documents.”
McGarvey gave the man a hard look. “This business we have together will remain confidential.”
“As long as you break no German laws, that’s fine with me.”
“Good.”
Tom Lynch met Guy de Galan at a sidewalk cafe within sight of the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs- Elyse’es, a few minutes before 5:00 p.m.” rush-hour traffic in full swing.
“I assume that you’ve received your instructions from Washington,” Galan said.
Lynch nodded. “Did General Baillot brief you?”
“Oui,” Galan replied heavily. “So now what do we do? He’s^broken no French laws that I know of, unless he’s crossed our borders under false papers.”
“He’s done at least that much,” Lynch said. “And if he’s actually accepted this assignment, he’s broken our anti-terrorism laws.”
“Do you think there’s any doubt of it?”
Lynch shook his head. “He may still be in Moscow for all we know, in which case it’s up to Bykov and their special commission.”
“We have nothing on Bykov in our files,” Galan said.
“Neither do we, which makes me wonder. But it’s something else t can’t do a damn thing about. Fact is McGarvey is too good for us to find him, unless he makes a mistake. And if that happens he’s a dead man.”
“My general wants us to stop him before he comes to harm.”
“That’s the signal I’m getting from Washington. We’d rather see him in a French or American jail, than a marble slab in Moscow.” Lynch gave Galan a bleak look. “Hell of it is he might pull it off. He’s done some amazing things in his career, and it doesn’t look like he’s slowing down.”
Galan shrugged.
“Let’s assume he does kill Tarankov, and comes back here,” Lynch said. “What will your government do about it?” “That depends on whether the Russians can prove he did it. But you and I both know that if ever there was a political figure who needed assassinating, it’s Tarankov. If he comes to power, God help us all. McGarvey might be doing us a favor.”
Lynch nodded. “That’s the hell of it. But I have my orders and I intend doing everything I can to carry them out.”
“As will I,” Galan said. “One idea comes immediately to mind, but I don’t know if I’m enough of a bastard to try it.”
“Are you talking about his daughter?”
“Oui. And Jacqueline. McGarvey cares more about them than anything in the world if half of their conversations we’ve monitored are true. If they were to be’ placed in the middle of this investigation in such a way that McGarvey could find out, he would back off for their sakes.”
“Are you thinking about sending them to Moscow to work for Bykov?”
“It’s a thought. McGarvey will find out about the commission from Yemlin, there’s no doubt about it. If he also finds out that Jacqueline and his daughter are there as well, it might cause him to pull out.”
Lynch shook his head. “I’ve got to sleep on that one,” he said. “In the meantime we keep looking for him.” “Out. Like finding a needle in the haystack, when we don’t even know which farmyard it’s in.”
McGarvey spent a pleasant evening at the hotel, which featured an excellent Japanese restaurant. After dinner, he watched CNN for an hour or so, and went to sleep early. In the morning he had a vigorous workout in the hotel’s health spa, swam two hundred laps in the pool, and had a gargantuan breakfast of ham, eggs, potatoes, spinach, and very good German Brotchen.
He took a cab to the Thomaskirche where Bach had been the choirmaster and organist. A young woman was practicing the “Toccata and Fugue in D-Minor” for an upcoming concert. He sat at the back of the church to listen until it was time to return to the hotel, and walking to the end of the block where he caught a cab, he could still hear the music on the corner. He’d never cared much for Germans, but they had written some good music. Bach was technical, and the Toccatas appealed to him.
Legler was waiting in the lobby, and they went up to McGarvey’s suite where the automobile dealer laid out the contract, bank draft, registration and export paperwork on the big coffee table.
“Would you like to see what you’re buying before you sign these?” Legler asked.
“Why?” McGarvey asked matter of factly. “By the time I get to Riga I’ll know if I was cheated, and there will be no further business between us.”
McGarvey signed the paperwork, including the bank draft for almost DM 93.000, which was about $60,000.
Legler handed him the factory invoice which showed that he paid for the car, including transportation and prep charges. McGarvey did the rough calculation in his head, then handed the invoice back.
“Good news about the other unit. I’ve been guaranteed an early delivery, so I can have it to you in Riga no later than ten days from now, possibly sooner.” “That is good news,” McGarvey said.
Legler gathered up the papers, leaving McGarvey’s copies on the table, and stuffed his in his attache case. “I’m curious about something, Herr Allain. You’re Belgian, so what’s your connection with Latvia? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I do mind,” McGarvey said, rising.
Legler got up, and handed McGarvey a valet parking slip. “The extra spare tire and gas cans are in the cargo area. And I put the same route map that our truck driver will use in the glove compartment.”
“Thank you,” McGarvey said and they shook hands.
“Have a good trip, Herr Allain. And I wish you luck in your business venture.”
Downstairs at the front desk McGarvey informed them that he would be leaving in the morning, a day earlier than planned, and to have his bill ready, along with a picnic lunch.
He retrieved the gunmetal-gray Mercedes from the parking valet, and drove the heavy machine over to an automobile parts store on the north side of the city he’d looked up in the telephone book. He purchased a pair of tire irons, and an electric tire inflator that connected to the car’s cigarette lighter.
By 1:30 p.m. he was on the highway to the small town of GrObers, located in a small forest that had somehow escaped the industrial devastation of so much of the area between Leipzig and Halle. The car was massive, the knobby tires huge, but it drove like a luxury sedan, not a truck. The upholstery was leather, the stereo system magnificent and the attention to detail precise.
The day was pleasantly warm, and when he pulled up in front of an isolated house at the edge of town, he spotted a burly man stripped to the waist working in the extensive garden on the south side of the house.
The man straightened up, brushed the gray hair off his forehead as McGarvey got out of the car and came around to the front.
“Dobry dyen, Dmitri Pavlovich,” McGarvey said.
Former KGB General Dmitri Voronin looked as if he was seeing a ghost, but then his broad Slavic face broke out into a grin. He dropped the weeding fork he’d been using, and shambled out of the garden. “Kirk,” he shouted. He grabbed McGarvey in a bear hug and kissed him. “Yeb was, but it’s good to see you!”
“It’s good to see you too,” McGarvey said. “You’re looking fit.” He glanced up at the house. “Where’s Nadia
Voronin’s face fell. “You could not have known, Kirk. But she died last year of cancer.”
“I’m sorry, Dmitri. She was a good woman.”
“We would have been married forty-five years this summer.” Voronin shrugged. “But then we wouldn’t have had these last years of peace without you. We often talked about you.”
After Baranov had fallen, taking much of the KGB’s Executive Action Service with him, the Komityet and all of the Soviet Union had gone through a period of internal turmoil largely unknown in the West. Voronin, who’d been number two in the KGB’s First Directorate, had tried to make the first peace overtures to the United States, and for his effort he was branded a traitor. McGarvey was hired to pull him and his wife out of Moscow to safety, first in West Germany near Munich for months of debriefings, and when the Wall came down they’d moved here for a simpler life.
