“The Militia will not conduct an all out manhunt,” General Mazayev put in. He glanced at Kabatov. “It is felt that by so openly going after this assassin, it would make it seem as if we are supporting Tarankov, when in fact the opposite is true.”
“Mr. President, may I be frank?” Chernov asked, turning to Kabatov.
“Of course.”
“General Tarankov is no friend of this government. In fact if what I read in the newspapers and see on television is true, he means to restore the Soviet Union to the old ways. Why not let this assassin slip through our fingers and do his best? Maybe we should help him.”
Kabatov started shaking his head even before Chernov finished. “If we’re to remain a nation of laws this sort of thing cannot be allowed to happen.”
Chernov almost laughed out loud. The man was a bigger fool than Yeltsin had been. Tarankov is a murderer.”
“For which he will be arrested, and tried in a court of law,” Kabatov said vehemently, his face red. “Presidents Lindsay and Chirac have both promised me their fullest support in finding the assassin. So if you agree to direct the investigation you’ll have the unprecedented cooperation of the CIA, the FBI and the SDECE.”
Chernov decided that he could be surprised after all. “The assassin is a westerner?”
“He’s an American living in France,” Kabatov said.
“In fact he’s a former CIA officer,” Yuryn added a little too quickly. Kabatov and the others shot him a dirty look.
“Before we get into all of that, will you take the job, Comrade Bykov?” the president asked. “Will you find and stop the assassin?”
“Da,” Chernov said, masking his momentary confusion. Yuryn had tried to warn him about something and now he was trying to send a signal. “Who is this American, Mr. President?”
Kabatov handed him Yuryn’s report. “His name is Kirk McGarvey, a name you may be familiar with from your days in the KGB. He’s done the Rodina a great deal of harm during his career.”
It was as if a ton of bricks had fallen on Chernov’s head, and it took everything within his power not to overreact, to hide his true feelings of absolute hatred. He opened the folder and began to read about Viktor Yemlin’s part in the plot, his trips to Tbilisi, then Paris and finally Helsinki where he met with the American. Through the reading Chernov tried to concentrate on the content of the report in an effort to block out his other thoughts, those of loathing and bitterness and even fear. His brother had been one of the best operatives that the KGB’s Executive Action Department had ever fielded. Under Baranov’s direction the department had run circles around the secret intelligence services of every country in the west. Murder, kidnappings, sabotage, his brother had been the best, until McGarvey killed him in an operation gone bad in Portugal.
Coming up in his brother’s footsteps, Chernov had often dreamed of revenge. But his brother had once told him that revenge was only for fools. The best operative was the man who could commit murder dispassionately, without remorse, without regret, and totally without emotion. Arkady had come up against McGarvey and lost on a number of other occasions, and Chemov had to wonder if in the end his brother hadn’t violated his own principle of dispassion in going against McGarvey one last time, and it had been his undoing.
Aware that Kabatov and the others in the room were watching him, Chernov looked up. “The name is vaguely familiar. Do we have a file on him?”
“Quite an extensive file,” Yuryn said. “Which will be made available to you this evening. I’ve also assigned you a communications assistant. If you want anyone else, you need only ask.”
“Is Yemlin being watched in case McGarvey tries to contact him again?”
“Yes,” Mazayev said. “Outside SVR Headquarters he can’t fart without my people knowing about it.”
“Why isn’t the SVR represented here this morning? Aren’t they in on this investigation?”
“Not for the moment,” Yurya said. “If Yemlin has help within the agency it would do us no good to share information with them. It might get back to McGarvey.”
“Has anyone contacted the CIA or the French?”
“Not directly,” Yuryn said. “If you haven’t finished reading my report I suggest you do so.”
Chernov did so, and in the next page he was struck another nearly physical blow. “McGarvey was here, in Moscow, and—” He stopped in mid-sentence. The bastard had been in the crowd at Nizhny Novgorod. The date matched, and there’d been that drunken soldier. Something about his eyes had bothered Chernov at the time. He hadn’t seen a photograph of McGarvey for several years, but he remembered the man’s eyes now. Penetrating, almost like cold laser beams shooting directly into a man’s skull.
Gathering his wits, he closed the report. “McGarvey was here in Moscow and nobody did anything to catch him?”
“A great many Muscovites went to Nizhny Novgorod last week to see Tarankov’s bloody spectacle, so it’s possible that Mr. McGarvey was there. But since nothing happened, we’re assuming he came here on a scouting trip, and has since left Russia — possibly back to France — where he is making his plans.”
“Has McGarvey’s photograph been distributed to train stations, airports, hotels, border crossings?
“Nyet,” Mazayev said heavily, and a look passed between him and Korzhakov.
“What is it, Comrade Generals?” Chernov asked.
“The fact of the matter is that Tarankov has many supporters in all walks of life,” Yuryn answered.
“All the more reason to make McGarvey’s photograph available. You would have an army of patriots willing to help save his life.”
“An odd word to use — patriot — Bykov,” Kabatov said.
“They believe that they are patriots, Comrade President,” Chernov replied.
“Are you one?”
“No, Mr. President,” Chernov said. “But if we are to catch McGarvey, extraordinary measures will have to be taken. As you said, he has caused the Rodina a great deal of harm. It must mean he is very good at what he does.” “The best,” Yuryn said.
“Then it won’t be easy. Who can I trust?”
“Us in this room,” Korzhakov said. “If you need something, you’ll have to get it from us.”
“To avoid any confusion, I think that I should work with only one of you.”
“I agree,” Kabatov said. “Since it was General Yuryn who suggested you, he will be your liaison to the rest of us.”
“Very well. Are the files. I need at Lefortovo?”
“Yes,” Yuryn said.
“Who is this assistant of mine?”
“Aleksi Paporov. He’s as good as they come. His English and French are flawless, he’s a computer whiz and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“All that is good, Comrade General, but who does he report to?”
“Why, you, of course,” Yuryn said.
“Who else?”
“No one.”
Chernov turned to the others, his blood singing. “My methods tend to be unorthodox, comrades. But if I am allowed to do this my way, I will catch this assassin before he reaches Tarankov.”
“Then I suggest you get started,” Kabatov said.
“One final thing, Mr. President,” Chernov said. “I would like a letter signed by you, giving me complete authority in this investigation. My methods might seem more than unusual to some people. I don’t want any delays getting special authorizations.”
Kabatov looked to his chief of security, who was once again staring at Chernov.
“He has a point,” Korzhakov said.
“I’ll have the letter sent to you at Lefortovo in the morning,” Kabatov said. “Is there anything else?”
“No, Mr. President, other than catching this American.”
“Then good luck,” Kabatov said, rising.
Chernov shook hands with him. “Thank you, Mr. President.”
Mazayev and Korzhakov also wished him luck, and shook his hand, and he left the president’s office with Yuryn.
