Tarankov surrounds himself with a crack commando unit, his access to intelligence is very good, and he has the support of a large percentage of the population in addition to the military, the Militia, the FSK and even your own branch. Whereas the assassin would have no organization or backing because he would have to distance himself completely from you and the other two men. He would be operating in a country in which simply walking down the street could get him killed. And to top it all off, if Kabatov’s government got wind that an assassin was coming they might try to stop him. After all, if Russia wants to model itself after a nation of laws then it must abide by those laws. They would have to come after the assassin, who even if he was successful would find it quite impossible to get out of the country alive.”
Yemlin looked bleakly at him, but said nothing.
“Even if he did get away, then what?” McGarvey asked. “Nobody condones assassination. Even with a lot of money the places where the assassin could hide would be limited. Iran, Iraq, maybe a few countries in Africa, an island in the South Pacific. Not places I’d care to spend the rest of my days.”
- “That’s assuming your true identity became known,” Yemlin suggested weakly.
“That’d be the trick. But I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“What would you offer me? Whatever, it wouldn’t matter because I don’t need it. I’m not rich, but I have enough for my needs. Or maybe you’re offering me the thrill of the hunt.” McGarvey smiled sadly. “I’ve had my share of thrills. The thought of another does little or nothing for me. Or maybe what you’re really offering me is a chance to settle old scores. And there are a lot of those. But not so long ago I was told that I was an anachronism. I was no longer needed because the Soviet Union was no more. The bad guys had packed up and quit. It was time, I was told, for the professional administrators and negotiators to take over and straighten out the mess. At the time I thought he was full of shit. But maybe he was right after all.” McGarvey shook his head. “I have a lot of bitterness, Viktor Pavlovich, but no stirrings for revenge. You’re just not worth the effort.”
McGarvey walked over to the low stone barrier that was part of the levee that sloped down to the water. A bateau Mouche glided past and some of the tourists waved. McGarvey waved back.
Yemlin joined him, and took a cigarette. “Did you know that Marlboros cost less money in Moscow than they do in New York? You need hard currency, but that’s progress.”
“I’ve heard.” “The contrasts between Moscow and Washington are stark. But here the lines of division seem softer.”
“I didn’t know you’d spent time in Paris.”
“A couple of years in the embassy,” Yemlin said. “In a way I envy you. If I had the money I might retire here. Or perhaps somewhere around Lyon, perhaps on a small farm. Perhaps a few acres of grapes. I’m not a stupid man. I could learn how to make wine.”
It was such an obvious appeal that McGarvey couldn’t resist it. “You were a bad man in the old days, Viktor, for whatever reasons. But you’ve changed.”
“We’ve all changed.” “I can’t help you—” “What if I offered you something more than money,” Yemlin said. He spoke so softly that McGarvey barely heard him.
“What?”
“I have something that you’ve always wanted.”
The afternoon was no longer as warm as it had been. “What’s that?”
“It is something I only recently learned. In this you must believe me.”
“Will you give it to me if I still refuse to kill Tarankov?”
“You must agree to consider the job. That much.
Think about it, Kirk. If you give me your word that you will think about it, I’ll give you what I brought.”
McGarvey felt as if he were looking at himself through the wrong end of a telescope. He felt distant, detached, out of proportion. “I’ll think about it, Viktor Pavlovich,” he said. His voice sounded unreal, down the end of a tunnel.
Yemlin took an envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to McGarvey. “This is your honor, Kirk. It’s not much, but I think that in the end it is all that we have.”
“What—”
“Your parents were not spies, Kirk. They did not work for us as you’ve believed all these years. They were set up.”
SEVEN
Jacqueline Belleau arrived at the office of her control officer Alexandra Levy on the top floor of the department store Printemps after lunch on Monday. She’d spent an oddly disconnected weekend with McGarvey after the strange scene between them on Saturday. He’d returned to his apartment a couple hours after he’d sent her away, with a beautiful Hermes scarf. A present, he said, he could not buy with her tagging along.
She was touched by the gift. It meant that their relationship was progressing faster than she’d hoped for. Yet she was disquieted by his behavior, which was more like something a spy would do than a lover. She supposedly worked for an attorney who maintained an office a block away, so he could have simply waited until today when she was gone to buy her the present. And for the remainder of the weekend he’d been quieter than normal, even a little moody, as if something were bothering him.
“Don’t ever press him, Jacqueline,” Levy had cautioned her in the beginning. “He is a professional, and men like him can spot a plant a kilometer away. Just be yourself. Natural—”
“Without appearing that I’m trying to be natural, c’est vrai, grand pere
At sixty-three Levy was by far the oldest case officer in the Service. With his thinning white hair, weathered face and kindly features, everyone called him grand pere grandfather, but he didn’t seem to mind. “And don’t take your assignment lightly, it could get you killed.”
“I understand,” she’d replied.
Levy took her hands. “Most importantly, ma cherie, don’t fall in love with him. That too has happened before, and it will cloud your judgement.”
LeVy and another man she recognized as Division Chief Colonel Guy de Galan were hunched over some papers and photographs spread on the conference table.
“Ah, here she is now,” Levy said, looking up. “We’ve been waiting for you. Do you know Colonel Galan?”
“Of course,” Jacqueline said. They shook hands.
“We had a tail on you this weekend, did you notice?” Galan asked. He was an administrator, but with his dark, dangerous air he looked more like a Corsican underworld thug than the head of the American and Western Hemisphere Division of the SDECE’s Intelligence Service.
“No, but I make it a point not to look for my own people,” she answered.
Galan nodded. “That’s a safe thing to do.” He handed her a 20X25 em photograph of an older man, with thick white hair and a serious face, passing through passport control at what appeared to be Orly Airport. “Do you know this man?”
She shrugged. “He is Viktor Yemlin, chief of the North American Division of Russia’s SVR. In effect his job is much the same as mine. He arrived in France Saturday morning, where he went immediately to his embassy. An hour later he left behind the wheel of a Citroen with civilian plates, no driver.”
He studied Jacqueline’s reaction closely.
“Did he come here to see Kirk?” Jacqueline asked.
“He followed your cab to the Eiffel Tower, then waited in front until you’d finished lunch,” Galan said. “Did you notice anything?”
“No.”
“Well, McGarvey spotted him. After he sent you away, he and Yemlin met at the top of the tower briefly, then descended to the river. It took us a few minutes to get a team with a parabolic mike across the river, but by then it was too late.”
“They’re both professionals,” LeVy said. “They make it a point not to have long conversations in public.”
