By the time he closed the door the number was ringing.
“Hiya,” Rencke answered.
“Have you heard from my daughter?” McGarvey asked.
“She called and everything is fine,” Rencke replied breathlessly. “Oh boy, Mac, it’s a good thing you called because the heat’s been turned up a notch. I can’t get a trace on you because of my backscatter encryption program. So where are you calling from?”
“I’m in Riga. What’s happening?”
“You’re not calling from a hotel phone are you? Because if you are you’d better get out of there. My stuff can’t protect past a hotel switchboard, and there might be bugs.”
“I’m at the main telephone office. What’s going on, Otto?”
“Ryan is being cagey as hell, but I picked up a reference to a special commission in Moscow that the Russians have put together to find you. It’s in the SVR’s system now, so there’s no doubt that they know who you are and why you’re coming. Ever hear the name Yuri BykoV? Ex-KGB?”
McGarvey searched his memory. “No. What’d you find out about him?”
“Not much more than Chernov. He’s supposed to be one of the best cops in Russia though. But they know you’re coming, Mac, so you’re going to have to call it off.”
“What else do they know?”
“Didn’t you hear me? They know your name, and they know that you’ve been hired to kill Tarankov. They’re waiting for you. The second they spot you, they’ll kill you. But that’s not all, Mac. The Russians asked for help from us and the French, and we’ve agreed. That stupid bastard Ryan agreed. He’s sent someone here to Paris to work with the French to find you. They’re going to share information with Bykov.”
McGarvey weighed what he was being told. “Who’d Ryan send?”
“I don’t know. But didn’t you hear me? By now every cop in Europe is looking for you. Which means that if you get busted for so much as spitting on a sidewalk they’ll nail your ass to the cross.”
“Did they get my name from Yemlin?”
“If they did, Ryan hasn’t put it on the wire. He probably sent whatever he had by courier to Tom Lynch. Which means they might suspect you’ve got some help.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to get out.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you do,” Rencke said, his voice pitched even higher than normal. “Do you think you can still pull it off?”
“I’m going to try.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Watch yourself, Otto.” — “>
“You too, Mac.”
McGarvey paid for the phone charge, then drove over to the Radisson International that had opened less than a year ago overlooking the river near the Van u bridge. He surrendered the car to an admiring valet, and checked in, booking a room for a week. Latvia was beginning to have a tourist season, but it didn’t start until June, so the hotel was half-empty, and the staff was appreciative and attentive.
Upstairs, he ordered a pot of black coffee, an omelet and toast from room service. While he waited for it to come, he unpacked his bags, and took a quick shower. Afterward he sat by the window overlooking the city, and smoked.
Almost everyone he’d known from the old days at the CIA was gone. It was a safe bet that Ryan would not have come over to Paris himself, nor would the Assistant DCI, Larry Danielle. Which left no one of any importance, or at least no trained field officer. Ryan had probably sent one of his section heads with a stack of files and orders to find McGarvey or else.
McGarvey reasoned it out. The Russians knew his name, and knew that he was coming. But it was a big country, and they could not know his timetable. Nor could they know where he was planning to kill Tarankov. Since the government wanted Tarankov arrested and tried for treason and murder, it was a safe bet that no one in the Kremlin or on the special commission would send a warning to Tarankov. Although on reflection he decided that he could not be certain of that. It just seemed to make sense that there wouldn’t be any lines of communications between the opposing forces.
It was possible that Ryan had sent the Russian commission the CIA’s files on McGarvey. Combined with the files of the SVR, it would make a formidable record of not only his accomplishments, but of his methods of operation, his tradecraft. In the right hands that would give them a decided advantage. But Bykov was just an unknown investigator. Probably very good, but just an investigator for all that.
The only man in Russia who he had any cause to be concerned about, McGarvey decided, was Leonid Chernov. If somehow he became involved the danger would be a quantum leap greater.
On balance, then, he decided, he would go ahead with his plans made more difficult because they knew his name and face, but still not impossible.
His breakfast came, he signed for it, and the waiter left. He ate the food, drank one cup of coffee, and then went to bed for a few hours sleep. There was much to be done in the coming days, and he wanted to make a good start as soon as possible.
Elizabeth McGarvey sat on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens in sight of the obelisk in the Place de la Concorde studying the display on her laptop computer. She’d become tired of being cooped up at the apartment, so she had come down here to continue working because the day was beautiful. Jacqueline was in a cramped office at the main telephone exchange a few blocks away, sitting in front of a much larger computer that could instantly trace virtually any telephone number in Paris and its environs. She and Elizabeth were in contact via one of the two cellular telephones Elizabeth carried. The second cell phone connected her laptop to the Internet.
At the moment she was logged in under the Globalnet name of LIZMAC in a Usenet newsgroup called talk.politics.misc, in which participants posted messages in a sort of dialogue on what was wrong with politics these days.
At the top of each message was the name of the writer, the subject, the date and time the message was posted, and the location of the originating computer system. Following each message was a signature, which as often as not was the participant’s nickname. And the nicknames were just as colorful as the messages.
If Otto Rencke had too much time on his hands he would almost certainly be taking part in a number of these news groups His ego would make it impossible for him not to make comments, and Elizabeth hoped to be able to spot him by what he was saying, and by his nickname. It was a sure bet that he would not use his real name, nor would he use his real telephone number.
Elizabeth also hoped that if she did stumble upon a newsgroup which he posted he might recognize her own signature, and out of curiosity, if nothing else, he would have to open a dialogue with her.
His CIA file had been sent over, and combined with what she remembered her father saying about him, she thought she had a good idea what kinds of news groups he’d be browsing, and what kinds of messages he would be posting.
Each time she came up with a likely candidate, she passed the computer location telephone number to Jacqueline to check out. So far every possibility had turned out to be legitimate. But worldwide there were more than 60,000 Usenet news groups nearly 95 million computer sites, and hundreds of anonymous re mailer sites, through which messages could be retransmitted without valid IDs.
From: Thomas LeBrun 33.1.42-74-21-31 Subject: Lindsay/Chirac trade debate 8/4/99 11.25
Who does the Monk think he’s kidding? NAFTA and GATT had exactly the opposite effect he claims. Reducing trade barriers simply means a redistribution of jobs and capital. But it’s never a one-way street as he suggests. Foie Gras in France, Toyotas in Japan and commercial airlines in the U.S. (big daddy item?)
Elizabeth speed-dialed the telephone exchange.
“Paris exchange. Four-two, seven-four, two-one, three-one,” she told Jacqueline. “He calls himself ‘big daddy.” “
“Un moment,” Jacqueline said.
Elizabeth continued to watch the messages continually scrolling up the screen. This went on twenty-four
