The Kill Zone

NINE

Nikolayev walked along the country road into town as the sun reached over the distant line of poplars marking the edge of the wheat field He encountered no one this morning. Loneliness, he decided, was a subject on which he could write a very long book. Now there wasn’t even a routine to look forward to as he grew older. He could not return to Moscow, nor would he be able to remain here much longer. Sunday’s edition of the New York Times, Washington Post and Le Monde, carried the same story. Each newspaper had given the facts its own spin: the liberal press was against McGarvey’s appointment; the conservative was for it; and the French press was confused but angry. It was always anger that seemed to fuel the public debate; especially the international dialogue. Nikolayev could have refused to read the newspapers. Not listen to the radio, or watch television, especially not CNN. But the facts would have been there all the same, and he would know it. Like the feral cat crouched in front of the rabbit; the predator did not need to read a book to smell the fear. The ability to sense the real world was built in, and perfected by years of experience. Nikolayev heard the church bell tolling the hour in town.

Turn away. Now, before it’s too late. In the night he felt them at his back. Coming for him. There would be no arrest for him, though; no cell at Lefortovo, no torture, no drugs, no sewing his eyelids open, rubber hoses up his anus, glass rods shattered inside his penis. They were coming with Russian insurance his nine ounces a nine-millimeter bullet to the base of his skull. “Comrade Nikolayev?” He stopped and turned, but no one was there. Only the farm fields, the trees, the white clouds in the blue sky, the empty road and the church bell. The voice had been Baranov’s. He recognized it. But the general was long dead. Killed by Kirk McGarvey outside East Berlin. He walked the rest of the way into town where he stopped first at the boulangerie for his baguette and his morning raisin buns, then around the corner in the square to the little shop selling tobacco, chewing gum, stamps, magazines and newspapers. The old woman had his three newspapers waiting for him. “Bonjour, monsieur” she said pleasantly. “Ca va?”

“Bonjour, madame. Ca va, et vousY’ Nikolayev responded with a genuine smile. “Je vais bien” she said brightly, inclining her head coquettishly. It took him a second to realize that the old woman was flirting with him. He paid her, accepted his change, got his newspapers and fled the dark shop into the bright morning sun. He thought he could hear her laughing as he hurried down the street. He folded the newspapers under his arm, refusing the temptation to look at the headlines, and after twenty minutes he was back at the small farmhouse he’d rented at the agency in Paris. It had become a familiar haven for him. He put on the water for his tea, put the baguette away and brought the newspapers and buns to the table at the edge of his small vegetable garden in back. From here he could look across the wheat field stubble now, to the intersection of the farm road and the main highway D917 across the narrow Loir River. It was the only way here from the outside. The tiny window in his bedroom under the eaves also faced the river and the highway. Basic tradecraft. Habit is Heaven’s own redress, Alexander Pushkin had written in Eugene Onegin.

It takes the place of happiness. There was the occasional car and a few trucks on the highway. The bus from Le Mans passed a few minutes after nine in the morning, and returned from Orleans in the afternoon around two. Six weeks ago a police car passed by, its blue lights flashing, its siren shrieking. Nikolayev had leaped up from the table and had nearly headed off across the fields in a dead run until he realized that they were not coming for him. If Moscow was searching for him, they were not looking here. When his tea was ready he took the pot and a cup out to the table, put on his reading glasses and settled down with the newspapers. He started with Le Monde to see if the French were reporting anything new and because it was today’s newspaper. The Times and the Post were Monday’s and probably contained only rewritten versions of Sunday’s accounts. McGarvey’s Senate committee hearings were scheduled to begin today. The Paris newspaper wondered if the senators would consider the French government’s position that McGarvey was no longer welcome here. A highly placed source inside the DGSE (the French secret intelligence service) had agreed to answer questions provided his anonymity could be protected.

On the surface of it, Nikolayev thought that the request was stupid.

By definition spies were supposed to be anonymous figures; once they opened their mouths they forfeited that right. It was a plant. But he read the article anyway.

Her name was Jaqueline Belleau. Nikolayev had gleaned most of the details from his computer searches here. What the gentleman from the DGSE did not tell the journalist was that Mademoiselle Belleau was a French spy sent to McGarvey’s bed in order to keep a close eye on him. When he returned to the States she followed him, instead of remaining in Paris where she belonged. The mistake had killed her, though it was not McGarvey’s fault. She had been caught in the middle of a terrorist bombing of a Georgetown restaurant. Unlike the American newspapers, Le Monde drew no conclusions, leaving the story with vague references to perhaps as many as a half-dozen illegal operations that McGarvey had been involved with on French soil. Neither the anonymous man from the DGSE nor the journalist from the newspaper raised any questions about why McGarvey was not currently serving hard time in a French penitentiary, or, if he were to be appointed DCI, would the French secret service be willing to work with him. McGarvey’s wasn’t the only name in the Network Martyrs file. Just the first to come into the media spotlight. Baranov had known what was going to happen. He’d tried several times to destroy McGarvey’s career, even planting false evidence in CIA archives that his parents had been spies for the Soviet Union. Mightn’t it pass down to the son? He’d tried to have McGarvey killed without success. Tried to drive him to ground. If Baranov couldn’t kill him, perhaps he could render the man ineffectual. None of that had happened. Now it had come to Baranov’s end game Martyrs. Nikolayev drank his tea and ate his raisin buns, appreciating what he had here, all the more so because he knew that he would be leaving France soon. If Kirk McGarvey were confirmed as Director of Central Intelligence, he would be assassinated. In fact the assassin was almost certainly already making his opening moves; preparing for the strike. The Martyrs file had listed the targets, among them President Jimmy Carter, several admirals and army generals, a half-dozen U.S. senators and congressmen, none of whose names Nikolayev recognized. And McGarvey. But the names of the assassins had been left out, either because they had not been selected when the original documents had been drafted, or because Baranov wanted the extra layer of security.

When he was finished with his breakfast, he took his things back into the kitchen and went upstairs to pack a bag for Paris. He needed more information than he could get here, and he needed a safe city from which to mail his letter. The assassin would be making the opening moves now. It was time for Nikolayev to make his next move. The jackals were snapping at his heels. He had only three choices. Go back and be shot to death for what he had uncovered. Try to disappear and hide for the remainder of his life. Or go forward and try to put a stop to Martyrs. Some old men got religion, while others filled the end game by trying to make amends for a lifetime of sin. Martyrs had been his sin just as much as it had been BaranoVs. No choice, really, he told himself. No choice at all.

TEN

McGarvey slept very hard and dreamless; nevertheless, when the telephone rang at 4:00 A.M. he answered it on the first ring as if he had been lying there waiting for the call. “Yes.” He glanced at the clock. “Mr. McGarvey, this is Ken Marks on the night desk. One of our personnel has been involved in an automobile accident that could have compromised security.” “Hang on a minute,” McGarvey said.

Kathleen stirred as he got out of bed. “What is it, Kirk?” “One of our people was in an accident.” She sat bolt upright. “Was it Elizabeth?” she demanded. “I don’t think so,” McGarvey said. He was going to take the phone into the bathroom so he wouldn’t wake her, but it was too late. “Who was it?” he asked the OD.

“Mr. Rencke, sir. His emergency locator was activated at one-seventeen on the Parkway a couple of miles this side of Arlington.

We tried to call him, but there was no response, and by the time Security got down there the Virginia Highway Patrol had already responded.” McGarvey put his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. “It was Otto,” he told his wife. “Where did they take him?” “Bethesda.

He’s listed in good but guarded condition. Mr. Yemm is on his way to you right now.” “Right. I’m going to the hospital. Have a unit sent out here to keep a watch on Mrs. McGarvey.” “Mr. Yemm is bringing someone with him.” Kathleen got up, threw on a robe and started picking out clothes for Mac to wear, a pinched expression on her face.

This was the old days all over again. Nothing had changed. “What about the security problem?” “Mr. Rencke was carrying his laptop along with a number of classified floppies.” “Who gave you the heads-up?” “No one, sir. I know Mr. Rencke personally. He never leaves his shop without a bagful of work. Anyway, Security arrived on scene the same time the EMTs got there, and they tidied up.” “But there was a gap between the accident and the time our people got there?” “Yes, sir. An inventory is being taken right now, but it’ll be slow; he’s probably got everything bugged.” “You can bet on it.

HowM the accident happen, do we know?” “Apparently he lost control, left the roadway and flipped over. There were no other vehicles involved, according to the VHP. Stand by one, sir ” Kathleen was looking at him. “He’ll be okay,” McGarvey told her. “He worked late and was on his way home when it looks like he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed.” “He never wears a seat belt.” “He got lucky.” Marks was back. “Sir, are we authorizing visitors?” “Only Agency people.”

“How about Major Horn?” “Her too,” McGarvey said. Otto and Louise Horn lived together. She worked for the NRO. “Mr. Yemm is pulling into your driveway now, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Since he was probably going directly from the hospital to his office, and from there to the Senate subcommittee hearing chambers, Kathleen laid out a dark blue suit, white shirt, and tie. “Why do you want bodyguards out here?” she asked. “Standard procedures,” McGarvey said, getting dressed. “It might not have been an accident, is that what you’re saying?” He nodded. “We don’t know yet, and until we do we’re taking no chances.” She turned away but then looked back. “Give Otto my best. Tell him that I’ll come up to see him later today if it’s allowed.”

“I’ll tell him.” McGarvey gave his wife a peck on the cheek, went downstairs, got his coat and went out to the waiting limo.

A dark gray van was parked across the street. It was still snowing heavily, and it was very cold and blustery. Yemm had the door open.

McGarvey nodded to him. “Did you get any sleep?” “A couple of hours.”

McGarvey got in, and Yemm headed out, his driving precise in the difficult conditions. “Hammerhead en route Star Seven. ETA twenty,”

Yemm radioed. “Copy.”

“What do we have?” McGarvey demanded.

“The wheel bearing on the front right wheel fell apart, somehow pulled the cotter pin out and sheared the king nut so that the wheel fell off.”

“Doesn’t sound like a simple mechanical failure.”

“We’re checking to see if he had any brake work, or anything like that done in the past few days or weeks. But if it was an accident, whoever did the work was a piss poor mechanic.”

“It’s been known to happen.”

With all the snow and ice on the roads, the emergency room at the hospital was busy.

McGarvey and Yemm went up to the seventh floor, where a pair of CIA Office of Security people were stationed at Otto’s door. The police had already left, and the ward was quiet for the night, though breakfast would be served in a couple of hours. McGarvey went inside the darkened room alone. Otto was propped up in bed, asleep, his head swathed in bandages, his left arm in a sling that held it against his chest. Louise Horn, tall, skinny, her angular features making her look more gaunt than usual, sat in the chair next to the bed. She held Otto’s right hand in both of hers. Her cheeks glistened with tears.

She looked up. “He finally got to sleep, please don’t wake him.”

McGarvey squeezed her shoulder. “I won’t. How is he?”

“Couple of broken ribs. He’ll be okay. His left shoulder was dislocated, that’s why they immobilized his arm. And he banged up his left knee on the bottom of the steering wheel or something.”

McGarvey touched his own head. “What about the bandages?”

Louise Horn looked back at Otto. “The side of his face got cut up with flying glass. Looks worse than it is. But he was lucky. He was wearing his seat belt. Saved his life.” She looked up again, more tears welling from her eyes. “He really could have been killed out there.”

“When did he start wearing a seat belt?”

Louise Horn had a blank expression on her face. She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

McGarvey smiled. “He sure picked a good time to start,” he said. “Give me a call as soon as he’s awake, I want to talk to him. And tell him that Mrs. McGarvey will be up later today to see him.”

“Thanks. That’ll mean a lot to him.”

“Try to get some sleep yourself.” McGarvey gave Otto a last look, then started to go. He stopped at the door. “He’s been pretty intense lately.”

She nodded. “Tell me about it.”

“He’s been pulling some long hours. Working on something that’s bothering him. Has he said anything to you?”

“Nothing,” she said. “And I don’t pry.” She gave McGarvey a faint smile. “We have that rule in our house.”

McGarvey nodded. “Good rule.” he said, and he left.

Before they went back to the Agency, they had a word with Otto’s doctor. Heshi Daishong, a slight, dark, high-strung man. “We’re waiting to see signs of concussion. For now he looks okay. His biggest problems are a slight malnutrition and exhaustion.” “He’s been working hard.” The doctor pushed his glasses up. “We all do. But for Pete’s sake, tell the man to slow down.” He looked very tired himself.

“If all is well, I’ll release him at noon.”

Back at his office McGarvey had the executive kitchen send up coffee and a basket of muffins. He hadn’t had time for breakfast, and he was hungry. He managed to get in a couple of hours of uninterrupted reading before his secretary showed up. She was followed a few minutes later by a strung-out Dick Adkins.

“Well, Ruth was right and the rest of us were wrong,” Adkins said. “They found lumps in both of her breasts. How they missed them for so long is anybody’s guess. But no one’s talking.”

“Is she still at the hospital?” McGarvey asked, concerned. “Yeah. They want to do a bunch of tests, and then, depending on what they find, they’ll want to talk to us about our options.”

“I’ll ask Katy to stop over. In the meantime I want you to get out of here and get some sleep.”

Adkins shook his head.

“If I go home I’ll just sit around and worry myself into drinking. If I go back to the hospital there’s nothing I can do until the tests are done. They won’t let me in the room with her, and they all but kicked me out of the hospital.”

He looked like he was floundering, but he was determined not to cave in.

“The hearings are going to keep you busy for at least the rest of the week. In the meantime we have the NIE and Watch Report to get out.”

“Get out of here anytime you have to, I mean it, Dick.” Adkins nodded.

“Thanks.”

Elizabeth called a couple of minutes after nine from the Farm outside Williamsburg.

“Hi, Daddy, how’s Otto?”

“Good morning, sweetheart. He was banged up pretty good, but the doctor says he’ll be okay, Should be out of the hospital sometime today. What are you doing back at the farm?”

“We have a class of husband and wife recruits, and Stu has made Todd and me stars of the show. There’s lots to go over.”

Stewart Walker was the new commandant of the training facility. A former Green Beret full colonel, he’d been McGarvey’s first choice for the spot, and he was doing a very good job.

“How long are you going to stay there?”

“We’ll be home for the weekend. Todd doesn’t want to drive back until the snow lets up. Unless you want us to chopper back. Otto is going to be okay, isn’t he?”

“He’ll be fine. How about you?”

“Aside from the fact I’m grumpy all the time, and I’m fat, I feel great.” She hesitated. “Tell mom that I’ll call her tonight.”

“I will.”

“Good luck with the hearings. Are you sure you don’t want me to come back?”

“Stay there and do your job.”

“We’ll definitely be back for the weekend. Give ‘em hell, Dad.”

The Senate hearing room was filled to capacity, mostly with media. When McGarvey and Paterson came in and made their way to the witness table the noise level rose, flash cameras went off and television lights came on. Under normal circumstances presidential appointees came to their confirmation hearings with a cadre of attorneys and advisers. But McGarvey had vetoed the plan because, he explained to a reluctant Paterson, no one knew his background except himself. And if there was to be any fallout, he wanted all of it on his shoulders. McGarvey recognized many of the people in the audience; friends from the other U.S. intelligence services, the military, the FBI and from at least a half-dozen embassies around town. Dmitri Runkov, the chief of the SVR’s Washington operation was missing, however, which was bothersome to McGarvey. Connections within connections, or the lack thereof. He put the Russian’s absence at the back of his mind. Paterson took a number of file folders out of his briefcase, extracted a four-page document and laid it on the table in front of McGarvey as the clerk of the hearings came to the front. “Hear ye, hear ye. All those having business before the United States Senate Armed Force Subcommitttee on Intelligence rise for the honorable members: Senators Thomas Hammond, Junior, Minnesota, chairman; John Clawson, Montana, vice chairman; Brian Jackman, Mississippi; Brenda Madden, California; Gerald Pilcher, New York; and Arthur Wright, Utah.” Everyone stood as the senators filed in from a door at the side and took their places behind a long oak desk on a raised platform at the head of the chamber. Hammond was a stern-looking man with thick white hair and bushy Dirksen eyebrows. He looked like a Moses without a robe and tablets. He glared down at McGarvey and Paterson as he removed a number of fat file folders from his briefcase. Of the others, according to Paterson, his second worst enemy was Brenda Madden, a raging knee-jerk liberal who’d been one of the original bra burners at Berkeley. Hers was the same goal as Hammond’s. They wanted to punish the CIA for failing to warn the nation about the attacks of September 11. According to them, the Agency was riddled with incompetent, self-serving fools. The U.S.

intelligence community needed revamping and streamlining from the top to the bottom. They were happy just now to start at the top with McGarvey. Mississippi’s Jackman and Montana’s Clawson were for keeping a strong CIA, though they were asking for more efficiency for the same dollars. New York’s Pilcher and Utah’s Wright, both junior senators, and both fairly new on the committee, were still on the fence. Hammond brought the meeting to order, then swore in McGarvey. C-SPAN’s television cameras continued to roll. “Mr. McGarvey, I see by your witness list that you’ve brought only the CIA’s general counsel Carleton Paterson with you this morning.” “Good morning, Senator.

Yes, that’s correct.” “Will you be bringing other advisers or witnesses in the coming days? I ask because if you are, their names will first have to be presented to the committee.” “Mr. Paterson will be sufficient to keep me out of serious trouble, Senator,” McGarvey said. There were a few chuckles around the room, and a slight smile played at the edges of Hammond’s mouth. He had been waiting for just this sort of opportunity ever since Lawrence Haynes had become president when the former President had resigned because of health problems. Haynes and Hammond had been rivals and then bitter enemies in the House and in the Senate, their careers nearly paralleling each other’s. Haynes was a tough-talking, no-nonsense conservative Republican, while Hammond was what the New York Times called a “touchy-feely New Democract with teeth.” Haynes wanted a strong military and a national missile defense shield. Hammond wanted billions diverted from defense and plowed into social welfare and health care reform programs. Haynes promised to take back the fear of terrorism on American soil and against Americans anywhere in the world.

Hammond wanted to close ninety percent of our overseas military installations and start bringing Americans home, where they belonged.

Haynes was a president of the people. Hammond was a ranking senator for the people. McGarvey was the president’s fair-haired boy at the moment because of an incident last year in San Francisco when diplomacy would have worked much better than guns blazing. Showing the American people, and especially his fellow senators what sort of a monster McGarvey was, and why he should not be allowed to run the CIA, would be striking a blow at the President. One that would not go unnoticed by his party. Hammond wanted to be president. But for the moment Haynes’s numbers were too high. “Very well,” Hammond said. He fiddled with some notes. “We’ll have a light session today. I’ll make a brief opening statement, and I would ask that Mr. McGarvey or his counsel do the same. Afterward I will allow the general, non classified questions concerning Mr. McGarvey’s background.” He looked at his calendar.

“If we can cover enough ground today to everyone’s satisfaction, the next few days will be in camera.” Most of the operations that McGarvey had been involved with during his twenty-five years with the CIA were still classified. When the committee began delving into those areas the hearings would have to be held in executive session, closed to anyone without the proper security clearances and the need-to-know. “I wouldn’t give so much as a confidential security clearance to any of them,” McGarvey had told Paterson. “If they could get a political boost, they’d leak anything that they could get their hands on. The Bureau’s helpless to stop them.” “Their privilege,” Paterson replied laconically. “They could get people killed.” “That’s the fine line you’ll need to walk,” Paterson warned. “You have to make them think that they’re getting what they want while protecting our current assets. In the process you’ll take the heat.” McGarvey watched Hammond posturing for the TV cameras. It came down to the question of how much he really wanted the job, and why he wanted it. They were questions he’d been asking himself every day since the President had asked him to serve. Questions for which he still didn’t know if he had all the answers. A little over three months ago he and Roland Murphy, then the DCI, had been called over to the White House. They met the President, his chief of staff and adviser on national security affairs in the Oval Office. The meeting was Murphy’s call. He’d announced that he was retiring as DCI because of his health, and that he wanted McGarvey to succeed him. Murphy’s retirement had been hinted at in the media, and just about everybody at Langley knew it was coming, and yet it came as something of a surprise to McGarvey that morning. Probably because he’d been too involved in running the Directorate of Operations to see the larger picture. “I’d like you to take the job,” President Haynes had said. “Or at least give it some serious consideration.”

“I’m not the right man,” McGarvey replied, shaking his head. “I’m just a field officer-” “You’re a hell of a lot more than that, and you know it,” Murphy interjected. He turned to the President. “Everybody in the Company would be shocked if Mac wasn’t appointed. Right now the DO

is functioning with a greater efficiency than it ever has, because of him. He’s a born leader. His people practically fall over themselves to do what he wants, because they know that if they didn’t or couldn’t do the job, he’d step in and do it for them.” “I’d probably be impeached if I didn’t hire you,” the President said. McGarvey had to chuckle. “You’ll probably be impeached if you do, if Hammond has anything to say about it.” “You’ll have to face him and his crowd, but you leave handling him to me,” the President said sternly. “The CIA has been run by politicians, or by military men who’ve turned politician, entirely too long,” He glanced at Murphy. “No offense, Roland.” “None taken, Mr. President.” “I need a career intelligence officer at the helm. A man who knows the Agency, what it can and can’t do from the ground floor up.” “I was a shooter,” McGarvey said, no apology in his voice. “Did you ever shoot at anybody in your military career?” the President asked Murphy. “Yes, as a tank commander.”

“With the intent to kill?” “Yes.” “We’re in trouble right now and you know it.” The President turned back to McGarvey. “Besides fighting terrorists, Pakistan has gone back to its old tricks. They’re on the verge of developing a thermonuclear device that could be strapped atop one of their missiles. The PRC is on the verge of a Pearl Harbor attack on Taiwan. Russia is falling apart faster than we thought would happen. All of Lebanon is on fire again. And half of the African continent is slaughtering the other half. I need information. I need it fast. And I need it unvarnished. You’re the only man I know who can do the job the way I want it done, because you’re not afraid to tell the truth no matter how much it hurts.” The President sat back.

He’d taken his shot. “I need you to run the CIA. Will you do it?”

“I’ll think about it,” McGarvey said. “Fair enough. When Roland steps down you’ll take over as interim director until you’re confirmed or until you step down.”

Once an intelligence officer, always an intelligence officer. God help him, but the past couple of months had been interesting. “The matter before us today is whether this committee should recommend to the full Senate that it consent to or reject the President’s nomination of Kirk Cullough McGarvey as Director of Central Intelligence.” McGarvey took a look at his opening statement, which Paterson had completely rewritten this morning, as Hammond droned on about the procedures for the witnesses, the questions and evidence that could be presented, and the documents that the CIA might be required to turn over. Paterson’s theme was that since the attacks on the World Trade Center in New York and on the Pentagon, it was more important than ever for the United States to be well informed about what was going on in the world. There would almost certainly be more attacks on our military installations and ships, and on civilian targets. It proved that we needed a strong intelligence agency. In order to maintain superiority we needed an experienced man at the helm of the CIA. Not the CEO of a major corporation, but a person well versed in the business. Someone who had worked at every level; from field officer in Germany, France, Russia, Hong Kong, Japan and France to deputy director of Operations at headquarters. A loyal American. A man who obviously and repeatedly had placed his own safety and that of his family second to the security of his country. A man young enough to understand the new millennium with all of its technical means to lead the Agency to the next level of excellence. Hammond had started on his opening statement, but McGarvey wasn’t really listening. He laid Paterson’s document back on the table. This was not going to be so polite, so neat and tidy as the Agency’s general counsel wanted it to be. The hearings would mirror the real world; they would be down and dirty, contentious, and filled with bullshit because Hammond would tell a version of the truth as he saw it, and McGarvey would tell the committee a sanitized version of the way things really were. It would be like two women at an expensive cocktail party telling each other how good they looked while actually despising one another. The other senators on the committee paid no attention to Hammond. They shuffled through their files and notes. The opening hours of these kinds of hearings were usually mild and polite.

The real fireworks wouldn’t start until later, perhaps in the second or third day, when the pressure would build. These were seasoned politicians who well understood that public perception and reality were often two separate things. One of the C-SPAN cameras was trained on McGarvey, looking for his reaction to what Hammond was saying. He kept his face neutral. Every DCI before him had gone through this process.

He suspected that none of them had enjoyed the experience any more than he did. And if he was confirmed, he would be back up here on the Hill testifying before Congress several times a year. Paterson held a hand over the microphone and leaned toward McGarvey. “He’s being too polite. He knows something, so you’re going to have to stick with the script, at least today.” “It won’t matter what I say. They’re going to hear what they want to hear and nothing more.” McGarvey glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the room. “Who are you looking for?” “Nobody important,” McGarvey said. Senator Hammond wound up his remarks and looked up from his notes. “Mr. McGarvey, do you wish to make an opening statement at this time?” McGarvey glanced at the script that Paterson had prepared for him. He’d read it on the way over from Langley, and he more or less agreed with everything the CIA’s general counsel had written. More than ever before, the United States needed the presence of a strong and capable spy agency to protect her interests in a world gone mad. The CIA needed a strong director; someone with experience and decisiveness; someone who not only understood America’s enemies, but who perfectly understood the exact nature of the country. That had been McGarvey’s personal philosophy from the beginning of his career; you could not protect a flag that you didn’t understand. He’d always thought that he understood what it was to be an American. But suddenly he wasn’t so sure any longer. Perhaps people like Hammond and Madden were correct after all; perhaps he was unfit for the job. That was a question that had plagued him ever since the President asked him to take the job. Maybe he didn’t have the moral or philosophical equipment. He was, or at least he had been, an assassin. Such acts were against the law. Yet the law had never stopped him. A few years ago someone had asked him who the hell he thought he was. “What gives you the right to be judge, jury and executioner?” And now someone or something was coming after him; stalking him and his family; some dark, malevolent beast out of his past. Something. It was something whispering at his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the growing feeling of dread.

He looked again over his shoulder for the Russian SVR rezident, but the man wasn’t there. His absence meant something. “Mr. McGarvey,”

Senator Hammond prompted. “I’ll reserve my opening remarks until later, Senator Hammond. But I’d like a written version to be entered into the record at this time.” “Very well,” Hammond said. A clerk came over, and Paterson handed him a copy of McGarvey’s opening statement, a puzzled but resigned expression on his face. Senator Madden sat forward, an almost radiant expression on her round face.

“Excuse me, Senator Hammond, I would like to ask Mr. McGarvey a question before we proceed.” Hammond motioned for her to go ahead.

“It has come to my attention that you might not even want this job,” she said. “Is that true?” “Frankly no, I never wanted the job,”

McGarvey replied before Paterson could stop him. “Well then-” “I have a great deal of respect for President Haynes. He asked me if I would take the job. I couldn’t say no. If I’m confirmed, it’s my intention to remake the Agency completely.” Madden smiled warmly. “Maybe you and I are in agreement after all. I’ve been campaigning for quite a while to revamp the CIA. It’s long overdue.” “I agree,” McGarvey said.

“But probably not along the same lines you’ve been talking about. I firmly believe that there remains a very strong need for the CIA. But for an agency that’s leaner, meaner, better funded and equipped, and without three-quarters of the bureaucracy that has hamstrung almost every operation before it ever got off the ground.” “There’s a great deal of inertia in an organization as vast as the CIA, wouldn’t you say?” “Too much.” “So it would take a very capable administrator to accomplish such a reorganization as you envision. Isn’t that correct?”

“I might say yes, Senator, if we were talking about almost any other organization than the CIA.” “I expect so,” Senator Madden responded smugly. “But isn’t it a fact you have admitted that you are no administrator?” “An officer in the field, whose life may very well be jeopardized by the kinds of policies being put in place at headquarters, respects professional competence over administrative expertise.”

“Spies managing spies?”

“Yes, Senator. Just like the old days, when spies like Dulles and Donovan grew the Agency from nothing.”

“But they were gentlemen.”

Paterson reached for the microphone, but McGarvey responded to Mad-den’s thinly veiled insult.

“Yes, they were, Senator. They came from the old school, when people believed in building institutions to help make this country strong, not tear them apart with no clear idea what should replace them.”

The Washington Post had quoted Madden on more than one occasion calling for the dismantling of the CIA. The Agency, in her estimation, had cost the United States far more money and far more embarrassment than it was ever worth even on its best day. “A den of thugs,” she had said.

She caught his insult, but if it bothered her, she didn’t let it show.

“You are going to tell us how you mean to bring the CIA back to the good old days?”

“If that’s what you want to call it, yes, I will.” McGarvey returned her smile. “I think it’s time that we stop apologizing to the rest of the world for who and what we are.” He looked at the other senators.

“I’m here this morning to answer your questions, but not to make excuses.”

“That’s all well and good,” Senator Hammond said. “But today has been reserved for opening statements. Are we to understand that you are passing on that opportunity?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why?”

“As I said, Senator, I’m here to answer your questions, not to make any kind of a political statement that would in any event be misunderstood.”

Hammond laughed, and glanced at the others on the committee. “Very well, we’ll leave it at that for today.”

On the drive back to Langley Paterson was in an odd, buoyant mood, as if he was happy the way things had gone. “They’re either going to hire me, or they’re not, Carleton. But I’m not going to screw around. I’ll tell it like it is.” “When haven’t you?” Paterson asked. “I’m surprised that the President hasn’t phoned already to tell you to cooperate.”

“We had the discussion two weeks ago. He told me to call them as I saw them.” McGarvey had to smile. “He did ask me to promise not to shoot any of them.”

Paterson laughed. “There’s at least that.”

It was around four when McGarvey got back to his office. His desk was stacked with memos, letters and files. In the couple of hours before he left for home he fended off a dozen phone calls congratulating him on his performance at the hearing. The calls were mostly from old friends, but not from the President. One of the files on his desk was the Nikolayev dossier. There wasn’t much to it, only one grainy black-and-white photograph showing him in a group at the Frunze Military Academy, and a few pages of dry facts. He had been an experimental psychologist in Baranov’s old Department Viktor, though there was almost nothing on what his duties were. He was an old man now; his wife dead, no children or any other relatives alive. It was a wonder the SVR was still interested in him. McGarvey couldn’t fathom why Otto was also interested. Adkins had the NIE and Watch Report in good shape for Thursday’s meeting of the U.S. Intelligence Board. By throwing himself into work Adkins was in much better shape than he had been this morning. He was going back to the hospital around six, and he asked McGarvey to thank Kathleen for stopping by. “It cheered her up having another woman to talk to.” “How’d she know that Ruth was in the hospital?” McGarvey asked. “I assumed that you told her.”

McGarvey shook his head. “I didn’t have a chance. But she knows more people in this town than I do. Somebody must have told her. Anyway, I’m glad she got up there.” Kathleen’s ability to find out things apparently without working at it, was another trait he found attractive. She was bright, intuitive and seemed to know when and where someone needed her. She would have made a great spy. Like the good ones she was able to see connections between seemingly unrelated bits and pieces. And it was just this sort of activity, helping other people, that would bring her out of the blue funk she’d gotten herself into. He got word from Security that their Bethesda detail would have to be extended through the night because Rencke had not yet been released. Louise Horn was still not back at the NRO, nor was there any answer at the apartment. She was staying at Otto’s bedside around the clock. She was like a lioness with her cub; no one would get near him without answering to her. It took several minutes for Dr. Daishong to answer his page at the hospital. He sounded cheerful but all out of breath as if he had just run up a flight of stairs. He’d been on duty a straight twenty-four hours, and he was finally on his way home, he explained.

“I’m keeping him until tomorrow afternoon.” “Why? What’s wrong with him?” McGarvey asked. “His injuries from the accident are superficial. Not serious. But the poor man is tired, anemic and quite possibly on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Good heavens, I’m told that he possibly eats nothing but junk food.” “He’s been under a lot of pressure.” “He’s sleeping now, and we’re filling him with vitamins to build up his system. I suggest that you go easy on him.” “Yes, thank you, I’ll try.” “I have told your security people that he is to have no further visitors.” “Who has come to see him?” “In addition to his friend who will stay the night, only Mrs. McGarvey.” “Take care of him, Doctor. We need him back here.” “Better that you take care of him so that he doesn’t come back to me.” On the way home, traffic snarled because of the heavy snow, McGarvey had time to put everything that had been happening into some sort of perspective. Troubles came in threes. There were weird weeks in which everything seemed to go wrong at once. The trick was to take it a step at a time. All things would pass, even the bad times. “Has Liz called yet?” he asked Kathleen. “They’re back down at the Farm for the next couple of days.

But she promised that she would call you.” “Not yet, but she will,”

Kathleen said brightly. Her dark mood of last night and this morning seemed to have dissipated. They kissed, and he sat down at the counter as she stirred a pot on the stove. “Smells good whatever it is.”

“Spaghetti. Is that okay?” “More than okay, I’m starved.” She gave him a smile. “What’ll it be, a double or a triple?” “How about a beer?” She laughed as she got him his beer. “Tom Hammond must be slipping.” “Did you watch any of it?”

She shook her head. “Between that arrogant prick, and that tight-assed Madden broad I didn’t dare. I might have been tempted to storm down there and rip out their tongues.” McGarvey was shocked. He’d never heard his wife talk like that. “Close your mouth, dear,” she said sweetly. “There are times when only a certain kind of language seems appropriate.” “It’s a good thing that you didn’t watch.” “That bad?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But from their standpoint they’re right.” “Oh, for goodness sake, think about what you’re saying.” “When we get into the closed sessions there’ll be a lot of… incidents out of my past laid on the table.” He looked inward for the flash of an instant. The image that remained in his mind’s eye, like a sunspot on his retina, was of a hell in which dozens of people were falling back in slow motion; blood splashing in every direction; rivers of blood; people screaming in terror, their hands out in supplication. He flinched.

Kathleen poured a glass of wine. She put it down and came around the counter to him, a look of deep concern on her face. “What’s the matter, Kirk?” For a moment longer McGarvey couldn’t speak. He shook his head and looked up into her eyes. “I’ve done the right things, haven’t I?” She took him in her arms. “Not always, my darling. None of us ever do, didn’t you know that?” She looked down at him and offered a small reassuring smile. “But on balance you’ve always been headed in the right direction. That’s a lot more than most people can say.” “They were bad.” “Yes, they were. And if you didn’t have a conscience, if you didn’t feel remorse almost all the time, you would be no different than they were. Nothing more than mindless, immoral thugs.”