the shooting incident and how you handled it. Of course there was no mention of our names in the media, and Tom picked up on that right away. So I had to tell him that you worked for the CIA, and were off at a drop of the hat for God only knows where.”

  “Did you tell him that the shooting might have been related to what I do?”

  Katy gave him a blank look. She went into her walk-in closet, where she took off her business attire and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She went into the bathroom and started taking off her makeup.

  McGarvey phoned Trotter, and asked if the name Tom Friedman meant anything to him.

  “He’s an exec over at the Red Cross. Foreign disaster relief. Why?”

  “Does he ever have contact with us?”

  “Tony Benz gives him situation reports from time to time.” Benz was the deputy director of intelligence. “Have you had an encounter with him?”

  “Katy is on the Red Cross board, which met today. She and some others, including Friedman, had drinks this afternoon at the Hay-Adams and somehow the shooting incident came up. Apparently he was curious about why our names weren’t mentioned in the media.”

  “And Kathleen outed you?”

  “Yeah, you might want to do some damage control, see how much this guy knows or suspects.”

  “I’ll find out right away.”

  “I’m going down to the Farm first thing in the morning. Keep me posted, would you?”

  “Will do.”

  Katy was standing at the open bathroom door when he hung up, an ugly expression on her face. “Tom Friedman is a gentleman.”

  “I’m sure he is. But now that he knows, or guesses that I work for the Clandestine Services, my life could be at risk.”

  “In the field, Kirk. But not here if you stayed at home.”

  “The people who tried to kill me the other night didn’t seem to mind that I was home.”

  “Because they probably knew that you were getting set to run off again.”

  Through all of that, neither of them had raised their voices. Before their daughter, Elizabeth, was born, they’d have the occasional knock-down-drag-’em-out fight at the top of their lungs. Afterward they would go to bed and make love just as noisily. But after the baby came they’d tacitly agreed to tone it down. It didn’t matter now because Liz was gone, but their arguments were no longer noisy. Unfortuna
tely, their lovemaking lacked the old passion.

  “Did anyone else overhear your conversation or was it just you and Friedman?”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly how it sounded. We’ll need to do damage control, and I’ll need to know who else might have heard you. Maybe they asked questions?”

  She went back into the bathroom and brushed her short blond hair in the mirror.

  McGarvey followed her in, and she looked at his reflection.

  “It was just Tom and me, outside waiting for a cab.”

  “What about the others?”

  “They’d already left.”

  “The doormen?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How about the cabbie?”

  She turned around. “We took separate cabs. And what are you implying now?”

  “Are you sleeping with him?” McGarvey said, and the instant the words left his mouth he was sorry. More than that, he felt incredibly stupid. He took a half step toward her, but the look on her face stopped him.

  “No,” she said. She turned back to the mirror and continued brushing her hair.

  “I’m sorry, Katy,” McGarvey said.

  “Kathleen.”

  He went back to the bedroom and finished packing. When he was done he brought both bags out to the garage and put them in his Mustang. In the kitchen he got a beer and went outside to the back patio, which overlooked the fourteenth fairway of the Chevy Chase Club.

  They’d bought the colonial at the end of a cul-de-sac in an upscale neighborhood. They’d joined the club, or rather Katy had, but he’d only ever been there a couple of times for parties, at her insistence. He didn’t golf, and the chitchat with her friends seemed less than meaningless to him.

  He smoked a cigarette, a habit he’d gotten into in the air force, but it tasted lousy to him and he didn’t finish it.

  The phone rang twice and from where he stood he saw Katy answer it. He watched her awhile talking to someone. He couldn’t make out the words but she wasn’t animated.

  He turned away and finished his beer. The night was cloudy, the breeze cool. It was fall, which meant it was spring in Chile. Getting warmer.