Katy called to him from the patio door. “The phone is for you,” she said, and she walked away.
It was Trotter. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about. I talked to Friedman, who understood perfectly. Your name or your connection to the Company will never be mentioned.”
“What’d you tell Katy?”
“Nothing beyond the fact that you have been assigned to do a mission overseas, and that you would be in absolutely no danger,” Trotter said. “She pressed me on it. Smart girl, but she’s worried sick that one of these days you’ll get yourself arrested in some third world country, or worse yet get yourself killed. I assured her that you weren’t that kind of an agent.”
“She was standing next to me when those guys took a potshot, and I fired back.”
“She said as much, said you were fantastic. But I told her that all of our officers are trained to react in just that fashion. And incidentally there’ve been no traces of the shooters or the car. But the Bureau is working on it.”
“Did she buy it?”
“I honestly don’t know, Kirk. But they’re expecting you at the Farm in the morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
TWENTY-THREE
McGarvey arrived at the Farm outside Williamsburg a little before eight in the morning. A half-dozen trainees, their desert camos filthy—it had rained here—straggled up the road from the river, where they’d been on an overnight mission. They were beat, but they looked satisfied for having survived one of the toughest courses in the curriculum.
Sergeant Major Tom Carol in the lead—his camos wet but otherwise perfectly clean—came over as McGarvey parked in front of Admin and got out. The trainees split off and headed to the dining hall.
“Got word you were starting today,” Carol said. They shook hands. “Bob’s already here. He wanted to go over a few things with us before we got started.”
They got coffee before they went back to the conference room. Admin was empty; staff wouldn’t be showing up until nine. But Bob Connelly was waiting when they returned.
He got straight to the point. “Any word who the shooters were who tried to bag you the other night?”
“The Bureau’s working on it,” McGarvey said.
“Was it a random shooting or do you think it had something to do with this op?”
“It wasn’t random—I’m sure of it. Those guys were waiting for me to come out of the club, which means they had good intel. Probably surveillance, but I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary the past few days.”
“They missed,” Carol said. “Was it deliberate? A warning, maybe?”
“Unknown, but they weren’t amateurs. Maybe just unlucky.”
“The problem I’m having is if the incident was related, then it could mean you were supposed to turn around, but if you didn’t, they’d be waiting for you at the border,” Connelly said. “You wouldn’t have a chance.”
“I thought about that too. But if they weren’t meant to succeed, it might mean there’re two sets of people or agencies interested in me. One wanting to warn me off, and the other wanting me to carry on no matter what.”
Connelly and the sergeant exchanged a look. “That’s what we figured,” Connelly said. “But it’d have to mean someone here in Washington knew you’d be walking into a trap and it’s exactly what they wanted to happen.”
“This thing stinks to high heaven, if you ask me,” Carol said. “Fucking politics.”
“Word is that the Russians are making a run at Pinochet. They want us out. Sending you down to take out this general isn’t the real reason. You’re supposed to fail, and it’s meant to make us look so bad the Russians will have the opening they want,” Connelly said.
“Why do you think it’s someone in Washington?” McGarvey asked. “Maybe a spy right here?”
“Probably Langley. Someone has fed the KGB the entire op.”
“Then why not just back off, let me do my training and jet off to Santiago, where a couple of suits from the DINA show up and arrest me on the spot?”
“This shit is never that easy, Kirk,” Connelly said. “It’s something you’ve yet to learn. This is going to be your first kill, and just as many people want you to succeed as want you to fail. But in either case it’ll have to be nothing short of spectacular. Both sides want to make their point with you.”
McGarvey had never liked bullies. He’d never like seeing someone pushed around, and he was stubborn enough to hit back fast and hard whenever someone tried it with him. It was a streak that had worried his mother and had infuriated his sister. “Just walk away from trouble,” they’d told him growing up on the ranch in western Kansas.
Of course he hadn’t been able to the day he saw several of the high school’s star football players trying to gang-rape a freshman girl. He’d waded in and beat them so badly with his fists that the police, and the entire football-crazy town, were convinced he’d used a baseball bat. He was only fourteen.
When it was proven what had actually happened, he was left completely alone, so that when it was time to go off to college, and later, when he’d inherited the ranch, he never looked back. He graduated from Kansas State and sold the ranch.
“If that’s the case—and assuming there is someone working for the KGB either here or at Langley—they might want to eliminate me right here. They’ll try to kill me.”
“Then back off. Trotter will understand,” Connelly said.
“If and when they try to take me out, we’ll let them think they succeeded. The advantage will be mine.”
“Unless they actually do succeed,” Carol said.
McGarvey smiled. “Then I guess I wouldn’t be as good as everyone thinks I am.”
Carol was troubled. “Be careful of that ego of yours, laddie.”
“Right now, Sarge, it’s my greatest asset.”
* * *
By nine McGarvey was outfitted with black sneakers made to look more or less like street shoes, black trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt. The clothes would make him nearly invisible at night, and yet with a light gray blazer he would be nothing more than an anonymous businessman on the streets in Santiago, or with a light tan jacket just another tourist at some border crossing.
He had read James Bond novels as a kid, so his weapon of choice was the Walther PPK but in the .38-caliber version. No range instructors were able to talk him out of what they termed a “girl’s gun,” but not one could ever fault his marksmanship.
He rode over with Connelly to one of the helicopter hangars where a scale model of General Varga’s compound had been set up on a large table supported by trestles. No chopper or maintenance personnel were there.
“His place is in the foothills above San Antonio on the coast about one hundred klicks southwest of Santiago. I have a detailed briefing package for you, which includes a number of travel and insertion scenarios. When you decide how you’ll not only get into the country, but how you’ll get to the compound, I suggest you keep it to yourself. Everyone assumes that your kickoff point will be Mexico City, but that’s up to you.”
“San Antonio’s a port town, so the locals will be used to seeing foreigners,” McGarvey said.
“But the DINA will be expecting you. So will Varga, who not only has a competent staff of boots on the ground, twenty-four/seven, but he has the latest surveillance and detection systems in place, including acoustic, infrared and motion detectors. Lights all over the place, tall walls, as you can see, topped with double coils of razor wire. If you manage to get inside the compound, there are dogs on patrol, and the house itself is hardened, metal shutters on all the windows and doors that automatically close when a threat is detected. And if that happens, an alarm is automatically sent to the local police as well as to the DINA’s security directorate.”
“Automatic weapons on the perimeter wall, helicopter surveillance?”
“Not that we know of. But it’s anyone’s guess.”
“Mines?”
“We don’t think so. There are probably enough deer, boar and other wildlife roaming around that would make a minefield useless.”
A small building just adjacent to the main house had a sloping roof oriented east–west, and studded with broad skylights. “What’s this?”
“Mrs. Varga is an artist. It’s her studio. Or at least we think it is,” Connelly said. He pointed out the barracks, dining hall, generator shed and putting green. “All of it protected, of course.”
“No place has perfect security,” McGarvey said, half to himself. He could think of several entry possibilities, not all of them by stealth. If there was a mole here or at Langley—and it still was a large if in his mind—he wouldn’t share his final plans with anyone. Rather he would set up an approach that would seem logical, and would be reported as such. It would leave him free to do something else. What that was he still had no concrete idea, but staring at the model, scenarios were popping up.
Even Ft. Knox was vulnerable.
TWENTY-FOUR
Baranov sat on the patio of his house, sipping tea in a glass with a silver holder, enjoying the spring morning, waiting for the shoe to drop, as it were. Sometimes like now he felt as if he were a juggler, who once he set the balls in motion had no choice but to follow through with the act. If he simply turned his back, or worse yet missed one of them, all hell would rain down on his head. His promotion would never happen.
He had a cook and a gardener, but their only instruction, other than doing their jobs, was to keep out of his way. Breakfast of toast and cheese and the tea had materialized in the dining room, but the old mestizo who cooked for him was nowhere in sight.
The telephone on the small table beside him rang. It was Torres.
“I just got word that he showed up at the Farm twenty minutes ago. Shall I proceed?”
It was an odd question. “El Presidente wants him eliminated.”
“Si, but I know that you had other plans.”
“I don’t think you have any other choice.”
“There always are choices. The trouble is finding the right ones and following them to their logical conclusions.”
“Which are?” Baranov asked. The call was almost certainly being recorded, so he chose his words with care.
“Our president is blinded by Washington’s money.”
“You’re not?”
“I think that there could be other options.”
“You’re an ambitious man,” Baranov said. “But the president has agreed to meet with a delegation from Moscow.”
“Which he will report to Washington. The CIA will know every word that’s said. It’ll gain him prestige, enough, he thinks, to ask for money to build a nuclear power station. His standing in South America will be nothing short of stellar.”
“It’s likely that my government could do the same thing for him.”
“Your reactors leak.”
“So what?”
Torres was silent for several beats. “We have no other choice but to go ahead.”
“Then send the word to your resource.”
“It’s already been done.”
Barnov’s grip on the phone tightened. “Then why this call? Are you playing a game with me, señor? Because if you are, I’d advise against it.”
“You’re in no position to advise for or against anything,” Torres said and he hung up.
Baranov sat back. His overall brief was to seriously beef up CESTA del Sur. The Americans felt that this hemisphere was theirs and theirs alone. Moscow wanted that to change along as many fronts as possible. And the only way to accomplish it was through a spot-on intelligence-gathering organization.
Chile was his idea. Leonov wanted him to stick to business in Mexico City, but had reluctantly agreed to the plan in light of the CIA’s intention to send an assassin to handle the problem of General Varga.
“But take care, Captain, that we are not included in the likely fallout.”
“The benefit will be ours, General,” Baranov had promised.
He phoned a pager number in Washington and left the message that Henry’s investment adviser wanted to chat about an opportunity at IBM. The CIA followed up on most of these types of calls, but in this case both the investment adviser in New York and the investments were legitimate. The small firm had been created years ago, and only one employee at any time knew that the insider information he was getting came from Moscow. And it was almost always so good—thanks to the KGB—that the company had been a success from the start.
* * *
It was nearly one hour before the call was returned. “I was in the middle of a meeting,” Henry said.
“Are you at a secure location?”
“Of course, or else I wouldn’t have returned your call. What is it?”
“The DINA has an asset at the Farm.”
“We’ve suspected as much. Do you have a name?”
“No. But I learned this morning that they know about McGarvey and his mission and Pinochet has ordered his immediate elimination. I don’t want that to happen.”
“Christ. I don’t know if I can stop it from happening without a name. I can call him back up here for a conference, but sooner or later he’ll have to finish his training. And he’s already suspicious. This would be like waving a red flag in front of his face.”
Baranov was angry. “I don’t give a fuck how you do it, just make sure he comes here. Do you understand completely?”
“Of course.”
“Are you clear?”
“Yes.”
Henry would move heaven and earth to do whatever was asked of him. His own life was on the line.
* * *
Baranov had dressed and was on the way out the door to get his car and drive up to the embassy in Santiago. He needed the secure phone in the referentura to call in this latest twist with Torres. Karina Varga came up the driveway and through the gate in a silver Mercedes 300-class convertible.
Her long hair was blowing free and when she stopped, she had to push it away from her eyes. She wore a white blouse without a bra and a very short dark skirt that hiked up when she got out of the car, giving him a glimpse that she wasn’t wearing panties.
“I was just leaving for Santiago,” he said.
“I’ve come to ask a favor of you, and it can’t wait.”
“The general isn’t with you.”
“No, he’s up in Valparaíso on business.”
“That’s the problem, then,” Baranov said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Just a brandy, and some privacy. What I have to ask is for your ears only.”
They started back inside but at the door Karina put a hand on his arm and stopped him. “You cannot say no to me, Vasha. It’s too important.”
“Valentin,” Baranov said, and he knew exactly why she had come, what she wanted and what she was willing to offer. And it wasn’t about sex. He’d had her and her husband in a ménage à trois twice already. This morning her coming was about intimacy.
He got a bottle of de Jerez and two glasses from the liquor cabinet in the living room and they went back to his bedroom suite, the large French doors open to the mountain breeze. A pair of upholstered wicker chairs and a table were set up just outside on a small patio.
“Would you care to sit down and tell me exactly what favor you want?”
“A drink first,” she said.
Baranov poured one for her and put his glass and the bottle aside. He watched her long, delicate throat as she tipped her head back and drank the brandy in one swallow. The nipples of her small breasts pressed against the material of her blouse.
She set the glass down and, never taking her eyes off his, stepped out of her sandals, undid the zipper at the side of her skirt, let it drop to the floor and kicked it aside.
He noticed for the first time the smallness of her feet, the curve of her thighs and the narrow patch of black hair at her pubis that she had shaved since the last time he’d seen her naked.
She took
off her blouse and smiled. “Whatever you want, Valentin.”
“Did Mati send you?”
“No. This I’m doing for him, not with him.”
“What’s the favor?”
“You told us the Americans are sending an assassin to kill him. I want you to stop it.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Baranov said. She was a good-looking woman, young, firm, all the right proportions. But she wasn’t exciting to him. Sex was merely a tool he was adept at using whenever the need arose. Beyond that he wasn’t much interested. A friend once joked that he would fuck a donkey if he thought it would advance his career. He hadn’t answered the jibe, of course, but his friend hadn’t been too far off the mark.
“I think you do know,” Karina said and came into his arms.
“What do you have in trade?” he asked, suppressing a smile.
She looked up at him. “Aren’t I enough?”
“Da, but only for a down payment this morning.”
TWENTY-FIVE
McGarvey stood on the slight rise looking down at the full-scale mock-up of Varga’s compound. Sergeant Major Carol got out of the jeep and joined him. At this point they were about a mile inland from the York River. Admin was well off to the west, beyond a broad swath of trees, and beyond it were the firing ranges, urban warfare settings and one of the confidence courses. This side of the Farm was mostly used for specific operations training. Not too far away was a Boeing 707 passenger aircraft, its fuselage pitted with bullet holes, one of its wings and both the starboard engines in pieces.
“Won’t be able to simply waltz in,” Carol said. “Means you’ll most likely have to either blow the gate, or come up over the wall and blanket the razor wire.”
“They’ll invite me in,” McGarvey said.
“How do you see that?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll come from our embassy with a personal message from the president, that he knows about Valparaíso and he’ll offer a very large reward for the general and his wife to disappear. Maybe Switzerland.”
First Kill--A Kirk McGarvey Novel Page 11