The Kill Zone

FIFTEEN

McGarvey got home a few minutes before noon. Three leather bags were packed and lined up in the front hall. But Kathleen wasn’t home. She’d left a note on the hall table promising that she would be back by noon; she had a couple of errands to run before they left for Andrews Air Force Base. Yemm came in, glanced at the bags and cocked an ear to listen. “Mrs. McGarvey’s not home?” “She had a couple of errands to run,” McGarvey told him. “Put the bags in the trunk, would you, Dick?

I’m going upstairs to change.” True to form, Kathleen had laid out his clothes; boat shoes, white slacks and a colorful Hawaiian print shirt.

She’d also laid out a jacket for the trip to the airport. He felt faintly foolish putting on summer clothes while snow was falling, but when he was dressed his mood was lighter than it had been all week. He found that he was looking forward to the weekend for his own sake. He transferred his Walther to an ankle holster strapped to his right leg under his slacks. When he put his foot down and turned around, Kathleen, snow still clinging to her Hermes scarf, was at the door, looking at him, an intense expression on her face. “Is that necessary?” she asked. She sounded winded, as if she had just finished jogging a couple of miles. “Considering what I am, yes, it is, Katy.”

“Kathleen,” she corrected. But then she smiled and shook her head.

“There I go again.” She came to him and they embraced. “Sorry, darling,” she said. “It’s all right. Old habits die hard. For both of us.” She shivered. “Come on, Katy,” McGarvey said. “We’re going to have a great weekend.” She looked up and squared her shoulders.

“You’re right,” she said. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

“I’ll check to make sure that we’re locked up.” “Does Dick have to come with us?” “It’d be tough trying to get rid of him,” McGarvey told her. “Having a bodyguard is part of the job.” “I suppose,” she said.

McGarvey stopped at the door. “Did you get your errands done?” “I went to church,” Katy muttered. “What?” “I didn’t think that I’d be so late. Father Vietski heard my confession. No big deal.” McGarvey came back to her. “Are you afraid to fly? We don’t have to go to St.

John. We can take the train to Florida and have just as relaxed a time.” “No, it’s all right. I’ve never been to the islands.” “Are you sure?” he asked. She nodded. “One hundred percent,” she said. She gave him a reassuring smile. “Now, get out of here so I can change.”

The moment they lifted off from Andrews Air Force Base and broke out into the bright sunlight on top of the low deck of snow clouds, Kathleen’s mood took a dramatic swing. She became bright and animated, as if she were onstage even though she was playing to a very small audience. The Gulfstream VIP jet, one of several that the CIA used, was a navy aircraft, maintained and operated by naval personnel. Their captain was Lt. Cmdr. Frank White, a veteran of the Gulf War and the Bosnian peacekeeping operation. He was only forty-seven but looked much older because his hair was perfectly white. He smiled with his eyes and handled the airplane as if it were a toy in his capable hands.

His copilot, Lt. Rody Johnson, was a short-timer. He was going to work for Delta Airlines in the spring. Their flight attendant was Ens.

Judy Dietrich, a blond German from Milwaukee, who looked fifteen but was in fact in her thirties, married and the mother of three boys. As soon as they were at cruising altitude and heading southeast out over the Atlantic, Ensign Dietrich offered them drinks. Yemm stuck with Pepsi, but Kathleen asked for Dom Perignon. “We’re on vacation, and the government is paying for it, so why not live a little,” she said.

The remark was uncharacteristic. McGarvey could see a sharp edge of tension at the corners of her eyes and mouth. “Maybe you should wait until we get on the ground,” he suggested. She waved him off airily.

“Nonsense. It’s going to be a lovely weekend. You said so yourself.”

“Are you a little nervous about flying, Mrs. McGarvey?” Ensign Dietrich asked under her breath as she poured the champagne.

“Absolutely petrified.” “Would you like something ”

“The champagne is fine, thank you,” Kathleen said. “But tell the captain to get us there posthaste if he would.” McGarvey took a glass of champagne and sat back. “We’ll be in the islands in time for dinner.” “Let’s eat out.

I feel like I’ve been in jail for the past month.” McGarvey glanced at Yemm, who shrugged. “There’s a nice place in Frenchtown on St. Thomas.

We can have dinner there before we take the ferry over.”

“Do we have to dress?” “Not in the islands,” McGarvey told his wife.

“That’s the whole point.” “Because if we have to dress, we’re in trouble,” Kathleen said as if she hadn’t heard him. “I didn’t bring any good clothes. Just shorts and swimming suits and summer clothes.”

She sounded almost manic. “That’s fine, Katy,” McGarvey said. “I thought that if the restaurant in Frenchtown is nice, we might feel out of place dressed like this.” She wore a soft yellow maillot over which she had put on a linen skirt, sandals and a scarf around her neck. She looked like a model in a Club Med commercial. “You look great, Mrs.

M.,” Yemm said. Kathleen dismissed him with a gesture. “You know that we have to be careful. Because of the hearings. Everybody in Washington is watching us.” “Not where we’re going,” McGarvey said.

“And even if they are, it doesn’t matter.” Kathleen shook her head.

“It might not matter to you, Kirk. But appearances matter to just about everyone else in Washington.” She smiled at Ensign Dietrich, who stood in the galley separating the main cabin from the cockpit. “Women know more about these things than men do.” She was verging on the edge of hysteria. “Bill Clinton and his two-hundred-dollar haircut.” She laughed. “Jimmy Carter and the killer rabbit, or his ridiculous Playboy interview. Lust in his heart, indeed.” She laughed again and turned to her husband. “Do you remember Darby Yarnell, darling?” It was a name out of the clear blue sky, and there was a clutch at his heart. He nodded. “That was the old days.” Yarnell, who had worked for the CIA in the fifties and sixties, had been a two-term senator from New York. He had been one of the people responsible for getting McGarvey burned after Santiago. He had been brought down during the Donald Powers investigation, and had been shot to death in front of the DCIs residence a million years ago. McGarvey could feel the pistol in his hands. Feel the recoil as he fired three shots at the man he thought was a traitor. Killing him. He closed his eyes for a moment, and he could see the image in the surveillance camera trained on Yarnell’s Georgetown house. The third-story bedroom window. Kathleen was there in YarneU’s arms. It was an image that was etched in his brain. Of course the final blow came when they realized that Yarnell wasn’t a traitor after all. But the man had caused a lot of damage.

Ruined a lot of people because of his arrogance, his cocksure attitude that his was the only vision. “It was before you came back from Switzerland the first time,” she said. “Darby was part of the in crowd, and I was trying to storm the gates, as my father would say.”

“He hurt a lot of people,” McGarvey said. “That’s my point,” Kathleen countered, and McGarvey had no earthly idea where she was going with the story, or why she had brought YarnelTs name up. “I don’t understand.” “He was the one man at the time in Washington for whom appearances meant everything. And yet he was the only man I ever met who apparently didn’t need to care. Everything he did was perfect. His house was perfectly decorated. The clothes he wore were perfect; his shoes were always shined, his cologne wasn’t overpowering and his parties were the best in the city. He spoke a half-dozen languages, he could quote Shakespeare, and there wasn’t a restaurant or private collection in Washington that had a better wine cellar than his.” “I still don’t understand.” “Why, appearances mean everything,” she said, as if she were telling him a universal truth that everyone instinctively knew. “He was a spy, after all. And a bastard. Yet everyone in Washington, including me, thought that he was perfect. We were drawn to him like moths to a flame.” She gave her husband a wistful smile. “That’s what’s important in Washington, don’t you see, my darling? It doesn’t matter if you’re the best DCI ever to sit on the seventh floor if Washington doesn’t accept your appearance. It doesn’t matter if you’re good; the only thing that matters is if you look like you’re right for the job.” McGarvey forced a smile. “I don’t really care ”

“You should.” Kathleen held out her glass for more champagne. “Hammond and his bunch do.” She was brittle. “It doesn’t matter if they confirm me or not. They’ll get somebody else.” “Don’t be silly, Kirk. You’re the best DCI there ever was. It’s only the idiots who don’t know it yet.” A dark cloud passed over her. “But once you’re there, even your friends will try to cut you down.” Then she smiled. “Isn’t that so, Dick?” “It’s part of the job, Mrs. M.,”

Yemm answered. He was glum. “Do you think someone will shoot him?”

Kathleen asked. The question startled everyone. Ensign Dietrich almost dropped the champagne bottle, and the pilot looked over his shoulder through the open cockpit door.

“Come on, Katy, we’re supposed to be on vacation.” McGarvey tried to stop her, but she held up a hand.

“No, wait. Let him answer my question. I have a right to know if someone out there wants to make me a widow.”

“There’s a lot of them want it,” Yemm said. He glanced at McGarvey, who shrugged.

“But will they go for it?”

After a moment Yemm nodded. “I think so.”

“Well,” Kathleen said. She looked at the others. “Isn’t that peachy.”

They landed on St. Thomas when the sun was low on the horizon. By six it would be dark and after the stress of Washington, Kathleen admitted that she was too tired to eat out. She wanted to get directly over to the house on St. John, sit on a veranda with a cup of tea and look at the tropical stars. Captain White taxied over to the private aviation terminal. When the engines spooled down, Ensign Dietrich opened the hatch. A pleasant, soft-spoken immigration official in short sleeves came aboard and checked their papers and aircraft registration. Even though these islands were a U.S. Territory, the formalities were still observed. When the man found out who he was dealing with he practically fell all over himself with hospitality. Drug trafficking throughout the Caribbean was a big problem; that, along with money laundering and gun running had corrupted officials all the way up to the USVTs governor’s office. It made the people here very nervous.

Yemm took the man aside. They would be here only for the weekend. They did not want to read about the director’s visit in the newspaper or hear about it on the radio. There would be no meetings with territorial officials. The CIA would take it unkindly if the news were to leak. “Do you think that he’ll tell anybody?” McGarvey asked.

Kathleen was in the Gulfstream’s head, touching up her makeup. “The first man he sees,” Yemm said. “But he’ll pass along my warning, too.

We’ll be okay.” The crew would stay at a nearby hotel for the weekend.

They were busy securing the aircraft’s systems. Even here at the airport, security was a problem. Yemm made a brief call with his cell phone. “Island Tours is sending over a helicopter,” he told McGarvey when he was done. “It’ll be faster than the boat.”

“Good idea,” McGarvey said. He, too, was tired after the busy week.

The Island Tours Bell Ranger helicopter came over and settled down on the tarmac twenty yards from the Gulfstream. McGarvey glanced out the door. It was just the pilot in the blue-and-white machine. He wondered how fast news traveled in the islands, if the pilot knew who his passengers were. He and Yemm gathered up their bags, and when Kathleen was finished in the head they walked across to the chopper. He wondered if two days was going to be anywhere near enough time for them to come down. McGarvey and Kathleen rode in the back while Yemm rode shotgun next to the pilot. They headed immediately over Lindbergh Bay, then Water Island, skirting the south coast of St. Thomas. The sun had just dropped below the horizon, but already it was dark, and the hills rising up behind the city of Charlotte Amalie were studded with lights. Three cruise ships, lit up like store windows at Christmas, were getting under way from the main docks east of downtown. The entire harbor was filled with more than one hundred boats of every size and description; most of them cruising sailboats escaping the northern winter. Traffic along the waterfront and commercial docks in town was heavy. This was a weekend at the height of the season; everyone in the islands played. Pillsbury Sound, which separated St. Thomas from St.

John, was only three miles wide. As they rounded Long Point, the smaller island came into view, as did the British Virgin Islands of Tortola and Jost Van Dyke to the north. All of the islands, including dozens of smaller ones, many of them uninhabited, rose out of the sea like something out of a James Michener South Seas adventure. McGarvey had been here before, but he never got tired of the scenery. He could feel his tension beginning to subside. Kathleen was looking out the window, her shoulders hunched forward as if she were carrying a huge weight on her back. She was strangely silent. McGarvey touched her arm. “Are you okay, Katy?” “They don’t have a clue,” she said. “Most of them. This is where they come when they want to climb off the real world. Tune out.” She sounded tired and bitter. He studied her profile. An unaccountable sadness rose up inside of him for all the years that they had lost together. But it was getting better, and he would make sure that they stayed on track. His premonitions of disaster were nothing more than the result of a guilty conscience. For years he had gone to sleep every night dreaming about the people he’d killed in the line of duty. Those dreams were coming back to haunt his waking hours now.

Yemm motioned for McGarvey to put on a headset. “The pilot wants to know if you’d like to do a little sight-seeing tonight.”

“No. We want to get settled in.”

“There’s no staff, so we’re on our own for dinner.”

“Just what the doctor ordered, so long as the kitchen is stocked.”

“It is.”

“How about tomorrow, sir?” the pilot came on. “Would you be needing our services? Perhaps an air tour of the islands. The Baths are a little crowded, but still nice. Or perhaps a picnic on Hans Lollick.

No one lives over there, and I can guarantee you a deserted beach.”

“The picnic sounds good,” McGarvey replied. “Let’s make it for lunch. Eleven o’clock.”

“Very good, sir. And we will even provide the picnic lunch.”

McGarvey heated a can of tomato soup and made BLTs. He brought their supper along with a pot of tea for Kathleen and a beer for himself on a tray out to the long veranda, which stretched the length of the main house. Kathleen sat in a tall wicker chair, her bare feet up on the rail, her eyes half-closed. “Penny,” McGarvey said, setting the tray on the low wicker table next to her. “I never want to go back,” she replied dreamily. “It’s a thought. But I think we’d get tired of the isolation after a while.” “Do you want to bet?” She sat up and looked at the tray, her eyes bright. “He can run the CIA and cook.” “The bacon is burned on one side and raw on the other. But if you don’t mind, I don’t mind.” She poured a cup of tea, and McGarvey opened the can of Bud. The house was perched on top of a steep hill that looked southeast across Coral Bay toward the open sea. The sky was filled with stars, but the horizon where the sky met the sea was impossible to make out. The trade wind breeze had died to a whisper, bringing with it smells of the lush jungles on the islands. The air was as soft as lotion, in the mid to high seventies. The television and phones in the house were shut off. They would remain that way. Yemm had retired discreetly to his wing of the house. Liz and Todd had arrived safely at Vail. And Washington and Langley were an entire universe away.

McGarvey had changed into a pair of swimming trunks and nothing else.

He sat back, put his feet up on the railing and sighed. “That’s a pleasant sound,” Kathleen said. Several small boats were anchored in the bay. Their tiny masthead lights were white pinpoints on the water, swaying slowly in the gentle swells. “Presidents run the country from Camp David,” she observed. “Why couldn’t you run the Agency from here?” “I’d miss the traffic.” She looked at him and grinned. “Yeah, right.” “I’d never get anything done,” he said after a while. She shrugged. McGarvey could feel himself drifting. A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance. Here they crowed all hours of the day and night, not just at dawn. It was island time, Murphy had explained it to him the first time he came here. Inappropriate and yet appropriate.

Something about that thought percolated at the back of his head, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it might mean. “Soup’s getting cold,”

Kathleen said languidly. “Yeah,” McGarvey agreed. He put down his beer, got up and held out his hand. “Let’s go to bed, Katy.” She smiled up at him. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”