The Kill Zone

SIXTEEN

They were up with the rising sun a few minutes after 6:00 A.M. Yemm had already started breakfast. While Kathleen was taking a shower, McGarvey got a cup of coffee and went out to the swimming pool. The morning was gorgeous. The pool, held against the side of the hill by a concrete retaining wall, was filled to the brim. Swimming in it seemed as if you were flying over the hills and the sea below. “What would you and Mrs. M. like to do this morning?” Yemm asked from the open patio doors. “Let’s see if we can round up some horses. I’d like to go riding on the beach.” “No problem. The chopper won’t be here until eleven.” “In the meantime, I’m coming in for a swim,” Kathleen said from the open bedroom doors at the other end of the house. McGarvey looked up. She stood, one knee cocked, one hand on the doorjamb, completely naked, a big grin on her pretty face.

“I think that it’s a good time to get back to the kitchen, I smell something burning,” Yemm said, and he disappeared back into the house.

Kathleen came around to the deep end of the pool, walking on the balls of her feet, her narrow back arched, her movements like those of a runway model’s.

She gave her husband a lascivious look, then dived cleanly into the water, surfacing a few seconds later right in front of him. “Last night was nice,” she said in his ear as she pressed her body against his. “How about an encore before breakfast?”

“If you’re going to act this way when we’re on vacation, we’re going to leave town a lot more often,” McGarvey said.

“Making up for lost time,” she murmured.

Their ride took them almost as far as East End, about six miles from the compound. Their horses were dove gray Arabians, gentle and very well trained, with a good turn of speed if they were left to it. Yemm had never sat on a horse in his life, but within fifteen minutes he could at least keep up with McGarvey, though not with Kathleen, who’d competed in equestrian events as a young girl and well into her college years at Vassar. She was a superb horsewoman, and McGarvey was content to let her run circles around him without rising to the challenge. She was a pleasure to watch. He admired competence above almost everything else. With the sun on his bare shoulders, his face shaded by a straw hat, the powder white sand, the aqua blue sea framed by the dense, intensely green jungle growth that rose into the hills, this was paradise. McGarvey pulled up to let Kathleen ride on ahead. She was in her own world, just then, oblivious to the fact he had stopped.

“Mrs. M. knows how to ride,” Yemm said at his side. “Yes, she does.

But I don’t think she’s been on a horse for twenty years.” “Some things you don’t forget how to do,” Yemm commented. “How are we doing on time?” McGarvey asked. He refused to wear a watch today. Yemm glanced at his. “We should start back.” “What about the horses?”

“I’ll call the stable to come pick them up.” Kathleen looked around, realizing that she was alone, and pulled up short, wheeling her horse around.

McGarvey gave her a wave, turned his horse sharply back the way they had come, and jammed his heels into the animal’s flanks. He took off down the beach as if he’d been shot from a cannon. He’d been raised on a ranch, and learned to ride about the same time he’d learned to walk.

The horse was an extension of his own body; instead of two legs, he had four.

He leaned forward, giving the horse its head, and he flew along the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge. It had been a long time since he had ridden like this, but Yemm was right; there were some skills that you never forgot.

Yemm shouted something from down the beach. McGarvey looked over his shoulder as Kathleen came up next to him.

He was leaned forward, riding flat-out, but Kathleen sat very high, her back straight, one hand on the reins as if she were on a leisurely trail ride.

She smiled sweetly, blew him a kiss with her free hand, and barely nudged her horse’s flanks with her bare knees. The animal took off as if it had switched gears. The sound of her laughter drifted back to Mac, and he shook his head.

He reined his horse back to a slow canter, allowing Yemm to catch up with him. Kathleen looked back, then slowed her horse to a walk.

“Nice race, boss,” Yemm said.

The Island Tours Bell Ranger helicopter touched down in the compound precisely at eleven. It was the same pilot as last night. His name was Thomas Afraans, and he was a native West Indian of Dutch ancestry.

His English was British of the last century; but he seemed very knowledgeable and competent about flying. The picnic lunch was caviar with toast points and lemon wedges, a good champagne, fried chicken and cold lobster, potato salad, French baguettes, an assortment of sliced cheeses and pickles, and, for dessert, strong black coffee in a large thermos, Napoleon brandy and petits fours. They flew northwest across the jungle interior of St. John, coming out at Cinnamon Bay, where they crossed the Windward Passage between the islands. Afraans kept up a running commentary about the fantastic scenery passing beneath them.

There were dozens of islands between the north coasts of St. John and St. Thomas. Almost all of them were uninhabited. Lovango and Congo Cays, Mingo and Grass Cays, then Middle Passage across to Thatch Cay.

All of the islands were within sight of each other, many of them seemingly within swimming distance. Boats of all sizes and descriptions were everywhere; everything from tiny outboard motor boats to husky inter island cargo ships. “The U.S. Navy comes here, too,”

Afraans told them. “To St. Croix. Mostly nuclear submarines. Now, my Lord, that is a sight to behold.” Hans Lollick Island, less than three miles off the north coast of St. Thomas, was the largest of the smaller unihabited islands. There were only a couple of places to land along its oblong shoreline. For the most part the island quickly rose from the water in a series of cliffs and densely overgrown hills to the interior summit almost seven hundred feet above sea level. But the beach that Afraans touched down on was broad and white, and was protected by headlands northeast and southwest that formed a perfect cove about eight hundred yards across. Yemm jumped out first and helped Kathleen down. She immediately walked down to the water’s edge.

There was almost no wave action, and the water was so perfectly clear that they could see fish swimming and their shadows on the white sand bottom. They unloaded the picnic baskets and coolers and took them up to the edge of the wide beach in the shade of the trees. “I will be back at two o’clock to pick you up, if that is agreeable, sir,” Afraans told McGarvey. “Two is fine,” McGarvey said. “If there is trouble, you may simply call our dispatcher. Your cell phone will easily reach from here.” Afraan’s smile widened. “But, please, sirs. You will experience a most enjoyable time today. Guaranteed.” Yemm went to set up their picnic after the helicopter left. McGarvey went to Kathleen and took her hand. She seemed a little subdued, almost withdrawn. Her moods were volatile. “You okay?” he asked. “It’s like being stranded on a desert island,” she replied dreamily. “Almost overwhelming, if you think about it.” The helicopter was rapidly disappearing in the distance. “There’s no noise here.” “Would you like to go back?” She looked up at him and shook her head. Then she smiled, coming out of her mood. “This is fine here, so long as I’m with you.” “Go for a walk?” “Sure,” she said. They headed northeast along the beach, up to their ankles in the warm Water. Kathleen was right, he decided. There were no sounds except for the splashing of their feet in the water. No people talking or laughing, no steel drum bands, no jet aircraft for the moment, no birds. The weather, the scenery and now the silence; it was a total contrast to Washington. “You rode really well, this morning,” McGarvey told her. “Thanks,” she said softly. “Impressed the hell out of Dick. There’s no way we could have kept up with you.”

“I picked the best horse.” McGarvey had to laugh. “That’s clever.

But I think that you would have beat us if you’d ridden a donkey.” He put an arm around her narrow shoulders, and they walked for a time in silence. There was a jumble of large black boulders blocking the end of the beach. Beyond them, the sea came to the edge of a sheer cliff that rose a hundred feet or more into the jungle. They had to turn back.

She stopped. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Kirk.” He gave her a critical look. Except for her long face she seemed perfectly fine. Her old self, with a little color already from the sun this morning. “What do you mean?” he asked. “One minute I’m so happy I could burst. But then I get so sad I want to cry. Half the time I’m frightened out of my mind for you, for us, for Elizabeth and the baby.” “Stress.

Overwork. You’ve been running off in all directions lately, trying to make everybody happy all the time. That’s one of the reasons we’re here this weekend. Maybe take the edge off the pressure for both of us.” “I hope so,” she said. She didn’t sound very sure. “Combine that with worrying about the Senate hearings, my job, and some of the bad things that have happened to us in the last few years, it’s a wonder we’re not both in a loony bin somewhere.” She clutched at his arm. “It’s like somebody’s sneaking up on us again. In the night I think I can hear them.” McGarvey felt instant goose bumps on the back of his neck. “Nobody is coming after us, Katy,” he told her with more conviction than he felt. She looked back to where Yemm had finished setting up their picnic. “I want to get off this island, Kirk,” she said. “Right now. I mean it.” “Katy, there’s nothing wrong “

“Goddammit, I want to get out of here!” she shrieked. She was at the edge of hysteria; her eyes were wild, her face screwed up in fear.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. We’ll call for the helicopter. We can have our picnic back at the house by the pool. Nothing’s going to happen.”

Yemm had heard the scream and he headed up the beach at a dead run, his pistol in hand. “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s like I’m going crazy.

I’m hearing voices inside my head. Warning me. Telling me someone’s coming.” She gave her husband a plaintive look; as if she were drowning and she wanted him to hurry up and rescue her. “I don’t like it here. I’m afraid.” It was possible that someone could be watching them from up in the hills. But McGarvey doubted it. If they made a hit here, the assassins would have trouble getting away. Boats were slow, there were very few airstrips, and everyone on the islands knew everyone else. This was a very closed community, despite the tourists.

“What’s going on?” Yemm demanded when he reached them. His eyes flitted from the dense jungles above the cliffs, the rocks at the end of the beach, and the few boats in the distance. “Nothing,” McGarvey said. “But we’re getting out of here. Call the helicopter. The picnic was a bad idea.” They headed down the beach toward the picnic area. Yemm put away his gun and used his cell phone to call the Island Tours dispatcher. He kept his eyes in constant motion, scanning the beach, the ocean and the hills. “They’ll be here in under ten minutes,” Yemm informed them. By the time they reached the spot where Yemm had set up their lunch on blankets, Kathleen was shivering and starting to cry. She tried to hold it back. “I’m sorry I’m such a pain,” she apologized. “You’re not alone, Mrs. M.” it’s been a tough week for everyone,” Yemm tried to console her. “The Washington grind gets to all of us sooner or later.” He set about packing up the picnic things, and McGarvey helped him. “Even you?” Kathleen asked. She stood in the shade, hugging herself as if she were cold. “Especially me, sometimes,” Yemm told her. “My solution is to go down to the pistol range and shoot off a box of ammunition. All the noise does the trick. Usually.” She managed a tentative smile. “How about your wife?” Yemm shook his head. “She died about ten years ago. Car accident. A drunk broadsided her over in Alexandria.” “I’m sorry,”

Kathleen said, and her eyes started to fill again. “Easy,” McGarvey said softly. “It’s okay, Mrs. M.,” Yemm told her. “It really is. Taking care of your husband and you is a good job for me.”

They heard the helicopter in the distance. McGarvey looked up and waited until he could see the registration number on the fuselage. It was the same chopper that had brought them out here. He allowed himself to relax a little. But Kathleen seemed to be getting worse.

Her complexion had turned pale. They waited until the helicopter touched down and the fury of blowing sand dispersed before they carried the picnic things down the beach. Mr. Afraans, a puzzled, unhappy look on his face, reached across and popped open the passenger door.

“Has something gone terribly wrong?” he shouted. He looked at Kathleen and a genuine expression of sympathy came over him. “My heavens, Mrs.” it’s nothing to worry about. Nobody has stolen your bag. I still have it.” Kathleen shook her head. “What bag?” she asked. “Why, the one you left in my machine.” “No,” Kathleen said.

She held up a brightly colored canvas bag. “This one is mine.” “But Mrs.-” “No,” Kathleen shrieked. She shoved her husband aside.

“Something’s wrong.” “What’s going on?” McGarvey demanded. Kathleen was out of her head with terror. The pilot reached in the back for a canvas bag, the twin to the one Kathleen was holding. Yemm was the first to react. “She’s right,” he shouted. He shouldered McGarvey away from the open passenger door. Mr. Afraans was trying to lift the bag, but it was caught on something. Sudden understanding dawned on McGarvey, too. “Get out of here!” he shouted. “Go! Go! Go!” He turned away from the helicopter, grabbed Kathleen by the arm and headed down the beach. They got twenty yards before the helicopter exploded with an impressive flash and bang; the pressure wave knocked the three of them off their feet. Metal, plastic and burning pieces of something fell all around them, as a giant fireball rose two hundred feet into the sky, followed by a thick plume of black smoke. Yemm had scrambled over to them and had shielded their bodies with his. When the debris stopped falling he rolled off, and they all sat up. There was nothing left of the helicopter except for a pile of burning wreckage. The heat made their eyes water, and the smell of burned fuel, and burning rubber and plastic, was very strong. Kathleen’s face was coated with sand.

She sat looking at the fire, shaking her head. “No,” she said softly.

“Oh, God, no. No. Oh, God, no.”

SEVENTEEN SUSPICIONS

EIGHTEEN

It took a week for Nikolayev to find the man he was looking for in the crowded Montmartre, what the locals called the Butte. Nikolayev was an old man, but he had not forgotten his tradecraft fall backs switched cabs, boarding the metro train and leaving it at the last second as if he had changed his mind. Window stops to catch the reflections of the pedestrians coming up behind him. Crossing a street in a crowd with the light, then turning around and darting back the way he had come as the light changed. Turning down narrow side streets that were completely devoid of traffic to see who followed. He was a man not frightened of physical harm at those times. His primary objective was to find Vladimir Ivanovich Trofimov without leading another pair of shaved-headed, leather-jacketed thugs to him. Trofimov apparently lived quite in the open in a small apartment building off the rue des Trois Freres near the Place Emile Goudeau.

But when Nikolayev arrived and spoke with the old lady concierge it was only to find that the place was simply an accommodation address. M.

Trofimov lived somewhere else. “Peutetre dans les quartiers. Perhaps elsewhere, monsieur.” After one hundred francs exchanged hands, the woman suddenly became Nikolayev’s sly confidante; batting her eyelashes and coquettishly lowering her eyes. What was it about him that suddenly attracted old Frenchwomen? “On Saturdays M. Trofimov is to be found at the Louvre. In the Cour Carree. The department of Egyptian Antiquities. I tell him that Sundays have free admission, but he insists on Saturdays. I have seen the cornets des billets, and the special notices he receives.” More misdirection? Nikolayev wondered on the way back down into the city. But for all spies there was a level ground home plate, the Americans called it. A place where the spy’s own truths were known, where he was safe, in order to preserve his sanity. Spies often met their end not because they were betrayed at the field level, or because their tradecraft was faulty. They very often failed because their home plates were insecure. They had no place to run to. The bad ones invented a series of truths that sometimes they could not unravel themselves. Those were the ones who ended up putting a pistol to their own heads and pulling the trigger.

If the concierge and the accommodation address were not Trofimov’s home plate, the man would nevertheless be watching the Louvre for whoever might be coming behind him. Since General Zhuralev’s death in Moscow, Trofimov would be taking care with his tradecraft. He would have to think that he might be next. The cabbie dropped Nikolayev across from the Place de Valois, and he went the last few blocks on foot to the Place du Louvre. He entered the museum through the Porte St-Germain 1”Auxerrois, turning immediately to the left into the ground-floor ancient Egyptian exhibits. A stairway led to the crypt of Osiris, and, at the end of the long hall, stairs led up to the galleries where Egyptian history was traced forward to Roman times. He stopped just within the gallery at the head of the Osiris stairs. The museum was not as crowded as it can get, but there were enough people coming and going that he had trouble keeping track of them all. School groups on field trips. A tour guide and his flock of elderly people, possibly Americans. A half-dozen Catholic nuns in black habits. A few young artists, sitting cross-legged on the marble floor, sketching exhibits.

Trofimov had been a small man, with a narrow face and rapid, birdlike motions. He was a few years younger than Nikolayev, but still an old man by now. Possibly stoop-shouldered; certainly wearing glasses; white hair, pale complexion. He had worked in Department Viktor as General Baranov’s chief of staff in the sixties and right up to the early seventies. He would have been privy to everything, or nearly everything that went on in the department. Nikolayev had been certain that he would be able to convince General Zhuralev to cooperate. It was still Moscow, and there were a lot of long memories there.

Memories that were easily accessible so that an old man might be frightened by them. In addition, Zhuralev had lived in near poverty.

His meager military pension could have been discontinued at any moment.

It was different with Trofimov. This was Paris, and from what Nikolayev had been able to gather from his researches, the man had left Moscow, if not wealthy, at least comfortable, even by Western standards. There’d be no interrupting his pension. Nikolayev started through the main gallery. It was arranged to look like an Egyptian temple, lined with statues, columns and carved doorways. The hall was impressive. Some of it reminded Nikolayev of the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. That museum had the tsars to thank; this exhibit had Napoleon’s army to thank. “I suppose that I should be flattered that someone has come all the way from Moscow to seek me out,” someone said in Russian at Nikolayev’s shoulder. Without breaking his stride, Nikolayev glanced at the skinny old man beside him. “Vladimir Ivanovich ”

“D#,” Trofimov replied. “What do you want?” His tie was crooked, and it did not match his brown hounds tooth jacket or dark blue dress slacks. He almost certainly lived alone. His hair was dyed black, and he wore dark glasses. He looked like a spy from a fifties movie. “Do you know who I am?” “I know you. Otherwise, I would never have allowed you to see me. What do you want?” “Operation Martyrs. I think it has started.” Trofimov stopped. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Do you think that’s why Gennadi Zhuralev was murdered?

The old fool.” “I wanted to talk to him.” “So did a lot of people.

But it’s over now, or very nearly so. Just a few more months. Maybe six or seven.” “What are you talking about?” “The bank accounts, of course. The money. That’s what it’s about now.”

Trofimov gave Nikolayev a curious look. “What’s your part in Martyrs?

You were a Baranov man, weren’t you?” “I want to put a stop to it.”

“Why?” “The old days are gone. They’re starving in the streets of Moscow. We need the West’s help. I don’t want to die eating rats for my dinner.” “They’re always starving in Moscow. But they always have enough vodka.” Trofimov shrugged. “Anyway, it’s going to stop of its own accord once the money is gone.” He shook his head, then gave Nikolayev another appraising look. “What does this have to do with me?

Why did you come here? What do you want?” “I need the names of the assassins and their targets. Martyrs has been buried all these years.

Why all of a sudden has it gone active? Why all of a sudden is somebody closing the funding accounts?” “A trigger was tripped somewhere,” said Trofimov. “A threshold reached. It probably happened by accident. Some bright young officer found the money trail and went after it. Then when the agents in place found out that their pay days were about to end, they went into action.” “The men who came after Gennadi took something away with them. Something that the SVR was afraid of.” Trofimov wanted to be amused. He took NikolayeVs arm and led him across the hall to one of the stone benches. “You don’t understand something,” he said. “I understand that people are going to start dying unless we can stop it. The SVR isn’t interested in doing anything except covering it up. If Martyrs follows the procedures we used to use, there’ll be a big payday at the end. Providing the operation has been accomplished. That’s quite a motivation.” “People die every day, but there’s only ever been one Valentin Baranov.”

Trofimov looked inward. “He was a genius, of course. No one could keep up with him. He worked with a Cuban defector living in Miami. A little nobody by the name of Basulto. We didn’t know what the general was up to. But when it was ended, maybe six months after it had begun, two extremely important men in Washington were dead. One of them was the director of the CIA, and the other was his friend, one of the most influential lobbyists in America.” Trofimov smiled with admiration.

“The general scarcely lifted a finger. The work was done for him. All he did was talk to a few people. “It’s the talking cure,” he told us.

Baranov was the Sigmund Freud of Department Viktor. His friends called him Sigi for a few months afterward. Until the next operation.”

“Who set up Martyrs?” Trofimov looked at Nikolayev. “Why, you, of course. Isn’t that why you really came to see me? To salve your conscience?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nikolayev said.

But he supposed that Trofimov was right. The man’s next words nailed it. “You asked who the assassins were? Your research with LSD and brainwashing helped make the program possible. The assassins were people who became killers because they were led to it. They were conditioned to become assassins.” Trofimov smiled and spread his hands as if the conclusion was so simple it needed no explanation. “Each of the killers has a target and a control officer?” Nikolayev asked.

Trofimov nodded. “I suspect that’s what the SVR took from Zhuralev. A list of the control officers and their Johns.” “What was he doing with such a list? He must have known that someone would come after him once it was known what he had.” “You made the appointment with him. You were the one conducting the researches.” Trofimov held up a tiny hand that looked like a bird claw. “That’s all I know.” “You must know the triggers,” Nikolayev insisted. “That kind of information was only in BaranoVs head. He told me that the supreme irony would be that he’d be credited with more operations after his death than while he was still alive.” “Meaningless ”

“Maybe not. You already have the name of one of the targets, or you would not be so concerned about Martyrs that you came to see me. If you know that name, then you must look for the people who have access to him and the control officer who will always be at their side. The assassin must get constant reassurance, constant pressure, constant brainwashing in order to remain active.” “That could be anybody,” Nikolayev said in despair. Trofimov nodded.

“Indeed. General Baranov sowed suspicion like wheat seeds in the wind.

The method was his trademark, and the soil was, and still is, fertile.”

“That’s not enough.” Trofimov got to his feet. “Don’t come looking for me again, because the next time I see you, I’ll kill you.” He turned and headed back to the Porte St-Germain 1”Auxerrois and the street outside. Nikolayev watched in frustration. There was more.

Trofimov had to know the names of at least some of the control officers. One of them. It would help him understand who they were and the nature of their connections between what they were doing now, and what they had been doing more than twenty years ago that engendered such loyalty to a dead KGB general. He got up and hurried down the gallery as Trofimov disappeared around the corner. His heart fluttered in his chest, and his jaw on the left side ached as if he’d been struck there. Trofimov had reached the street and was hailing a cab when Nikolayev got outside to the stone bridge that once crossed over a moat. A dark Peugeot sedan pulled up. Its passenger-side doors opened, and two men jumped out. They rushed to Trofimov’s side and grabbed him by the arms. Nikolayev stepped back into the shadows beneath the tall archway. There was nothing he could do to help. If they spotted him, they would take him, too. Trofimov managed to struggle free. He turned but got only a few steps before one of the men pulled out a pistol and fired three shots. At least one hit Trofimov in the back, sending him sprawling forward. Another hit the back of his skull, the side of his head erupting in a spray of blood and bone. A woman began screaming as Trofimov hit the sidewalk. The two men scrambled back into the Peugeot, and the car was gone in seconds. Nikolayev walked back through the museum, emerging a few minutes later from the Porte Marengo. He hailed a cab back to his hotel, and, three hours later, his business finished, he was boarding a train for Orleans. Someone would be coming for him. He would make sure that it was the right person. He did not want to end up like Zhuralev and Trofimov.

NINETEEN

Otto Rencke took the call at four in the afternoon, when Louise Horn was at the grocery store. The McGarveys were picnicking on a deserted island. The helicopter that was supposed to take them back to St. John exploded on the ground. Mr. McGarvey, his wife and their bodyguard, Dick Yemm, were unharmed. The civilian pilot was dead. “Bad dog. Bad bad dog-” He held the phone to his ear, and he began to hear that the OD was still talking. “They’re all right, Mr. Rencke,” the OD said.

“They were airlifted to the navy hospital in San Juan. They’ll be flown back sometime tomorrow.” Rencke started to panic. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “You said they weren’t hurt. Why are they at the hospital?” “Nobody’s hurt, sir. It’s Mrs. McGarvey.

She’s under sedation. The doctors don’t want to move her. She was very frightened.”

It was starting. He could feel it in his bones. The walls were closing in on them, and before long they would be so tightly boxed in that none of them would be able to move.

“Mr. Adkins is calling the senior staff for a briefing at five-thirty in the main auditorium. Do you require an escort, sir?”

“No. No. I’ll be there.” Otto put the phone down. The air in the apartment was suddenly very thin, as if it were perched atop Mt. Everest.

He went through the motions of putting on a jacket without thinking about what he was doing. He left a note for Louise on the kitchen counter so that she wouldn’t worry about him. He couldn’t stand knowing that Mrs. M. was in a hospital, or that she needed to be in the hospital. Besides Mac, Mrs. M. was his Rock of Gibraltar. His ideal of a strong woman.

He called for a cab and on the way out to the CIA he sat hunched in a corner of the backseat. He felt guilty. He should have known that something like this would happen. He should have guessed that an attack would be made on Mac before the hearings were over. He had treated his researches as an academic project. But Mac had serious enemies who did not want to see him make DCI. Even after all this time Vietnam over with, the Cold War run its course, the bad guys either dead or in retirement. Ineffectual. Old. Without mandate. Without purpose. No reason now.

Other than revenge.

He’d been renting a small stone house that had been used for the caretakers at Holy Rood Cemetery in Georgetown when Mac came out of retirement for him. Otto had been doing some computer consulting on the side, but in those days computers were so new that the few people who had them mostly knew what they were doing. Or they knew so little that they didn’t know enough to understand that they needed help. The caretakers’ house was cheap: Who wanted to live in a cemetery? But it had fitted his funereal mood.

He had his computers and his cats, and he didn’t know the depth of his loneliness and discontent.

But then Mac had come to put him to work hacking the CIA’s computers for information on the East German secret police, Stasi. That was the beginning for him. The Agency kept coming back to Mac for help, and Mac kept coming back to Otto.

Mac had legitimized his life.

He got to the CIA before many of the other senior staffers, and he went directly up to his office in the computer center. He checked a couple of his ongoing search programs, which were looking for references to Dr. Nikolayev in Moscow communications, especially SVR telephone intercepts that NSA was providing him. There was nothing yet. But, then, the computers had to sift through tens of thousands of telephone calls that involved tens of millions of words and combinations of words. A couple of minutes before five-thirty he took the elevator down to the first-floor main auditorium. More than fifty people had gathered in the front rows. In addition to Adkins and the deputy directors of the CIA’s four directorates, a lot of section heads and desk supervisors had also been called in. The mood was subdued. Mac had had his share of scrapes and close calls, but a lot of the people here today only vaguely knew the full extent of what their new director had gone through. But they all knew about this, and they were mad. One of their own had been a target. Adkins came in and went directly to the podium. He held up his hand, and an immediate hush fell over the room. “About three hours ago a civilian helicopter which was to have picked up Mr. McGarvey, his wife and their bodyguard, Dick Yemm, exploded, killing the pilot. The incident occurred on the uninhabited island of Hans Lollick in the Virgin Islands, where Mr. and Mrs.

McGarvey were having a picnic lunch.” Adkins looked up from his notes.

“We do not believe that the explosion was an accident. We think that the incident was an assassination attempt on the life of Mr. McGarvey.”

An angry murmur passed through the audience. Though it was what most of them suspected, hearing the deputy DCI say it out loud made it official. “The director and his wife were airlifted by the U.S. Coast Guard to the American navy hospital at San Juan, Puerto Rico, where they will remain under observation until sometime tomorrow, when they will be flown back to Washington. A detail was dispatched from Andrews to provide security at the hospital. It’s my understanding that they’ll be arriving within the hour.” Rencke sat on the edge of his seat, holding tightly to the back of the seat ahead of him. He was three rows from anyone because he was afraid that someone would see the guilt on his face. “An investigative unit is being put together that will work with an FBI crime scene and forensics team and experts from the NTSB. They expect to be on-site first thing in the morning. In the meantime, a U.S. Navy SEAL team, which was dispatched from Guantanamo Bay, has arrived on Hans Lollick to secure the remains of the helicopter.” Adkins paused again to gaze out over the audience.

He looked as if he’d aged ten years since yesterday. He was having his own problems at home, and now this. Rencke did not feel any pity for him, however. They all were in the same boat. If anything, besides guilt, he felt fear. He should have known. He’d seen the developing lavender; he should have realized that something like this would happen. “The media is not on the story yet, and we’re going to try to keep it that way for as long as possible,” Adkins told them. “The explosion was witnessed from St. Thomas, and the Associated Press did pick up the story, of course, but they don’t know who was involved.”

“Come on, Dick, they’re going to put it together,” said Deputy Director of Operations David Whittaker. “They’ll see the SEALs, and they’ll find out soon enough that the Bureau and the NTSB are investigating the crash.” “All air crashes are investigated,” Adkins said. “This one will be no different as far as the media are concerned. We’ll keep this a secret for as long as possible, and that’s a direct order from Mr. McGarvey. I spoke with him by phone two-and-a-half hours ago.

It’s his intention to show up for work Monday morning as if nothing happened.” “How do we justify this meeting?” Tommy Doyle, the deputy director of Intelligence asked. There were almost always media watchdogs outside all major government agencies. The CIA was no exception. “Pakistan will announce its intention to test a thermonuclear weapon. We got the heads-up from State this morning.”

“That’s been on the burner for two weeks,” Doyle argued. “Yes, but it becomes official on Monday. We’re here today to outline the Agency’s intelligence strategy.” “Who had access to the helicopter?” Whittaker asked. “That’s one of the items our team will be looking for,” Adkins said. “We suspect that there will be a fair number of possibilities.”

“How do we know that it wasn’t an accident after all?” Whittaker pressed. “Maybe there was an electrical short in the fuel tank. Not unheard of.” “We don’t have that answer either, David. But Mac and Yemm agree that from where they were standing it appeared as if the explosion originated in the cabin of the aircraft.” Rencke closed his eyes. He could almost feel the heat of the explosion on his face. A determined assassin, willing to give up his life in the attempt, was almost impossible to stop. The key was to get to him before the attempt was made.

He opened his eyes. Maybe it was the helicopter pilot. “This was a close one,” Adkins said. “Any operation that is below a Track Three will be put on hold for the duration. I want every man and woman, every asset, domestic and foreign, focused on finding out who wants to kill Mr. McGarvey, and bring them to justice.” Adkins closed his file folder. “Soon,” he said. Rencke jumped to his feet. “Mr. Adkins,”

he shouted. “Yes, Mr. Rencke.” “How about Todd Van Buren and Elizabeth?” “They’re skiing at Vail. We have a security team on the way out there, and the FBI has sent two agents up from Denver. We’re keeping this low-key, Otto. Mac wants it that way. They’ll be okay.”

“Oh, wow, okay,” Rencke said. He stood for a time, then left the auditorium. Everyone had been looking at him. He felt their eyes all the way down the long corridor. Freak, queer boy. Nerd. Geek. He’d endured it all as a kid. The memories never went away. And now the only family he’d ever known was in danger, and he couldn’t do a thing to help keep them safe. Stupid, stupid man. Bad, bad dog. He was too tired to wait for a cab, so he had a driver from the Office of Security take him home. They rode in silence. The snow had finally stopped falling, but there were still slippery spots on the highway. When they passed the place where he’d had his accident he couldn’t see any sign that it had happened. It was another world, another lifetime ago.

“Thanks,” Otto mumbled in front of his Arlington apartment building.

“Have a good one,” the driver said, and took off. Otto hunched up his coat collar and watched the taillights disappear around the corner. He was cold and felt more alone than he had in years. For a little while he felt as if he didn’t belong to anyone, as if he didn’t fit in anywhere. Stuff and nonsense, he told himself, looking up at the second-story windows of his apartment. But he felt it just the same.

Louise Horn met him at the door, a deeply concerned, motherly expression on her long, narrow face. She was an air force major and worked at the National Reconnaissance Office as an image interpretation supervisor. She was almost as bright as Otto, and nearly as odd. Until Otto she’d never had any real friends or family; her parents were both dead, and there were no siblings. She and Otto had been living together for less than a year, but he was her entire world. There was no mountain too tall for her to climb for his sake, no task too difficult. His pain was her pain. She felt every bit of his hurt now, and her reaction was written all over her sad face. “What’s happened?” she asked, taking his coat and tossing it aside. Now that he was home and safe, his fear bubbled to the surface, and he began to sob. Louise Horn’s wide, brown eyes instantly filled, and she took him in her arms.

She was six inches taller than he, so she had to hunch over, but she didn’t mind. For Otto she couldn’t possibly mind. He was the most brilliant man she’d ever known, and he was in love with her. She would have gladly cut off her legs at the knees to accommodate him. For a second he was embarrassed. “They tried to kill Mac and Mrs. M.,” he blurted. His stepfather would call him a big baby if Otto cried when he was being sexually abused. It was a sign of weakness that he hated in himself. When he was on his own, before Mac and before the CIA, he counted every day that he didn’t cry a victory. He’d wanted to cry at the briefing in the auditorium and in the car on the way home. But he didn’t. “Are they okay?” Louise Horn asked. “I think so, but they’re in the hospital until tomorrow.” Otto looked into Louise Horn’s eyes.

“I should have known. I could have prevented it from happening. I could have helped. But I didn’t. I’m stupid, stupid. Baddest dog-“

“No,” Louise Horn said sharply. “You’re not stupid. You’re anything but.” “I’m going crazy, I’m losing it. Oh, wow, I’m not smart enough now. It’s going-” She took his hands. “Listen to me, my darling. You are not losing your mind, and you definitely aren’t losing your smarts.” “It’s lavender, but I can’t see anything else.” “The problem that you’re facing is a tough one, that’s all. You’ve been there before, and you’ll be in that stadium again. So break it down.

Analyze the pieces. Understand it. Make it yours. Absorb it.” She wasn’t ashamed of him. She wasn’t laughing at him or calling him names. There was nothing in her eyes except genuine concern. “One step at a time,” she said. “Thank you,” Otto told her. She studied his face for a few moments, then smiled. “I’ll make dinner for us.

Now tell me everything that you can. What are they doing in Puerto Rico, and what about Todd and Liz?”

TWENTY

It was nearly 6:00 P.M. and off pi ste it was already getting dark.

Elizabeth was about twenty yards ahead and to the left of her husband, moving fast through the trees along the side of the last bowl before they came out over the ridge behind the groomed and lit slopes. It had snowed heavily last night and most of this morning. Most of the territory they’d covered today had been unmarked by anyone else’s skis.

The feeling was exhilarating. Liz had laid off the wine, as her doctor had told her, and she had skied well. Better, Todd had to admit, than he had. And she was four months pregnant. But he was getting worried about her. He’d wanted to quit two hours ago and return to the chalet.

She was pushing too hard, as usual, and she wouldn’t listen to him.

“This is my last shot before I get as big as a house, and everybody starts worrying about me again,” she argued.

He’d not been able to resist her big green eyes, the promise in her face, in the way she held herself. He saw a lot of his mother in her spoiled, willful, but almost painfully desperate to be needed. For somebody to depend on her. His father had made a killing on Wall Street before he was born, so Todd never knew what it was like to live an ordinary life. He’d grown up rich, so he never thought about money.

At least not consciously. If you wanted something, you simply acquired it. He was nearly thirteen before he understood the meaning of the word need, or the concept of dependency. He was allowed to pick from a litter of prize-winning English sheepdogs. He wanted to tie a paisley bandana around the dog’s neck and teach it to catch Frisbees on the fly. Flyer was his dog. He made his parents, and especially the house staff, understand in no uncertain terms that no one else was to go near the dog. No one was allowed to feed, water, or train the animal, which slept at the foot of Todd’s bed in the west wing of their Greenwich mansion, except for Todd. All went well for the first six months, until summer, when Todd and his parents left for their annual eight-week tour of Europe. Since nothing was mentioned to the staff, they thought the Van Burens had taken Flyer with them, and Todd’s parents had assumed that their son had given the staff instructions.

Flyer was Todd’s responsiblity. Flyer was eight days dead by the time one of the servants noticed the smell and opened young Master Van Buren’s room. Flyer had died of thirst and starvation, but not before the poor animal had tried to claw and chew its way out of the room.

Forever after Todd maintained an extremely acute sense of duty, of responsibility and of need. Not a day went by that he didn’t think about what had happened. He still had occasional nightmares about Flyer’s desperate attempts to escape. Elizabeth cut sharply left off the narrow track to pick up a series of moguls; on the side of a very steep and heavily wooded slope. “Goddammit,” Van Buren shouted. He turned after her, carving a sharp furrow in the powder, sending a rooster tail of snow downslope. She disappeared in the darker shadows amongst the trees, leaving him with no other option than to follow her tracks. “Liz! Goddammit, slow down!” He caught a glimpse of her bright yellow ski jacket farther to the left, and much farther down the slope than he thought she’d be, and she disappeared in the trees again.

He saw that he could bear right and cut her off near the bottom, where she would have to traverse toward him along the lower part of the ridgeline. They were less than three hundred yards from Earl’s Express Lift. He could make out the top of the lead tower but not the chairs.

The lights were on. It meant that the lower slopes were in darkness, and there was less than a half-hour of daylight up here. He spotted her yellow jacket again, then lost it, and found it again. She had made a sharp turn to the right and was just un weighting her skis, coming partially out of the powder, when there seemed to be a flash at her feet. She planted her left ski pole as if she was setting for a sharp turn to the left, but her body continued in a straight line. It was all happening in slow motion. Van Buren was above her and less than twenty yards away when she struck the hole of an eight-foot pine straight on. He heard the crash and snapping of the branches, then the watermelon thump as her helmet hit. She crumpled to the snow. Van Buren panicked. It was his wife and child down there. But then his training kicked in, and he skied down to her. He activated his emergency avalanche transponder that most off-pi ste skiers carried with them. The ski patrol would pick up the emergency signal and home in on the transponder’s exact location within minutes. There was blood on the side of Elizabeth’s head. It had run down under her helmet to the collar and right shoulder of her yellow ski jacket. Van Buren released his ski bindings, got rid of his poles, raised his goggles and tore off his gloves. He shook so badly inside that he had trouble keeping his balance as he ducked under the tree branches and knelt in the snow beside Elizabeth. Her eyes were fluttering, and her breathing came in long, irregular gasps. Blood trickled from her nose and mouth.

Her complexion was shockingly white, and the way she was slumped forward against the tree made him sure that her neck and maybe her back were broken. He was afraid to touch her for fear that he would cause further damage. “Liz,” he said to her. “Sweetheart, it’s me. Can you hear me?” She didn’t respond. He eased the ski glove off her right hand and held her fingers. “Liz, squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

He looked down at her unmoving fingers. Tiny, narrow, delicate, lifeless. “Oh, God, Liz, please,” Todd said close to her ear. “Just a little squeeze. I’ll feel it.”

She was on her knees, almost as if she were praying. Her ski goggles were askew on her face, the right lens shattered and covered with blood. He wanted to take them off, but he didn’t dare. He looked back the way she had come, then up toward the chair lift tower at the top of the ridge. He could make out two figures starting down the slope into the bowl. Even from this distance he could see that they were pulling a stretcher sled and were clad in the orange jackets of the ski patrol.

“Help is on the way, Liz,” he told his wife. “Hang on, sweetheart, they’re coming.” He shifted so that he could look up into her face.

There was a lot of blood from a big gash low on her forehead, but it wasn’t arterial, and because of the cold air the bleeding was already slowing down. There was blood in the snow between her legs. At first he thought that it was from her head wounds, but then he realized that the front of her ski suit was soaked with blood. He fell back, a moan involuntarily escaping from his throat. The baby. Not again. Please, dear God, not again. The ski patrol was moving fast down the slope.

Todd looked up and desperately waved to them. They waved back. “Just a couple of minutes now, Liz,” he said to her. “I swear to God.” He didn’t know how he could face Mac and Mrs. M. This was all his fault.

He should have been an asshole and canceled the ski trip. He’d known better. The doctor, who’d been somewhat skeptical, would have sided with him. If he had been strong enough. Responsible. He glanced at the ski patrol rescuers, who were getting closer, then turned the other way, hardly able to contain himself. He felt helpless. His eyes lit on one of Elizabeth’s skis. It had gotten tangled in the lower branches of a couple of small pines a few feet away. Elizabeth’s condition didn’t seem to be getting any worse. She was starting to breathe a little easier, and there was nothing he could do for her. He wanted to scream. To lash out at someone, at anyone. He crawled over to the lone ski and pulled it out of the branches. He brushed the snow from what was left of the bindings. The rear mechanism had shattered.

Nothing remained attached to the base of the ski except for some jagged pieces of metal. He stared at the mechanism. It hadn’t broken apart.

The metal hadn’t simply failed because of work fatigue. The binding had shattered. As if it had been blown apart, from the inside out. He bent forward and sniffed the binding, then reared back. He knew the smell. He should. He’d smelled it often enough during training at the Farm.

It was Semtex. A Polish-made plastic explosive. Very stable, very powerful, very easy to get on the open market. The ski patrol was a little more than one hundred yards out now. Van Buren buried the ski, then scrambled back to Elizabeth. She was still unconscious, and although she was pale, he couldn’t see anything catastrophic. He un zippered her belt pouch and took out her wallet. He removed her CIA identification card, driver’s license, and two credit cards under her real name and pocketed them. The ski patrol was coming on quickly, but they were still too far away to make out what he was doing. He took a small, plastic-wrapped package from a back compartment in Elizabeth’s wallet and extracted a Minnesota driver’s license, social security card, bank debit card, and University of Minnesota student ID and medical insurance card all in the name of Doris Sampson, and distributed them in her wallet.

Somebody had tried to kill her. It was important that he and Liz drop out of public view right now until he could call for help. His cell phone was at the hotel.

Van Buren replaced Elizabeth’s wallet in her pouch. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. I promise, nobody’s going to hurt you again.” Van Buren stood up, glanced at the ski patrol rescuers, then scanned the ridgelines. Either the plastique had been set on a fuse, possibly by someone back at the chalet, or it had been remotely detonated by someone up here. Someone who was watching them, someone who had followed them. But there was no one around. The bowl was empty. The ski patrol arrived, secured the sled and stepped out of their skis.

“What happened, sir?” one of them asked. His name tag read LARSEN.

“She hit a tree,” Todd said. It was difficult to keep on track. He wanted to fight back. The second ski patrol volunteer whose name tag read WILLET, brought a big first-aid kit over to Elizabeth, took off his gloves and knelt beside her to start his preliminary examination.

“What’s her name?” “Doris,” Todd told him. “Okay, Doris, how are we doing this afternoon?” Willet said, taking her pulse at the side of her neck. Larsen pulled out a neck brace and backboard, which he brought over to where Elizabeth was crumpled. “Breathing is labored, but breath sounds are equal and symmetrical. Her heartbeat is fast, but strong,” Willet said. “Some trauma to the forehead and right temple, some bleeding but not heavy.”

They’d worked as a team before. Their moves were quick and professional. They knew what they were doing; they’d been here many times before. Larsen took out a wireless comms unit a little larger than an average cell phone. “Base, this is Ranger Three in Pete’s Bowl beneath Earl’s Express.” “Stand by, Ranger Three.” “Are you the husband, sir?” he asked Todd. “No. I’m her brother. She’s four months pregnant.” Larsen’s lips compressed, and he nodded. “How old is she?” “Twenty-five.” “General health?” “Very good-” “Ranger Three, go ahead.” “We have a white female, twenty-five, with blunt trauma to the head, chest and abdomen. Some blood loss, but she’s wearing a helmet.” “Okay, pulse is one fifteen; regular and strong.”

Willet called out. “BP one hundred over fifty. Patient is unresponsive, but her pupils are equal and reactive to light.” Larsen relayed the information to the clinic at the base of the slopes down in Vail Village. “The patient’s brother is with her. He says that she is four months pregnant. There is evidence of some bleeding around the perineum of her ski suit.” “Stand by,” the on-call doctor ordered. “Is she going to make it?” Van Buren asked. He had to keep it together, but it was hard. Larsen nodded. “She was wearing a helmet. Probably saved her life.” He glanced over at Elizabeth. Willet was taking off her helmet, careful not to move her head. “Where’s her husband?”

“She’s a widow,” Todd said. “That’s why she wanted me to come skiing with her.” “Tough luck. She’s a good-looking girl.” “She is,” Todd said, his nerves jumping. “Ranger Three, give her 500 ccs of normal saline and start her on O2. The medevac chopper is en route. We’ll transport her to Denver General when you have her ready to move.”

“Hang in there, Doris,” Larsen said. He and Willet attached the neck brace, their movements very gentle, very precise. Todd could only stand by and watch. But already he was working out the steps he would have to take in the next twenty-four hours to protect his wife and child. They were priority one; everything else was secondary.