The Kill Zone

THIRTY-FIVE

Six miles above the unforgiving winter ocean, Otto Rencke tried to put a cap on his fear. The cabin aboard the Company’s VIP Gulfstream was luxurious compared to the cramped cockpit of the Aurora. But the jet was slow, and Rencke was impatient. The only light came from the open cockpit door. It was four in the morning, and the crew thought that he was sleeping. They left him alone, which is what he wanted, what he needed, so that he could put his thoughts in order. Nikolayev was the key to the puzzle. Otto had known it almost from the very beginning, in August, when the KGB psychiatrist had walked away from Moscow. Some premonition, some inner voice, something inside of his gut started telling him that there was an operation brewing. Sometimes they started that way. A spy drops out of sight. Classified records turn up missing. The authorities in the host country pick up their heads and the hunt begins.

But he hadn’t been one hundred percent sure, so he brought Elizabeth into his confidence. She was in the middle of researching her father’s old files for his CIA biography, so she had become something of an expert on the subject. Nikolayev was an old man, a name out of the Baranov past. He had been a Department Viktor man, which meant that he knew about ruthlessness. And he was suddenly a loose cannon. But he had not dropped out of sight inside Russia, something that was apparently quite easy to do these days. He had come to the West, first to establish a safe haven for himself, then to make contact with the CIA. He had used a supposedly anonymous re mailer to send a sample of his information to the address that Rencke had provided. But it was just a sample. Tantalizing. A glimpse into Baranov’s mind, a mad genius from the past. But useless in terms of finding out who was gunning for McGarvey. Rencke looked at his hands, which were shaking.

He had gone without sleep for a couple of days now, living mostly on Cokes and on black beauties. Another day or so, and he would crash. It was inevitable. Baranov, according to Nikolayev, had set up Network Martyrs, which was a group of sleeper agents in the States. That had been more than twenty years ago. When the time was right for a particular unit of the network to accomplish its task, he would be awakened. One of Network Martyrs sleepers had been reactivated. The target was McGarvey. But after that brief message, Nikolayev no longer responded. He didn’t answer his e-mails. Nor did he reply to Rencke’s queries at the letter drops in Paris that he had established to initiate the first contact. It could be something so simple as Nikolayev’s own death. Perhaps the SVR had found him after all and put a bullet in his brain. Or perhaps he had died of a heart attack; he was an old man. The real mystery were the misdirections, if that’s what they were. If McGarvey was the target of Network Martyrs, and if the sleeper assassin had been awakened, by whatever means, then why hadn’t a simple, straightforward attempt been made on the DCI’s life?

Why target Otto? Why sabotage Elizabeth’s skis in Colorado? And, if the sleeper was a Baranov-trained assassin, why the clumsy attempts on Mac’s life in the Virgin Islands and again just hours ago in front of his house? Were they the missteps of an amateur, Rencke wondered. Or signals that something else was happening. Something that was just outside of his understanding. Rencke laid his head back. Their ETA was 6:00 A.M.” which was 11:00 A.M. in France. Two hours from now. He had time to catch a little sleep. He needed it to keep his head on straight. He was starting to lose track of his logic. Nikolayev’s anonymous re mailer hadn’t been so anonymous after all. The service providers in the Czech Republic were not on the cutting edge. Cracking them had been easy. But not now. He couldn’t think straight. When Otto woke up, the Gulfstream was coming in for a landing at Pontoise Air Force Base outside of Paris.

They were far enough north that the winter sun, even at eleven in the morning, was low in the hard blue sky. But unlike Washington there was little or no snow on the ground. France had had a mild winter. Tough on the skiiers, but easy on everyone else. He popped a black beauty and looked out the window, bleary-eyed, as a dark gray Citroen sedan came across the tarmac and pulled up in front of base operations. When the Gulfstream rolled to a stop and the door was opened, Rencke pulled on his jacket and got his laptop. His head was already beginning to clear, though he felt a little disjointed. “Get some sleep,” he told the cockpit crew. “We’re heading home in a couple of hours.” “What do we tell the French?” Captain John Brunner asked. He’d been called away from what was supposed to have been an early night. But this was part of his job. “They won’t ask,” Rencke said. “But they’ll probably offer you something to eat and a bed at the BOQ. Don’t get too comfortable.” The Citroen’s driver came over and took Rencke back to the car. Like all the officers in the Service de Documentation Exterieure et de Con Pre-Espwnage, Action Service, the young man was built like a Chicago Bears linebacker. He politely held the door for Rencke to get in. A man in civilian clothes was waiting in the backseat. Action Service major Jean Serrou, the man Rencke had contacted yesterday, was not much older than his driver and just as competent-looking. “M. Rencke, I presume. You had a good flight?”

They shook hands. “Yes, but it was a little long.” Major Serrou smiled and nodded. “The Aurora is much faster.” “But not very roomy.

I’ll be taking him back with me,” Rencke said. “If you’ve found him.”

“We have,” Serrou said. He motioned for the driver to head out. “He is staying at a small hotel in Olivet, just outside of Orleans. It is less than one hundred kilometers from here. We can be there within the hour.” “That is very good work, Major,” Rencke said. He was starting to fly a little.

“It was simple once you told us from where he was sending his computer messages.” This was a back channels request, not an official one, from a high-ranking officer of the American intelligence establishment to the SDECE’s Service 5. Not too many questions would be asked. But Serrou did have his people to think about. “Is this the same man the Russians are looking for?”

Rencke nodded. “But they mustn’t know that we have found him. Not just yet.”

“He is a very old man then, not very dangerous?”

“Don’t underestimate him,” Rencke warned. “I hope that you told this to your operators?”

Serrou smiled knowingly. “They are quite well prepared.” The French Action Service was somewhat like a combination of the British SAS and the American SEALs, with a bit of the FBI thrown in. They were well trained and bright. “But tell me, do you expect any trouble?”

Rencke had thought about that on the flight over. He shook his head.

“No. He might even be expecting me. In any event I’ll go in alone. On my own responsibility.”

Serrou shrugged. “As you wish.”

They parked at the end of the block one hundred meters from the small five-story hotel Rivage. It was right on the river, and next door, diners were seated at a very small sidewalk cafe. The sun was high enough now so that it provided a little warmth. Rencke was homesick for his life here. He had been lonely, but content and even happy at times in France. Yet he didn’t want to be doing anything else, except what he was doing; helping his friends. He had a family now. “I have two people posted in a third-floor apartment across the street,” Serrou said. “In addition there are three teams of two operators each circulating on the street. On foot, pushing a baby carriage, driving a delivery van. And I have one team on the river aboard a barge.”

Rencke looked sharply at the Frenchman. “That’s a bit much for one old man.” Serrou shrugged. “So was calling us.” He held up a hand before Rencke could comment. “In the old days when you were fighting with the Russians, we French didn’t mean much to you. So, correctly, De Gaulle kicked your military asses out of our country. He allowed the CIA to remain, but not the military. He was a practical president. And now that the Russians threaten only themselves, you still don’t think much of us.” “I have lived here.” “Yes, and for the most part we had no objections. As long as you did not conduct business on French soil, and as long as you did not endanger French citizens, we were content with your presence. Yours and Kirk McGarvey’s.” He held Rencke’s gaze. “Now we only wish for the truth sometimes. Even perhaps just a little truth.” Rencke glanced out the window at the hotel. A young couple was just coming out. The woman pushed a baby carriage. “Someone tried to assassinate our Director of Central Intelligence,” he said.

“Once in the Caribbean and once again in front of his own house.”

“This is fantastic.” Serrou pursed his lips. “The Russians searching for Dr. Nikolayev, your bringing the Aurora here, and then your telephone call yesterday all begin to make perfect sense.” He looked down the street. The young couple had disappeared around the corner.

“Is he an important man?” “I think he came to warn us,” Rencke admitted. “The SVR wants to stop him from telling his story and thus embarrassing Moscow.” “Something like that.” “Owl,” Serrou said. “So that is why we took this job so seriously. In the end perhaps we will protect him from the Russians.” “Have there been any signs that they’re on to him?” Rencke asked. “No. But we have our eyes open.”

Serrou was assessing Rencke. “Do you still mean to see him alone?” “I think it’s what he wants,” Rencke said. “Has he been out of the hotel?” “Three times since yesterday. Once for his newspapers this morning Paris, Washington, and New York and twice for his meals.” “He hasn’t used the phone, or tried to return to L’Empereur to send another e-mail?” “Non” Serrou said. “He is in three-eleven. At the end of the corridor in front.” Rencke watched the street for a few seconds.

“If he agrees to come with me, we’ll need to get back to Pontoise as quickly as possible.” “We want him out of France. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Rencke mumbled. He got out of the car, crossed the narrow street and walked past the sidewalk cafe to the hotel. He could smell the river mingled with odors from the restaurant. It was very French.

The concierge and deskman looked up but said nothing as Rencke crossed the lobby and took the stairs up to the third floor. He had not brought a pistol, but he had brought his laptop. If Nikolayev did not want to come back to Washington, shooting him would do no good. But perhaps he had something else to download from his computer. It is what he had promised at in his first message. There was more. The third-floor corridor was empty and quiet. Not even the occasional street noise penetrated this far. The air smelled neutral, or perhaps a little musty. Age. The building was probably more than two hundred years old. Rencke went down the corridor to three-eleven and listened at the door. If there was anyone inside, they were being very quiet.

No movement. No sounds whatsoever. He shifted his laptop to his left hand and knocked. Someone stirred inside, and a moment later the dead bolt was withdrawn and the door opened. A tall man, very old and thin, the skin on his cheeks and around his eyes shiny and papery, like blue-tinged parchment, stood there. He wore gray trousers and an old fisherman’s sweater. His thin white hair was mussed, but he did not look surprised. “Well, you’re not a Russian or a Frenchman, which means that you must be Otto Rencke,” Nikolayev said in English. His accent was British, and his voice was whisper-soft, yet Rencke could hear the Russian in him. “I got your message, Dr. Nikolayev.” “And you want more. But you wonder why I stopped sending.” Nikolayev turned away from the door and went to a writing table, where his laptop was open and running. Rencke entered the small room and closed the door, but did not bother locking it. With luck he wouldn’t be here long. “Your re mailer is not very secure.” “I discovered that for myself after the fact,” Nikolayev said. He stood with his back to Rencke, looking out the window, watching the comings and goings down on the street. “Once I sent you the first batch of material I got nervous. I sent myself an e-mail, then traced it to where it originated. It was not easy for me, but I did it. So I assumed others could.” He turned around. “I figured that I had a fifty-fifty chance that it would be either you or my own people coming for me. There are still friends in the Czech Republic who cooperate with the SVR.” “Why didn’t you disappear?” “I was on the verge of it when the French Action Service showed up and threw a cordon around me.” He had a warm smile. “Marvelous young boys. I actually felt safe for the first time since August.”

“Okay. You sent us a message about General BaranoVs Network Martyrs.

Someone has tried to assassinate McGarvey, so here I am. We need your help.” A hint of amusement came into NikolayeVs eyes. “It’s refreshing for a Russian to hear an American ask for help ”

“Don’t jerk me around, Anatoli Nikolaevich,” Rencke said harshly. He tossed his laptop on the bed and brushed the Russian aside so that he could get at his computer. But Nikolayev reached out and touched the escape key, and the screen went blank. “First we will establish some ground rules, as you call them,” Nikolayev said. “It’ll take me sixty seconds longer without your help than with it to get inside your computer,” Rencke told him. “I’ve followed you for six months because a very good friend of mine has been put in a dangerous position. I know what you were, who you worked for and why. So don’t try to bullshit me. You’re shaking in your slippers. First it was Zhuralev in Moscow, then Trofimov in Paris. You’re next.” “You’re right, of course,” Nikolayev said softly. He was struggling with himself. Trying to make a decision that made sense. Yet he was a Russian. And that died hard.

He took two CDs from the writing table’s drawer and gave them to Rencke. “That’s everything I found. Where are you at now?” “I’ll look at these on the way back,” Rencke said. “Somebody is trying to kill Kirk McGarvey, and they’re not going to quit until they succeed.

But a lot of what I’ve come up with doesn’t make any sense yet. It doesn’t fit a pattern.” “Tell me.” “Okay, so Baranov realized twenty years ago that McGarvey was going to be a somebody if he survived long enough. Baranov was a vain sonofabitch, maybe even nuts, so he put a sleeper in the States, and when the time was right the sleeper would be activated and set up the kill. Well, the time is apparently right, so why hasn’t Baranov’s sleeper done the job?” “You said they already tried.” “But it was crude. Everything I’ve learned about General Baranov tells me that he was anything but a crude operator. And there have been attempts on my life, and on the lives of McGarveys wife and daughter and his personal bodyguard.” “And what conclusions are you drawing?” Nikolayev asked. He was an instructor filled with patience for a student. Rencke didn’t mind. “Everybody suspects everybody else.”

“That isn’t so crude,” Nikolayev observed. “It’s what Baranov planned to happen. Are you familiar with the Donald Powers operation and the Darby [Yarnell files?”; “I’ve read them.” | “Vasha was famous for spreading lies and disunity like rose petals on fresh graves. He always managed to include the thorns.” Nikolayev studied I Rencke for a few moments. “You are close to McGarvey, yet you yourself are a suspect. Isn’t that true?” I “Yes.” [‘ “Anyone in his inner circle could be the killer.” “Yes.” “Perhaps even his son-in-law.” It was a bridge that Rencke had not wanted to cross. And now that he had he felt no better than he had before. He shook his head. “Todd’s too young.” “Then it’s someone else. Maybe the SVR in Washington.

Perhaps someone from his past. Someone who twenty years ago might have been a nobody and is now a power in Washington. Or perhaps someone who was a nothing then, and still is a nothing, someone completely out of sight. A janitor, a former lover, a cop with the FBI, an officer inside the CIA.” “It has to be someone on the inside who knows Mac’s movements.” Nikolayev dismissed the objection. “That kind of information is easy to acquire. The CIA, just like our KGB, is filled with holes like Swiss cheese through which the mice scurry.” “I wanted to set a trap,” Rencke said bleakly. “But now ”

“But now you’re not sure of your information,” Nikolayev said. He glanced out the window again. “Do you know what I did in Department Viktor?” “You were a psychologist.” Nikolayev nodded. “I worked on a number of projects in those days with LSD and a dozen other mind-altering drugs. We were trying to perfect the brainwashing techniques that the Chinese had used during the fighting on the Korean peninsula. Deprogramming and reprogramming, mostly. Auto-hypnosis. Reinforcement. Guilt. Hate.

Anger. Gullibility. All the strong human emotions.” “The CIA tried the same thing, but we dropped it. Supposedly your guys dropped it, too.” “Everyone except for Vasha. It was to be his ultimate weapon.”

“Did it work?”

Nikolayev cocked his head as if he was listening for something. Perhaps an inner voice. “It worked,” he said. “With drugs we needed only a few days, a week at most, for the conversions. Some religious organizations have come to use almost the same techniques. We found people who were convinced that something was wrong with them. People who were facing what were, to them, troubling and complex problems. We gave them the simple answers they were looking for. We gave them a sense of belonging, of self-worth, of well-being. In return they gave us their free will.” “Did you have to bring them to Moscow to do it?”

Nikolayev shook his head. “It could be done anywhere. Moscow. Paris.

London. Washington.” He looked down. “It took eight steps with drugs. First, seclusion. No one else was with the subject except for their handlers. Second, was instant intimacy. The subject was given a strong sense of hierarchy. Who’s the boss. Who’s the leader. Who is the one with all the answers. Third, was giving them the instant sense of community. They belonged. Fourth, they were made to feel guilty for everything around them. Fifth, was sensory overload: lights, noise, hot-and cold-water baths, sleep deprivation, hunger, pain. That was the hardest step to accomplish because we were erasing what amounted to the surface manifestations of their personalities. We could never achieve a complete blank slate, we couldn’t go that deep.

But we could wipe the surface slate clean. Of course that set up a lot of serious problems in the subjects. But it didn’t matter to Baranov that we were driving people to the edge of insanity, so long as we accomplished his missions. “When that was accomplished, the subjects were indoctrinated to our way of thinking, which we tested in steps seven and eight. First they had to appeal to their control officer for something, anything, it didn’t matter what. The right to use the toilet, maybe. Then for graduation the subjects would recite their personal testimonies. Who they had become, what their mission was.”

Rencke understood that as smart as he thought he was, he had no answers now. No suggestions. He knew machines, not people. The killers could be anyone. Finding them could be impossible. “That’s horrible,” he murmured. “It’s worse than that,” Nikolayev said, his voice whisper-soft. “Monstrously worse, because the subject is never aware that they had been brainwashed.” “It could be me,” Rencke blurted. He tried to examine what was in his own mind. He’d been going crazy lately. His head throbbed, his legs were weak. Stenzel had looked into his brain and seen… what? He’d seen whatever Rencke wanted the psychiatrist to see. He’d been playing games with Stenzel; or had they not been games. Maybe they were something else. Preplanned.

Implanted in his thoughts. But Louise knew him, and loved him, as Mac did. Wouldn’t they have seen something? “Yes, I considered that it could be the assassin coming here to kill me,” Nikolayev said. He partially withdrew a pistol from his trousers pocket. He’d purchased it a few days ago from a French mafiosa in Marseilles. “But you would already have tried to kill me, and I was ready.” He put the gun back in his pocket. “Did you find names in the files? Do you know who it is?” “All I got was the name of one target. Kirk McGarvey. There are others, but their names died with the general.” “How can we stop them, then?” Rencke asked, still examining his own inner feelings. “We’ll set a trap, just as you suggested,” Nikolayev said. “There is a weakness built into the process. There has to be a permanent pairing; an operative and the control officer. The effects of our brainwashing technique lasts only one week, maybe a few days longer, before it begins to fade. It has to be reinforced. If we can see them together, we might have a chance. We might recognize something.” “They’ll come to Mac. The killer and his control. We’ll arrange it,” Rencke said.

“Nikolayev rubbed his chest. He looked a little pale. “Yes, we will.

You and I, before it’s too late. And when they arrive, we’ll be there.

If we’re careful, they’ll never know that it’s a trap.” “You’ll come back to Washington with me?” “Of course,” Nikolayev said. “It’s why I left Moscow in the first place. To see an end to this.” He pursed his lips. “You were right about something else, too. I am shaking in my boots. I would like to live out the remainder of my life in peace and some comfort.” “That’s all any of us want,” Rencke said, thinking about his father, and especially his mother. It’s all he ever wanted.

Something else occurred to him. “Martyrs suddenly went active.

Something triggered it. What?” “Money,” Nikolayev said. “All these years after Vasha’s death, payments were automatically made from Swiss banks directly to the control officers. They were the ones who had to reinforce the brainwashing every week.”

Nikolayev shrugged. “It was steady money with the promise of even more money when the mission was accomplished.” “So what set it off?” Otto asked. “A team in the SVR has been looking down the old operation tracks for just those kinds of accounts. When they find them, they close the accounts and take the money. Somehow this control officer was warned or found out on his own that his funds were going to be cut off, so he went active, hoping for the big payoff anyway.” “Money,”

Rencke said disparagingly. “Don’t underestimate its power,” Nikolayev said. “Money has always meant even more to a communist than it ever has to a capitalist.”

THIRTY-SIX

McGarvey stood at a bulletproof window in a front bedroom looking down at the cul-de-sac as a somber gray dawn arrived. He smoked a cigarette he’d bummed from one of his security people. Kathleen slept in the master bedroom, two female security officers in the room with her. She was up now. He could hear the shower running. One of the security officers came to the door with a cup of coffee for McGarvey. “Thought you could use this, Mr. Director,” she said. McGarvey took it.

“Thanks. How’s my wife doing?” “She had a pretty good night, sir,”

the young woman said. Her name was Gloria Sanchez. She was dressed in blue jeans and a sweater, and she looked like a high school sweetheart.

Actually she was married with two children and was an expert on the firing and hand-to-hand combat ranges. She was an ex-navy SEAL. “How soon do we get out of here?”

“About an hour to finish getting it organized, sir,” Gloria said. “Will you be wanting breakfast?” “No thanks.” McGarvey gave the street a last glance just as an older gray Chevy Suburban stopped at the checkpoint. The remnants of the van and limo had been removed, and a pair of Montgomery County sheriffs cruisers blocked the entrance to the cul-de-sac. They were checking everyone. The Chevy probably belonged to one of the neighbors or their kids, though he didn’t recognize the car. He walked back to the master bedroom, and Chris Bartholomew, the other security officer, left. The shower had stopped. He knocked on the bathroom door. “It’s me.” “You can come in,” Kathleen said. She was drying herself. Her hair was wet and hung in strings. Her skin was red from the hot water. And she had no makeup on. “You look good this morning,” he told her, and he meant it. She was beautiful. She glanced at herself in a full-length mirror and smiled wryly. “You’re prejudiced.” “Yup,” McGarvey said. He took her in his arms and held her close. She relaxed into him. “I want this to be over with now, Kirk,” she said in a small voice. “Soon.” “I want our life back.”

“Me too,” McGarvey said, and they kissed deeply. When they parted Kathleen shivered. “Tell me that it’s Sunday, we’re all alone in the house, and we’ve got the rest of the day together,” she said. He draped the towel around her shoulders and held her close again for a long time. “We’re going out to the safe house in Cropley this morning.

The girls have packed up most of the things you’ll need. You’ll have to figure out what else you want to take.” She looked up and gave her husband a hard expression, her left eyebrow arched. She did not like people handling her things. “Nobody said anything to me.” “Last night was difficult, Katy.” Her attitude softened. She glanced away. “I’m sorry, I’m being selfish. Those poor people. Dick was a friend.” She looked back. “It has to end sometime, Kirk. We can’t go on like this indefinitely. I can’t breathe half the time. First the helicopter, then the hospital and now this. And Elizabeth and the baby.” She closed her eyes tightly. “Why? What do they want?” “They don’t want me to take the job.” “Then quit,” she shot back. “Not now, Katy. I can’t. Not like this.” “Men,” she said. She started to hum, as if she had been plugged into an electric circuit. Her muscles bunched up.

McGarvey held her tighter. “Easy, Katy,” he soothed. “Security,” he called over his shoulder. “Here,” Gloria Sanchez said a couple of seconds later at the door. “Get Stenzel up here on the double.” He heard her talking into her lapel mic, but he couldn’t make out the words. Kathleen’s strength was increasing. She seemed to be on the verge of an epileptic seizure. Her face was that of a stranger. Her eyes were dilated. Unfocused. Foamy spittle flecked the corners of her mouth. “Stick with me, sweetheart,” McGarvey told her. “Come on, it’s okay. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you.” “Kirk… what’s happening to me?” “You’re having a reaction,” McGarvey said. “Honest to God, Katy, it’ll be okay. I promise you. Please. Come on, Katy, stay with me.” “Help me, for God’s sake, help me,” she shrieked. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets, her entire body went rigid, and her grip on McGarvey’s arms was as strong as a weight lifter’s. Suddenly she went limp and urinated down her legs in a soft stream that puddled on the tile floor. The mask of agony and terror melted from her face, and she blinked as if she were coming out of a daze. McGarvey picked her up and took her into the shower. He turned on the warm water with one hand, and gently soaped her body, cleaning her. She could only hold on to his arm for support, almost completely incapable of helping herself. When he was finished, Gloria was there with a towel.

Together they got Kathleen dried off. McGarvey picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, where Gloria threw back the covers. He got her into the bed and pulled the covers up. Kathleen was shivering again, but she wasn’t convulsing. Stenzel appeared in the doorway, took one look, then came over and brushed them aside. He checked Kathleen’s pupils and took her pulse. “What the hell is happening to her?” McGarvey demanded. “It’s a delayed reaction from last night,”

the psychiatrist said. “She’s gone into overload.” He prepared a syringe with twenty-five milligrams of Librium, swabbed Kathleen’s right arm, and administered the drug. She watched everything he did, but she didn’t fight him. “We can’t take her back to Bethesda,” McGarvey said. “No, but I’m going with her,”

Stenzel replied. He checked her pupils and pulse again, and grunted in satisfaction. “How are you doing, Kathleen?” She smiled wanly.

“Better now,” she answered. She looked over at her husband and at Gloria Sanchez, and gave them a smile. “Sorry. I’m not as strong yet as I thought I was.” “You’ll be okay now,” Stenzel told her. He tucked her bare arm under the covers. “I want you to relax for a little while.” “But I’m not tired,” she objected. “I know. But I want you to take it easy. Just for a half hour or so. Will you do that for me?” She nodded. “Sure.” She closed her eyes. She was asleep almost immediately. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep her on track,” Stenzel told McGarvey out in the hall. “She needs to be hospitalized. In a clinic somewhere where she can get some proper rest.” Chris Bartholomew got a towel from the guest bathroom down the hall and gave it to McGarvey. “Thanks,” he told her. She nodded and went into the bedroom to help with Kathleen and help clean up. “We have to get past this first,” McGarvey said. He felt impotent to stop the threat to his family and what it was doing to them all. Yet he could not back away. He couldn’t run. Not this time. “I know. But the sooner that’s done, the sooner I can start to help your wife.”

“What’s wrong with her, Doc?” A troubled, pensive expression came over the psychiatrist’s face. “She’s ” He shook his head. “I don’t know.

She has the classic symptoms of a half-dozen psychoses, but not all the symptoms of any one of them. Deepened emotions, grandiosity, depression, bouts of violence and abnormal muscle strength, irritability, hallucinations, seizures, paranoid suspicions, loss of libido followed by hyper sexuality Stenzel spread his hands. “I don’t know.” “Will she be able to travel in an hour?” “She’ll be sedated.

Not out of it, but calmed down. The move shouldn’t disturb her.”

Gloria Sanchez came out of the bedroom. Kathleen was already up. She had put on a robe and stood in the middle of the room looking at them.

She was smiling timidly. “Tony has a priest at the front door, says he would like to see Mrs. McGarvey. His name is Janis Vietski of Good Shepherd Church here in Chevy Chase. He checks out.” “I know him,”

McGarvey said. “Tell him that we appreciate his coming over, but not now.” “Yes, Kirk,” Kathleen said. “Please. It would mean a lot to me before we leave.” McGarvey looked to Stenzel for an opinion. The doctor shrugged. “Can’t hurt,” he replied in a soft voice that wouldn’t carry. “Might even help calm her down.” “Would you like to get dressed first?” McGarvey asked his wife. “No. I’d like to talk to Father for just a minute, then I’ll get ready, and we can leave.” She seemed to be brittle and withdrawn. But that was to be expected.

McGarvey gave Gloria the nod. “Have him come up.” The security officer said something into her lapel micA minute later Father Vietski, looking something like a shaggy bear with longish dark hair and beard, a stained black jacket and clerical collar, and unbuckled winter boots appeared at the head of the stairs. He laid his topcoat and hat on a chair and shambled over, a look of sympathy on his pleasantly broad Slavic peasant’s face. He didn’t appear to notice that McGarvey was wet. “Mr. Director, I came right over the moment I heard the terrible news,” the priest said, shaking McGarvey’s hand. His voice was rich and warm, concerned. “God bless us all that you and Mrs. McGarvey were not injured.” “Thank you,” McGarvey said. He’d never really examined his faith, although he knew that he sided with Voltaire in his distrust of organized religion. But Katy got comfort from the Church. At this point that meant a lot to him. And Vietski seemed to have a genuine regard for her. The priest noticed Kathleen standing in her robe in the bedroom. “My dear sweet Kathleen, what has happened to you?” he said warmly. With eyes for no one else but her, he entered the bedroom, waited until the security officer got out, then closed the door. “Five minutes, then I want him out of here,” McGarvey told the security people.

“Yes, sir.”

“When he’s gone, I’d like you to help her get ready to travel,”

McGarvey said. “I’m staying with her,” Stenzel said. “Good,” McGarvey replied. “Now, where’s Jim?” Jim Grassinger had taken over as head of McGarvey’s security detail. “He’s in the dining room. You need to get out of those wet clothes, sir,” Gloria Sanchez said. “I will,”

McGarvey said. He gave her a smile. “Thanks for your help.” “Yes, sir.” McGarvey changed clothes, then went downstairs. He stopped in the front hall. Everything was unraveling around him. Katy’s disintegration and seizure. Liz and the baby. And last night Dick Yemm’s death. That part should not have happened. The security team in the van was too good to let someone in an unknown car get that close to them. And Yemm should have known better than to barge into the van the way he had without backup. The Bureau had found no trace of the blue Mercedes that Kathleen had seen from the window. But when they did finally run it down it would help clear up some of the mystery.

Grassinger was in the dining room with three other security officers.

Detailed maps of the Washington area, including the small town of Cropley a few miles up the Potomac from the capital, were spread out on the table. Grassinger, a tall, square-shouldered, serious man was on the encrypted phone to Operations at Langley. “I’ll get back to you,”

he said. He broke the connection. “Gloria tells me that we can get out of here within the hour,” McGarvey said. “What’s the drill?”

“We’re driving you and Mrs. McGarvey out to Cropley in the spare limo.

The long way.” “Norm Stenzel will be riding with us.” “Okay, Dr.

Stenzel, too, plus two security people and your driver,” Grassinger agreed. “We’ll do a number of switchbacks and feints, which will give our chase cars room to make sure that we get out clean. We’ll have two helicopters in the air, at a distance, to help cover our tail as well.

But everything is going to be discreet. Nothing will appear to be out of the ordinary.” “What if there’s trouble?” “We call for backup and head to whichever is closer at that moment, Langley or Cropley.” “How about Todd and Elizabeth?”

“Nearly the same drill, Mr. Director, except that Van Buren will drive his own SUV out to Cropley, using a number of switchbacks. There won’t be any security in the car with him and your daughter, but there will be chase cars and a helicopter aloft to make sure they run into no trouble. They’ll arrive at Cropley thirty minutes ahead of us.” “Any reason for that?” “Sir, Todd wants to make a quick sweep of the property himself before you and Mrs. McGarvey get out there.” “That’s fine,” McGarvey said. “I want your people to remain out of sight. This is going to be as low-key a move as we can make it.” “Yes, sir, that’s what we figured. There’s no use advertising what we’re doing.”

McGarvey had always taken a hand in his own safety. But now in his position he had to rely on others to make sure the job got done right.

He didn’t like it. One of the security officers was on the phone. He touched the mute button. “Mr. Director, the President would like to speak to you.” “Do you want us to get out of here?” Grassinger asked.

“No,” McGarvey said. He took the phone and touched the MUTE button.

“This is McGarvey.” “Please hold for the President, sir,” Haynes’s secretary said. The President came on. “Good morning, Kirk. How are you doing?” “Good morning, Mr. President. We’re hanging on. But I’m going to be gone from Washington for a few days. I’m taking my family to a safe house.” “After last night, that’s a good idea,” the President said. “I want you to consider something while you’re gone.

I want you to think about withdrawing your nomination. Linda and I know what you and Kathleen are going through, and we would not blame you if you stepped away. Hell, having Hammond and Madden on the warpath is bad enough, but this now, attacks not only on you but on your family, is beyond the bounds.” “Thanks for the offer, Mr.

President. But when I quit it won’t be like this.” “I understand.

What can I do to help?” “Keep Senator Hammond off my back until we get this settled,” McGarvey said. He’d given the problem some thought.

“He’s still got a pipeline into the CIA. He’s coming up with information that’s only discussed between me and my directorate chiefs and their immediate staff. We’re trying to plug the leak now. But if you could invite him over to the Oval Office and have a chat with him about the facts of life, it might help. I don’t want him to know where I’ve taken my family. If he inadvertently lets something slip, it could get to the wrong people.” “Consider it done, Kirk,” the President said. “How long do you think that you’ll be out of action?” “Not long.” The President was silent for a moment. “I’m not going to ask how you know that. So I’m just going to wish you good luck. If there’s anything else, anything at all, that I can do for you, let me know. It’ll be done.” “Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate that.”

This was one president who was as good as his word, McGarvey thought.

David Whittaker was in his limo on the way to CIA headquarters when the locator caught up with him. When he answered the car phone he sounded cranky. Like the rest of them he had been up all night dealing with the aftermath of the latest attack. “How’s traffic on the Parkway this morning?” McGarvey asked. “Shitty as usual,” the acting DDCI replied.

“How’s it going out there?” “We’re getting set to head out to Cropley,” McGarvey said. The green light was on, indicating their call was encrypted. “Have you heard from Adkins?” “He’s back home with the girls,” Whittaker said wearily. “Ruth passed away last night.”

McGarvey lowered his head and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, David. I didn’t know that she was that bad. How’s he holding up?” “He’s taking it hard, Mac. And he’s going to want to come back fairly soon. Work’s the best antidote for some people.” Life was sometimes not very fair.

And just now there were a lot of problems piling up all around them.

“One thing at a time,” McGarvey said. What he did not need was a grieving Deputy DCI on the seventh floor. Especially not one who might be a suspect himself. “What do I tell him?” “I’ll take care of it,”

McGarvey said. “He’s a friend-” “He’s my friend, too,” McGarvey flared. “But we have a job to do. All of us, especially you. The world hasn’t been put on hold just because somebody is gunning for me.

And neither is the Agency going to be put on hold.” McGarvey glanced at Grassinger and the others, who were studiously poring over the maps.

“Have I made myself clear?” “Perfectly, Mr. Director,” Whittaker replied. His tone was frosty.

“Good,” McGarvey said. “I want you to talk to Otto this morning. He was shook up, but he said that he had an idea for a trap.”

“He took the Gulfstream back to France last night. Lynch said he’s already in-country.”

McGarvey wasn’t surprised. “I think that he’s trying to make contact with Nikolayev. Have Paris station keep an eye on him, but tell Lynch not to interfere.”

“All right.”

“Let me know as soon as he gets back to Washington. And in the meantime I’ll want regular staff reports. We can teleconference over the secure TV link. I’ll let you set up the times. Anything above the line occurs, I want to hear about it immediately. I’m going to Cropley, not Mars.”

“Yes, sir,” Whittaker said. He hesitated. “Mac, I understand about Dick. It’s a tough call, but you’re the one in the hot seat. We’re all with you. One hundred percent. And not just until this situation is resolved. I mean for the long haul.”

“Thanks, David. It’s good to hear that.”

Kathleen refused to be bundled up in a blanket, or in any other way pampered. “I’m worn-out, I’m not a cripple,” she said crossly. She and McGarvey sat in the backseat of the limo. Stenzel and Gloria Sanchez sat in the facing seats, and Grassinger drove with Chris Bartholomew riding shotgun. Media trucks and vans were parked along the side of the street almost all the way back to Connecticut Avenue.

Chevy Chase police and Montgomery County sheriffs units held the reporters at bay and kept them from taking up the chase. The limo’s windows were tinted so that no one could see inside, anyway. And fifteen minutes earlier, one of Grassinger’s people had delivered a one-page news release promising that the DCI would hold a news conference at Langley sometime later today. “It’s a feeding frenzy,”

Stenzel observed, as they were passed through the checkpoint. They headed north on Connecticut Avenue toward the Beltway and sped up. The news media had finally gotten onto the story that at least two attempts had been made on the life of the director of the CIA, the latest attack in front of his house.

“It’s been a slow season,” Gloria said. “One good thing with all this attention, no one in their right mind would try to do anything,”

Stenzel said. Gloria shook her head. “I hate to disagree, Doc, but this sort of confusion can work as a very good cover.” It had begun to snow again. When they reached the Capital Beltway and turned west, Kathleen turned and watched out the window. The trees and the hills were being covered with a fresh blanket of snow that made the world look clean and pretty, like a Currier and Ives Christmas lithograph.

She was smiling, but she said nothing, and McGarvey was content just to look at her. One other time in their marriage he had been as frightened of her fragility as he was now. It was a couple of days after Elizabeth was born, when they brought her home to their small apartment in the city. Kathleen’s pregnancy had been a normal one, no emergencies, no terrible cravings or debilitating morning sickness. But it had been long, and they were both glad the night her labor pains began and her water broke. McGarvey had done her breathing exercises with her so earnestly that night, that he had hyperventilated and almost passed out waiting for her to get ready to go to the hospital.

In those days, in a lot of hospitals, prospective fathers were not allowed into the delivery rooms. They had to remain in the waiting rooms, pacing the floor, having no idea what was happening until a nurse came out to tell them. When they got home with Elizabeth, Mac Garvey and Kathleen were determined to be the perfect parents, despite McGarvey’s job with the CIA that was starting to take him away from home for long periods. Kathleen did not breast-feed, so McGarvey was able to help with the bottles and formulas. He had also practiced changing diapers on a doll that Kathleen had bought for him. The first time that it was his turn, Kathleen was in the kitchen doing the formula. He went into the baby’s room and stopped in the doorway. The shades were drawn and the room was in semidarkness. Liz was awake and mewling softly, but not really crying yet. He could clearly remember her baby smell, how tiny beads of perspiration formed on her rosebud lips. She scrunched up her face and looked at him as if she knew who he was and exactly why he had come to her crib. She was bundled up in a pink blanket. He laid out the tiny diaper and baby powder, undid the blanket and started to undo the bottom of her night shirt when he felt something on her stomach. He reared back in a sudden, absolute panic. His and Katy’s biggest concern throughout her pregnancy was that she would lose the baby, miscarry. But another concern for McGarvey, one that he never shared with Katy, and one that kept him awake nights during the nine months, was that the baby would be born malformed. With a club foot, or a harelip, or blind, or with too many fingers or toes or arms. He gently felt the front of Liz’s nightshirt, and it was still there. A tiny lump in the middle of her belly. Sticking straight up. His worst fears were true. Somehow Katy hadn’t seen it, and the doctor and nurses hadn’t said anything. Or maybe they all knew and were afraid to tell him. Liz had something growing out of her belly. It was a third arm. He was convinced of it.

Some tiny, but horribly grotesque growth out of her body. He looked over his shoulder at the open door. Katy was just down the hall. How in God’s name could he tell her about this? He was the father. This was his fault. He was one hundred percent convinced of it. The shame was almost more than he could bear. His heart hammered as he carefully untied Liz’s nightshirt and pulled it back. He had to see. He had to know so that he could figure out how to break it to Katy. For several seconds he stared at his daughter’s rounded belly. A small bandage had been placed on the end of the tied-off umbilical cord. He looked at it, and he knew exactly what he had felt, and the mistake he had stupidly made, and yet he had a very hard time coming down. His heart pounded all the way through the diapering. When Katy came back with the bottle she stopped in the doorway, a smile on her face, just like her smile right now looking out at the fresh snow. McGarvey looked up at her. “She’s perfect,” he said. “So are you,” Kathleen had told him. He had never told her about that incident. And, he figured that if he searched his memory he could probably come up with other things that he hadn’t told her. When this situation was resolved, he promised himself that he and Katy would start over. Really start over this time. Grassinger took the Beltway Bridge across the river back into Virginia and immediately turned south on the George Washington Memorial Parkway to the CIA. Chris Bartholomew was in constant encrypted radio contact with Operations, who kept up a running report on the traffic behind and in front of them.

There were a number of news media vans and trucks at the front gate as the DCI’s limo was passed through. Grassinger drove directly across the Agency’s grounds to the south exit, on Pike Road, which led back to the Beltway. They recrossed the river, still clear according to their chase units. Grassinger drove north to River Road, which was Highway 190, and turned west toward the town of Potomac. He was making a big circle around Cropley. He was taking no chances with the DCI’s safety.

Chris Bartholomew turned around. She was from Wisconsin and tiny, just making the Agency’s minimums for height and weight. Her husband argued that good things came in the smallest of packages. Everyone in the Office of Security agreed. “Mr. Van Buren and your daughter are at the safe house, Mr. Director,” she said. “They had no trouble.”

“Good,” McGarvey replied. “What’s our ETA?” “We’ll be there in about twenty minutes,” Grassinger told him. “I’ll let Mr. Van Buren know-“

“No,” McGarvey said. “You may tell security on the grounds. But no one else.” Grassinger gave him an odd look in the rearview mirror.

Chris Bartholomew didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, sir,” she said. She turned back to the radio. Kathleen ignored the exchange. It was the Librium that Stenzel had given her. The drug made her docile. “Is there something we should know about, Mr. Director?” Gloria Sanchez asked. “There might be bugs in the house,” McGarvey said lamely.

“Besides, there’s staff out there.” “The house was swept about an hour ago, and we sent the staff away four days ago, sir,” she said. “The only people with Todd and your daughter now are John Blatnik’s team.

Four inside and six outside. They’re rotated by pairs every two hours.” “It’ll be a moot point in twenty minutes,” McGarvey said, closing the conversation. Gloria nodded, and Stenzeps attention remained fixed on Kathleen. McGarvey turned back to his thoughts. He’d made an automatic decision that he refused to examine. The problem he’d faced all of his life was when you don’t trust your friends and the people nearest to you, who can you trust? Who should you trust when you have to place your personal safety into the hands of relative strangers? This was an odd and troubling time. For the first time in his life he was coming face-to-face with himself, with what made him tick. He hadn’t come up with any of the answers to the dozens of questions he was asking himself, or at least he wasn’t coming up with any answers that made much sense. He could not reconcile his first instinct to run with his extremely strong sense of responsibility for the people he loved and for the weaker people around him. Had Senator Madden pressed him on the incident in high school with the football bullies, he would not have been able to tell her the real reason he’d stepped in. It had been something automatic. Despite the opinion of the people in the Agency and in several White House administrations he’d served under, he was not a hero. He was a pragmatist, a realist, probably an egoist someone who was self-centered, arrogant, conceited, even selfish. Maybe all that, but he could not think of himself as a hero to anyone, for the simple reason he had no earthly idea what heroism was. Voltaire, among others, had hinted that egoism, which McGarvey figured was his driving trait, was the idea that morality, in the end, always rested on self-interest. McGarvey wasn’t a hero; he was simply a man who did not know how to follow orders, a man who valued his opinion above the opinions of almost everyone else, but a man who did not know how to give up. When he ran, it was always to find a new ground on which to fight his battles. Not much of a prize for Katy and Liz, he thought. But it was all he had to give them, and he did love them with everything in his soul. Grassinger came to the snow-covered gravel road that led away from the federal parkland along the river, one mile to the house around 9:00 A.M. The forest was thick with tangled underbrush that even in winter provided a lot of cover.

The house looked as if it had been plucked from a Kentucky horse farm and transported here. It was complete with expansive lawns, white wooden fences, paddocks, horse barns and an indoor riding arena, as well as other outbuildings. A couple of years after the Aldrich Ames case had broken, another criminal in the CIA had been discovered. This one didn’t make the news because he hadn’t sold out to the Russians.

Instead, he had ripped off the Agency for something over four million dollars by tapping into several of the CIA’s offshore operating funds accounts. The Cropley house nestled on one hundred acres of forested hills, had been his. Now it belonged to the CIA. Anonymous and therefore safe. There were fresh tire tracks in the still-falling snow, and some footprints leading from the house back into the woods, but no activity that they could see driving up. It wasn’t until McGarvey got out of the car that he smelled the woodsmoke coming from a fire on the living room hearth. Smoke began to come out of the broad chimney. Somebody had just laid the fire. John Blatnik, the chief of on-site security, came around the east corner of the house, speaking into his lapel micHe had a Colt Commando slung over his shoulder. He looked very serious in his white parka and snow boots. “Welcome to Cropley, Mr. Director,” Blatnik said. Like a lot of men in the Office of Security, he looked like a linebacker. “Mr. Van Buren and your daughter are inside.” Stenzel and Gloria Sanchez helped Kathleen out of the limo. She was almost asleep on her feet. “I’m putting her to bed right now,” Stenzel said. “Put her in the master bedroom,”

McGarvey told them. “Upstairs, in the back.” Kathleen gave him a flaccid smile, and Stenzel and Gloria took her inside. Todd came out of the house. “Hello, Mac. Any trouble on the way out?” “No. How’s Liz?” “She didn’t get any rest last night. But she promised to get some sleep as soon as she saw her mother and talked to you.”

Grassinger stepped away to speak to Blatnik, but Chris Bartholomew remained a few feet away from McGarvey. She’d unbuttoned her jacket.

“What’s the situation here?” McGarvey asked. He wasn’t ready to go into the house yet. “Tony’s got some good people working for him. The house is secure. They have the infrared and motion detectors up and running around the perimeter, as well as the built-in stop sticks and explosive charges on the driveway. And they’re adding two lines of claymores on either side of the driveway to give us another layer of defense. We’ve mounted infrared sensors on the roof as well as a remotely operated portable radar unit behind the barn. It’s not very big, but I’m told it’ll give us a good warning of anything incoming.”

“That depends on how badly they want to hit us,” McGarvey countered.

Van Buren nodded. “But they have to find us first.” He looked toward the tree line. “Short of stationing the National Guard out here, we’re about as safe here as we’d be anywhere else.” They went into the house, where McGarvey was introduced to four of Blatnik’s security people. They were all young, and were friends of Todd and Liz, so they were taking this situation personally. Someone brought the bags in from the car and took them upstairs. Elizabeth came down before McGarvey could go upstairs to see how

Kathleen was doing. His daughter looked battered. Her face was puffy and terribly bruised. She walked hunched over and stiff because of the pain. But when she saw her father she managed to smile.

“Hi, Daddy,” she said.

He took her in his arms and gently held her for a few moments, a lump in his throat. The bastards had hurt his baby girl. They had killed his granddaughter. They would pay. God, how they would pay.

“You should be in bed,” McGarvey told her.

“Later,” she said. “Has Otto found Nikolayev, yet?”

“He went back to France to look for him. How long have you two suspected that something was going to happen?”

“Since early September, but we weren’t sure of anything.” She looked inward and shook her head. “I wish we had said something. Maybe none of this would have happened. But we just didn’t know.”

“They would have found another way,” McGarvey said. “But, yes, you and Otto should have given us the heads-up. We could have put some more resources on it.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Elizabeth said, her eyes brimming. She was angry with herself for being so weak. Her internal struggle was plain on her face. “I left a disk for you in the front study. It has everything that we managed to come up with.”

“I saw Otto’s copy,” McGarvey said. He glanced at his son-in-law, who looked as if he was ready to rip the arms off someone. Anyone. “I’m sending Todd back to Langley to wait for Otto.”

“I want to go, too,” Elizabeth said.

“Don’t be a dumbbell,” Todd told her.

She flared, but backed down. “He’s a friend of the family, so don’t go playing macho man.”

“He’s my friend, too,” Todd told her.

Grassinger had come in with Blatnik. “Right,” he said. “I’d like to hold a security briefing now, then I suggest that we all settle down for a few hours. It’s been a long night, and it could get even longer.”

McGarvey was tired, but Grassinger’s security briefing had been short and to the point. Anything within a mile or two of the house was in detectable range. That included vehicles passing on the highway and anything in the sky. The first lines of defense were the perimeter sensors and alarms. The second line were the stop sticks that would shred tires and the explosives that would shred bodies. The final line was the house itself, which had bulletproof polycarbonate windows, steel-reinforced doors and a bombproof safe room in the basement. The phone and electrical lines were encased in flexible steel sheaths and buried deeply. In addition there were wireless links to the outside world from every room in the house. And there were silent alarms connecting to the CIA, FBI, Maryland Highway Patrol, and Montgomery County Sheriffs offices. Terrorists had breached the house a couple of years ago, but the security measures had been considerably beefed up since then. Such an attack could not succeed this time. Yet everyone felt gloomy. It was a bunker mentality that was almost as bad as it had been for some people in the aftermath of the World Trade Center attacks. McGarvey had seen the mood in the eyes of his staff during the afternoon’s teleconference. And he could hear it in their voices as he spoke to them at various times during the interminably long day.

Fred Rudolph from the FBI was having no luck tracking the blue Mercedes, at least not in the immediate area of Washington, D.C.” so the search had gone nationwide. Nor were there any signs that the Russian intelligence operation in Washington and New York was getting back to normal. “Runkov and everyone else are hunkered down and staying there,” Rudolph said. “It’s unprecedented. They know something that we don’t, but they’re not talking to us.” McGarvey looked in on Kathleen after lunch but she was still sound asleep.

Stenzel said that she might sleep the rest of the day and through the night. “It would be the best thing for her,” the psychiatrist said.

He came down to the kitchen with McGarvey to get something to eat. The refrigerator, freezer and pantry were well stocked, but no one had developed an appetite for much of anything other than coffee and sandwiches. Elizabeth came in from the study. “I just talked to Todd.

Otto is on his way back. Nikolayev is with him.” “When do they get here?” “Late tonight,” Elizabeth said. “I talked to Tom Lynch, too, and he said everything went well. The French were cooperative, and there was no trouble whatsoever.” “That’s good to hear. Can we talk to Otto in the air?” “I tried. He’s probably turned off his phone for some reason, so unless you want to call the crew on an unsecured channel, we’ll have to wait until they get here.” “We’ll wait,”

McGarvey told his daughter. “I want Todd to call me the minute they land. Nikolayev can be put up in the VIP quarters at Andrews until we find out what he knows.” “It has to be something, Dad. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bugged out of Moscow the way he did, and the SVR wouldn’t be so hot to find him.” “We’ll see soon enough,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime, did you get any sleep this afternoon?” “A couple of hours,” she said. “I’m too keyed up.” “Nightmares?” Stenzel asked gently. She shot him a defiant look. But then nodded. “I’m holding my baby and someone is coming to take her away from me.” She lowered her eyes. McGarvey almost lost it. Like Todd, he wanted to lash out, to rip off somebody’s arms. But he didn’t have a target. Yet. “I can give you something,” Stenzel suggested, but Elizabeth shook her head.

“No drugs,” she said. “At least I know the nightmares are my own.”

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” McGarvey asked her. “Physically, I mean.” “A lot better than I think I should.” She gave Stenzel another defiant look. “How about going for a walk?” Grassinger came to the kitchen door. He gave McGarvey a nod. “Now, but not after dark, Mr.

Director.” “A short walk,” McGarvey told his daughter. They got their coats and boots, and when they were dressed, McGarvey transferred his Walther PPK into an outer pocket. Elizabeth also carried the compact German police pistol, and she put hers in an outside pocket, too. The snow had stopped for the moment, and it had turned sharply colder, so they could see their breath. They started off behind the house toward the riding arena that was housed in a long, corrugated metal building that was even bigger than the barn. The only footprints in the snow along the path were their own. The sky was dark and low, casting a gloomy pall over the dark woods and gray fields. “I was starting to get claustrophobic in there,” Elizabeth said. “I know how you feel,”

McGarvey replied absently. He couldn’t stop thinking about her nightmare. “What’s wrong with Mother?” she asked.

“She’s overloaded with everything that’s been happening ”

“That’s not true,” Elizabeth cut him off. “Not Mother. She’s stronger than that.

A lot stronger.” “I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” McGarvey admitted tiredly. “Hell, even Stenzel doesn’t know for sure. She’s had every test in the world, and they’ve all come up negative. There’s nothing physical that they can find.” “She acts like a zombie one minute, and completely normal the next. I’m telling you that being around her is like being in the Twilight Zone. She’s my mother, and yet she’s not. She’s like a stranger.” They stopped. “Part of it is because of what happened to you in Vail. It tipped her over the edge.”

Elizabeth looked inward. “Todd said that she called the hospital a bunch of times. He said she was like a crazy woman.” “I know, sweetheart. All we can do is get over this hump, then we’ll get her some help.” Elizabeth touched her father’s sleeve. “Is this almost over?” He looked into her eyes, which were older than her years. He gave her a reassuring smile. “Soon, Liz. Real soon. I promise.”