The Kill Zone

ELEVEN

McGarvey arrived at the Hart Senate Office Building a few minutes before 10:00 A.M. wearing a dark blue suit with side vents, a pale blue shirt and plain matching tie. Kathleen had laid out the clothes for him, as she did most mornings. If Hammond and the others were going to shoot him down, at least he’d crash in style. Two dozen newspaper and television reporters were waiting in front of the Capitol as McGarveys limousine pulled up. Yemm headed a phalanx of four bodyguards, who escorted McGarvey and Paterson across the sidewalk and up the broad marble stairs, keeping the media at arm’s length. The extra muscle was the Office of Security’s idea, and though McGarvey initially objected Paterson convinced him to go along with it. “Hell, if nothing else a little extra show of force right now might put a burr under Hammond’s saddle.”

McGarvey had to smile. He was being manipulated. But it was for his own good, though it was still another thing he was having trouble getting used to. “Well then, I guess it’s the least we can do.”

McGarvey’s name had never been exactly a household word, but after yesterday’s televised hearing and the front-page stories in the Washington Post and New Tork Times, in which he was characterized as having drawn the battle line in the sand, he was becoming fair game for the crazies. Before they left Langley Yemm insisted that McGarvey wear body armor under his shirt. “You’re a tempting target now, boss,” Yemm said, trying to keep it light. But he was deadly serious. “If they know what they’re doing, they’ll go for a head shot “Nothing we can do about that, but even guys like Begin would have come out alive if they’d been wearing.” The vest was light, and not noticeable, but it was hot. McGarvey figured that it was going to be a bitch of a day on more than one account. But at least the process had begun. There would be no more waiting for the other shoe to fall, no more wondering if he should take the job or even if he was going to be confirmed.

Like yesterday the hearing chamber was packed. Capitol security officers at the tall double doors were turning people away. As McGarvey and Paterson worked their way to the witness table, McGarvey scanned the crowd for any sign of Dmitri Runkov, the SVR rezident. But he didn’t spot the Russian, who would have been sitting with the other foreign service officers. “Can we get a list of who was here yesterday and today?” McGarvey asked Paterson as they took their seats. “Sure,”

Paterson said. “Do you have a reason?” “I’ll tell you about it later.” Almost immediately the clerk of the hearings came in and announced the committee members. Opening the sessions this way was Hammond’s idea. He’d been a circuit court judge in St. Paul before being elected to the Senate. He thought that the clerk added dignity to the proceedings. The senators filed in, and when they’d taken their places and the audience was settled, Hammond reminded McGarvey that he was still under oath. “I had hoped to be further along then we are,”

Senator Hammond said. “But it seems as if there is even more material to cover than I first supposed.” He gave Paterson a stern look. “I would hope that we can keep today’s session on a more businesslike basis in the interest of saving time.” “If that is your hope, Senator, it’s our hope as well,” Paterson said with a straight face. “Mr.

McGarvey has a very full schedule at Langley, as you can well imagine.”

“Mr. McGarvey is not the Agency’s director yet,” Brenda Madden interjected. “He is working as interim director, Madam Senator,”

Paterson said. “And has been for some time now.” “Surely the intelligence professionals at the CIA are used to the comings and goings of political appointees and are capable of doing their jobs unsupervised by a titular director for the time being.” “On the contrary, Senator Madden, as you well know, Mr. McGarvey is a twenty-five-year veteran with the Central Intelligence Agency. He has earned the respect and loyalty of everyone out there.” “Including you, sir?” she gibed. It was well-known that Paterson had only reluctantly left his New York law practice to help straighen out the sometimes sticky legal positions that the CIA found itself in. Because it was a challenge, and because the previous president had asked him to do it, he had agreed. He had no love for the world of the spy, like his predecessor Howard Ryan had, but he was doing a good job. “Yes, including me,” he said. Madden’s expression darkened. It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted. Hammond glanced over and gave her a questioning look. She shrugged and sat back. Hammond turned to the first of the fat files piled in front of him. “I think we can dispense with the usual examination of Mr. McGarvey’s personal data. Let it be noted in the record that Kirk Cullough McGarvey was born October 9, 1950 in Garden City, Kansas. Parents were Herbert Cullough and Claire Elizabeth, both deceased. Attended Garden City elementary, middle and high schools, graduating cum laude in 1966. He attended Kansas State University, graduating in 1970, also cum laude. Two bachelors of science, one in mathematics the other in political science.” Hammond looked up. “That is an unusual combination.” “Is that a question, Senator?” McGarvey asked. Kathleen said to push back, and he was already starting to feel irascible. His desk was piled with work.

“No,” Hammond said after a beat. “I won’t belabor the point, but looking over your high school and college records I see that you were not involved in any extracurricular activities. No sports, no clubs, not the debating team, or the trap and skeet squad. Can you tell us why?”

McGarvey leaned over to Paterson. “Is this necessary, Carleton? What the hell is he looking for?” “Leadership qualities, and they can ask anything they want to ask.” McGarvey turned back and shook his head.

“None of that interested me, Senator.” “What did you do with your spare time? Scouting, fishing, hunting, camping?” “I wasn’t in the Scouts, but I did fish and hunt with my father. I helped around the ranch, and when I was fifteen I learned how to fly-fish.” “You were a loner even then,” Hammond said, and before McGarvey could say anything, Madden sat forward, a file open in front of her. “Were you large for your age, Mr. McGarvey,” she asked. “I mean in school, were you bigger than the other kids in your class?” “I don’t understand the question.”

“Oh, it’s simple. I’d like to know if you were the big kid on the block. You know, the class bully.” McGarvey smiled and shook his head. “I was big, but I wasn’t the bully. My father drummed into my head from the start that fighting never solved anything. We had one rule in our house, and that was: no hitting. My father never even spanked me.” “What if you did something wrong? Did he send you to bed without supper?” Brenda Madden asked with a smirk. “He would explain to me what I did wrong and tell me that he was disappointed in me.

That’s all. That was worse than a beating.” “That’s a curious view for a man who, along with his wife, worked on nuclear weapons at Los Alamos. Wouldn’t you think?” “No.” “No hitting,” Brenda Madden mused, as if she found the notion quaint. “And no involvement in the glee club, no homecoming king, or football team excuse me, I forgot, no hitting. But you didn’t even join the cheer-leading squad. Or was it because you were barred from those activities?” Paterson’s hand shot out and clamped over the microphone. “What’s she getting at?” “I’d almost forgotten,” McGarvey answered. “Mr. McGarvey?” Brenda Madden prompted. Paterson hesitated a moment, then removed his hand. “No, I was not barred from after-school activities. It was a mutual agreement between my parents and the school board. It was a small town, and I was a good student.”

“But you agreed not to play sports. Why?” “I was involved in an after-school fight. It was a long time ago.” Brenda Madden held up a Finney County Department of Juvenile Justice file. “There were four of them. Football players. It was strongly suspected that you had used some sort of a weapon. They believe that it might have been a baseball bat. All four of those boys ended up in the hospital, two of them in critical condition.” Senator Hammond was beaming. Some of the other senators, however, looked either uncomfortable or puzzled. “One of them is still confined to a wheelchair,” Brenda Madden hammered. She looked directly at the television cameras. “But I find it terribly odd that nothing happened as a result except to bar Mr. McGarvey from after-school activities. The families of the four boys didn’t even sue. Certainly your parents had enough money. They owned a rather substantial ranch. In fact they were wealthy by the standards of those days. Yet no lawsuits. Unless payments were made under the table.”

She smiled viciously. “Which was it, Mr. McGarvey? Payments under the table, or were the families simply terrified of retribution from a loner. Maybe by today’s standards a Columbine High School odd duck.”

“Objection,” Paterson broke in. “I assume that those are sealed juvenile court records, Madam Senator.” “That’s of no consequence “

“There was no weapon,” McGarvey said. “You don’t have to answer to such an obvious smear tactic,” Paterson warned. He was angry. Madden and Hammond were loving it. “You were saying, Mr. McGarvey?” Madden prompted again. “I didn’t use a weapon.” “You hurt those boys with your bare fists?” “Yes.” Madden looked to Hammond, but he shrugged.

This was her ball, he would let her run with it. “Over what? Were you arguing over something they said to you. Did they call you a name?”

“They were gang-raping an eleven-year-old girl in the woods behind the school. I stopped them.” Brenda Madden’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. “We’ll check that,” Hammond said. He shuffled some files.

“Now, moving-” “If Senator Madden had done her homework, she would have discovered that the four boys were sent to juvenile detention until they were twenty one. One of them died in a knife fight in prison, one of them committed suicide shortly after he got out, and the other two, so far as I know, are still alive. I never followed up.” Except for a few sniggers in the audience, the chamber was silent. “It’s not something I’m proud of, Senator Madden,” he said. “But I don’t like bullies. Never have.” “What sort of chores, Mr. McGarvey?” the committee’s vice chairman Senator John Clawson, asked. He was the senior Republican from Montana, a Westerner, tall, outdoorsy, who felt more comfortable in jeans than in a business suit. He was a rancher.

“On the ranch?” McGarvey asked. Hammond broke in. “I think that we have spent sufficient time on Mr. McGarvey’s youth.” “Indulge me, Tom,” Clawson said easily. McGarvey shrugged. “Mostly feeding cattle.” “While they were out on the range. Probably during the winter when the grass was scarce for them. You rode in the back of a truck or hay wagon, and tossed hay bales to them.” “Something like that.”

“That’s not an easy job,” Clawson said to Brenda Madden. “I did it myself as a kid. Builds up your muscles, gives you a huge appetite.

Puts on pounds real early.” He smiled. “No mystery there.” “I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “At least you have one friend,” Paterson said in an aside to McGarvey. “I would like to move on, if possible,”

Hammond said. “There are a few areas of concern that I’d like to touch on today. If we can get to them we’ll meet in camera tomorrow.” There were no objections. “You joined the air force directly out of college, finished OCS and were commissioned a second lieutenant in October.

Subsequently you attended the Air Force Intelligence Officers schools at Lackland Air Force Base and Kelly Field in San Antonio, Texas, and then were assigned to embassy duty in Saigon.” Hammond looked up from the file he was reading from. “Is all of that correct?” “Yes.” “What was your job in Saigon?” “Senator, I don’t know if that material is still classified. I’ll have to check on it for you.” “It’s not classified,” Hammond said. He passed a document to one of the Senate pages, who brought it to the witness table. It was a release of documents form under the Freedom of Information Act. Paterson looked it over and gave it to McGarvey. The release contained a list of twenty-one separate operations for a period between the summer of 1970 and the winter of 1972. McGarvey had been there for most of that time.

“Recognize any of these?” McGarvey glanced through the list, and he knew immediately which operation Hammond would home in on and why.

“Most of them.” “Operation Phoenix-II,” Hammond said. “Were you involved with it?” “Yes, I was,” McGarvey said. Hammond had not disappointed him. “Could you tell us about it?” “It was a South Vietnamese military operation. Captured VC and North Vietnamese regular army prisoners, especially officers and noncoms, were brought in from the field to a divisional headquarters in Saigon, where they were extensively debriefed. The results were collated and the information was shared with special U.S. and South Vietnamese field units.” “What kind of information?” Hammond asked. “What were they looking for, specifically?” “They were trying to find out the names, ranks and locations of high-ranking North Vietnamese officers.” “For what reason?” “They were targeted for assassination.” “Were you personally involved in any of these hit squads?” Hammond asked. “Did you assassinate any of the targeted officers?” McGarvey glanced again at the list. “Phoenix-II was the fact-finding mission. The field operations themselves are still classified.” “But you were involved, weren’t you,” Brenda Madden said, unable to contain herself. “You were right up to your elbows in blood over there. It must have been a grand time.” McGarvey counted to five, maintaining as close to a neutral expression on his face as he could. But Senator Madden must have seen something, because she flinched. “Fifty thousand American men and women were killed in Vietnam, Senator. I can’t believe that it was a grand time, as you put it, for anyone over there.” He shook his head.

“Senator Hammond spent a tour in Vietnam. Maybe you should ask him.”

“There were torture squads conducting Phoenix,” Hammond continued without missing a beat. “What was your part?” “I was an observer.”

“Did you participate in the torture of any North Vietnamese prisoners of war?” “No, Senator, I did not.” “But you didn’t stop it.” “No.”

“You spent two tours of duty in Vietnam,” Brenda Madden said. “You must have, at the very least, found the place interesting.” “There was a job to be done, and I thought that I could help make a difference.”

Brenda Madden could hardly contain herself. She nearly laughed out loud. “Come now ”

“The CIA recruited you right out of the air force,”

Senator Clawson broke in. “You spent a third tour in Saigon as a civilian. Do you believe that you made a difference?” McGarvey had asked himself that same question many times. It was one of the questions on his recurring list. He shook his head. “I don’t think that any of us made a difference in Vietnam, Senator. We should not have been there in the first place. But since we were, we should have been allowed to fight the war to win it.” “Then why did you keep going back?” Brenda Madden demanded. “Because I love my country,” McGarvey said. His tone of voice and posture were a direct challenge to her.

She had been skirting around the issue of his loyalty as well as his abilities to run the CIA, during the hearings and in the media.

Television cameras were split between focusing on Brenda Madden’s face and on McGarvey, who sat unmoving, looking at her as if he might be looking at an interesting new species of animal in a zoo. Almost no one missed his expression, least of all Senator Madden. Paterson sat forward. “Mr. McGarvey has demonstrated his loyalty to his country time and again over a long and distinguished career,” he said. “I might respectfully remind the senators that Mr. McGarvey took the same oath of office that every CIA officer takes ”

“The same oath that Aldrich Ames swore to?” Brenda Madden blurted. She immediately recognized her mistake. She tore her eyes away from McGarvey and looked over at Hammond, who had his gavel in hand. “Excuse me, Mr.

Chairman,” she said. She turned back to McGarvey. “I did not mean to imply in any way a comparsion between you and Mr. Ames.” McGarvey nodded. “I didn’t think you had, Senator.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGarvey,” she said. “There will be other areas that I’ll want to explore with you.” “But not today.” Senator Hammond jumped into the breach. “These proceedings are adjourned. We will reconvene tomorrow at ten o’clock in the morning.” He banged his gavel once, and started gathering his files. An even bigger mob of reporters was waiting for them in the corridor and outside on the Capitol steps.

Yemm and his security detail kept them at arm’s length, and Paterson thought it best that McGarvey answer no questions on the way out.

Riding away, McGarvey thought about all the other DCIs who had been called to the Hill and raked over the coals. Now it was his turn, and he was feeling something dark riding over his left shoulder. Maybe it was his past catching up with him. Tomorrow the questions would begin in earnest: in the meantime he had the India-Pakistan problem to deal with.

TWELVE

Otto Rencke stopped at the security gate leading to the CIA, trying to quell the voices inside his head that threatened to drive him nuts.

He’d been going crazy all of his life. But this time it was serious.

He was frightened. He rolled down the window of Louise Horn’s RAV4 and handed out his security pass to the civilian guard. He recognized the man. But he thought that he recognized everybody. He couldn’t get the pictures out of his head. “How’re you feeling, Mr. Rencke?” the guard asked. He was a younger man, very short hair, stand up bearing, probably a former marine. He was smiling pleasantly. “Well, ya know, I’ve had better days,” Rencke said. He spread out his arms and let his head droop. “Hell of a way to spend Easter.” The guard didn’t get it, and Rencke saw it at once. He grinned. “Sorry. Bad, bad joke. I feel like I’ve been in a car accident. My head hurts, my shoulder hurts, even my butt hurts.”

“You’ll be black-and-blue. But from what I heard, you were lucky.” The guard handed Rencke’s ID back. “Anyway, welcome back.” “Yeah, thanks.” The road had been plowed, but it was icy in spots. Rencke drove very carefully though he wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing. Sometimes he was super attuned to his surroundings. At other times, like now, the world around him was an out-of-focus blur. Early in his study of mathematics, when he was seven or eight, he had learned to compartmentalize his brain. Much like a computer works on a complicated problem by breaking it down into its constituent parts and then chewing on each of the parts simultaneously, Rencke had learned to divide his thinking. He’d explained to a mathematician at the University of Wisconsin’s Van Vleck Hall that he was like a juggler keeping a half-dozen balls in the air while balancing on one foot, singing and watching television. He was able to work on a number of different problems at the same time. There were perhaps as many as a half-dozen compartments running as many problems at any given time in his head. When he had the bit in his teeth, like now, the number rose to a dozen or more. He’d never been able to count them all without breaking his concentration. He thought of his abilities like a Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. If you stopped to count the operations, the operations themselves fell apart. But the problem he’d always faced, especially now, was that each compartment in his brain was separated from all the others by a gigantic wall. Sometimes when he wanted to find the doors between the walls he couldn’t. It was like being lost inside a constantly moving kaleidoscope. The images were beautiful, and complex, and very often useful, but he wasn’t able to see the real world because of his fragmented thinking. Usually, if he tried very hard, he could find a ladder and climb over the top of the wall and look out over the entire field. But this time he couldn’t even find the ladder. Which is why he thought that he was going seriously crazy. The driveway through the woods branched off into the various parking lots. It was a few minutes after noon and all but the visitors’ lot were full. Rencke was a high-ranking officer, so he had an assigned spot in the underground garage. This place had become home to him. Everyone else came here to work. He came to live. The nurses had given him a sponge bath at the hospital, and Louise had brought his fresh jeans, a bulky knit sweater, clean socks and new Nike running shoes, and she’d had his MIT jacket cleaned. His long frizzy red hair was covered by the bandage, over which he wore a watch cap. When he came through the doors the guards did a double take. They’d never seen him cleaned up. Upstairs in the computer center he went directly back to the area he’d been using for the past few weeks. He stopped in his tracks. The dozen monitors were still up and running, but the desk and long worktable he’d used were clean of everything except non classified materials. The wastepaper baskets and shredder bins were empty, the photos and charts he’d taped to the wall dividers had been taken down, and the litter on the floor had been picked up. “Sorry, Otto,” Karl Zimmerman, chief of computer services, said. Rencke spun around so fast he almost lost his balance. He was lightheaded from the accident.

Louise wanted him to stay at home, but he’d left as soon as she’d lain down on the couch and fallen asleep. “Hey, take it easy,” Zimmerman said, reaching for him, but Rencke pulled away. “Where are my things?”

“It was Mr. McGarveys call. We put everything in the safe room. Are you okay?” “What about the stuff in my car?” “We’ve got that, too,”

Zimmerman said. “Would you mind telling me what you’ve been working on? We burned a couple of your disks trying to find out.” Rencke glanced at his monitors. “We didn’t dare touch them,” Zimmerman said.

“The whole place would probably blow up.” The chief of computer services was a slightly built man with thinning gray hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He was very bright, although his real strength was administration: “If you can direct the gee ks you can run the system,” he said, not unkindly. “It’s too early,” Rencke mumbled.

“Lavender, you know. Bad. Getting badder.” There was light spilling over some of the walls in his head, like the sun on the horizon, or like the blue glow from the core of a swimming pool reactor. That in itself was a thought: a chain reaction building like a chain letter.

What if there were impurities in the core? What if just the right impurities were added, would the results tell what was going on inside.

Like an alloy. “Bring my things back,” he said, absently. He took off his jacket, tossed it toward a chair, which it missed, then started bringing his search engines back on-line one at a time.

Even now when his head was fragmenting he could appreciate the simple beauty of his programs. His machines had no opinions except for an appreciation of a deft touch on the keyboard. They didn’t care about his background, about how he looked, his clothes, his hair, his mannerisms, which he knew were sometimes odd, out of the ordinary. They did things for him without question or judgment. When he looked up it was a few minutes after six and he was surprised to see that someone had brought back all of his files. The table was piled, the floor was littered and several satellite shots of downtown Moscow were pinned to the divider. Zimmerman was gone and McGarvey stood in the doorway in his place. He seemed tired to Rencke, maybe even a little battered and bruised, as if he, too, had been in a car accident. He looked sad, the thought popped into Rencke’s head. “Oh, wow, Mac,” Rencke said. “What are you doing here?” “Trying to find out what the hell is happening to a friend of mine. His name is Otto Rencke. You haven’t seen him, have you?” Rencke turned back to face his monitor. He was inside the SVR’s Washington embassy computer center. He touched the escape key and the monitor went blank. His narrow shoulders were hunched forward. He was aware of the aches and pains from his accident; he wasn’t taking the pills the doctor had given him. He wanted his head screwed on as straight as possible under the circumstances. For the first time ever he didn’t know what to say to Mac. Something terrible was about to happen, and he had no idea how to explain it to anyone. Even his own thoughts were so compartmentalized that his brain was a jumble; a jagged mishmash of garishly colored shards of glass. He remembered when Mac had come to him the first time here in Washington, in Georgetown, at the Holy Rood house. The CIA had dumped them both. Mac had gone to ground in Switzerland, and Otto had hidden out in the open at home. Neither one of them had been doing much of any significance.

But then Mac had come calling with a little problem that had wound up with the deaths of Baranov and the Company’s DDO, John Lyman Trotter, Jr. But more than that, Mac’s coming back had legitimized Otto. Given him a fresh purpose for his life. It was a gift that he could never repay. Not in a thousand years, not in ten thousand million years of trying. He could see McGarvey’s reflection in the blank screen of his monitor. “I’m busy, what do you want?”

“I want to know what’s going on?” “What do you mean?” “Louise called.

She’s worried. You should be at home.” Rencke shrugged. “How about that.” He spoke to the computer screen. “My girlfriend calls, and the DCI comes running. What are you really doing down here?” “The Russians have been looking for one of their people from the old days.

They’ve asked Interpol and the DGSE for help. He disappeared in August, and you requested his file not too long after that. You’ve got Liz involved now, and Karl is worried that you’re going to fry his entire system. Put all of us out of work.” Rencke had been holding a pent-up breath. He blew it out all at once as if he was trying to fog up his monitor. His fingers flew over the keyboard, burying the program he’d been working with to a place where it could not be retrieved by anyone but himself. “It’s lavender, didn’t I tell you?”

He glanced at the extremely high-altitude Moscow photos on the wall, then turned to McGarvey. “I’m down here in my lair doing my job, just like you hired me to do, ya know,” he grumbled. “But I can’t do it like this. People coming and going, screwing with me.” Some of the files on the table lay open, some of them displayed the old KGB’s sword-and-shield logo. Post-it notes were stuck to some of the pages.

“The hospital was boring,” he said, looking away again. “Nothing to do. The nurses were as bad as Louise. She’s trying, ya know, but trying too hard. Sometimes it drives you crazy, ya know?” He grinned and shook his head. It was the best he could do, but he was bleeding inside. Hemorrhaging. “She should be at work. We should all be at work. Twenty-four, seven.” McGarvey cleared a spot on the table and perched on the edge. Otto kept trying to avoid eye contact, but McGarvey was patient. As if he had all the time in the world.

“Sometimes it’s easier to see than other times. Then Zimmerman comes in here and wipes out everything I was trying to do. Tossed some of it, cause I can’t find a whole bunch of stuff. Shelved the rest. I lost good time here.” His left hand rested on the keyboard, as if he were making reassuring contact with an old, troubled friend. “His name is Nikolayev,” McGarvey said. “The Russians haven’t been able to find him, and neither has Interpol. He was one of Baranov’s Department Viktor experts. I think maybe you’ve found him.” Rencke shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You requested his file.” “No.” “Jay Newby said you did,” McGarvey said, suddenly angry. His patience was wearing thin. “What the hell are you playing at, Otto?” Rencke’s eyes were wide. “If I pulled his file, it had to be something routine. Probably the Interpol request.

But I don’t remember, Mac. Honest injun.” He waved his arms. “Circle the wagons, but I’m on the inside, kimo sabe, not on the outside.”

“You’re lying-” “No!” Rencke cried. “Liz is just looking down your track to write the history. She wants to be her father’s biographer.

But it’s hard on her, too, ya know?” “What are you talking about?”

Rencke was frightened. His eyes were filling. He couldn’t control his hands. “It was the pictures of your folks. The accident. She saw the file. I tried to stop her.” McGarvey’s parents had been engineers at Los Alamos toward the end of the Manhattan Project. For a few years they were suspected of being spies for the Russians. The taint had carried over to their only son. But it wasn’t true, of course. The whole thing had been a complicated Baranov plot to discredit McGarvey before he rose to become a power in the CIA. They had been killed in an automobile accident that had probably been engineered by the Russians. The Kansas Highway Patrol accident scene photographs had been explicitly grisly. Elizabeth had a chip on her shoulder. Maybe she was angry at her father for not sharing the details about her grandparents’ deaths. Seeing those pictures now had to have been a terrible shock. “What are you doing rummaging around inside the old KGB files?” “It’s for Liz.” “She can run a computer,” McGarvey said.

“You were supposed to be working up the NIE in-depths on Pakistan’s and India’s technical capabilities.” “I transferred the file to your machine two days ago,” Rencke said. He was defensive, like a cornered animal. McGarvey glanced at the Moscow photos. They were date-and time-stamped for sometime in August. “You’re lying to me, Otto. You’re into something down here that you’re not telling anybody. Lavender, you said. What’s lavender?” “Maybe it’s you who are lying,” Rencke shot back. There was a cold, distant edge in his voice. “Maybe you don’t want to be DCI after all.”

The remark took McGarvey’s breath away. It was so unlike Rencke. He was practically family. It was as if a favored son had turned on his father for no reason.

“You’re right, it is lavender, and it’s getting worse,” Rencke said.

“Two weeks, maybe less, then I’ll tell you.”

“Now-“

Rencke shook his head. “You can’t be boss of everything. You lost that right the first time you pulled a trigger.” Rencke suddenly clasped his hands in his lap, and his jaw tightened. He was on the verge of something terrible.

McGarvey nodded. “Get out of here, Otto. Go home and get some rest.”

“Are you firing me?”

“Go home and get some sleep. We’ll talk later.” McGarvey walked out without looking back.

Rencke closed his eyes and saw bright flashes of color: spikes of blue, circles of orange, shards of red; violets, purples, lavender.

The dark beast was coming, and he didn’t know how to stop it. He was sure that he was finally going crazy.

McGarvey went downstairs to the indoor pistol range in the basement more than a little confused. Otto was an odd duck, but he was a friend. He’d never thrown a tantrum like this before. Something was eating at him; something serious enough to change him. He’d had a maniacal look in his eyes that McGarvey had never seen. He was on the verge of fragmenting into a billion pieces. McGarvey was afraid that if Otto fell apart, there’d be no one strong enough or bright enough to put him back together. And the CIA needed Otto. McGarvey had always used the compact Walther PPK autoloader in its 7.65mm version. But recently he’d been convinced to upgrade to the 9mm version, and he was still having a little trouble with the placement of his second and third shots. The more powerful ammunition tended to raise his pattern.

But he was quickly getting a handle on the problem. Yemm went with him, and they each fired two hundred rounds. Afterward McGarvey went back to his office. He had to get some help for Otto before it was too late. Dr. Norman Stenzel, chief of the CIA’s Office of Medical Services Psychology Clinic, came right up. Ms. Swanfeld was gone for the day, and Yemm waited in the outer office, the door to McGarvey’s office open.

It was snowing again. McGarvey watched how it blew around the lights, and he shivered. Every man belonged to his own age. It was a snatch of something he’d picked up somewhere. Voltaire would not have liked the twenty-first century. Nobody these days cared about the primacy of the Catholic Church. Religion was not such a big part of most people’s lives as it had been in the eighteenth century, though Voltaire would have perfectly understood the current struggle between Islam, Christianity and Judaism. McGarvey turned when he heard the Company psychologist come in. Dr. Stenzel looked like an academic, as did a lot of the people in the CIA. Beard, longish hair, tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, even corduroy trousers and a serious, studious demeanor; all of it was right out of the sixties. He reminded McGarvey of the actor Robin Williams, with his boyish, off-center smile. “Have a seat, Doc,” McGarvey said. “It’s not me who needs you, I’m asking for a friend.” Dr. Stenzel’s grin widened. “That’s what they all say.” “It’s Otto Rencke.” Stenzel had started to sit down, but he stopped, his good cheer instantly evaporating. “I see.” He sat down.

“What’s the problem.” “He’s under a lot of strain. I think that he might be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.” “I’m not surprised, Mr.

Director. In fact I’ve expected it for a long time.” Stenzel tried to regain his smile, but it was uncertain. “People like him are always on the edge. Classic.” “I’d like you to talk to him.” Stenzel thought about it for a few moments. “I’ll try, if you can get him to come to my office. We’ll have to do this on my turf. God only knows any shrink would love to get his hands on someone like Otto Rencke. The man is fascinating. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to do anything for him.”

“But you’ll try.” “Sure. It’s guys like him who design the tests I’m going to use. If he doesn’t want to open up, it’ll be me who comes out looking like a basket case.” Stenzel shrugged. “What’s he done that made you call me?” “He’s irritable, forgetful, off in another world.

More than normal. Maybe even dangerous. It’s like he’s ready to explode. The person I used to know as Otto Rencke isn’t the same person working for me now. It’s like somebody’s impersonating him.”

“That’s not possible, is it? A double?” “No,” McGarvey said. “He’s coming apart, Doc. I think he needs help.”

“I’ll do what I can. How about tomorrow morning. Ten?” “He’ll be there.” Dr. Stenzel eyed McGarvey with some curiosity. “What about yourself, Mr. Director? You look as if you could use some R and R.”

“It’s the season.” Stenzel waited. McGarvey got up and came around the desk. “We’re putting in a lot of hours because of my confirmation hearings and because in the meantime the real work still has to get done around here.” The meeting was obviously over, but Stenzel didn’t get up. “My job description is real simple. I’m supposed to look after the mental health of everyone in this building. A lot of bad stuff can happen if someone goes nuts around here. Including you, Mr.

McGarvey. Maybe especially you.” “No, I didn’t hate my mother.”

“That’s nice,” Stenzel said, grinning like he was getting a joke.

“It’s overwork. We’re all tired.” “I understand that you and your ex-wife got remarried. Congratulations. How is she handling what they’re trying to do to you on the Hill?” Yemm had come to the door.

McGarvey glanced over at him, and Yemm shrugged. Stenzel was doing his job. “It’s depressing her,” McGarvey said. “She’s tired, like the rest of us. Distant sometimes, forgetful. She and our daughter are going round and round.” “Speed bumps,” Stenzel said. He got up. “We all get them from time to time. Tells us to slow down and smell the roses.” “That simple?” “Yup. You need a vacation.” “Tell me about it,” McGarvey said. Stenzel made to leave, but McGarvey stopped him at the door. “How can you be so sure about my wife without first talking to her?” “When you were put up for DCI, another background check was automatically put into motion. That includes the backgrounds of your wife and daughter, as well as your friends. I’m a part of the process.” Speed bumps, McGarvey thought. They all were going a little crazy because of the hearings, because of the workload and, in Liz’s case, because she was pregnant. His daughter hadn’t been herself for several months. Part of it was the pregnancy; she was a little frightened about losing the baby again, and a little angry because her physical abilities were diminishing. But that was only a part of it.

According to Otto she had set herself up as her father’s biographer.

Looking down his track would affect her. But he didn’t know if he could help her come to terms with what she was discovering, because he himself hadn’t fully come to terms with his own past.

Rencke was already gone, so McGarvey phoned the apartment and got a worried Louise Horn. “I made an appointment for Otto to see Dr.

Stenzel in Medical Services tomorrow at ten. Make sure he’s there, would you?” “I’m worried about him, Mr. Director.” “Yeah, so am I.”

After he hung up he stared out the windows for a long time. The entire world around him was going crazy. But thinking like that was in itself crazy. What price? he asked himself. What price?