how could the Russians have found out where McGarvey was hiding when we haven’t been able to do it?”
“That’s their back yard, Tom,” Galan said. “I don’t think there’s any question that the Russians probably have her. And I don’t think there can be any doubt what they intend using her for.”
“Goddammit, we’re helping the bastards. Is this how they repay us?”
“If they find out that she’s working for the CIA they might ask what we were doing up there without telling about it.”
“I’ll call Colonel Bykov and ask him if he has her.”
“Just like that?” Galan asked. “She’s the daughter of a man who’s gunning for Tarankov. What are you going to say when he accuses the CIA of secretly helping McGarvey? I hope you have a good answer, because if I were Bykov and you tried to tell me that you either didn’t know Elizabeth was McGarvey’s daughter, or that you didn’t send her to Riga, I’d call you a liar.”
“I see what you mean.”
“What are you going to do?” Galan asked.
“I’ll have to call Langley, because I don’t know what the hell to do. How about you?”
“I’m sending Jacqueline to Moscow as an official liaison between the service and Colonel Bykov’s commission,” Galan said.
“Jesus.”
“I know it sounds crazy. But maybe she can find out something before it’s too late,” Galan said.
“Keep me posted,” Lynch said.
“Oui,” Galan promised. “That bastard McGarvey has caused us a lot of trouble.”
“He’s an expert at it,” Lynch agreed. “But the hell of it is that I almost hope he succeeds.”
“So do I,” Galan said quietly.
It took the Embassy’s communications center ten minutes to find Howard Ryan at home, and establish an encrypted phone line to the DO. Lynch quickly explained what he’d just learned from Galan.
“Sending the Belleau woman to Moscow might not be the brightest move the French ever made,” Ryan said.
“Sir?”
“Obviously she’s under McGarvey’s spell, which makes her less than worthless in this operation,” Ryan said. He sounded smug.
“I’m afraid I don’t completely understand, Mr. Ryan.”
“Figure it out, Lynch,” Ryan said irritably. “Neither we nor the French can find McGarvey. That’s with all the resources of two of the best intelligence services in the West. Yet Elizabeth disappears with her father, and Mademoiselle Belleau concocts a story about how she was arrested by the Russians.”
“Colonel Galan did say that the Riga police turned a woman over to the Russians—:”
“A Russian woman,” Ryan cut in. “The Latvians have no love for the Russians, and rightly so. I’m sure that such arrests happen all the time over there. But that’s not the point, Lynch. The point is that Elizabeth is helping her father, and Jacqueline Belleau is on her way to Moscow, with her government’s blessings, to work for Bykov’s commission. The Russians were smart, creating that commission. But McGarvey’s even smarter than they are. In one fell swoop he’s recruited his daughter and managed to get one of his people inside the commission. I haven’t any doubt that Jacqueline Belleau is McGarvey’s little spy, and will somehow report to him every move they make.”
Ryan was wrong, and Lynch was sure of it. But he also knew enough to keep his mouth shut. You might argue with some deputy directors of operations, but not with Ryan.
“It’s out of your hands now,” Ryan said. “I can’t say that you did an outstanding job for us, but don’t worry. Much better men than you have come up against McGarvey and lost. None of this will reflect badly on your record.”
“Yes, sir,” Lynch said, hardly believing his own ears. Not only was Ryan wrong, the man was an idiot.
BKA Chief Investigator Franken studied the dozen separate documents that Legler had faxed to his office, comparing the photograph in the Pierre Allain passport to that of the Kirk McGarvey photograph circulating on the Interpol wire.
“They don’t exactly match, but the height, weight and date of birth are close,” he told his deputy chief of special investigations.
“Passport photos never do, unless they’re recent ones,” Lieutenant Dieter Waltz said.
“According to the Belgians, the passport is legitimate.”
“True, but they can’t confirm Allain’s address. Nobody by that name lives there or ever has.”
“He has a proper driving license.”
“Same story on the address,” Waltz said. “But Allain has never been issued a voter registration card. Nor has he ever served in any unit of the Belgian military. Unusual for a man his age.”
“Then you think this man is in reality Kirk McGarvey?” Franken asked.
“I think it’s likely,” Waltz answered carefully. “Which brings up an interesting speculation about him.”
“What’s that?”
“According to the Belgians, this passport was first issued fourteen years ago. Means McGarvey is a professional.”
“How do you see that?” Franken asked, although he knew the answer. He liked to play devil’s advocate with his people. It kept them on their toes, free from sloppy thinking.
“Why else did he maintain a false identity for so long? In all those years there’s never been an inquiry about the passport. So up until now he’s been a very careful man. Never made a mistake.”
“Until now,” Franken said quietly.
“What about his bank accounts?” Waltz asked.
“That’s none of our business. For now the only law McGarvey has broken concerns his fake passport.”
“Interpol wants him for something.”
“Indeed,” Franken said. He gathered up the papers and handed them to Waltz. “Put this on the Interpol wire.”
“Shall I work up a cover report?”
Franken shook his head. “We’ll leave the speculation to others. Get this out right away, and then get back to work. We’ve already spent too much time on this business.”
“Do you want me to telephone the Latvian Federal Police?”
“I don’t think it’s necessary, Dieter,” Franken said. “Anyone who’s interested in Herr McGarvey will pick it off the wire.”
Red Square
Chernov was standing on the reviewing stand above Lenin’s Mausoleum when Militia Captain Petrovsky called his cellular telephone.
“Pierre Allain. He’s traveling on a Belgian passport. The photos are a pretty good match.”
“Where’d that come from?” Chernov asked, stepping back from the rail.
“The German Federal Police in Leipzig. But the best part is the Mercedes four-by-four automobiles. Allain is exporting them from Leipzig to Riga. Thing is the Latvian customs people show that two cars came in so far, but only in transit.”
“To where?”
“Russia. It means he is coming by highway. Probably across the border near Zilupe. I sent this over to Gresko who’ll alert the border crossing. We might still have a chance of stopping him.”
“I want every square meter covered. What do we have up there?”
“Not much except for an air force training squadron at Velikiye Luki. That’s near Toropets, about two hundred kilometers from the border. Shall I have them cover the highway?”
“Order them to send up everything they have.”
“He won’t get away this time, Colonel, I guarantee it,” Petrovsky promised.
Tarankov’s train was hidden near Klin less than fifty kilometers outside Moscow. Chernov had dropped McGarvey’s daughter out there and had raced back into the city. But unless McGarvey had delayed leaving Latvia for some reason, he’d already be across the border somewhere between there and Moscow. The thought was almost
