First Kill--A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  “I was told to keep this as compartmentalized as possible, Anatoli. Need-to-know and all that.” Baranov nodded, and Kaplin got it.

  “As it should be.”

  “But you need to keep the pressure on to find your spy here in the embassy. I’m sure he—or she—is passing damned near everything they hear or read over to Beckett. Thank the skies they can’t know what goes on here when it’s just the two of us.”

  “So what’s next, Vasha?”

  “I’m returning to Mexico City within twenty-four hours. As I said, my work is just about finished here. I have friends inside the DINA who are willing and even eager to help my little project. But I have to get back to my office now, for obvious reasons.”

  Kaplin didn’t understand. He spread his hands.

  “The answer is in Mexico City, my friend,” Baranov said. “Not here.” He got up and gestured for Kaplin to leave with him.

  Downstairs in Kaplin’s office, Baranov wrote a brief note on a piece of stationery.

  Referentura may not be secure. Consider possible CIA laser surveillance. Call me on secure line if you decrypt any reference to me and especially to Mexico City. Just leave the message: YES. The CIA must not suspect that we know about their new capabilities.

  Kaplin was thunderstruck, but he nodded his understanding.

  * * *

  Less than four hours later, Baranov got a phone call from Kaplin.

  “Da.”

  The game was on.

  FORTY

  McGarvey kept loose for the rest of the morning, driving past his house once—the housekeepers had come and gone—and then past the Plonskis’, where the neighborhood was quiet. He bought a six-pack of beer from a small liquor store just off Dupont Circle and then drove over to West Potomac Park, where outside the entrance he bought a couple of hot dogs from a vendor.

  Parking in the lot behind the Lincoln Memorial he had his lunch as he watched the tourists piling in. The weather was still good, but as soon as it changed to cold and rainy most of the park would be empty except for a few diehards, mostly old men remembering World War II and Korea.

  Someone was trying to stop him so that he would not go to Chile—first by trying to kill him and then by trying to kill the people closest to him so that he would back off. But instead of making him crazy with anger, so that he would be prone to mistakes, he felt a sense of loneliness, as if he had no one close in his life. No one with whom he could have a conversation and not have to explain himself.

  He could see his entire life stretching in front of him, assignment after assignment, he supposed. Seemingly never ending. Some field officers did come in from the cold to act as instructors at the Farm or as senior officers at Langley. But some of them ended up merely as unidentified stars on the wall of the lobby in the OHB. Their names and triumphs would never be made public, at least not in this lifetime. And in many cases not even their families would know of the circumstances under which they were killed. Often there wasn’t even a body to bury. Just a citation for an unknown deed or deeds in the service of a grateful nation.

  Small comfort, McGarvey thought. And for a moment he understood how Katy must feel, and it was a wonder that she hadn’t learned to hate him yet.

  He drank just one of the beers and ate only one of the hot dogs, then drove back to Georgetown, parking on Dent Place just down from the travel agency. He called the Marriott from a booth on the corner.

  “Are there any messages for Larson, three-oh-three?”

  “No, sir.”

  Next he called Trotter’s private number, and after one ring it rolled over to a message system, asking that a callback number be left. He gave the phone booth number. Trotter called almost immediately.

  “Where are you?”

  “At a phone booth. Have our guys had a chance to make a phone call?”

  “Yes, but so far they’re just sitting there, talking mostly about sports and wondering when they’ll be released. Good heavens, hope does spring eternal.”

  “They know they’re being monitored.”

  “Of course they do. But listen, Kirk, Janos hasn’t shown up for work. Do you know anything about it?”

  “After what happened at my house I sent him and Pat and the kids away.”

  “Where?”

  “Out of harm’s way.”

  “Goddamnit, I need him.”

  “Not dead, you don’t,” McGarvey said.

  Trotter was silent for a beat. “There’s been a development. Beckett’s already getting laser product from inside the Russian embassy. Specifically the referentura. We don’t think it’ll last long, though. We have a source in Moscow who says that their Scientific and Technical Directorate has been on it for the past year. They’ll almost certainly come up with a countermeasure very soon.”

  “But for now we’ve had a breakthrough in Santiago. Anywhere else?”

  Again Trotter was silent for a moment. “No.”

  McGarvey wanted to ask Trotter if he knew how to spell coincidence. “What has Dick learned?”

  “Captain Baranov met with the KGB chief of station a couple hours ago. He said that his work in Santiago was just about done, and that he was heading back to Mexico City.”

  It was too over-the-top obvious for McGarvey. If Baranov knew about the laser surveillance equipment, he’d sent a message that he was returning to his Mexican network, and maybe if McGarvey was listening, he might care to come along.

  “Who knows about this?”

  “Beckett and his intercept team, our signals people here and, of course, the seventh floor.”

  “Campos and Munoz?”

  Trotter was startled. “No.”

  “Tell them.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Everyone else knows; they might as well be on board,” McGarvey said. “I want as many people coming out of the woodwork after me as possible without making it totally obvious it’s what I want. Maybe they’ll start to stumble over each other, like a bunch of clowns in a three-ring circus.”

  “Except that the one who doesn’t stumble will be your man.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Are you going to take up Baranov’s challenge?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s more going on than General Varga, and I think that Baranov might have some of the answers.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Soon.”

  “And Varga?”

  “That depends on what happens next.”

  “In Mexico?”

  “Here.”

  “Keep in touch, Kirk. And watch your back.”

  “Will do,” McGarvey said and he rang off.

  He went back to his car and got in. A moment later a woman dressed in a man’s suit came out of the travel agency and walked up the street directly to him. She got in the passenger seat.

  “Mr. McGarvey,” she said. “A pleasure to finally meet you.” She was slender, with fine high cheekbones and startlingly black eyes. Her hair was cut very short in the back, a flip over her right eye. She wore almost no makeup and small gold hoop earrings. She smelled of Chanel, but it was subtle. Her voice was French.

  “I’m at the disadvantage.”

  “Marlene will do for now,” the woman said. She stuck out her hand and McGarvey took it. “We were surprised to see you come into our shop earlier today. We believe that you took something that belongs to us.”

  “Just a couple of surveillance tapes.”

  “We have security. No crime there. Certainly not like breaking or entering.”

  “Or attempted murder,” McGarvey said. “Have you called the police?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “It’s not necessary. In any event you came to us, asking about our private number. It’s for contractor services, as you know by now. So what can we do for you? Do you seek employment?”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Dr. Chad Morris. Used to work for the UN’s security s
ervice in New York. Good man.”

  “Do the names Jim Dobbs or Russ Williams mean anything to you?”

  “Of course.”

  McGarvey reached over and ran his hands over her sides, up to her armpits beneath her jacket, then between her small breasts and, when she spread her legs, her thighs.

  She smiled faintly. “I’m not armed, though I suspect that you are,” she said. “You came to us—what do you want?”

  “Stay away from my family and friends.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yes. I’ll begin by killing you.”

  She shrugged. “And in the meantime?”

  McGarvey reached past her and opened the door. “Send your best next time.”

  “We will,” she said, and she got out.

  FORTY-ONE

  Torres agreed to meet with Baranov, this time at another busy sidewalk café downtown. As before security was tight: two black surveillance vans, one parked just across the street and the other a few meters down the block. In addition Baranov spotted at least one sniper on an adjacent rooftop.

  They ordered coffee and empanadas. Baranov also ordered a de Jerez.

  Torres smiled faintly. “Chile is rubbing off on you a little.”

  “I like vodka, but the people are friendly here, the food is good and I think that I’ll miss this,” Baranov said, raising the glass.

  “Your job is not done here yet, I think.”

  “I won’t be gone long, but I’ve been recalled to Mexico City. There’s been a development.”

  “Involving Señor McGarvey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I think you must already know.”

  “Don’t overestimate our capabilities. We haven’t penetrated your security.”

  “Yet.”

  Torres gave no answer.

  “But your source in Washington must be giving you regular reports on McGarvey’s doings,” Baranov said.

  “We know that someone tried to kill his wife and child, which is a very bad business.”

  “It wasn’t us.”

  “No, but it’s believed in some circles that it was your doing.”

  Baranov thought for a moment. “If we trust each other—and I can see no other reasonable choice for now—we have to agree that someone else must have an agenda. One separate from ours.”

  “We’ve come to the same conclusion,” Torres said after a beat. “But for the life of me I can’t think of who or why. For that I think we’d need to know more about Señor McGarvey’s background, beyond his banking trip to Moscow—which is why we assumed it was you again.”

  “I would share more of his file with you if there was any. But he’s relatively new to the CIA, and before that he was in the Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”

  “What were his duties? Perhaps knowing that might help.”

  “In school he specialized in abnormal psychology and the French philosopher Voltaire.”

  Torres laughed out loud. “Not so farfetched for an intelligence officer, I suppose. Motives are everything, after all. What to believe: the ravings of a lunatic, or the writings of an atheist who had faith in God? But maybe he’s young before his years. Brash, perhaps. Naive. A sentimentalist.”

  “A fool?” Baranov suggested.

  Torres nodded.

  Baranov looked across the street at the van and along the roof line but he couldn’t spot the sniper. “I’d like that to be true. But I think we’re wrong.”

  Torres suddenly got it. “You’re returning to Mexico City not because you’ve been recalled. You’ve somehow lured McGarvey to come to you, and you mean to test him, to see just how good he is.”

  “Yes, before he comes here.”

  “You think that if he came here, he would have a chance of success? That he might kill Mati after all?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to try to kill him myself,” Baranov said. “But first I have a couple of things to finish here.”

  * * *

  Dick Beckett hadn’t seemed all that surprised when Baranov telephoned him at the embassy and asked for a meeting.

  “I thought that perhaps we could talk in private,” Baranov had said after he’d introduced himself.

  “I know who you are, and I was wondering if we might meet face-to-face at some point. Might be to our mutual advantage. No need to waste resources and all that.”

  “Agreed. How about four o’clock on the San Cristobal cable car? I won’t bring a minder, and I suggest you don’t either.”

  “I’ll have someone on top.”

  “I won’t be armed.”

  “No, I don’t think a shootout in public would do either of us much good,” Beckett said. “Four.”

  * * *

  The chief of the CIA’s Santiago Station was a short, somewhat overweight, anonymous-looking man—as many chiefs of station tended to be. He looked more like a midlevel manager, or perhaps an executive at a small commercial bank. He was dressed in a herringbone sport coat and open-collar shirt, glasses perched on his nose, and at that moment, with his short cropped hair, he could never have been mistaken for anyone but a norteamericano.

  They shook hands before they boarded the car for the short ride to the top of the twelve-hundred-foot hill. A statue of the Virgin Mary was there, a gift from France, along with a small café on a terrace, some gardens and walkways. The view across the city was popular, especially at sunset when the lights below began to come on.

  Only a few other people rode up with them.

  “A pretty city,” Beckett said. “Nice people. Friendly. Always laughing.”

  “But then there’s General Varga.”

  “An anomaly. The mood is mostly upbeat here. You must have felt it already.”

  “It’d be a shame if all that changed,” Baranov said.

  “Not so much like Moscow.”

  “Give us a chance—we’ll change. It’s an economic necessity. The people are demanding it.”

  “That’s surprising, coming from a man such as yourself.”

  They passed not too far from the zoo.

  “Sooner or later there’ll have to be a decent peace between us.”

  Beckett laughed. “Bullshit, Valentin. We know about CESTA del Sur, and we know that you’ve come down here to negotiate with the DINA—you’re speaking directly with Felipe Torres, who, if you haven’t already learned yet, is a dangerous man. You want to expand your network, which you think will help contain Cuba from the south. Keep Castro isolated. But if you mean to keep us out of the picture, it’s a wasted effort. Our embargo will last until the island goes democratic.”

  “Which has the same chance as a snowball in hell.”

  “So what are you doing here?” Beckett asked.

  “Orders.”

  “No, I mean here and now with me.”

  “To warn you.”

  “Against what?”

  “An officer of yours has been assigned to come here and assassinate General Varga for crimes against humanity. But that mustn’t be allowed to happen, though I personally agree with you that Varga is a monster who has to be stopped. But not that way.”

  If Beckett was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Assuming your information about an assassin is correct—which it isn’t—what do you propose?”

  “Varga has to be stopped.”

  “Everybody agrees,” Beckett said.

  “But it’s delicate for both of us. For Washington because you need Chile to make sure South America remains as stable as possible for as long as possible. And Moscow needs Chile for the very reason you suspect.”

  “I’m listening,” Beckett said.

  “I’ll kill him and his wife myself, make it look like a love triangle gone bad.”

  FORTY-TWO

  McGarvey drove over to Arlington Cemetery to kill some time before he called Trotter again and put all the pieces he had set in place int
o motion. He wanted the cover of darkness, and perhaps even the bustle of the last of the workday traffic to mask some of the commotion that was likely.

  Beyond the maudlin reasons for coming here—President Kennedy and American war heroes and all that—he was drawn to this place. It was the peace, he supposed. Everything bad for the people buried here had already happened to them. They were immune now, unlike himself, his family and his friends.

  He parked on Memorial Drive just down from the amphitheater and Tomb of the Unknowns, and sat for a long time, the windows down, watching the occasional car pass, and a few visitors on foot wandering by.

  Around five an older couple parked behind him and walked hand in hand up to the amphitheater, where they sat looking straight ahead toward the tomb. Maybe they had lost a son or brother or friend whose body had never been found, and this was the best they could do to preserve the memory, to pay their respects.

  He guessed that he needed a place like this before all hell broke loose. He supposed that if he stuck it out long enough with the Company, he’d learn how to pace himself. But for now he’d forced himself to come here—to slow down, to think things out, to put everything in perspective.

  He understood killing General Varga. That op was clear in his head. He had no question or doubt that it was the right thing to do. But it was everything else that was confusing to him.

  After a half hour the couple came back to their car and drove off. Shortly after that the last few people at the tomb left, and fifteen minutes later several older men in blue blazers, white shirts and bow ties got out of a van. They carried small American flags on short wooden sticks and began distributing them on the graves, down the hill in the general direction of the Confederate Memorial.

  What a waste, the dead in that war, he thought. The dead in just about every war.

  * * *

  He left the cemetery and headed toward the George Washington Memorial Parkway, pulling off at Kirby Road outside Arlington to call Trotter’s office from a phone booth at a gas station.

  “Good heavens, what are you doing calling here?”