“If they find him, they’ll hold him long enough for us to send someone over to interview him. Afterwards we watch him.”
“But he’s good, the best, you said,” Gresko pointed out. “Which presents us with a number of unique problems. We don’t know where he is, nor do we know his plan or his timetable. We can’t use the services of our own SVR, nor apparently can we make public the real reason we’re hunting for him, although I don’t understand that all.”
“It’s political,” Chernov said. “President Kabatov does not want Tarankov assassinated. He wants the man arrested and brought here for trial.”
Petrovsky laughed out loud. “Not likely to happen,” he said. “But we do know our timetable. It’s ten weeks before the elections. Kabatov’s people must either arrest Tarankov before then, or McGarvey has to kill him, or else all this becomes a moot point. Tarankov will win the election.”
“Why not concentrate our efforts on-arresting Tarankov?” Gresko asked.
“The military is working on it.”
Gresko smirked. “Then they’d better pull their heads out of their asses, because from what I heard some good boys lost their lives outside Nizhny Novgorod.”
“That’s not our job,” Chernov said.
“What do we do if we find him?” Petrovsky asked.
“Kill him,” Chernov said.
“Then I think we should distribute his photograph to all of our border crossings. If the man is as good as you say he is, we can’t leave anything to chance.”
“If you have the manpower to do it, go ahead,” Chernov said.
CIA Headquarters
Howard Ryan was an early riser and he habitually got to his office before 8:00 a.m. This morning a message was waiting for him in his e-mail to come to the director’s office the moment he arrived. It wasn’t unusual. The general often held early morning meetings before the workday began. Ryan hung up his coat and took the elevator to the seventh floor where Murphy sat behind his desk staring out the window. He was alone. His secretary wasn’t due for another hour.
“Good morning, General,” Ryan said, walking in.
“Close the door, Howard,” Murphy said, without turning around.
Ryan did so then took a chair in front of the desk. Normally at this hour Murphy would be watching CNN and the three network news broadcasts on the bank of television monitors beside his desk. This morning the screens were blank.
“How is the McGarvey thing coming?” Murphy asked. “Any luck finding him yet?”
“No. But we’re working with the French on it. Seems as if he might have been tipped off, because a lead we thought we had turned up empty. Apparently we missed him by a few hours or less.”
“Would McGarvey have known that Tarankov once worked for us?”
The question was startling. “There was nothing in the files,” Ryan said. “I can’t think of any reason for him to have known. But with a man like McGarvey anything is possible.”
“Let’s hope not,” Murphy said and he turned around. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. And the hell of it, Howard, is that for the first time in my career I don’t know what to do.” He waved the comment off. “I don’t mean that. I know what to do. It’s just that I’m not sure what’s right or wrong.” He focused on Ryan. “Am I making any sense, Howard?”
“No, sir. What the hell has McGarvey done this time?”
“Apparently he’s been hired by a group of Russian reformers, among them Eduard Shevardnadze, to assassinate Tarankov sometime between now and the June elections.”
“Let him. If he’s successful it would eliminate a potentially very large problem for us.”
“It’s not that simple.”
It never was, Ryan thought, not at all surprised by the news. Killing Tarankov was right down McGarvey’s alley. He and that computer freak friend of his had probably already hatched some bizarre scheme to put a bullet in the Russian’s brain. Whatever the plan, it would be good.
“I don’t mean to suggest that we help him,” Ryan said.
“We have to find him before he does it, by whatever means we can.
Russian President Kabatov called President Lindsay and asked for our help. The President agreed.” Murphy handed a leather-bound report to Ryan. “This came over the weekend from Kabatov’s office. They’ve formed an independent investigatory commission to find McGarvey. A former KGB special investigations officer by the name of Bykov has been named to head it, and he sounds like a good^ man
“Mr. Director, are you suggesting that we open our Moscow station to these people?”
“No,” Murphy replied heavily. “We’re not going to compromise any of our ongoing operations over there. But we can send someone from here, or from one of our stations outside Russia. I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
“Well, we can’t do anything here in the States.”
“The FBI has agreed to a nationwide manhunt for McGarvey. A very quiet manhunt.”
“We can certainly step up our operation in France.”
“The Russians have asked the French for help, and Chirac agreed.”
“The son of a bitch,” Ryan said under his breath.
“Do whatever it takes, Howard, but find McGarvey before it’s too late and he gets himself killed, or even worse, starts a civil war over there.”
SDECE Headquarters
Colonel Galan came to attention in front of General Baillot’s desk, and saluted.
“Have you any progress to report in your search for McGarvey?” the general demanded brusquely.
“He and a computer expert friend of his — also a former CIA officer — have disappeared, mon general. It is possible that they are no longer in France.”
“Our customs police have been informed?”
“Out. But if he was disguised, and. carried false papers, he could have gotten through.”
“Yet you continue to use Mademoiselle Belleau, and McGarvey’s young daughter in an effort to lure him back to his apartment. Is that not correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
The general snorted in irritation. “A bad business using the child against its father.”
“The Americans offered her the assignment and she agreed. She hopes to intercept her father before he takes the assignment and places himself in danger.”
“He was in Moscow last week, but it is believed he has left, probably back here to France.”
“Sir?” Galan muttered to cover his surprise.
“We have a report from President Kabatov who has set up a special police commission to find and stop McGarvey, who has been hired to assassinate Yevgenni Tarankov for a group of Russian moderates.”
“Then it is no longer our problem, man general,” Galan said, relieved.
“On the contrary, Colonel Galan. President Kabatov telephoned President Chirac and personally asked for his help. Our president agreed. So it is our problem. It is your problem.” General Baillot handed a leather folder across the desk to Galan. “This is the Russian report. Find Monsieur McGarvey. For now it is your only assignment, and will receive the utmost priority. Do I make myself clear?” “Mats out, mon general.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
McGarvey landed at Berlin’s Templehof Airport a little before ten, cleared customs, and took the shuttle bus to the imposing Japanese-owned Hotel Intercontinental on Gerberstrasse in Liepzig seventy-five miles south, arriving at the front desk at 12:30 p.m.
He booked a very expensive suite for three days, paying for it with his Allain credit card. The obsequious day manager personally escorted him upstairs, and showed him around the luxurious accommodations, which included a
