THE SAFEHOUSE WAS A three-story brownstone a couple of blocks from Georgetown University in a nondescript but obviously expensive neighborhood.
McGarvey had parked his car by the Naval Observatory and had taken a cab past the place, watching for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. But he had seen nothing. Still, his instincts were telling him that Kurshin was very near. He could almost taste it in the air.
Paranoia? he wondered. With age and experience sometimes
comes overcaution. He was back on the hunt, and only Trotter, it seemed, was minding his back door. And exactly what
fallout
had Carrara been talking about? As with every operation he'd been involved in, the unanswered questions were a legion in the beginning, among them the participation of the Mossad.
“We're helping them out, Kirk. Naturally they'd insist on inserting one of their own people into the operation,” Trotter had explained.
“We're talking about a Soviet penetration agent somewhere within the Pentagon. That covers a lot of territory.”
Trotter had nodded glumly. “We all know it, but your arrest put us against the wall.”
McGarvey said nothing.
“It'll be up to you to see that they don't get into too much mischief ⦔
“For Christ's sake, John, we've been around too long for that kind of crap. Talk to me. Murphy must have safeguards.”
“Yes, he does.”
“If they get in my way someone could get hurt.”
“I know,” Trotter said. “In this my hands are practically tied, Kirk. I'll do what I can to keep them off your back, but when it gets down to the last analysis, it'll be up to you to make peace with the Mossad.”
McGarvey hadn't bothered asking what he'd meant by that; he figured he'd be finding out soon enough.
He got his car from the Naval Observatory, parked it on a narrow side street a block away from the safehouse, and went the rest of the way on foot, reasonably certain, at least for the moment, that he had not been followed.
Mounting the steps at three in the afternoon, McGarvey had the impression that he was passing from one time zone into another, and no matter what had come before, once he crossed the threshold there would be no turning back.
He let himself into the stairhall and stood in the shadows for a few moments listening to the sounds of the house. They would be alone, Trotter had assured him. “Complete privacy. Hash out whatever it is you two have to hash out there, inside the safehouse, away from prying eyes and ears, and then do your job.”
Lev Potok, wearing khaki trousers and a light V-neck sweater, appeared at the head of the stairs.
“You,” McGarvey said, once again amazed at his own self-control.
“There's some cold beer up here. I think you and I are going to have to get some things straight between us before we get started.”
“You bet,” McGarvey growled, starting up the stairs.
He followed Potok down the hall into the long, narrow living room, with large bowed windows that looked down on the street. A white noise generator had been attached to the windowpanes so that conversations could not be picked up from outside.
“When did you get to Washington?” McGarvey asked.
“Last night.”
“Have you been briefed?”
Potok had stepped into the small utility kitchen. He came back with two beers, handing one to McGarvey.
“Yes. I was allowed to read the FELIKS file.” He shook his head. “This man has been very damaging to you, I think. And to us.”
“Who briefed you?”
“Howard Ryan. He is your Agency's general counsel, I believe ⦔
“I know the man,” McGarvey said. He went to the window, parted the curtains, and looked down at the street. Normal traffic, nothing out of the ordinary, but there was something. “Who knows you're here?”
“The prime minister. My boss. A few people in travel and historical section ⦔
“And the Russians.”
Potok started to object, but then he nodded. “You are probably correct.”
“Your service is just like any other ⦔
“You've made your point,” Potok said. “But before we start, let me apologize for ⦠Lod.”
“You were doing your job.”
“Yes. But would you have tried to kill me had I slapped you a second time?”
McGarvey turned away from the window where he had been studying the Israeli's reflection in the glass. “Yes.”
Whether it was the answer Potok had expected or not, it didn't show on his face. “I see.”
“Like you said, we've got a few things to get straight between us. You are working for me on this project. I won't lie to you, nor will you lie to me. The first time it happens, I'll have your ass on a plane back to Israel.”
“Fair enough, within certain limitations,” the Israeli said cautiously.
“Whatever your instructions were, the Pentagon will not be a Mossad supermarket.”
“Understood.”
McGarvey stared at him for several long seconds, trying to work out in his own mind exactly how he felt about working with the man. He was a professional, otherwise he wouldn't have been sent here. Was that enough?
“We have a lot of ground to cover,” McGarvey said. “I'm going to ask you a question, for which you'll give me the truth. And then you can ask me a question, which I will answer truthfully.”
Potok nodded, the caution still in his eyes.
“There was an incident at En Gedi, which the NPT investigated. It was picked up by our KH-11 surveillance satellite. We believe that the Soviets penetrated you. Is this correct?”
“Yes. His name was Benjamin Rothstein.”
“Where is he now? Do you have him?”
“He is dead. Where is Dr. Abbott at this moment?”
“In a CIA safehouse about fifty miles from here. The NPT has been cut out of this operation until it's over. At that time it'll be up to the politicians to negotiate some sort of a deal.” McGarvey had perched on the edge of the couch. “We know what is stored at En Gedi.”
Potok's jaw tightened.
“Now, tell me exactly what happened out there with Rothstein. I want to know everything.”
The Israeli glanced at the windows. “If I cannot?” he asked.
“Then our association ends here and now. I won't work with you.”
“Is this place bugged?”
“I was told it was not.”
“Did you believe them?”
McGarvey shrugged. It was hard sometimes to know exactly what he believed. “I don't think either of us has much choice. They know a hell of a lot more than they've told either of us. But we've got a job to do.”
“Yes,” Potok said. “We have a job to do and it will not be pleasant. Nor do we have much time.”
“No.”
“We were penetrated twice,” Potok said. “The first time by Rothstein, who was almost definitely a Russian, and by a nuclear technician named Simon Asher.”
“Rothstein was in the vault? He saw the weapons?”
Potok was very uncomfortable. “Yes. He managed to get clear of the base, and we think that he managed to call his contact with the information.”
“What about Asher, did he escape as well?”
“No. Nor have we found a Russian connection yet. In fact, he was born in New York City and educated here in the States.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died of radiation poisoning,” Potok said. “Our scientists say that he was attempting to install an ⦠initiator into one of the weapons. But he made a mistake, spilled radioactive material, and died.”
“When did this happen?”
“At the same moment Rothstein was in the vault.”
“That doesn't make any sense,” McGarvey said half to himself. What the hell was he being told? “If Rothstein was working for the Russians, to confirm the existence of your weapons stockpile, then why was Asher down there trying to destroy the place?” He looked up. “That's what he was trying to do, wasn't it?”
“Yes. Maybe it was a safeguard. The Pershing missile would be sent if Asher had failed. But ⦔
“What?” McGarvey said, sitting forward.
“We have been monitoring the telephone lines from the Hungarian Embassy for some time now. We have a new technique that allows us to do this without being detected, no matter how
sophisticated their telephone equipment is. There were a series of telephone calls between the Soviet Interests section of the embassy and a man we arrested a few days ago. They discussed the failure in Germany, and they said that another attempt would be made on June thirtieth.”
It was the date, finally.
“What about this man?”
“His name was Viktor Voronsky. A KGB field officer who had until a few months ago been seen in Damascus. It is possible that he was Rothstein's contact.”
“He's dead?”
“Unfortunately. He committed suicide. But, no mention was made of Asher's attempt to destroy the facility.”
McGarvey nodded. “Then something else is going on. But it's Baranov. It's the way he works.”
“My turn,” Potok said. “There were three men who hijacked your Pershing missile.”
“Arkady Kurshin, whose file I've brought for you. He managed to escape. And it'll be he who is going to make the next attempt. Ivan Yegorov, who I killed. And an East German rocket scientist by the name of Dieter Schey.”
“What happened to him?”
“He'd been shot in the head, probably by Kurshin, and left there to die. We have him here in Washington. He's alive, but not conscious.”
Potok's mind was racing, McGarvey could see it in his expression. “In order to get to Arkady Kurshin we must uncover FELIKS.”
“Who almost certainly is Baranov's source for technical information,” McGarvey said. “Of the sort Kurshin would have needed to operate the missile.”
“Information that their
East German
rocket scientist needed to operate the missile,” Potok took the thought a step forward. “If we therefore make an announcement that Dieter Schey is alive and well, angry that his own people left him for dead, and that he is willing to cooperate with us in naming his Pentagon source, Kurshin will come after him. Schey will be the bait.”
“Something like that,” McGarvey said. “But there's more.”
“Yes?”
“Kurshin will be coming here to kill me as well.”
“Why?”
“I stopped him in Germany.”
“There's more?”
Again McGarvey nodded. “It's a long story, Lev, one I'm going to have to tell you on the run. But it goes directly back to Baranov. The man has got a price on my head.”