MCGARVEY STOOD ON A windswept rocky promontory looking out across the azure Aegean Sea toward the mainland fifty miles to the northwest. He was winded and sweating under the fierce Greek summer sun and the breeze felt good on his legs and bare torso.
He was running five miles a day now, up and down the craggy paths around the tiny rock-strewn island. A dozen families of Greek fishermen lived in a tiny village on the north side of the island, leaving him in relative isolation on the south side where he had taken up residence in an abandoned lighthouse.
For the past few days he had known that someone would be coming. He had felt it in his bones. It was a common feeling for him, which had saved his life on more than one occasion. He had picked out the small hydrofoil boat while it was still eight or ten miles out, by its long, creamy wake. Now it was barely a mile off the ancient stone dock in the village below. He had been brought here to this island the same way a month ago, and now someone was coming to him.
Unconsciously he touched the healing scar on the small of his back to the right of his spine. Kurshin's bullet had destroyed one of his kidneys and it had been removed that night in the Bethesda Naval Hospital. He had nearly bled to death on the operating table, and still a weakness would come over him at the odd moment.
But he had been lucky, once again. How long would that hold?
Turning, he started down from the crest of the hill toward the lighthouse two miles away, running lightly so as not to jar his back, but easily because it felt good to be alive and functioning again.
At first an old woman had come up from the village to help tend to his wound and cook his meals. But after the first week he had hiked across the island, showing up at the small taverna. After that he had been left alone; going into the village only once a week for food, newspapers, and other supplies.
A week ago the doctor from Siros on his monthly rounds had come up to see him, pronouncing him reasonably fit for light exercise. But by then he had already been running every day.
The lighthouse was perched on a sheer cliff that dropped ninety feet to the sea. A narrow path led to a stone bridge across to it.
Inside, McGarvey wiped off his face with a towel, and in his bedroom pulled out his Walther automatic, checked its action, and went back outside, across the bridge, and up the path beyond where it branched off toward the village.
It was just noon, and his stomach was rumbling. With all his work, and the fresh sea air and his daily swims before dinner, he had built up a healthy appetite. But who was coming? Only a very few people knew where he had been taken. But as on
that night at the hospital, he had the feeling that Kurshin had another source of information. Someone other than FELIKS in the Pentagon. Someone in the Agency.
He climbed farther up the hill where he took up a position from which he could see the village path. By now the hydrofoil would have landed, and if someone were coming up here to him, they would be showing up at any moment.
Paranoia, the thought came to him as it often had over the past few years. Mistrust. Suspicion. Once he'd thought he knew something about honor, but in this business the opposite seemed true just as often.
A lone figure appeared at the crest of the hill and started down the long side, moving slowly, awkwardly. He was dressed in dark slacks and a light-colored shirt, but it wasn't until he got a little closer that McGarvey could see he walked with a limp and was using a cane. He knew who it was.
Stuffing the pistol in the waistband of his shorts, he scrambled down the hill and went back up to the path. Trotter was just coming around the corner, and he stopped as McGarvey came up.
“I saw the boat coming in, but I didn't know who it was,” McGarvey said.
Trotter's eyes went to the pistol. He nodded. “How are you doing, Kirk?”
“Better. You?”
“They gave me a plastic hip. We'll see how it turns out.” Trotter glanced up toward the lighthouse. “Anyway, I'll be back in the office on Monday.”
“There's been nothing in the papers about En Gedi.”
“No,” Trotter said. He nodded toward the lighthouse. “Let's go inside. It was a long hike up from the village. I'd like to sit down.”
“Sure,” McGarvey said, leading the way. There was an awkwardness between them that he was having difficulty getting a handle on. He could usually anticipate his old friend, this time he didn't know.
They sat on the stone veranda overlooking the sea. McGarvey brought out a bottle of retsina wine, bread, olives, sausages, and
feta cheese. On this side of the island the afternoons were pleasant.
“You hit him, you know,” Trotter said.
“Kurshin?”
“Yes. We found blood at the back doorway, and then across the clearing to where the helicopter was parked. We found it back in Alexandria with a lot of blood in the cockpit.”
The Agency had debriefed him in the hospital but had refused to answer any of his questions.
“No sign of him from that point?”
Trotter shook his head. “He definitely didn't return to the embassy; the Bureau was watching the place around the clock.”
“Then he's disappeared again.”
“He hasn't been spotted anywhere. Not Moscow, not East Berlin.”
“What about the other two men at the house?”
“Baranov's Department Viktor people. Some of the best. They're both dead, of course.”
“What's been done about it, John?” McGarvey asked. “Until now we haven't done anything like that on each other's turf. At least not directly as a KGB operation.”
“I don't know,” Trotter admitted. “Ultimately that's the president's decision.”
“But?” McGarvey said sharply.
Trotter hunched his shoulders as he sipped his wine. He looked out to sea again. Other islands dotted the horizon.
“I owe you my life. Kurshin would have killed us all.”
“But he accomplished his objective. He got to Rand and most likely he got the information he'd come for.”
“We're not so sure, Kirk. The reason you haven't read anything about En Gedi is because absolutely nothing has happened. June thirtieth came and went without incident. For all we know Kurshin could be dead somewhere. And maybe Rand's disk is with his body.”
“Any idea what was on it?”
“No.”
“What about the Israelis?”
“I don't know that either. Our lines of communication have
been severely curtailed. But I do know that Lev Potok will be all right, again thanks to you.”
“Which leaves Baranov,” McGarvey said, beginning to understand finally. “The reason you've come here.”
“Not the only reason, Kirk,” Trotter said, turning back to him. “I came here to thank you, and to see how you were getting along. Whether you know it or not, or care to admit it, you at the very least delayed their plans, and possibly even destroyed them.”
“Still, there's Baranov. Always Baranov.”
Trotter nodded glumly. “The general asked me to come speak with you ⦔
“Authorized you, John,” McGarvey said a little crossly. “Let's get our terminology straight right at the beginning.”
“Yes. Authorized.”
“No bullshit now. Tell it to me straight. What is it you want? Exactly.”
“There is going to be a Law Enforcement conference in East Berlin in seven days. The heads of the police forces from every country in the Warsaw Pact will be there. So will Baranov.”
“Along with half the KGB to guard him.”
“We have come up with a copy of his itinerary.”
“No mean trick ⦔
“We have our sources as well, Kirk, you know this. At any rate there is a possibility, just a possibility, of taking him out.”
“And Murphy is authorizing such a mission?”
“Not yet,” Trotter said. “He's going to the president with it. But first he wants to know if you would be willing to take it on.” Trotter's eyes narrowed. “I am your friend, whether or not you want to believe that, and I'm telling you up front that the Agency will give you all the backup it can ⦠but only to the point that you enter Germany. After that you would be on your own. I mean
totally
on your own. If you were caught we would be able to prove that you were unbalanced, and that your action was totally yours.”
“Why this now? Why the sudden change of heart?”
“The man is insane, and Gorbachev either won't or can't do
anything about him.” Trotter leaned forward. “The man is consolidating his power, Kirk. He has most of the military establishment behind him now. The old guard who believe that Gorbachev has gone too far.”
“When do you need my answer?”
“If he goes ahead with En Gedi, and he is successful, we think he means to take over the entire Middle East.”
“When?”
Trotter sat back again. “Soon, Kirk. The conference begins in seven days and the general still has to go to the president with it.”
“Why me?”
“Again I won't lie to you,” Trotter said. “But the answer should be fairly obvious. You're the right man for the job. It would be a vendetta, something everyone concerned would understand.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” McGarvey said. He got up and went into the house where he found a pack of cigarettes and lit one. It was his first since he had come to the island.
Assassins were meant to assassinate. His sister would say that he was finally developing a conscience. It was war, wasn't it? Kill or be killed. Each time the call to arms came, he had more and more difficulty in accepting his role.
Until now.
Vengeance will be mine, the Lord said. But he wasn't living in the modern world.
Trotter had come to the veranda door. McGarvey could feel his presence behind him.
“All right,” he said, without turning. “I'll do it.”
“We'll brief you in Athens on Tuesday if we get the green light. But we'll have to keep you at arm's length, you understand this?”
“Yes,” McGarvey said tiredly.
There was a small silence.
“Are you up for this, Kirk? I mean if the president gives us his go-ahead.”
McGarvey shrugged. “How do any of us know whether or not we're up to something, unless we actually do it.”
Again there was a silence.
“I'll get back then,” Trotter said. “But I brought someone with me.”
McGarvey turned around. “Who?”
“Lorraine Abbott.”
“Why?”
“Because she insisted.”
“Take her back with you, I don't want to see anyone now.”
“She doesn't know about this, of course, and she mustn't ⦔
“Take her back with you, John, I mean it.”
“I can't.”