The Kill Zone

TWENTY-FOUR

McGarvey spent a tense night with Kathleen at the hospital. Even though she was sedated, she had a troubled sleep. He went home long enough to grab a quick shower and change clothes, then got back to the hospital a few minutes after eight. Katy was still asleep. Peggy Vaccaro and Janis Westlake were on station in the hall along with a couple of men Yemm had brought over from Security. Dr. Stenzel was just coming out of her room. “How is she?” McGarvey asked. “She’s still sleeping, and I want to keep her groggy all day,” Stenzel said.

He took McGarvey down the hall to the doctors’ lounge, where he got them coffee. The hospital was busy this morning. What’s wrong with her?” McGarvey asked. “Well, she’s exhausted, for one, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” Stenzel said. He was careful with his words. “She could have had a nervous breakdown. Her mind simply shut down. But I rather doubt that.” “Did they tell you what she did?”

Stenzel nodded. “I’ve called Bob Love, a neurologist friend of mind, to look at her. The Company has used him from time to time. He’s about the best in the business. He said that he’d stop by around nine this morning. I expect he’ll order some pictures, probably a CAT scan, an MRI, an EEC, then some blood work and possibly a lumbar tap.” “What are you looking for?” “Physical causes first,” Stenzel said. “Maybe a lesion in her brain. Maybe unbalanced sugar in her spinal fluid, something going haywire with her blood chemistry.” He shook his head.

“Maybe even temporal-lobe epilepsy. We’re not ruling anything out.”

“Did they tell you everything she said and did?” Stenzel nodded. “Are there any drugs in the house?” “If you mean marijuana or speed and shit like that, no. We’re both pretty conservative people.” “Right,”

Stenzel replied dryly. “Did you ever see the movie The Exorcist)”

“What, do you think she’s possessed?” McGarvey asked. He wasn’t amused. “No. But I think your wife’s problem is in her head, not in her physical brain or in her blood. But we have to eliminate all the obvious things first, which Bob Love is going to do for us.” “Assuming it is in her head, then what?” Stenzel shrugged. “Then I give her some tests.” “Like the ones you gave Otto?” “More or less. We’ll try to find out what’s bothering her in a general way, then narrow it down step-by-step until we get to the specific problem or problems. Sorta like a jigsaw puzzle. We’re looking for the one piece that makes some kind of sense out of the rest.” “What’s your gut reaction?” McGarvey asked. “You talked to the doctors in San Juan, and you talked to her when we got back. Now this.” Stenzel frowned. “I don’t know. I mean someone is trying to kill her husband and now her daughter. Any woman would pitch a fit under the same circumstances,” he told McGarvey. “But it’d be just that. She’d raise holy hell and demand that the people she loved were pulled off the firing line right now. Nothing would stand in her way. You know, like the mama bear and her cubs. Threaten her babies and watch out.”

“But that’s not what she’s done,” McGarvey said. He was tired, mentally as well as physically.

“No. Which leads me to suspect that something else is going on.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry about your daughter. But from what I’m told she’ll mend.”

“Physically,” McGarvey replied. Another stab of pain tore at his heart. Liz’s baby had been a girl.

“This will pass, Mr. Director,” Stenzel said with sympathy. “Bob Love will check out your wife, and by this time tomorrow we’ll have a much better idea what we’re dealing with and we can go on from there.”

McGarvey rose to go. “I can’t walk away from the CIA with this hanging over our heads.”

Stenzel shook his head. “It wouldn’t do your wife any good if you did.

Right now she needs stability. Change, any sort of change, would be bad for her.” He gave McGarvey a critical look. “Any idea who’s gunning for you and your family? Or why?”

“A couple,” McGarvey said. “We’re working on it.”

“Then go do your job and let me do mine. You can’t help your wife by staying here. She wouldn’t have any idea that you were in the room even if you were holding her hand.”

McGarvey knew better. “Take care of her, Doctor.”

“Count on it.”

The full Monday work shift had already arrived when McGarvey got back to the CIA. Thankfully the media hadn’t gotten onto the incident with his daughter in Vail. The CIA’s press officer, Ron Hazelwood, was giving his weekly briefing in the ground-floor conference room. At least to this moment he hadn’t sent up the red flag for an instant read on some issue he was being pressed on. It was something he would have done had Vail come up. Yemm had recruited someone from Security to do the driving this morning. All the way out, riding shotgun, he spoke in low tones on the encrypted phone. McGarvey didn’t pay much attention; his thoughts were on his beleaguered family. Counting Otto, attempts had been made on all their lives, and it made no more sense to McGarvey now than it had in the beginning. What the hell were they after?

Every scenario he came up with to bring reason to the facts was filled with holes large enough to drive a truck through.

Yemm rode with him on the elevator as far as the glass doors to his office suite. He was preoccupied. “I’d like a couple minutes of your time sometime today,” he said. “I want to run something by you.” “How about right now?” McGarvey asked. “I’ve got a couple of things to check out first.” McGarvey looked a little closer at Yemm. “Anything urgent I need to know about?” “I’m not sure, boss.” “Okay,” McGarvey said. “When you’re ready.” He went in, and Ms. Swanfeld jumped up and followed him through to his office. “Good morning, Mr. Director,”

she said. “How is Mrs. McGarvey?” “They’re going to do some tests this morning, so we won’t know anything until she gets through with that.” McGarvey handed his coat to her and went to his desk as she hung it up in the closet. “She’ll be fine, we’re all certain of it,”

Ms. Swanfeld said. She poured McGarvey a cup of coffee as he flipped through the stack of phone messages and memos that had already piled up this morning. “Has Dick arrived yet?” “Yes, sir. He wants to see you first off.” McGarvey looked up. Dahlia Swanfeld was tough. She’d been through her share of crises in her thirty-plus years with the Company. But she was taking this one more personally than most. The CIA was her family. “This will pass,” he told her, using Stenzel’s words because he couldn’t think of his own. “Yes, sir,” she said. She wanted to ask something else. But she hesitated. “What is it?”

McGarvey prompted. “It’s about your daughter and the poor baby,” Ms Swanfeld said. “I was wondering if sending her a little something would be appropriate under the circumstances? Flowers? A sympathy card? A stuffed animal? Something.” She was distraught. McGarvey’s heart softened. He smiled. “I think she’d like that very much.” “Yes, sir. I’ll tell Mr. Adkins that you’re ready for him. And, Mr.

Paterson would like to have a word with you this morning before ten.

He said that it was extremely urgent.” I’ll call him-” “He would like to see you in person.”

“Okay, ask him to come up now,” McGarvey said. “Then get my son-in-law on the phone. And sometime before lunch Dick Yemm wants to see me. Fit him in please.” “Yes, sir. You might want to look through your agenda as soon as possible. I’ll need to know what to cancel.” “We’re canceling nothing, Dahlia,” McGarvey said sternly. “Business will continue as usual. For everyone. Do I make myself clear?” “We’ll do our best, Mr. Director,” she said, and she left to get started.

McGarvey sat down and sifted through the stack of memos again, but he couldn’t keep his mind off Liz and the baby. Knowing that she had lost the child was terrible enough for him. But the knowledge that it was a baby girl was something far worse. It wasn’t a shapeless blob growing inside her body. It was a human being who would have grown up to be another Elizabeth, another Kathleen. His secretary buzzed him. “Mr.

Rudolph from the Bureau is on one. Do you want to take it?” “Yes,”

McGarvey said. He hit the button for one. “Good morning, Fred. Do you have something for me already?” “Not yet. But I need a couple of answers from you. For starters, who are we supposed to be watching at the Russian embassy other than the crowd we normally watch?” Fred Rudolph was the director of the FBI’s Special Investigative Division.

He and McGarvey had worked on a couple of sticky situations over the past year or two. They had a mutual respect. “Dmitri Runkov, for one,” McGarvey said. “The rezident is a tricky man. He’s out in the open most of the time, but he does his little disappearing act every now and then,” Rudolph said. “Drives everyone nuts. Do you think that his shop might have had something to do with your brush in the islands?” “It’s a possibility that I don’t want to ignore,” McGarvey told him. Adkins walked in, and McGarvey waved him to a seat. “None of his people came over to watch me do battle with Hammond and Madden.”

“C-SPAN. No need for them to be there in person,” Rudolph said. “But it might help if you would level with me up front rather than later.

Hans Lollick wasn’t an accident. Somebody’s after you. Why do you think it might be the Russians? To settle an old debt?” “It might be as simple as that,” McGarvey said. “Dick Adkins is in my office now.

I’ll have him send over a package on a Russian who used to work in the KGB’s Department Viktor years ago. His name is Nikolayev. He’s missing, and the Russians think that he might be somewhere in France.”

“And you think that there might be a connection?” Rudolph asked. He was a lawyer by training. All problems had solutions if you started at A and worked your way directly toward Z. “We’d like to talk to him.”

“I’ll look at your stuff and see what we can do. We have a couple of good people in Paris. In the meantime, we’ll see if Runkov has made any calls to France lately.” “Thanks, Fred. Let me know.” “Will do, Mac. But keep your head down, would you. You can’t imagine the strain it would place on my people if someone bagged a DCI.” The nagging, whispering again. It wasn’t as simple as revenge. But exactly what it was McGarvey had no real idea. Nikolayev was nothing more than a starting point. “I’ll make sure that the file gets over to the Bureau this morning,” Adkins said. “In the meantime, Jared’s people have come up with something. But I’m damned if I know where it gets us.” “It’s Monday morning, what do you expect?” McGarvey said in a poor attempt at humor. “How’s Kathleen?” “They’re doing some tests this morning.

We should know something by this time tomorrow. Could be nothing more than nervous exhaustion. They’re not sure.” Adkins nodded sympathetically. His own plate was full because of his wife’s illness, but he seemed to genuinely care about Kathleen. “They found Elizabeth’s skis and took them to a forensics lab that the Bureau uses at Lowry Air Force Base. Todd was right, it was Semtex. Not only that, it came from the same batch as the Semtex they used in Hans Lollick. Same chemical tags. Jared will have the full report later today, but whoever staged both attacks was playing from the same sheet of music.” It didn’t surprise McGarvey. “What about the fuse in the skis?” “It was an acid fuse, they know that much. But they won’t be able to figure out when it was set until they get the skis back here.

All Jared could tell me was that the delay could have been as long as ninety-six hours.” “Four days,” McGarvey said in wonder. “Starting at Dulles, anybody who had access to the skis could have rigged them.”

“Or it could have been anyone who had access to your garage,” Adkins said softly. Dick Yemm and Otto Rencke were the first two names that came to McGarvey’s mind. He shook his head. He refused to go there.

Dulles and ml. Denver were the best bets. But even if the skis had been rigged at the house, someone could have waited until he and Katy were gone, defeated the alarm system and done their thing. A professional could have been in and out in a matter of minutes. “Let’s develop a list of every person and every opportunity to rig the skis, starting right here in Washington and working forward all the way to Vail. Then develop a separate list for Hans Lollick, and subtract one from the other.”

Adkins nodded. Either list would be large, but the combined list would be very small. Frighteningly small. Ms. Swanfeld buzzed. Carleton Paterson had arrived. “Send him in,” McGarvey said, as Adkins got up to go. “Staff meeting at ten,” McGarvey told him. “I’ll get on it,”

Adkins said, and he walked out as the Company’s general counsel came in. Paterson looked angry. “Good morning, Mr. Director,” Paterson said. “Although for you I shouldn’t think it’s very good at all.”

“There’ve been worse,” McGarvey replied. “How is Mrs. McGarvey? I understand that she was hospitalized over the weekend. She wasn’t injured on Hans Lollick, was she?” “Nervous exhaustion. They thought that a couple days’ bed rest might do her some good.” “Do us all some good,” Paterson agreed. “How is your daughter doing?” McGarvey’s jaw tightened. “She’s safe, and she’ll mend,” he said. He shook his head.

“Beyond that I don’t know yet.” Paterson nodded as if it was the news he had expected. “Well, you’re certainly not out of the woods. Hammond telephoned me at seven this morning. He wants you before the committee this afternoon. Something came up, he told me.” “Not today, Carleton.

You have to stall them.” “Not this time, Mr. Director. Either you show up to answer whatever latest questions they have for you and I expect they’ll have something to do with the attempt on your life or the committee will recommend to veto your appointment. Hammond’s words.” McGarvey closed his eyes. “What time?” “Two.” Ms. Swanfeld called. McGarvey picked up the phone. “Yes?” “Your son-in-law is on three.”

“Thank you,” he said. He gave Paterson a nod. “Two o’clock it is. But see if you can find out what’s on the agenda.” “I’ll try,” Paterson said, and he left. McGarvey hit the button for three. “Good morning, Todd. How are you doing?” He tried to keep his tone reasonably upbeat. “Better,” Todd answered. “At least Liz finally got some real sleep last night. Doctor Hanover says he’ll let us get out of here tomorrow morning.” “We’ll send the Gulfstream for you,” McGarvey said.

“It’s early out there, but is she awake yet? Can she talk?” “The doctor came in a couple of hours ago. He’s with her right now. I’m out in the hall. I’ll see how long it’ll be ”

“Wait,” McGarvey stopped him. “How are you doing, son?” Todd took a few moments to answer. “I can’t get the sound out of my head. When she hit the tree.” He was shaky now. “I thought she was dead. But when I saw the blood I knew that we’d lost the baby. Again.” “There’ll be another one.”

McGarvey’s heart was breaking for his son-in-law. But there wasn’t a thing he could do for him. “I don’t know if we can go through that again.” “Don’t give up on each other,” McGarvey flared. “Goddammit, Todd. You’re young. You’re both tough.” “Yeah.” “Have you talked to your folks?” “My dad called. They wanted to come out here, but I told them that we’d be back sometime tomorrow.” “Do they know what really happened?” “No. It was just a stupid skiing accident.” “It’s better to keep them out of it.” “I know,” Todd said. “How is Mrs. M.?” “We put her in the hospital yesterday afternoon. She’s taking this very hard, so they have her on some pretty serious sedatives. And they’re running some tests this morning.” Todd fell silent again for a few seconds. “I didn’t recognize her voice I when she called here. It was like she was a complete stranger. Anyway, how did she find out so soon?” “Apparently Otto told her. Did he call you?” “No,” Todd said.

“But that was stupid of him.” “Yeah. We’re still working on the why.

But he’s disappeared.” “Christ, don’t tell me that they got to him.”

“We don’t think so. At least Louise doesn’t think so. We’ll find out when he turns up.” “Okay, here comes the doctor,” Todd said. “Hang on a minute.” Ms. Swanfeld came to the door. “Mr. Yemm is here. Can you see him now?” McGarvey looked up and nodded. “Send him in.” Yemm came in, and McGarvey motioned him to have a seat. Todd came back on the line. “She’s fine. Unless something develops today, or sometime overnight, she can get out of here first thing in the morning.” “Good.

I’ll get Security on getting you back here. Does she know what happened to her?” “If you mean about the bindings being rigged, no. I haven’t told her yet.” “That’s okay for now. But she’ll have to be debriefed when you get back. She might have heard or seen something.”

“I’ll bring the phone to her,” Todd said. Yemm was grim-lipped, as if he was the bearer of more bad news. There didn’t seem to be any end to it. Elizabeth came on the line. She sounded sleepy, distant; she was drifting. “Hello, Daddy. I want to come home now.” If McGarvey could have reached through the telephone to cradle his baby in his arms and pull her back to him he would have done it. “You’re coming home in the morning, sweetheart. How do you feel?” “Achy,” she said. “And tired,” she added after a longish pause. “Get some rest, Liz. Do what the doctor tells you to do, and you’ll be home in the morning.” The line was dead for a moment or two. “Daddy?” Elizabeth said in a tiny voice. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry ”

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” McGarvey soothed. “Everything will be okay, I promise you. Your mother and I love you very much. Don’t forget that.” “That’s enough,” Todd came back on the line. He sounded matter-of-fact, not angry. “Take care of her, Todd,” McGarvey said. “And yourself. We’ll see you in the morning.” “We’re going to find out who did this.” “Count on it “

“There’ll be no trial, Dad,” Todd said, his voice harsh. “No trial.”

He broke the connection, and McGarvey hung up.

“How are they doing, boss?” Yemm asked. It took a moment for him to come back. “They’ll be coming home in the morning. Send a Gulfstream.” “We’ll get it out there this afternoon so it’ll be standing by when they’re ready,” Yemm said. “I found Otto. Or at least I found out where he got himself off to. He went to France.

Commandeered an Aurora and took off from Andrews yesterday afternoon.

Late. He logged the flight to what he called Special Operation Spotlight. I checked. There is no such operation.” The Aurora was the air force’s new spy plane, replacing the SR71 Blackbird. It flew to the edge of space at Mach 7. Based in New Mexico, it had been a very black project. Damned few people knew that it existed or that it was operational. “Where’d it land?” “Pontoise. The French air force base outside of Paris,” Yemm said. “We’re still trying to unravel how he got the clearances not only from the French, but from our own air force.” “Is he still there?” “The airplane is,” Yemm said. “The French don’t know what to make of it, and I didn’t think that it was such a good idea to make a fuss. It’s better to go along with him for now.” “I’ll have Dave Whittaker call the Paris station to be on the lookout for him. Any idea what he’s doing over there? Specifically?”

“NikolayeVs name comes to mind,” Yemm replied. He was having a hard time of it. Something was bothering him. “Otto got the Colorado search up and running. Chris Walker in the Ops Center logged Otto’s heads-up last night. It looks like Otto initiated his own Ex Comms under both Elizabeth’s and Todd’s work names. And he found them before Ops did. Then he phoned Mrs. M.” McGarvey fought down his fear. It wasn’t Otto who called the house. Nor had it been Otto in the computer center or in Dr. Stenzel’s office. A different personality had taken up residence in Otto’s body, and the implications that followed were nothing short of staggering. “We’ve pulled his files,” Yemm was saying. “Leastways the ones he hasn’t blocked out.” He averted his eyes. He was embarrassed. It was something new. “We’ve also looked at Stenzel’s report. The whole file on Otto, which goes back about twenty years.” “He’s done a lot of good things for the CIA.” “Yes, sir. But we think that he might be losing it. Stenzel agrees.” Yemm chose his words with care. “If that’s the case, then he could be a danger. At the very least he’s got the DO’s mainframe screwed up pretty good. And he’s running some kind of a maverick operation on his own.” “The old KGB. Nikolayev and Department Viktor.” “Yeah,” Yemm said. “The assassination squads.” The whispering was there again.

The nagging little voices at the back of McGarvey’s consciousness.

There was nothing he could put his finger on. Nothing concrete; all the more disturbing because of the vagueness. Was it a monster coming after them? In their midst? Coming to scratch at Katy’s sanity.

Coming to kill them all? “Otto was wearing his seat belt,” Yemm said, before McGarvey could give voice to that one objection. “He never used it before, by his own admission.” “He was worried ”

“I’m sorry, boss, but we gotta keep going on this one. Unless you order me to stop.”

McGarvey turned away and looked out the windows. Otto and Louise had been the only guests at the wedding except for Todd and Elizabeth.

Kathleen had taken him aside and straightened his bow tie, then given him a kiss on a freshly scrubbed cheek. “He cleans up good,” Louise said. She was proud of him. “Indeed he does,” Kathleen had replied.

There was just a moment there, an instant when everything had been absolute perfection. “Do it,” he told Yemm. He turned around. “But walk lightly, Dick. If he’s done nothing wrong, I don’t want him banged up. He’s having a hard enough time as it is. And if he’s guilty, he’ll be watching for someone to come after him. He’s capable of doing a lot of damage to the Agency. A lot of damage.” Yemm shook his head. “I think it stinks, too, boss. Big-time.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The limousine that carried McGarvey into the city from fortress CIA in the woods was a soft gray leather and smoked glass cocoon. As one crossed the river on the Roosevelt Bridge the Lincoln Memorial was off to the right, and the massive granite pile of the State Department was to the left. One hundred fifty years ago Lincoln dealt with a divided nation. Today State dealt with a divided world, and the director of Central Intelligence was supposed to be the one with all the answers.

Since a week ago Sunday his world had been turned upside down. They were under a siege mentality. Nothing was getting done. They were merely reacting to whatever came their way. And he was just as bad as everyone else. In the old days he had picked up his tent and run. In the past week he had surrounded his tent with what he hoped was an impregnable wall and hunkered down.

It was time to fight back. McGarvey straightened up as they worked their way through traffic on Constitution Avenue, and he glanced over at Paterson, who was reading something. Murphy had set great stock by the Agency’s new general counsel, and to this point McGarvey had not been disappointed with the man. But Paterson was an outsider, and that’s how he wanted to keep it. At one point he’d explained to Murphy that defense attorneys work with killers, but didn’t live their lives.

“I’ll help keep the CIA in compliance with the law, but I’ll never be a spy.” It struck McGarvey all at once that with Kathleen hospitalized he had no one to confide in. Larry Danielle, who’d worked his way all the way up from a job as a field officer with the OSS during World War II, to head the Directorate of Operations, and finally ended his long career as Deputy Director of Central Intelligence, had been McGarvey’s rudder, a steady hand, an intelligent, sympathetic ear. Almost a father figure since McGarvey’s parents were dead. He’d never once told McGarvey what to do, or even how to do it. But he’d always been there, waiting in the corridor, or getting in his car in the parking lot, or getting a sandwich in the Agency’s cafeteria, to give a word of encouragement or advice. Danielle’s favorite lines were: Be careful what you wish for, you might get it. Slow down before and after an operation, but when you find yourself in the middle of the fray, my boy, then go hell-bent for leather. Very often it’ll be the only way you can preserve your life. Develop the ability to surround yourself with friends and lovers, but trust no one. If you can’t juggle that lot without driving yourself insane, then get out of the business.

Better men than you have failed. And lesser men than you have succeeded brilliantly. It’s often not a matter of intelligence, rather it’s the peculiar mind-set of the spy-Danielle had been a slow-moving, soft-spoken man for whom appearances belied the truth. In fact he was a man of rare intelligence and consummate good grace and old world manners. The last of the gentlemen spies, Murphy had said at Danielle’s funeral. McGarvey missed him. Missed the old generation that had created the CIA. And somehow that was amusing just now. He smiled. “What in heaven’s name are you thinking about, Mr. Director?”

Paterson asked in amazement. “I’m becoming old-fashioned,” McGarvey replied. Danielle would have called it something different. “From where I sit you’re the only one making any sense,” Paterson said.

“And you’ll need to be pragmatic today, because Hammond sounded positively delighted on the phone. Whatever he’s going to spring on us will be good. So good, in fact, I wasn’t able to get so much as a hint from any of his people.” “One of my old operations.” “Maybe.”

Paterson shrugged. “If they’re looking for more blood, they’ll find it. There’s not much we can do to sugarcoat the truth.” They passed the National Gallery of Art and approached the Capitol itself, which was surrounded by the House and Senate office buildings, the Supreme Court and Library of Congress, and the Madison and Adams Buildings.

The stuff of government was done here by men and women some of them average, some of them dedicated and brilliant; a few others saints or crooks, and still others so dim that they weren’t qualified to write a grocery list let alone a law. Average Americans. But the system worked, McGarvey thought. The crowd of journalists in front of the Hart Senate Office Building was larger than Thursday. Yemm had stayed behind to help direct the investigation into Rencke’s background. The replacement driver and bodyguard hustled McGarvey and Paterson up the stairs through the mob. “Mr. McGarvey, is it true that you’re withdrawing your nomination?” one of the reporters shouted. McGarvey didn’t look up at that or any of the other similar questions thrown at him until they were safely inside the building. “That was Hammond’s doing.” Paterson nodded. “You’re learning. Whatever he has, he thinks it’s good.” “Do you think that he and Madden are sleeping together?”

Paterson was startled. “I seriously doubt it, but I wouldn’t be surprised.” He looked closer at McGarvey. “Have you heard something?”

McGarvey shook his head. “No. Just wondering.” There were only a handful of onlookers in the hearing room, mostly assistants to the committee members, when McGarvey and Paterson came in and took their places. When the doors were closed, the clerk called the hearings to order and the six senators filed in. Hammond and Madden were beaming.

The others seemed only mildly interested. Clawson gave McGarvey a sympathetic look, as if to say: Hear you’re having some trouble, sorry about dragging you here today. Hammond reminded McGarvey that he was still under oath.

“Yes, I understand, Senator,” McGarvey replied. “Good. Then let’s proceed.” He opened a file folder, read for a moment, then looked up.

“A number of disturbing items were brought to my attention over the weekend. When we go over this new material I think that we’ll all agree that Mr. McGarvey should withdraw his nomination.” “I was asked that question by the media on the way in,” McGarvey said. “Evidently everyone knows what’s going on except for me.” A few people in the room sniggered. “Is it true, Mr. McGarvey, that one of your top aides” Hammond consulted his file “a man by the name of Otto Rencke, has been missing for the past thirty-six hours and possibly longer?”

“Where did you get that information, Senator?” It had to be someone inside the Agency. Either that, or Louise Horn had told them, though for the life of him he couldn’t imagine her having any contact with Hammond. “This committee’s sources are not the issue,” Hammond shot back. “Is it true that Otto Rencke is missing?” “No, it’s not true,”

McGarvey responded. Hammond glanced at Madden. “You are under oath, Mr. McGarvey.” “Mr. Rencke is in France at the moment on a matter of some importance to the CIA. I can’t say anything more than that because it concerns an ongoing operation that’s important to national security.” Hammond didn’t miss a beat. “But isn’t it true that you placed Mr. Rencke on administrative leave after he underwent a psychological evaluation by an in-house psychologist?” Paterson sat forward. “Senators, that is information from the personnel files of a CIA officer. It has nothing to do with the purpose of these proceedings, which are meant solely to determine Mr. McGarvey’s qualifications to continue leading the Agency as its director.”

Hammond smiled faintly. “I’m glad that we agree on at least that much,” he said. “I brought up Mr. Rencke’s name because he is a close personal friend of Mr. McGarvey’s, and he was involved in a near-fatal automobile accident recently.” Hammond looked directly at McGarvey.

“If it was an accident.” “The accident is under investigation by us and by the Virginia Highway Patrol.” “But in light of subsequent developments the current thinking at the CIA is that the incident with Mr. Rencke was probably not an accident. It fits with the assassination attempt against yourself, your wife and your bodyguard in the Virgin Islands over the weekend, and the nearly fatal attack on your daughter and her husband at Vail, Colorado. Isn’t that so, Mr.

McGarvey?” Paterson put a hand over the microphone and leaned toward McGarvey. “Where is he getting his information?” “I don’t know,”

McGarvey said. “A few people in the building know the whole story.

Fred Rudolph knows most of it.” “How about the White House?” “Not all of it,” McGarvey said. “Mr. McGarvey?” Hammond prompted. He’d gotten the attention of the rest of the committee. “What was the question?”

“Was an attempt made on your life over the weekend?” “We’re still investigating the incident. But, yes, it appears that someone tried to kill me.” “What about your daughter and her husband?” “We’re also investigating that incident. But it appears that someone tried to kill my daughter.” One of the Senate aides got up and started for the doors. “Stop right there, Mark, and sit down,” Senator Clawson ordered. The aide looked at Hammond, but then sat down. “No one is leaving these chambers until we get some rules straight.” “You’re out of order,” Hammond said. He was enjoying himself. “We’re talking here about the safety of a very loyal and dedicated American, as well as the safety of his family,” Clawson shot back. “I don’t know who your sources are, and I doubt if you’d tell me if I asked, but you’re overstepping your bounds. Not to mention common decency ”

“Oh no you don’t,” Hammond responded sharply. “If you’ll hear me out I was about to make a valid and important point.” “Everyone will have his or her say, John,” Brenda Madden broke in. Clawson was frustrated. None of the other committee members were offering their support. Most of them owed political favors to Hammond and Madden, or were too junior to protest. “I intend bringing up the conduct of this hearing to the full Senate.” “That certainly is your prerogative,” Hammond said benignly.

He turned back to McGarvey. “I understand that your ordeal over the weekend, along with the news of the attack on your daughter, caused such a strain for your wife that she was ” McGarvey raised his hand and pointed a finger at Hammond. “That’s enough, you sonofabitch!” Brenda Madden said something as an aside, Paterson put a restraining hand on McGarvey’s arm, and Hammond sat back smiling. “You will leave my wife out of this,” McGarvey said, barely in control of himself, “Or what, Mr. McGarvey?” “Or I will withdraw my nomination, which would make me a private citizen,” McGarvey said, steadying down somewhat. “That’s something you don’t want, Senator. Not that way.” “See here ” Brenda Madden shouted, but Hammond held up a hand for her to be silent. “Is it a fact, Mr. McGarvey, that at a recent staff meeting the Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, a career intelligence officer who has time and again demonstrated a steady hand on the helm while you were off shooting up the countryside his name is Richard Adkins suggested that you step down as director? Not only that, but take your family to a safe place until the real professionals at the CIA and the FBI find out who is trying to harm you, your family and your friends? Is that true?” “Yes, that is true,” McGarvey said, settling down. He knew what he was fighting now. And for whom. It was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. “At that highly classified staff meeting we also decided that running away would do us no good. I’m needed to help find out what’s going on. If I go into hiding, then the person or persons who are after me will simply hunker down and wait for me to come out of hiding.” McGarvey pushed the microphone away and got to his feet. “We’re not finished here,”

Hammond blustered. “We’ll find out who your source is inside the Agency,” McGarvey promised. “When we do, he or she will be prosecuted under the National Secrets Act, which carries with it a sentence of life imprisonment.” “You will sit down, McGarvey,” Hammond shouted.

“Sorry, Senators, but I have work to do,” McGarvey told them. He turned, and with Paterson right behind him, left the hearing chamber.

Hammond was banging his gavel, and Madden was shouting something in her nasal voice.

TWENTY-FOUR

Dick Yemm had felt terrible all month. The weekend’s events, and his meeting with McGarvey this morning had done nothing to dispel his gloomy mood. Sitting in his personal car, a pearl white Mercedes SUV, in the Springfield Mall, watching the shoppers and traffic on this busy Monday afternoon, his mood deepened. Most people only had to worry about keeping the kids out of trouble, paying the mortgage and kissing enough booty during the workweek to remain employed. They didn’t have to deal with murder, treason or insanity. And all of that against a backdrop of an increasingly hostile world. India-Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan, North Africa, Greece, Mexico, Brazil; on and on, seemingly ad infinitum. Piss on one fire, and a dozen others sprang up around you. Finger one terrorist cell, and two dozen others came into existence as if from thin air. Unravel one alliance, and three dozen others emerged to threaten another 9-11.

Yemm was just the DCIs driver bodyguard and number two in the Office of Security. But he saw things, he heard things that he sometimes had trouble dealing with. Troubles that his wife used to be able to help him with. But she was dead. On some days he was reconciled to her absence. The accident had happened ten years ago. But on other days, like now, he felt a deep ache that he could not salve. She was gone, and he missed her because she would listen and then she would give her advice. “The way I see it, Dick…” she would invariably begin. And invariably she was right. He made a cell phone call to Annandale, just off the Beltway five miles north. “Hello,” a recorded woman’s voice answered. “Thank you for calling Aldebaran Projects. If you know the extension for the person you wish to reach, you may enter it now…”

He entered 562. The call was transferred to the direct line of Janos Kurcek the founder and president of the computer systems design company. “This is Kurcek.” Janos was a former Polish intelligence officer under the old regime. It had been fifteen years since he’d gotten out, but his accent was still strong. “Janos, I want to talk to you,” Yemm said. “Bring a laptop, I have a secure phone.” In the aftermath and confusion of the Soviet Union’s breakup, a lot of men in Kurcek’s position did not survive the witch-hunts. Even though he’d worked as a double, selling information to the U.S.” he was a marked man by the new democrats, who mistrusted men like him because they had no loyalties to Poland, and by the old hard-line communists, who hated him for his betrayals. It was in the spring, April, if Yemm remembered correctly, though some of his recollections of the operation were a little fuzzy. He was assigned to the U.S. consulate in West Berlin, where he made forays into the east zone at least once a month to organize escapes over the wall. Otto Rencke, who was the whiz kid reorganizing the CIA’s computer system, came over to Berlin in person and took Yemm out to dinner and drinks at a sleazy night-blub on the Ku’damm. He had a friend stuck in Gdansk who needed help getting out.

Name was Janos Kurcek, and there was an arrest warrant out for him already, so there was no time to mount a proper operation. Besides, Otto had worked with Kurcek for the past couple of years on some back channel exchanges of information. It was technical means that got Otto access to the old regime’s computer systems. He and Kurcek had developed a secret pipeline all the way back to KGB headquarters in Moscow. But the only way the arrangement would continue to work was for it to be kept an absolute secret. The more people who knew about the pipeline, the less likely that became. “I’m putting our lives in your hands,” Otto said earnestly. “If the KGB finds out, Janos will be a dead man, and they’ll come after me.” He shook his head. “But, oh, wow, I read your file. Green Beret. “Nam. Man, you been there, done that. Cool. And you know Mac. He thinks you’re good people.” “He’s a good man,” Yemm said. He had worked briefly with McGarvey in Saigon, and he’d been impressed. McGarvey was steady. “The very best, ya know,” Otto said solemnly. “You gonna help?” “I’m taking all the risks. What do I get out of it?” Yemm asked. “If I get caught I’m going to jail, at the very least.” “Favors,” Otto said. “Beaucoup favors, kimo sabe. You want something, Otto and Janos will come running.” Otto looked a little sheepish. “Anyway, if you want to stay in this business, favors are a good thing to have in the bank, ya know.” The operation was set up for three days at midweek, starting on a Tuesday. Yemm was to make his regular run across the border, but instead of making his rendezvous in East Berlin he was to change identities with papers that Otto provided and take the train directly to the Polish shipbuilding capital. Later Yemm could claim that he had got the rendezvous place mixed up, and could make the run to East Berlin again the following week. Things like that happened from time to time. In Gdansk he was to meet with Kurcek at a fish restaurant called Ka-shubska. There were three times: noon for lunch, four-fifteen for cocktails, and eight for dinner, with a fallback at a park one block away. Kurcek would be wearing a lime green sports coat and would have a bandage on his left cheek where he’d cut himself shaving. From there, Yemm who would be traveling as an American tourist driving a rental car from the train station, would take Kurcek to the Baltic coast town of Swinourjscie right on the German border where Kurcek would take the ferry to Copenhagen using the papers that Yemm was bringing him. From there Yemm was to return to East Berlin and make his way back to the west zone as usual. It had worked exactly as planned until the very end. Kurcek was in the park at four-fifteen and they drove like crazy, making the 8:30 P.M. ferry. During the four hours they were together Kurcek poured out his entire life story to Yemm, and by the time he was boarding the boat for Copenhagen and safety they were best of friends. “I will never forget you, Richard,”

Kurcek said. “You have saved my life here.”

The next morning, back in East Berlin at Checkpoint Charlie, Yemm was arrested by the Stasi and held for ten days. Nothing was asked about his trip to Poland; evidently the Stasi knew nothing about it. They were only interested in his activities in East Berlin over the past year and a half.

Eventually he was released, not too much the worse for wear, except that some of the interrogation methods they’d used on him at the Horst Wessel Center left his head a little fuzzy. He never had all the dates and times straight in his head afterward except that he’d been released on a prisoner exchange. He’d evidently been grabbed solely for that reason.

He was immediately flown to the air force hospital at Ramstein for a checkup, and from there back to Langley, where his debriefing lasted the better part of two weeks.

After that he was given a thirty-day leave, and then reported back to duty, this time in Madrid.

The CIA never asked him about his trip to Poland. They, too, were evidently unaware of his extracurricular activities, and he never volunteered the information. By then he had been in the business long enough to understand that oftentimes the best and most useful alliances were the ones kept closest to the vest. Living the lie for just one day meant that he could never go back, but neither could Janos, who within the year was in Washington, where he’d created a highly successful Beltway computer company.

Otto was out of the CIA again. But true to his word, he and Janos did lend Yemm a helping hand from time to time, mostly in the form of information.

“Right now?” Janos asked. “Right this minute, Richard?”

“At the fallback,” Yemm said. “It has to do with Otto.”

Kurcek arrived ten minutes later, as flashy as usual, driving his bright red Mercedes E430. He was dressed in an Armani suit and hand-sewn Brazilian loafers. His shoes got soaked in the slush when he left his car and came over to Yemm’s. He’d brought a laptop computer that looked like a musical instrument in his long, delicate, well-manicured hands. He had the appearance of a magazine fashion model; whip-thin, stylish blond hair combed straight back and brilliant blue eyes.

“How is our friend?” Kurcek asked. “He must be staying out of trouble now that Kirk is becoming director.” “He’s working on something that has us scratching our heads,” Yemm said. “Frankly, we don’t know what to make of it.” Kurcek laughed. His voice was baritone, like an opera singer’s. “Since I’ve known Otto he’s been working on things to make heads spin. But I’ll advise you now. Ask him about it. He trusts you.” “He went to France yesterday, but no one knows for sure why, or even when he’ll be back,” Yemm continued. “But we think that his trip has something to do with an old Department Viktor psychologist. Anatoli Nikolayev. He disappeared from Moscow, and the Russians asked Interpol and the French police to help find him.” “How long ago?” “August.”

“Otto has gone after him, you think?” “It’s possible.” Yemm hesitated. “There are some other things going on here, Janos, that make it important that we find out what Otto’s up to.” Kurcek held up a bony hand. He wore a two-carat diamond ring in a platinum setting on his pinky finger. “I don’t want to hear about it.” Yemm took a floppy disk out of his jacket pocket. “I need your help.” Kurcek refused to take the disk or even look at it. “This is getting into an area that we must not go.” “Come on, Janos,” Yemm said. “I’m asking you as a friend.” Kurcek’s shoulders sagged. He opened his laptop and booted it up. He took the disk. “What’s on this?” “It’s today’s access codes to the CIA’s mainframe, and a half-dozen of Otto’s most recent encryption busters.” Kurcek studied Yemm’s face. “You want that I should go naked into the lion’s den? He’s set booby traps, fail-safes, probably viruses.” “That’s why I asked you to bring a laptop. If you’re compromised, you’ll burn one hard disk, nothing more.” “If he suspects it was me, do you know the kind of trouble he could make?”

Kurcek practically shouted. “Goddammit, this is important. Lives are at stake.” “Yeah, mine.” Kurcek said. He inserted the floppy disk, brought up the screen, then linked with Yemm’s encrypted cell phone.

As soon as the call went through, the CIA’s logo came up. Using prompts provided by the data on the floppy disk, Kurcek got into the Agency’s main frame, and then into the Special Operations territory that Rencke had staked out as his own. Zimmerman had prepared the disk for Yemm, and when he’d handed it over, he shook his head. “I don’t even want to know why you want this,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll deny having anything to do with it.” “Fair enough,” Yemm said. A skull and crossbones appeared on the screen against a lavender backdrop. The skull grinned and began to laugh. “You have ten seconds to get through the first barrier,” Yemm said, Kurcek brought up the first series of encryption busters, his fingers flying over the keys as he tried one after the other. Lines of data flashed across the screen.

The skull’s grin broadened, but suddenly fragmented and flew off the edges of the screen. As the Directorate of Operations, Special Operations, screen came up, a faint voice in the background whispered: “Ah, shit.” “We’re in,” Yemm said. “Not for sure, Richard. This could be a trap. I know Otto.” “We’re looking for an operation called Spotlight.” Kurcek brought up a menu window, and under operations, entered: SPOTLIGHT. Nothing happened. Kurcek tried to back out of the window, but none of his keys worked. However, the cursor was still flashing after the last T in SPOTLIGHT. He backtracked, and the letters began to disappear one at a time. His keyboard hung up again at the letter I. Nothing he tried worked. He said something in Polish that Yemm didn’t understand, and reached to break the phone link to the computer. Otto Rencke’s image came up on the screen first. “Bad dog,”

he said, waving his finger. “Bad, bad dog.” He glanced at something off camera and smiled. “But I know who you ” The screen went blank, and Rencke’s voice cut off. Kurcek sat back. “Were you too late?”

Kurcek shook his head. “I won’t know until he gets back.” His eyes narrowed. “You better talk to him, Richard.” “I’ll do that,” Yemm said. He held out his hand for the floppy disk, which Kurcek retrieved from the computer. “You can throw it away,” he said. “I think that you will find it’s been completely erased.”

As Yemm pulled out of the parking lot he got an urgent call from his office. The Aurora was inbound to Andrews Air Force Base and would touch down within the half hour. It was unknown if Rencke was aboard, but it was the same plane he’d commandeered to take him to France. He had to fight traffic four blocks over to the 1-95 ramp, and then from there to the Beltway East, where he was able to make good time. Otto knew that someone would come snooping into in computer files, and he had been ready for it. Maybe McGarvey would finally see what a few people on the seventh floor most notably Dick Adkins and the deputy director of Intelligence Tommy Doyle had been trying to tell him all along. Otto was a wild card, impossible to control. With the simple flick of his fingers across his keyboard he could crash the CIA’s entire computer system. He had designed it that way. He had even bragged about it. But nobody took him seriously, or nobody cared, because the system worked. And, Otto was a personal friend of the boss’s. Now the situation was totally out of hand. Kurcek would be insulated because the call to the computer mainframe would be traced to Yemm’s cell phone. But what Otto was going to do when he found out that someone from inside the Company was messing with his computers was anyone’s guess. Which left the larger, more urgent problem that Yemm couldn’t get a handle on. It seemed as if there was something just at the back of his head that he should understand; some bit of information, a name or a place; something that would make the situation clear. Someone was trying to kill Kirk McGarvey, and Yemm felt as if he was running through glue in his effort to find the assassin or assassins. The only thing he knew for certain was that the killer was someone on the inside. Someone close to McGarvey. Very close. Yemm showed his identification at the main gate. He drove directly over to the 457th Air Wing, where military equipment and personnel used for special missions by the CIA, NSA, FBI, DIA and other government security agencies were staged. The sleek, all-black supersonic airplane was just taxiing over from the active runway, its canopy coming open when Yemm parked behind a line of start trucks and other maintenance vehicles in the lee of a hangar. The Aurora looked like a hybrid of the B2 bomber and the Concorde SST, with a drooped nose, canard wings and anechoic radar-absorbing skin.

As soon as it pulled to a stop, ground crewmen checked the wheels, while others brought up the boarding ladder. Otto, wearing a dark blue flight suit, was first out. He scrambled down the ladder, peeled off the flight suit and got his small bag from a crewman, who’d retrieved it from a locker forward of the swept-back port wing. He no longer wore the sling on his arm. He gave the pilot a wave, then walked across the tarmac to a line of parked cars. He got into the passenger side of a light gray RAV4 SUV, which immediately backed out and headed to the main gate. Yemm caught a glimpse of Louise Horn in her air force uniform behind the wheel. She’d lied to them. She’d known where Otto had gone and when he would be returning. It’s why she hadn’t sounded all that shook-up about his disappearance. There was no real reason to follow them. Louise would either drive back to their apartment in Arlington first, or she would take Otto directly to Langley. Either way he’d show up out there sometime today. Yemm headed back to his office, even more depressed and confused than he had been earlier. Otto was a friend who might finally have gone around the bend. A lot of geniuses did. The problem Yemm was having the most trouble with was Louise Horn’s involvement. A woman would do anything for her man. But treason and murder?

TWENTY-FIVE

When Otto Rencke entered his office, Louise was immediately placed in a safe corner of his head. Sometimes during the day, when he was troubled, he would take her out, look at her beauty, think about how much he loved her, replay a favorite conversation they’d had, then put her back safe and sound. She had become his escape mechanism, a safety valve. He was back, and she had helped him with that much. He didn’t want to place her in any further danger. He laid the case with his laptop computer on the cluttered conference table and let his eyes roam around the room. Everything was as he had left it. No one had screwed with his things this time. It was a Baranov operation. Otto was sure of at least that much. First General Gennadi Zhuralev, who had been Department Viktor chief of operations in the seventies, had been killed in Moscow. Then Vladimir Trofimov was shot to death in public in front of the Louvre just days ago. He had been Department Viktor chief of staff and Baranov’s personal assistant after Zhuralev had departed.

And Dr. Anatoli Nikolayev, who had worked as a Department Viktor psychologist, left Moscow on the very day General Zhuralev was murdered, and was in France on the day Trofimov was gunned down. It made Nikolayev the key. But no one knew where he was, even though he’d left his calling cards in plain sight for anyone to see. Each spy had his or her particular style of tradecraft; how he ran, his preferred means of conveyance, his weapons, his methods for hiding money trails, his phone calls, letter drops, secret codes. All of his methods taken as a whole marked him as an amateur or a professional, and identified him as surely as his fingerprints or DNA record. Every good spy had two ways in which he or she disappeared. The first was the most complete. One moment he was there, on a downtown street in front of an office complex in Moscow, and in the next moment he was gone. One day he maintained a household: telephone and credit card accounts, banks, book clubs, favorite restaurants and clubs, e-mails, favorite websites.

The next day he disappeared right under everybody’s noses. The second method, more subtle in many ways, was when the spy wanted to be found, but found by the correct people. This disappearing act was like the magician’s lady and the tiger in a locked steamer trunk. The tiger went in, the curtain was raised, and when it was dropped seconds later the lady came out. Now you see it, now you don’t. Except if you had really been on the ball all the clues were there to see. It wasn’t magic, it was nothing more than legerdemain. Otto brought his monitors up. The screens showed the deepest shades of lavender so far. He started pulling up his primary search engines. Spies, like magicians, left clues. Calling cards. In Nikolayev’s case he’d all but taken an ad in a Paris newspaper that he was there. Trofimov’s residence was listed on police reports. His landlady, who was distrustful of cops but fond of money, described the older, white-haired gentleman asking about Trofimov. It cost Otto one hundred francs. She told him about the same book of Louvre tickets she’d told Nikolayev about on the very day that Trofimov had been shot to death in front of the museum.

Nikolayev, using four different aliases, but fitting the same description, had reserved cars at four separate car hire firms, but never showed up. He’d bought tickets at Orly for a flight to Washington, and at Charles de Gaulle for New York. But no passenger manifest showed his name. He’d purchased train tickets to four destinations all over France, from the Gares du Nord, d lEst, de Lyon and d’Austerlitz. But he’d been in a hurry by then. Instead of spreading out around the city as he might have done to muddy his trail, he’d picked pairs of stations that were within walking distance of each other. Four trips in the time of two. Nikolayev was in France, and he wanted to be found by the right people for some reason. People who by now had figured out that he was on the run from Moscow, but not from the West. But why? At each of the car rental offices, airline ticket counters and lost and founds in the train stations, Otto left the same message: Found the novel by B. that you are looking for. He included a secure telephone number. If the Russians or someone else picked up the message and made the call they would learn nothing except that someone else was interested in Nikolayev’s whereabouts. Each of Otto’s special search and analysis programs had its own wallpaper. When the programs were running, but not open for view, the background took on the color of the search, in this case lavender, with a pattern. For Operation Spotlight, his overall analytical program working the Nikolayev problem, the pattern was tombstones that moved in a counterclockwise helical figure. But the pattern was different now. Every fourth tombstone was nipped forty-five degrees out of alignment with the others. Someone had tried to get in. Otto brought up his capture program with shaking hands. Whoever had tried to get into the system had today’s CIA passwords, which allowed them to go from the opening menu all the way into the Directorate of Operations. Then they’d tried to enter SPOTLIGHT. Otto stared at the screen for a long time, trying to envision who knew about that specific operation. It had to be someone on the inside. Right here in the computer center. He glanced at the door. Someone in one of the research cells. But who were they working for? When the intruder had entered the Spotlight directory his search engine was frozen by Otto’s capture program. But they’d been smart enough to not only back out, but to break the link. The intrusion had been made from off-site, from a cell phone calling from outside the building. The in-house telltale was not tipped over. The prefix and first two numbers came up before the connection had been terminated. Otto brought up the one hundred possible numbers, which not surprisingly all belonged to the CIA. Currently, seventy-eight of them were assigned, the bulk of which were used by the Directorate of Science and Technology, which included Computer Services. The others were spread throughout the Agency’s other three directorates.

Somebody in-house was checking on him. Like he couldn’t be trusted.

Like he was a criminal. Like he was a suspect. “Oh boy, oh boy.”

Otto jumped up and snapped his fingers as he paced the room. He was close. But he was frightened. And he thought that he might be going seriously crazy after all. Some of Stenzel’s tests had been terrifying. They’d been so close to cracking open something inside of him that his skin crawled thinking about it. He stopped at the end of the table and stared at the door. “Oh boy.” He suddenly stopped snapping his fingers and looked down at his hands. He saw blood.

Gallons of blood. He stepped back and tried to wipe his hands on his shirt, but still the blood flowed like a river. Over his feet. Above his knees, his waist, his chest. He was drowning in his own blood.

Otto charged out of his office, raced down the aisle between machines and burst into the Office of Computer Security Research. The permanent study research group had been his idea, but it was independent of him now. A half-dozen men and two women were lounging around the large dayroom. They were arguing about a series of complex equations that filled several white marker boards attached to the walls. The room was a mess. They were the Company’s eggheads, who, like Otto, lived in their own worlds. Conventions such as regular mealtimes, cleaned and pressed clothing, haircuts and the like were meaningless distractions.

For them the chase for the most perfect encryption program was life.

Even Otto’s encryption programs could be broken sooner or later. He’d formed the group to come up with ever increasingly complex arrangments.

All we can do is stay one step ahead of the bad guys until we come up with something really nifty, he’d told them. Now they had turned on him. They had become spies. “Who’s been fucking with my computers?”

he demanded from the doorway. The windowless dayroom was furnished with a couple of long tables, a broken-down leather couch, several raggedy easy chairs, a coffee machine and a couple of soft-drink-vending machines. One of them had been filled with beer.

The team looked up in mild amusement. Just lately Otto had been throwing a lot of tantrums. His outbursts were becoming routine. “What are you talking about?” Ann McKenna asked, grinning. She was dressed in jeans, a loose sweater and sneakers. Her long hair was up in a bun, strands flying out everywhere. She looked twenty years older than she was. “Somebody messed with one of my personal programs. Who was it?”

“Did they get very far?” John Trembly asked, curious. He was the head mathematician in the group. “Far enough,” Otto mumbled. It wasn’t anyone here. He could see that now. These kind of people just didn’t know how to dissemble. But it was somebody like them. Somebody smart.

“Interesting proposition,” Ann McKenna said. “Maybe we could backtrack. Set a trap. Even now.”

Otto’s attention strayed to the equations on the blackboard. He stood looking at them, following the logic. But something was wrong. It was sloppy.

“We’re trying something new,” Trembly said.

“Keep it simple, that’s the game,” the other woman, Sarah Loeffler, said. She’d got her Ph.D. in chaos mathematics from Harvard two years ago when she was nineteen. She still had pimples on her round, chubby baby face.

“Stupid, stupid,” Otto said. He went to the first board, picked up a marker and before anyone could stop him, began checking off the correct expressions in the equations, and crossing out and fixing the wrong ones.

***2x = — CR3 + 3CX2R = — C(R2-3X2) 2x R6 R2

2y

2x 2Y 2Z A = + = 0

2x 2Y 2Z

? _ = ^ +A = o 2x2 2y2 2z2

0 is a function such that

Y 20 20 20

— A. - I = — Zj = 2x’ 2y’ 2z’

Otto glanced over his shoulder, then wrote: “Does anybody recognize this?” he asked. “The Laplace equations,” Trembly said irritated. “That’s what we’re working on here. We’re looking for an approach to the three-body problem. Gravitational potential. Might be an avenue to explore as an encryption model. Three-body, then four, then N bodies?”

“If you want to keep it simple then watch your stupid mistakes,” Otto said. “And why fuck with the field equations you’re deriving from Newtonian mechanics? Go to the source, man. Einstein.” He turned, erased all the work from one of the boards and started writing very fast. ox’ = ax cos wt asinwt w(sinwt + ycoswt) a tay = asin wt + oxos wt + w(xcos wt — y sin wt) a t “That’s for two events in a homogenous space,” Otto said. “Come on, guys, basic physics. You can work it from there. But it’ll come to Einstein’s tensor equations for the separation of two bodies. You should be able to use the same mechanism for three bodies or more, if that’s where you want to go with it.” He turned back to the board: gllox2 + g22cry2 + g22 0z2 + g44 at2 + 2gaxay + 2gl3oxoz + 2gaxat +2g23 Tyaz

“Each of the little g’s, eleven through forty-four are ten terms in four-dimensional space.” Otto put down the marker and turned around again. “You want to keep it simple, there it is.” He glanced at his work. “Tedious, maybe. But, oh boy it’s pretty.”

Nobody said a thing. The approach wasn’t particularly novel, and they probably would have gotten around to it sooner or later. But this was sooner. Rencke had pushed the fast-forward button for them.

“Oh boy,” Otto said darkly. He lowered his head and stalked back to his own office. He’d made a fool of himself again. The back of his neck was hot, and he could feel people looking at him. He could almost hear their whispers. Their laughter.

Somebody was waiting for him in his office. Coming around the corner, he spotted the pair of dark brown walking shoes and tan gabardines in front of one of his monitors. “What do you think you’re doing?” Otto demanded, his anger suddenly flaring. They wouldn’t leave him alone.

Dick Yemm had been staring at the lavender tombstone display. He turned around, a Dutch uncle smile on his face. “Waiting for you.

Where have you been?” He was here with bad news or more advice. Otto wanted neither. “Next door. They were having a problem.” Yemm nodded patiently, as if he knew that there was more, and he was willing to wait for it. He was like a cobra, swaying hypnotically, on the verge of striking at any second. Otto never knew what to do with his hands when Yemm was around: stick them in his pockets, fold them over his chest, clasp them behind his back. Of all the people in the Company, Yemm was the most invulnerable now. He was tough, he was aloof and he had the ear of the boss. He was almost always right there at Mac’s shoulder, watching everybody and everything, almost daring something to happen. “It was an encryption problem. None of your business,” Otto said defensively. Yemm shrugged. “You’re probably right,” he said, in the same patient manner. “But that’s not what I meant.” “Then what?

Oh boy, what the fuck do ya want with me?” “Let’s go for a walk. We can go downstairs to the gym. Nobody will disturb us.”

Otto looked at the monitor behind Yemni. The screen showed the lavender tombstone pattern. Yemm hadn’t touched anything.

“It’s about what’s going on around here,” Yemm said. “I need a favor.”

“Okay,” Otto reluctantly agreed.

They took the elevator to the gym, where they sat on the raised platform leading to the showers and the pool. No one was here this afternoon; the Agency was on emergency footing, and everybody was too busy to come down. “We’ve put together a special flying unit to find out who’s after the boss,” Yemm said. Otto looked straight ahead.

“We’re beating the bushes for anything, and I mean anything, that’ll help.”

“I’m working the problem too,” Otto said. “We know that you are. We couldn’t do without you,” Yemm said placatingly. “It’s just that we don’t completely understand what you’re doing.”

“I’m gathering data ”

“On Nikolayev. The one the Russians are looking for. He was an old Baranov man. We’ve got that much. But then we don’t know where you’re taking it.” Yemm spread his hands. He was at his wit’s end.

“Do you think that he’s the one gunning for the boss?” “I don’t know,”

Otto mumbled. They were skirting what to him was the main issue; the only issue. He was scared to death that Yemm would stumble on to it.

“But he does have something to do with it?” Otto nodded. “Okay, that makes sense,” Yemm said. “At least we know why you went to France.

Did you find him?” Something flip-flopped inside Otto’s gut. There was no way that he could let Yemm and his people get to Nikolayev first. There were too many questions that only the Russian had the answers for. Too much was at stake. “No. He might not even be in France.” “He’s there all right. Or at least the Russians are telling anybody who’ll listen that they think he’s there.” “They’re not so reliable anymore.” “Maybe.” “He could be anywhere by now.” Yemm seem to consider this for a bit. But then he looked up. ” you go to France, then? I mean if you didn’t think that he was there?”

“I wanted to make sure.” “Are you sure now, Otto?” Yemm asked. “I mean if you went there, and, as you say, you didn’t find him, how can you be so sure that he’s not there after all?” Yemm’s eyes locked on Otto’s. Otto felt cornered. He was on the edge of panic. “It’s just a feeling, ya know.” “No traces of the man? Not so much as a whiff?”

“Nadu.” A startled expression came across Yemm’s features. “You’re not giving up, are you? Just because you didn’t find him the first time out, doesn’t mean that you have to quit.” “I’m not so sure ” Yemm shook his head. “We know that whoever is trying to kill Mac is working on the inside. Or with some serious help from someone on the inside.

Someone who knows his movements. Knows about his family. So if there is a connection to Nikolayev, then it might be more than a simple case of revenge.” “How do you figure that?” Otto asked. “They wouldn’t have gone after the family, or you. They want Mac to step down, but it’s not revenge. And I don’t even think it’s so simple as somebody not wanting Mac as DCI. I think there’s more to it than that. Some plot, maybe political. I don’t know. But if it was revenge, they’d just put a bullet in the back of his head. Or, since it’s somebody inside the Company, maybe they have access to his complete file. If that got over to the Senate, they’d axe his nomination at the speed of light.” “The Senate is giving him a hard time, and he was almost killed in the islands.” “Hammond and Madden are just going through the motions because they don’t have enough material to stop a presidential nomination, and they know it. And Hans Lollick was crude. Mrs. M. spotted it from the git-go because of the second bag.” “So I’ll keep looking,” Otto conceded. He wanted to be anyplace else except here.

“Nikolayev is the key for now,” Yemm said. “We need to talk to him.

You need to help us find him.” Otto nodded. I’ll do my best.” “I know you will,” Yemm said. “We’re all doing our best.” “Mac is my friend too,” Otto flared. “I don’t want any question about that, ya know.”

“No question,” Yemm said. Otto stood up. “I never had a real family,”

he said. “Is that why you called Mrs. M. to tell her about Elizabeth’s accident?” Yemm’s accusatory tone put a knife into Rencke’s heart. “I didn’t want her to hear it from anyone else,” he shot back defensively. “I knew that Liz was going to be okay.” “Did you know that she had lost the baby?” Otto hung his head, suddenly ashamed, and even more frightened than when Yemm had shown up in his office. “Yes.” “Whyd you have to tell Mrs. M. about that?” “She deserved the truth.” “Yes, I guess she did. We all do.” Yemm watched him leave. It was easy to tell when Otto was hiding something, but impossible to find out what it was. Or even in what direction he was heading. For all they knew Nikolayev and the trip to France could be totally unrelated to each other, and either or both could be smoke screens. False trails. Back in his office Yemm phoned David Whittaker, who was the boss of Operations. Rencke had not requested authorization for the Aurora flight to France, nor had he checked in with the chief of Paris station when he’d arrived. In fact he’d slipped into France and got back out before anyone there had any idea something was happening. “What was he doing over there?” Whittaker asked. “Did you get him to tell you?” “He said he was looking for Anatoli Nikolayev, the one that the SVR has been looking for since August.” “Did he find him?” “I’m not sure,” Yemm said. “But I think that we should keep looking for him. Nikolayev just might have some answers.” “To what?” Whittaker asked, and Yemm had no reply.

TWENTY-SIX

The message left for him at all ten trigger points was the same. Found the novel by B. that you are looking for. 703-482-5555. It was ten at night, and the weather had turned bitterly cold. Standing on the street corner making his calls to Paris he’d become thoroughly chilled.

Hurrying back to his room at the Hotel Le Rivage on the Loiret River, he didn’t know if he’d ever be warm again.

He’d cocked the hammer and the gun had been fired. Not just once, but at every one of his markers. And so soon the speed took his breath away.

But the response was nothing more than he’d asked for. It was a U.S. number, and the area code was for Langley, Virginia. Presumably the CIA.

Alone, as he had been for several years, Nikolayev tried to sort out his mixed emotions. With no one to go to for advice, making up his mind seemed more difficult than it used to be. He was a Libra. The scales of justice. Sympathetic to both sides of every issue.

Indecisive, his wife would have said.

The fact of the matter was that he had worked for General Baranov. He had been a Department Viktor boy. Mokrie dela. Wet affairs. The spilling of blood. But even though they’d all mouthed the patriotic slogans: Long Live the Worker; Down with the Bourgeoisie; The Workers’

Paradise Is at Hand, no one believed such nonsense in their heart of hearts. Look around at the dull, gray, drab cities, if you wanted the proof. Look at the cheerless kollectivs. Think about their dreary existence. But Baranov had offered them a chance to escape. A chance to make a difference in the world. A Russian difference.

Thirty years later they were still picking up the pieces of BaranoVs obsessions. Once started down any path the general could never be turned away.

Over too many vodkas one night he’d told a few friends that he was like the American writer Steinbeck’s motivational donkey. The jackass with the carrot dangling in front of his nose. No matter how hard the donkey tries to reach the carrot he will never succeed. But in the trying the donkey will move the cart forward.

All the names on the Martyrs list were Baranov’s carrots; his obsessions. Now, even after his death, the carrots still dangled, and the donkeys still moved forward.

In this case it was a deadly insanity.

Collectively, Department Viktor had been guilty of horrendous crimes against humanity. But individually each First Chief Directorate employee was guilty of nothing more than doing his or her job to the best of his or her ability. Come to work at seven to have a good breakfast for kopecks on the ruble in the Lubyanka cafeteria; work at a desk until noon when it was time for the second meal of the day downstairs; then back to work until five, when it was home to vodka.

Nikolayev stopped in the deeper shadows across the rue de la Reine Blanche from his hotel and studied the front entrance. The few cars that passed did not linger, nor did the two couples walking arm in arm entering the small hotel seem suspicious. His messages had been found and responded to. But no one had come here. Yet. Up in his small, but pleasantly furnished room he retrieved the first of the three CDs that he had prepared during the several months of his exile from Moscow. They, along with his laptop, a few items of clothing and his heart medicine, which was almost all gone, were all he’d taken from the farmhouse outside Montoire. After Paris it was too dangerous for him to stay there. The concierge was off duty at this hour, but the night clerk phoned for a cab to take him to the nightclub L’Empereur, a few kilometers away down in Orleans. On the ground floor was the bar, one dining room and the dance floor. Upstairs was another, smaller, more intimate dining room, and in front overlooking the street were eight or ten tables, each with its own computer and Internet connection. The charm of the place, for Nikolayev's purposes, was that L’Empereur’s Internet connections went through an anonymous re mailer in the Czech Republic. You could chat to anyone about anything on-line and no one could tell where you were actually located. It was very private, very discreet. He paid the deposit for the computer time, which amounted to the cost of the two-drink minimum, and within a couple of minutes was seated at one of the machines waiting for it to boot up while he stared down at the busy street. France was truly one of the last egalitarian nations. You could be anybody, hold any belief religious or political be of any sexual persuasion and still be welcome in France providing you broke no French laws and paid French taxes if you had an income.

The international reverse directory listed the telephone number as an “Information Blocked,” entry. It was about what Nikolayev expected if the number was a CIA listing. He had the computer place the call. It was answered on the first ring by a machine-generated man’s voice.

“You got my message and now you want to talk. First you need to verify your identity. You are in possession of data that is of interest to us. Send it now. You may follow up in twenty-four hours. If the information is not valid, this number will no longer be answered.” The logo of the Central Intelligence Agency came up on the screen briefly, followed by Nikolayev’s old KGB identification number.

The screen went blank, and a computer connection tone warbled from the speakers.

The fact of the matter was that they were all guilty of Baranov’s crimes. They were all willing participants in his grand schemes. Now, after all these years, he wasn’t going to be allowed his peaceful retirement. His wife was gone, and soon so would his own life be forfeit unless he did something. He was just a frightened old man, but he didn’t want to leave this kind of legacy.

There’d been enough killing in his lifetime. Rivers of blood had been spilled. Enough was finally enough.

Nikolayev brought up the CD drive and pressed the enter key. The computers connected, and within thirty seconds the contents of his disk had been transferred.

He broke the connection, retrieved his disk and headed back to his hotel to wait, not at all sure where he was headed or what the outcome would be.

Hurrying down the aisle between the machines to his office, Otto felt like the French mime Marcel Marceau. He was caught in an invisible box. He could feel the walls and ceiling with his hands, even though he couldn’t see them. And then the box began to shrink. At first he had room to move, but inexorably the collapsing walls began to restrict his movements, making it nearly impossible to do anything, even breathe. In the end he was pressed into a tight little ball of arms and legs, his wide eyes looking out at the world from a cage that was killing him. Someone was in his office looking at the displays on his monitors. He was wearing a gray suit. His broad back was to the door.

“Now who the hell are you?” Otto demanded. “And what the fuck are you doing here?” The man turned around. He wasn’t anyone Otto knew. He was big, like a football player, but he was smiling pleasantly. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, Mr. Rencke. But we need just a few minutes of your time downstairs. If you don’t mind.” “I do mind,”

Otto shot back. “Downstairs where? Who are you?” “Roger Hartley, sir. Internal Affairs. It’s about the air force. They’re usually slow on the uptake, but they’ve sent us a bill. For the Aurora flight.”

Hartley shook his head in amazement. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You authorized the flight, sir,” Hartley said sternly.

“Have Finance pay it.”

“How shall we log it? The flight has to be tagged to a current operation. And there was supposed to be a second signature “

“Special Operation Spotlight,” Otto practically shouted. These kinds of things were never handled this way. They went through channels. He wanted to turn and run away. His ability to control someone was inversely proportional to that person’s IQ. He was frightened of the goons.

“We weren’t given the heads-up. Nobody has heard of such an operation.”

“Well, it’s under the DCI’s personal imprimatur, so if you want to know anything else, you’ll have to take it up with him.”

“If we could just have a file reference, it would help “

“Get out of here,” Otto shrieked. He hopped up and down from one foot to the other. “Oh, man, get the fuck outta here now. I mean it.”

Hartley stepped back in alarm. “Okay, take it easy, Mr. Rencke. We don’t need that information right this instant.”

Otto moved away from the door, keeping the big table between himself and the IA officer. “Just get out of here. I’ve got work to do, man.

No shit, Sherlock. No happy crappy. I shit you not.”

Hartley turned and walked out of the office, leaving Otto vibrating like an off-key tuning fork.

A telephone chirped somewhere, and someone slammed a file drawer or cabinet door. His eyes strayed to his search engine monitors. They were all varying shades of lavender, but on one of them locusts were jumping all over the place.

Nikolayev had found his message and had sent a reply. Already.

Bingo.

Alone with his thoughts, McGarvey stood at the tall windows at the end of the busy hospital corridor from Katy’s room. She had drifted off to sleep again, which, according to Stenzel, was the best thing for her.

It was her brain’s way of protecting itself so that it could heal. Her subconscious was sorting out her conflicting emotions. Or at least the process was beginning. He wished that he could do the same; drop out, turn around and run away, bury himself in some remote European town, set himself up as an eccentric academic. It was a role that he had played to the hilt in Lausanne when the Swiss Federal Police had sent Marta Fredricks to fall in love with him.

Who watches the watchdog? It was a fundamental problem that every intelligence organization faced. And one that every intelligence officer had to grapple with at his own personal level. The business got to some good people burned them out, ruined them, so that when they retired they were no longer fit to stay in the service; nor were they equipped to step so easily into civilian life. “If you don’t have someone you can trust, you have nothing,” his father had advised him when he was having his troubles in high school. “Don’t give in to the Philistines, but don’t close your heart.” He’d mistaken his father’s meaning for years, thinking that the old man had meant that he should find a woman to fall in love with and make a life. He’d tried in college and again in the military, but until Kathleen every woman he’d gotten close to finally repelled him. Either they were idiots, figuring that they could catch a man by playing dumb, or they made it their life’s ambition to transform him into something he wasn’t; into what their ideal man was supposed to act like, dress like, talk like.

When he met Katy all that changed. The first time he saw her, his chest popped open, and his heart fell out onto the floor. She was good-looking, and she was smart. A bit arrogant, somewhat self-centered and opinionated, but so was he all those things, and she was all the more interesting for those traits. In the end, though, after Elizabeth was born, and after his first few years with the CIA and the unexplained long absences and finally Santiago, she had finally tried to change him, mold him to her own ideal image. She gave him the ultimatum: Quit the CIA or leave. He left. His father had been wrong.

Only his father hadn’t been wrong. A few years later, when John Lyman Trotter called him back from an uneasy retirement to unravel a problem at the highest levels within the CIA, he found out the hard way that without trust, without honor, there was nothing. In the aftermath of those difficult times the best DCI ever to sit on the seventh floor was dead, the victim of a General Baranov Department Viktor plot; Kathleen’s onetime lover, Darby Yarnell a former spy himself and a former U.S. senator, lay shot to death in front of the DCI’s house, and ultimately, John Trotter, one of the few men McGarvey had ever trusted, was dead as well at McGarvey’s hands. Trotter had been the ultimate spy within the CIA, the deeply placed mole that Jim Angleton had nearly brought down the Agency trying to catch. His father had been right after all. If you have no one to trust, then you have nothing. That was his life for a lot of years until he came back. Until he and Kathleen remarried, until their daughter came back into his life, until he brought Otto in from the cold, until he surrounded himself with good people. Yemm, Adkins, Dave Whittaker, Carleton Paterson. “Trust,” he said to himself, unable finally to hold back his fears. He couldn’t trust any of them. And yet for his own salvation he had no other choice. He turned as a very large man in a dark suit and clerical collar emerged from the elevator and shambled like a bear up the corridor to the nurses’ station. He wore old-fashioned galoshes, unbuckled, but no overcoat. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, though McGarvey was certain they’d never met. Peggy Vaccaro got to her feet, and McGarvey walked back to her. “Are we expecting anyone?” he asked. “Someone called from Mrs. M.“s church a couple of hours ago, asking about her.” A nurse came out of the station and brought the cleric back. “This is Father Vietski from Good Shepherd Church. He asked if I would verify who he was.” She was grinning.

“He’s okay, as long as you don’t let him get started telling jokes about the Lutherans and Baptists.” “Next time I have a story about evil nurses,” Vietski said. His voice was rich and deep, with maybe a hint of a New York accent. “I don’t want to hear it,” the nurse said laughing, and she left. The priest gave Peggy a warm smile, then turned his gaze to McGarvey, a little sadness at the corners of his mouth. “I’m Kathleen’s parish priest. You must be Kirk McGarvey.” “I don’t think we’ve ever met,” McGarvey said. “But you look familiar.”

“I have one of those faces,” he said. “And maybe you saw one of our church bulletins. Kathleen has been helping out in the office whenever she can.” He glanced at the door. “Will she be all right?” “We hope so,” McGarvey said. “The poor woman has been driving herself unmercifully lately. Trying to be all things for everyone. She can’t go on.” “What do you mean?” McGarvey asked, careful to keep his tone neutral. This was something new, something he didn’t know anything about. “The church,” Vietski replied. He shook his head. “Good Shepherd is falling apart. We need eleven million dollars to rebuild, and dear Kathleen has taken it upon herself to raise the money. All of it.” “I’m sorry, she hasn’t said anything to me about it,” McGarvey admitted. “We’ve had some family problems ” Vietski reached out and touched McGarvey’s arm. “No need to explain,” he said. “All of us have our trials. And I think at times she might be a little ashamed of her faith, if you know what I mean.”

It seemed to McGarvey that the priest was reaching out for his own assurances. It was as if he was trying to draw strength instead of give it. “I don’t think that my wife would have remained with something she didn’t believe in.”

Vietski smiled and nodded. “May I go in for just a few minutes?”

“Maybe later, she’s sleeping now.”

“I won’t wake her, I promise,” Vietski said earnestly. “But just a few minutes. I’d like to sit with her and say a little prayer. I think it would mean something to her.”

McGarvey glanced at Peggy, who raised her eyebrows. Then he nodded.

“Okay.”

Vietski went into Kathleen’s room, closing the door softly behind him.

“He’s a troubled man,” McGarvey said.

“But he seems to care,” Peggy Vaccaro replied. “That’s something.”

The blinds were shut and the room was dark. Kathleen was asleep.

Vietski moved to her side and made a sign of the cross over her head and began to pray, his voice soft, but filled with emotion. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me …”

TWENTY-SEVEN BLOWBACK