By definition spies were supposed to be anonymous figures; once they opened their mouths they forfeited that right. It was a plant. But he read the article anyway.
“Despite M. McGarvey’s background in the CIA, he was generously given a resident alien visa as early as 1992. Of course he had to agree never to conduct an operation on French soil or against a citizen of France. We sent people to watch him, to make certain that he complied with those conditions. This of course cost the French people a certain amount of money. But in the past M. McGarvey had provided us with a valuable service, so we were willing, even happy, to allow him a pleasant retirement, providing he remained retired.”
Q: “Did he stay retired?”
R: “Non.”
Q: “What happened?”
R: “We are getting into an area now in which I cannot delve too deeply.
Let’s just say that there were some unpleasant circumstances which ultimately resulted in a death.”
Q: “Of a French citizen?”
R: “Oui.”
Q: “Are you able to give us a name?”
R: “Now.”
Her name was Jaqueline Belleau. Nikolayev had gleaned most of the details from his computer searches here. What the gentleman from the DGSE did not tell the journalist was that Mademoiselle Belleau was a French spy sent to McGarvey’s bed in order to keep a close eye on him. When he returned to the States she followed him, instead of remaining in Paris where she belonged. The mistake had killed her, though it was not McGarvey’s fault. She had been caught in the middle of a terrorist bombing of a Georgetown restaurant. Unlike the American newspapers, Le Monde drew no conclusions, leaving the story with vague references to perhaps as many as a half- dozen illegal operations that McGarvey had been involved with on French soil. Neither the anonymous man from the DGSE nor the journalist from the newspaper raised any questions about why McGarvey was not currently serving hard time in a French penitentiary, or, if he were to be appointed DCI, would the French secret service be willing to work with him. McGarvey’s wasn’t the only name in the Network Martyrs file. Just the first to come into the media spotlight. Baranov had known what was going to happen. He’d tried several times to destroy McGarvey’s career, even planting false evidence in CIA archives that his parents had been spies for the Soviet Union. Mightn’t it pass down to the son? He’d tried to have McGarvey killed without success. Tried to drive him to ground. If Baranov couldn’t kill him, perhaps he could render the man ineffectual. None of that had happened. Now it had come to Baranov’s end game Martyrs. Nikolayev drank his tea and ate his raisin buns, appreciating what he had here, all the more so because he knew that he would be leaving France soon. If Kirk McGarvey were confirmed as Director of Central Intelligence, he would be assassinated. In fact the assassin was almost certainly already making his opening moves; preparing for the strike. The Martyrs file had listed the targets, among them President Jimmy Carter, several admirals and army generals, a half-dozen U.S. senators and congressmen, none of whose names Nikolayev recognized. And McGarvey. But the names of the assassins had been left out, either because they had not been selected when the original documents had been drafted, or because Baranov wanted the extra layer of security.
When he was finished with his breakfast, he took his things back into the kitchen and went upstairs to pack a bag for Paris. He needed more information than he could get here, and he needed a safe city from which to mail his letter. The assassin would be making the opening moves now. It was time for Nikolayev to make his next move. The jackals were snapping at his heels. He had only three choices. Go back and be shot to death for what he had uncovered. Try to disappear and hide for the remainder of his life. Or go forward and try to put a stop to Martyrs. Some old men got religion, while others filled the end game by trying to make amends for a lifetime of sin. Martyrs had been his sin just as much as it had been BaranoVs. No choice, really, he told himself. No choice at all.
TEN
THE IMAGE THAT REMAINED… WAS OF A HELL IN WHICH DOZENS OF PEOPLE WERE FALLING BACK IN SLOW MOTION; BLOOD SPLASHING IN EVERY DIRECTION…
McGarvey slept very hard and dreamless; nevertheless, when the telephone rang at 4:00 A.M. he answered it on the first ring as if he had been lying there waiting for the call. “Yes.” He glanced at the clock. “Mr. McGarvey, this is Ken Marks on the night desk. One of our personnel has been involved in an automobile accident that could have compromised security.” “Hang on a minute,” McGarvey said.
Kathleen stirred as he got out of bed. “What is it, Kirk?” “One of our people was in an accident.” She sat bolt upright. “Was it Elizabeth?” she demanded. “I don’t think so,” McGarvey said. He was going to take the phone into the bathroom so he wouldn’t wake her, but it was too late. “Who was it?” he asked the OD.
“Mr. Rencke, sir. His emergency locator was activated at one-seventeen on the Parkway a couple of miles this side of Arlington.
We tried to call him, but there was no response, and by the time Security got down there the Virginia Highway Patrol had already responded.” McGarvey put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “It was Otto,” he told his wife. “Where did they take him?” “Bethesda.
He’s listed in good but guarded condition. Mr. Yemm is on his way to you right now.” “Right. I’m going to the hospital. Have a unit sent out here to keep a watch on Mrs. McGarvey.” “Mr. Yemm is bringing someone with him.” Kathleen got up, threw on a robe and started picking out clothes for Mac to wear, a pinched expression on her face.
This was the old days all over again. Nothing had changed. “What about the security problem?” “Mr. Rencke was carrying his laptop along with a number of classified floppies.” “Who gave you the heads-up?” “No one, sir. I know Mr. Rencke personally. He never leaves his shop without a bagful of work. Anyway, Security arrived on scene the same time the EMTs got there, and they tidied up.” “But there was a gap between the accident and the time our people got there?” “Yes, sir. An inventory is being taken right now, but it’ll be slow; he’s probably got everything bugged.” “You can bet on it.
HowM the accident happen, do we know?” “Apparently he lost control, left the roadway and flipped over. There were no other vehicles involved, according to the VHP. Stand by one, sir ” Kathleen was looking at him. “He’ll be okay,” McGarvey told her. “He worked late and was on his way home when it looks like he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed.” “He never wears a seat belt.” “He got lucky.” Marks was back. “Sir, are we authorizing visitors?” “Only Agency people.”
“How about Major Horn?” “Her too,” McGarvey said. Otto and Louise Horn lived together. She worked for the NRO. “Mr. Yemm is pulling into your driveway now, sir.”
“Tell him I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Since he was probably going directly from the hospital to his office, and from there to the Senate subcommittee hearing chambers, Kathleen laid out a dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie. “Why do you want bodyguards out here?” she asked. “Standard procedures,” McGarvey said, getting dressed. “It might not have been an accident, is that what you’re saying?” He nodded. “We don’t know yet, and until we do we’re taking no chances.” She turned away but then looked back. “Give Otto my best. Tell him that I’ll come up to see him later today if it’s allowed.”
“I’ll tell him.” McGarvey gave his wife a peck on the cheek, went downstairs, got his coat and went out to the waiting limo.
A dark gray van was parked across the street. It was still snowing heavily, and it was very cold and blustery. Yemm had the door open.
McGarvey nodded to him. “Did you get any sleep?” “A couple of hours.”
