TWENTY-ONE
McGarvey flipped off the Renault’s headlights shortly before 10:00 p.m. as he approached Rencke’s house, and stopped in the woods to make sure there was no danger.
It was good to be back in France, even if his stay was only temporary. The evening was cool, but it was sharply warmer than Russia or Finland and he was sweating lightly by the time he reached the edge of the trees overlooking the farmhouse.
He’d spent a reasonably restful evening aboard the train from Moscow to Helsinki, and even managed to get another two hours of sleep on the Finnair flight. By the — time he reached Brussels he was well rested and made the 235-mile drive to Bonnieres in under five hours, which included a leisurely dinner in an excellent bistro in Compiegne.
A thin curl of smoke rose from the chimney of the farmhouse, and a light shone from one of the windows. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nevertheless McGarvey settled down to wait for a full thirty minutes to see if anything developed. Even the most disciplined surveillance officers would do something in that time span to reveal themselves to a careful observer. Light a cigarette, cough, move a branch or a bush, key a walkie talkie.
During the drive across France he had worked out more of the details of the first glimmerings of a plan that had come to him in Moscow. Getting into Russia would provide no real difficulty. But once Tarankov was down, getting back out again could be difficult unless his cover was airtight. When the authorities looked at him, he wanted them to see what they expected to see, and not an assassin. In fact, if all went well the Russian Mafia would actually help him get out and never know what they’d unknowingly done.
Something moved at the edge of the woods fifty yards to the left. McGarvey stood stock still behind the hole of a large oak tree, all of his senses alert.
The bushes rattled, the sound almost inaudible. Moments later a small white-tailed deer stepped into the clearing. It was a doe, and she was cautious, her nose up testing the air. She looked toward McGarvey then meandered the rest of the way down the hill, daintily skirted Rencke’s solar panel arrays, and followed the far edge of the woods, finally disappearing toward the river.
McGarvey walked back to the car satisfied no one was watching the house, and drove the rest of the way down the hill. An excited Rencke was waiting for him at the front door, his hair a mess, his blue jeans dirty and his tennis shoes untied, the laces flapping as he hopped from foot to foot.
“Hiya, Mac. Tell me you were in Nizhny Novgorod and you’ll make my day. I won’t even complain that you didn’t bring me any Twinkies this time. Tell me! Tell me!”
“I was there, and it’s even worse than you thought,” McGarvey said, preceding Rencke inside. He stopped in his tracks.
Most of the computer equipment was gone, or had been dismantled and packed in large boxes. Only one monitor still showed anything, and two partitioned suitcases were almost completely filled with super dense floppy disks. McGarvey felt a twinge of uneasiness.
“What’s going on, Otto? Is somebody onto you?”
“Maybe the Action Service, I’m not sure,” Rencke said brusquely. “But as of a few hours ago all the CIA circuits to Paris Station went blank except for routine housekeeping data after the French requested it.”
“What was the last message sent?”
“It was an FYI to Lynch from Tom Moore, Ryan’s assistant, that you would be in French custody within twenty-four hours.”
McGarvey considered this news for a moment. “Did he say how?”
“No. But it’s getting flaky out there all of a sudden, know what I mean? Somebody is taking this shit mucho seriously, and you’re at the middle of it.”
“Has anyone made the connection between me and Tarankov yet?”
“There’s been nothing on any of the circuits. But I think they might be making the leap. Kabatov has asked for U.S. help, and it looks like Lindsay is about to give it to him.” It wasn’t surprising. From what McGarvey had seen Kabatov’s government was in serious trouble. “What kind of help?”
“NATO has been instructed to conduct exercises in Poland, and they’re moving I don’t know how many divisions up there now. All our air bases in Germany are on alert, and the Sixth Fleet has deployed from Naples. The sabres are rattling big time, Mac. Brings you back to the early sixties,” “Have you got someplace—?” McGarvey began.
“That depends on you,” Rencke cut in. “But I found a house with a garage up in Courbevoie. It’s French yuppie ville and I don’t think anyone would expect to find me there. Anyway, there’s a telephone substation fifty meters from my backdoor, the N308 is a block away, and it’s less than twenty minutes to downtown Paris. I should have been a real estate agent, don’t you think?”
“How long did you rent it for?”
“A year, but more to the point, are you taking the job? Are you going to kill Tarankov?”
“Yes, and I’m going to need your help,” McGarvey said.
“That’s why I rented Courbevoie. Otherwise I was thinking that a winter in Rio wouldn’t be all that bad.”
McGarvey had to laugh despite the situation. “I don’t think they sell Twinkies down there, Otto.”
“They do, Mac, I checked. What do you think, I’m crazy or something?” Rencke’s eyes were alive with excitement. “You saw him blow away those apparatchiks in Nizhny Novgorod, Mac? You looked into his eyes and saw — what?”
“I saw the killings, but it was Leonid Chernov who looked into my eyes.”
Rencke was suddenly serious. “Bad shit, Mac, because he’s gotta be the baddest dog of all. No records on him. Nada, unless you brought me the SVR’s database number.”
“Have you still got a secure outside line?” McGarvey asked.
“For the moment.”
“Okay. Pull up today’s Le Figaro. The personals column.”
Rencke went to the one computer that was still running, and within a minute he was scrolling through Le Figaro’s want ads. “What are we looking for?”
“There,” McGarvey said, stabbing, a finger on the screen. Julius loves you, please call at once. 277- 8693.
“The telephone number is inverted. Add five to each number, and start over again past zero.”
“All right,” Rencke said. “It’s 722-3148. Did Year lin place the ad?”
“Yes.”
“It could be traced, Mac. Do we want to trust it?”
“We don’t have any other choice. I need more information on Chernov, because I think that I’ll come up against him sooner or later. If he’s what I think he is Tarankov has given him a free hand, and he’ll probably have his own connections among the old KGB’s Department Viktor people. It means he’s dangerous and I’ll probably have to kill him in order to get out.”
Rencke looked at McGarvey with wonder. “You’re really going to do it. You’re going to assassinate the bastard.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?” Rencke asked.
“Because it’s what I do,” McGarvey replied. “And I’m getting paid one million dollars for the job. But Tarankov certainly won’t be the first politician whose assassination didn’t make any difference in the long run. But just now at this point in time Russia can go either way. Maybe I don’t like the thought of having to fight a cold war all over again. Or have nuclear missiles pointed at us. Maybe by killing this one man I can save some lives. They were apparatchiks in Nizhny Novgorod. Probably corrupt and arrogant as hell, but Tarankov and his men executed them without a second thought. You predicted that if he gains power tens of thousands, maybe millions of people would die. I might be able to prevent that.”
