meant that he knew about ruthlessness. And he was suddenly a loose cannon. But he had not dropped out of sight inside Russia, something that was apparently quite easy to do these days. He had come to the West, first to establish a safe haven for himself, then to make contact with the CIA. He had used a supposedly anonymous re mailer to send a sample of his information to the address that Rencke had provided. But it was just a sample. Tantalizing. A glimpse into Baranov’s mind, a mad genius from the past. But useless in terms of finding out who was gunning for McGarvey. Rencke looked at his hands, which were shaking.
He had gone without sleep for a couple of days now, living mostly on Cokes and on black beauties. Another day or so, and he would crash. It was inevitable. Baranov, according to Nikolayev, had set up Network Martyrs, which was a group of sleeper agents in the States. That had been more than twenty years ago. When the time was right for a particular unit of the network to accomplish its task, he would be awakened. One of Network Martyrs sleepers had been reactivated. The target was McGarvey. But after that brief message, Nikolayev no longer responded. He didn’t answer his e-mails. Nor did he reply to Rencke’s queries at the letter drops in Paris that he had established to initiate the first contact. It could be something so simple as Nikolayev’s own death. Perhaps the SVR had found him after all and put a bullet in his brain. Or perhaps he had died of a heart attack; he was an old man. The real mystery were the misdirections, if that’s what they were. If McGarvey was the target of Network Martyrs, and if the sleeper assassin had been awakened, by whatever means, then why hadn’t a simple, straightforward attempt been made on the DCI’s life?
Why target Otto? Why sabotage Elizabeth’s skis in Colorado? And, if the sleeper was a Baranov-trained assassin, why the clumsy attempts on Mac’s life in the Virgin Islands and again just hours ago in front of his house? Were they the missteps of an amateur, Rencke wondered. Or signals that something else was happening. Something that was just outside of his understanding. Rencke laid his head back. Their ETA was 6:00 A.M.” which was 11:00 A.M. in France. Two hours from now. He had time to catch a little sleep. He needed it to keep his head on straight. He was starting to lose track of his logic. Nikolayev’s anonymous re mailer hadn’t been so anonymous after all. The service providers in the Czech Republic were not on the cutting edge. Cracking them had been easy. But not now. He couldn’t think straight. When Otto woke up, the Gulfstream was coming in for a landing at Pontoise Air Force Base outside of Paris.
They were far enough north that the winter sun, even at eleven in the morning, was low in the hard blue sky. But unlike Washington there was little or no snow on the ground. France had had a mild winter. Tough on the skiiers, but easy on everyone else. He popped a black beauty and looked out the window, bleary-eyed, as a dark gray Citroen sedan came across the tarmac and pulled up in front of base operations. When the Gulfstream rolled to a stop and the door was opened, Rencke pulled on his jacket and got his laptop. His head was already beginning to clear, though he felt a little disjointed. “Get some sleep,” he told the cockpit crew. “We’re heading home in a couple of hours.” “What do we tell the French?” Captain John Brunner asked. He’d been called away from what was supposed to have been an early night. But this was part of his job. “They won’t ask,” Rencke said. “But they’ll probably offer you something to eat and a bed at the BOQ. Don’t get too comfortable.” The Citroen’s driver came over and took Rencke back to the car. Like all the officers in the Service de Documentation Exterieure et de Con Pre-Espwnage, Action Service, the young man was built like a Chicago Bears linebacker. He politely held the door for Rencke to get in. A man in civilian clothes was waiting in the backseat. Action Service major Jean Serrou, the man Rencke had contacted yesterday, was not much older than his driver and just as competent-looking. “M. Rencke, I presume. You had a good flight?”
They shook hands. “Yes, but it was a little long.” Major Serrou smiled and nodded. “The Aurora is much faster.” “But not very roomy.
I’ll be taking him back with me,” Rencke said. “If you’ve found him.”
“We have,” Serrou said. He motioned for the driver to head out. “He is staying at a small hotel in Olivet, just outside of Orleans. It is less than one hundred kilometers from here. We can be there within the hour.” “That is very good work, Major,” Rencke said. He was starting to fly a little.
“It was simple once you told us from where he was sending his computer messages.” This was a back channels request, not an official one, from a high-ranking officer of the American intelligence establishment to the SDECE’s Service 5. Not too many questions would be asked. But Serrou did have his people to think about. “Is this the same man the Russians are looking for?”
Rencke nodded. “But they mustn’t know that we have found him. Not just yet.”
“He is a very old man then, not very dangerous?”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Rencke warned. “I hope that you told this to your operators?”
Serrou smiled knowingly. “They are quite well prepared.” The French Action Service was somewhat like a combination of the British SAS and the American SEALs, with a bit of the FBI thrown in. They were well trained and bright. “But tell me, do you expect any trouble?”
Rencke had thought about that on the flight over. He shook his head.
“No. He might even be expecting me. In any event I’ll go in alone. On my own responsibility.”
Serrou shrugged. “As you wish.”
They parked at the end of the block one hundred meters from the small five-story hotel Rivage. It was right on the river, and next door, diners were seated at a very small sidewalk cafe. The sun was high enough now so that it provided a little warmth. Rencke was homesick for his life here. He had been lonely, but content and even happy at times in France. Yet he didn’t want to be doing anything else, except what he was doing; helping his friends. He had a family now. “I have two people posted in a third-floor apartment across the street,” Serrou said. “In addition there are three teams of two operators each circulating on the street. On foot, pushing a baby carriage, driving a delivery van. And I have one team on the river aboard a barge.”
Rencke looked sharply at the Frenchman. “That’s a bit much for one old man.” Serrou shrugged. “So was calling us.” He held up a hand before Rencke could comment. “In the old days when you were fighting with the Russians, we French didn’t mean much to you. So, correctly, De Gaulle kicked your military asses out of our country. He allowed the CIA to remain, but not the military. He was a practical president. And now that the Russians threaten only themselves, you still don’t think much of us.” “I have lived here.” “Yes, and for the most part we had no objections. As long as you did not conduct business on French soil, and as long as you did not endanger French citizens, we were content with your presence. Yours and Kirk McGarvey’s.” He held Rencke’s gaze. “Now we only wish for the truth sometimes. Even perhaps just a little truth.” Rencke glanced out the window at the hotel. A young couple was just coming out. The woman pushed a baby carriage. “Someone tried to assassinate our Director of Central Intelligence,” he said.
“Once in the Caribbean and once again in front of his own house.”
“This is fantastic.” Serrou pursed his lips. “The Russians searching for Dr. Nikolayev, your bringing the Aurora here, and then your telephone call yesterday all begin to make perfect sense.” He looked down the street. The young couple had disappeared around the corner.
“Is he an important man?” “I think he came to warn us,” Rencke admitted. “The SVR wants to stop him from telling his story and thus embarrassing Moscow.” “Something like that.” “Owl,” Serrou said. “So that is why we took this job so seriously. In the end perhaps we will protect him from the Russians.” “Have there been any signs that they’re on to him?” Rencke asked. “No. But we have our eyes open.”
Serrou was assessing Rencke. “Do you still mean to see him alone?” “I think it’s what he wants,” Rencke said. “Has he been out of the hotel?” “Three times since yesterday. Once for his newspapers this morning Paris, Washington, and New York and twice for his meals.” “He hasn’t used the phone, or tried to return to L’Empereur to send another e-mail?” “Non” Serrou said. “He is in three-eleven. At the end of the corridor in front.” Rencke watched the street for a few seconds.
“If he agrees to come with me, we’ll need to get back to Pontoise as quickly as possible.” “We want him out of France. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” Rencke mumbled. He got out of the car, crossed the narrow street and walked past the sidewalk cafe to the hotel. He could smell the river mingled with odors from the restaurant. It was very French.
The concierge and deskman looked up but said nothing as Rencke crossed the lobby and took the stairs up to the third floor. He had not brought a pistol, but he had brought his laptop. If Nikolayev did not want to come back to Washington, shooting him would do no good. But perhaps he had something else to download from his computer. It is what he had promised at in his first message. There was more. The third-floor corridor was empty and quiet. Not even the occasional street noise penetrated this far. The air smelled neutral, or perhaps a little musty. Age. The
