anything he needed. A weapon. Papers.”
“But he left the KGB uniform behind, which means that part of his plan has been ruined,” Petrovsky pointed out.
“Maybe it was a ruse,” Gresko suggested. “To make us believe that’s how he was going to get close to Tarankov.”
“I don’t think so,” the Militia captain argued. “I agree with Colonel Bykov that he showed up at the flea market to pick up a weapon, but when he realized that he was cornered he ran.”
“To where?” Gresko asked.
“Maybe back to the border. Or, maybe the bastard has help.”
“It wasn’t Yemlin.”
“No, but there are others in Moscow who’d be willing to do it for a price. And McGarvey is a rich man. He could buy his way out of just about everything. Look at that pussy wagon he brought over. It has to be worth plenty.”
Gresko threw up his hands. “Then we’re back to square one. He’s in Moscow, and we’ve got two days to catch him. That is if Tarankov actually shows up for the May Day celebrations.”
“He will,” Chernov said absently, thinking of something else.
“What makes you so sure about that, Colonel?” Gresko asked.
Chernov dismissed the obvious question with a gesture. “Everybody in Moscow knows it by now. Everyone in the entire country knows it.”
“Then why not concentrate our efforts on arresting him when he gets here?” Gresko said. He glanced at Petrovsky. “The military is obviously incapable of doing the job, but we could pull it off. We don’t know where McGarvey is, but we do know where Tarankov will be and what he’ll be doing.”
“A fine idea, Major, except for two problems,” Chernov said. “In the first place our job is to find and stop McGarvey. Nothing more.” “If the situation was explained to General Yuryn, I think he’d see our point.”
“Maybe he’d see that we’ve failed so far,” Chernov pointed out. “But be that as it may, the second problem is Tarankov’s followers. There’ll probably be a million of them in Red Square the day after tomorrow. Now, if you want to march up to the speaker’s platform and clap handcuffs on the man in front of all those people, then be my guest.”
“I see what you mean,” Gresko said. “But I think that if the army doesn’t arrest him before May Day, and McGarvey fails to kill him, then we’re all lost.” “How do you mean that?” Chernov asked calmly.
“Tarankov will take over the government. I don’t think anybody doubts it.”
“That’s politics,” Chernov said. “In the meantime we have our orders, unless you want to quit.”
Again Gresko glanced at Petrovsky, but then he sighed. “No, Colonel, we won’t quit. But frankly McGarvey is a lot better than any of us ever expected.”
“He’s just a man. He makes mistakes. Already he’s lost his car, and the KGB uniform.”
“And he’s, lost money,” Petrovsky said. “The documents show that he was importing the car from Leipzig via Riga. Which means he had a buyer for it here in Moscow. Find the buyer and we might find McGarvey.” “Who in Moscow can afford such a vehicle?” Chernov asked.
“A few politicians, some businessmen,” Petrovsky said. “The Mafia. But they won’t talk to us—”
“Wait a minute,” Gresko broke in. “McGarvey was importing that car from Leipzig, right? Maybe it wasn’t the first. Maybe he brought others across, to establish himself as an importer. Somebody who paid out a lot of bribes, and was well liked by the people who could hide him.”
“Back to the Mafia,” Chernov said. “Check vehicle registration to see who bought a similar vehicle or vehicles over the past couple of weeks. It might provide us with a lead, if your people have the balls to ask the questions of the right people. Find his buyers and we might find McGarvey. He’s made at least one mistake so far, maybe he’ll make another.”
At the door on the way out, Petrovsky had another thought. “What did you do with his daughter?”
“We had a chat, but she’s just as much in the dark as the rest of us,” Chernov said matter of factly. “So I dropped her off at her embassy.”
“Just as well,” Petrovsky said. “We don’t need to get into it with the CIA right now.”
THIRTY-NINE
McGarvey woke very slowly from a profoundly deep, dreamless sleep. His mouth was dry, his muscles ached, he had a tremendous headache, and as he struggled back to complete consciousness he realized that he must have been drugged. Normally he awoke instantly. It was a habit of self-preservation that every field officer who survived for long developed.
He was naked under the covers, although after he had eaten he had flopped down fully clothed on the bed to catch a few hours rest. At the time he’d thought it was possible he’d been drugged, so that they could disarm him and check the contents of the leather satchel, but there’d been little he could have done to prevent it. He needed food and rest.
The lights were on, and when he opened his. eyes, Ostrovsky, who was seated astraddle a chair at the end of the bed, smiled wide with pleasure.
“Ah, you’re finally awake, Mr. McGarvey. We thought you might sleep another night through.”
“What time is it?” McGarvey mumbled, feigning more drowsiness than he felt. The son of a bitch knew his name already. He probably had a source within the SVR.
“Six in the evening,” Ostrovsky said. “You’ve been sleeping for more than fifteen hours.”
His ferret-faced accountant was perched on the arm of a couch across the room, and two very large men in shirtsleeves, large caliber handguns that looked like G lock-17s in their shoulder holsters, watched alertly from where they stood on either side of the door.
The leather satchel lay open on the floor next to a table on which the bolt-cutters and the component parts of the sniper rifle were laid out.
“Christ,” McGarvey said. He shoved the covers back and struggled to sit up, swinging his feet to the floor. He hunched over and held his head in his hands. “I feel like shit. What the hell did you put in my drink?”
“In your food actually, but it was just a sedative,” Ostrovsky said.
McGarvey looked up, bleary-eyed. “Can I have a cigarette?”
Ostrovsky tossed him a pack of Marlboros and a gold lighter. When McGarvey had a cigarette lit he looked over at the Mafia boss as if something had just occurred to him.
“What did you call me?”
“Your name is Kirk McGarvey, and-from what I was told you are certainly inventive and a very dangerous man,” Ostrovsky said. He nodded toward the gun parts on the table. “You’ve come here to assassinate someone with that rifle. My guess is the Tarantula. Given half a chance and a little better luck, you might have succeeded. Which brings up some very interesting possibilities.”
McGarvey smiled wanly in defeat.
“So you have me. Now what?”
“Now what indeed?” Ostrovsky said. “That depends in part on your cooperation, because I think you are a very valuable piece of property. The question is would you be just as valuable dead, or are we going to have to see that you remain alive? It’ll be a matter of propaganda.”
“I don’t follow you,” McGarvey said dully. He hung his head and coughed deeply as if he were having trouble catching his breath.
“Certainly the Tarantula would pay a fair sum of money if he knew that you were no longer capable of gunning for him. Contacting him, and convincing him of what and who you are, might be tricky but not impossible.”
“There are methods,” the accountant put in. “The Militia and FSK are looking for you with a great deal of passion, though not for the reasons you stated,” Ostrovsky said with amusement. “President Kabatov means to arrest the Tarantula and place him on trial for murder and treason. But in order to do that you mustn’t be allowed to
