“On the contrary, my old friend. I think that at this moment you are the bravest man in Russia.”
McGarvey watched the dawn come up over the suburb of Courbevoie, finally ready to leave. His two soft leather suitcases and laptop computer were packed, he’d bought his air ticket for Leipzig yesterday, and in addition to his Allain credit cards, he carried nearly twenty thousand francs in cash, and five thousand in British pounds. On Friday he’d arranged a letter of credit in the amount of $150,000 to be deposited in the name of Pierre Allain at the Deutches Creditbank, and had been assured that it would be in place no later than this afternoon.
Rencke, who would drive him to Charles de Gaulle, was downstairs in the kitchen, but they hadn’t spoken yet this morning.
The last few days had been intense, made all the more so by the stunning revelation that Tarankov’s chief of staff, Leonid Cheraov, was Arkady Kurshin’s half brother. When the information had come up on Rencke’s computer monitor McGarvey had been physically staggered, and he stepped back.
“What’s wrong, Mac?” Rencke asked, alarmed.
“I killed his brother in Portugal a few years ago.” McGarvey touched his side where he still carried the scar where the doctors had removed one of his kidneys that had been destroyed when Kurshin shot him. “I didn’t know he had a brother.”
Rencke looked at the picture on the monitor. “Did you ever come face-to-face with Chernov? Does he know you?”
“He has to know about me.”
“Would he have recognized you in Nizhny Novgorod?”
“I don’t know,” McGarvey said. He was back in the tunnels beneath the ruined castle where their final confrontation had come. It was dark, and water was pouring in on them. He’d been lucky. He got out and Kurshin had been trapped. And it was luck, he told himself now as he had then, because Kurshin was every bit as good as he was. In some ways even better, because he’d been more ruthless, less in love with his own life, so he’d been willing to take their fight to extremes.
“Call it off, Mac,” Rencke had said” Because if he finds out that you’re coming after Tarankov he won’t stop until he kills you. I’ve read Kurshin’s file. If this one is as good, he might succeed.”
“We don’t know that.”
“There’s almost nothing in the SVR’s own files about him, except that he was the best. It’s why he’s with Tarankov. Think it out, Mac. Tarankov just isn’t worth it-“
“Nothing has changed.”
Rencke jumped up. “Everything has changed, you silly bastard. If they get so much as a hint that you’re after Tarankov you won’t be able to do it. You can’t fight the entire country.”
“If he finds out, Otto. In the meantime I still have the advantage, because I know about him.”
“You’re not going to do it, are you?”
“Yes, I am.” ‘
“No.”
“Bring up the probability program you worked out on Tarankov, goddammit. Nothing has changed. If he wins we could all be in trouble.”
“Just probabilities, Mac. I could be wrong!”
“Have you ever been wrong?”
Rencke hung his head like schoolboy. “No,” he said softly.
“Then I leave Monday morning.”
“What’s in Leipzig anyway?”, - “An old friend,” McGarvey had said.
He glanced at his watch. It was a little after 7:00 a.m. He stubbed out his cigarette, put on his jacket and went downstairs. Rencke was seated on the kitchen table, drinking from a liter bottle of milk and eating Twinkies. He looked up, his eyes round.
“Is it time?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you want a Twinkie, Mac?”
McGarvey had to laugh. “Have you ever had your cholesterol checked?”
“Yeah, but I don’t eat so many of these as I used to, and I switched to milk a few years ago.”
“What’ did you drink before?”
Rencke shrugged. “A half-dozen quarts of heavy cream a day. Tastes a hell of a lot better than milk, you know.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Aleksi Paporov left the office at Lefortovo a little before nine in the morning, and returned an hour later with a distinguished looking older man in a gray fedora and western cut blue pinstriped suit, who carried an artist’s portfolio.
“This is Dr. Ivan Denisov, professor of reconstructive surgery at Moscow State University and possibly the very best facial sketch artist in all of Russia,” Paporov introduced him to Chernov.
“Doctor, we need your help this morning,” Chernov said.
Dr. Denisov was confused. His eyes blinked rapidly behind thin wire rimmed glasses. “I don’t understand, am I under arrest?”
Chernov smiled. “On the contrary, Doctor, I would simply like you to draw a face for us from a description which I’ll give you. Will you do this?”
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Denisov said, relief obvious on his features. “Who is this person you wish me to sketch? Is it an accident victim … a corpse?”
“Nothing like that. Just a man we would very much like to find,” Chernov said soothingly. “But first I must inform you of something that unfortunately the law requires of me. What you see and hear this morning must remain secret. Even the fact that you were brought here must remain a secret.”
“Major Lyalin told me that much already,” the older man said, blinking again, and Paporov smiled.
“Well, the major is correct. Because the man whose face you’ll draw for us is a mass murderer who specializes in young children. But he may be an important man with connections so we don’t want to frighten him off before we have enough evidence to arrest him. Can you understand this?” “Da,” the professor said seriously. He took off his coat and Paporov hung it up for him.
He sat at one of the desks, where he took out a large sketch pad and charcoal pencils from his portfolio. He looked up expectantly.
“This is a man of about fifty, husky, a rather square face, thick hair—” Chernov begun, but the professor interrupted him.
“First things first. Is this man a Russian? A Georgian? A Ukrainian?”
“Does it matter?” Chernov asked.
“Yes, indeed. Think of the difference, for instance, between a Siberian and a Muscovite who both are possessed of a husky frame, with a rather square face and thick hair.”
“He’s an American.”
Dr. Denisov hesitated for only a moment. “Has he lived in Russia for long?” he asked, and before Chernov could speak, he went on. “That too makes a difference. Because if he lives in Russia he will get his hair cut here. There is a distinction.”
“He has lived in Paris for some years. He’s come to Russia recently, but I don’t think he got a haircut while he was here.”
“Very well,” the professor said, and he began to sketch the outlines of a head, Chernov standing above and behind him.
“His cheekbones are a little wider and higher,” Chernov said.
The professor made the changes. And gradually, under instructions from Chernov, a face began to emerge
