“Not yet,” Carrara replied. “But everything has changed. I just came from Langley, and I have to get back as soon as possible.”
“What is it, Phil?”
“Six hours ago a Russian Navy frigate was sunk in the Tatar Strait by a sub-sea missile that was probably launched from a Japanese submarine. We've been listening
to radio chatter all night. No survivors. Not one man out of a crew of two hundred plus. In the meantime, nobody is officially saying a thing. We're waiting for the Europeans to come on line in the next couple of hours, and at nine the DCI briefs the President. But the Russians are pumping one shitload of resources into the region. No one knows what the hell they're getting ready for, but it doesn't look good. The Japanese may be going after Sakhalin Island finally, and the Russians are responding.”
“It's not that,” McGarvey said.
“You're going to get called on this one, Mac,” Carrara said. “They're going to want to know where you're getting your information.”
“I read the goddamned newspapers, Phil,” McGarvey said sharply. “But the Japanese aren't after Sakhalin.”
“They're showing that they're able and willing to protect their home waters. We've gone all through that.”
“Maybe,” McGarvey said. “Maybe it's something else. Are we taking sides yet?”
“It's too soon for that.”
“Was the attack unprovoked?”
“Unknown.”
McGarvey looked away for a second. “What do you think?”
“We'll probably end up jumping all over the Japanese. Demand they apologize, demand they make reparations. Tokyo will deny any prior knowledge. They'll say it was a sub-driver who went berserk.”
“Maybe they'll be telling the truth,” McGarvey said. “How do I contact Yemlin?”
Carrara's breath caught in his throat, although he'd suspected McGarvey would ask that. “If Murphy thinks you're involved he'll come gunning for you. Won't be much I'll be able to do. Fact is, I'll probably fall with you.”
“This is important,” McGarvey said.
“That it is, Mac.”
“I'll keep you in the loop.”
“Yeah, do that,” Carrara said. “It's a blind number,
untraceable. No one will answer the phone, but when the connection is made, give them your name and your message and hang up. If Yemlin wants to see you, he will.”
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Arlington Cemetery opened at 8:00 A.M., and fifteen minutes later Yemlin, wearing the same dark overcoat as before, came down the broad path past Kennedy's grave. Even from a distance, McGarvey could see that the Russian was troubled.
“I'm assuming you've heard the latest,” Yemlin said as McGarvey fell in beside him. “The situation is very disturbing.”
“Is Moscow willing to help us?”
“Yes,” the SUR officer said. “But everything has changed. You can understand that my superiors want to talk with you. They have many questions.”
“All right,” McGarvey said. “But it'll have to be very soon, Viktor Pavlovich. With what has just happened, your superiors must understand the urgency of our request.”
“There is a 2:20 flight from Dulles this afternoon. It will put us in Moscow by late morning.”
McGarvey stopped short. “I'm not going to Moscow.”
“It's the only way,” the Russian said.
“An airplane factory worth a billion dollars is plenty of leverage. I'll meet them in Paris.”
“They won't go along with that. Maybe before, but not now.”
“Then the deal's off.”
“I don't believe you. Think of this from our viewpoint. We're under the gun, and it's possible that you can help us more, for the moment, with the truth than with an airplane factory.”
“I'll give you the truth.”
“We have to be certain,” Yemlin insisted. “In Paris that may be impossible. But in Moscow we believe you will tell the truth. It's up to you. We will not kidnap you.”
It was up to him, McGarvey thought. But he didn't
know if he could face Moscow. Not yet. The price he'd have to pay was still too high, the dangers too great. Facing Yemlin was bad enough, but facing the others, facing his own past, could prove to be more than he could handle.
R
iding in a cab downtown from his hotel in Georgetown, McGarvey was struck by how beautiful Washington had become under a fresh blanket of snow, but he felt like a stranger here. Despite the extraordinary happenings of the past few days, he was still on the outside looking in. He was a civilian. If he got himself backed into a corner he would be on his own. There'd be no cavalry to the rescue.
After his meeting with Carrara he'd tried the Gales Creek telephone number Kennedy had given him, but the woman who answered could only tell him that Kennedy was en route back to Washington, D.C., and that she would get a message to him as soon as possible.
Against his better judgment he went to Dominique Kilbourne's Watergate apartment. He figured that if he called her first she would hold him off until morning. But he didn't have the time. He was developing an odd, between-the-shoulders feeling that something disastrous was on the verge of happening. Kennedy had come to him too late in the situation. Forces beyond anyone's control were beginning to gather, to have a life of their own.
It took a long time before Dominique answered the door and awoke sufficiently to understand who it was and let him in. She wore a thick terry-cloth bathrobe, and without makeup she looked younger, Midwestern scrubbed.
“You're not exactly a pleasant surprise, Mr. McGarvey,” she said. Her voice was soft, and rounded by sleep.
“Something's come up. I need to talk to Kennedy.”
“You'd better come in.”
“Is he coming here?” McGarvey asked.
Her eyes widened momentarily, and her nostrils flared. “No, she said sharply.”What made you think he would be?”
“He told me that you'd been lovers.”
“I see,” she said evenly. “That's past tense. He's not here now.” She turned and padded into the apartment.
McGarvey followed her into the kitchen where she put on the tea kettle. “Nothing for me.”
“The cognac is in the same place in the living room.”
“I was told Kennedy was on his way to Washington.”
“He'll be touching down at eight, and after he checks in at the Hyatt Regency, he'll either come to my office, or meet with Tom Hailey at American. I imagine his afternoon will be busy too.”
“I want you to meet him at the airport and set up a lunch for me at his hotel.”
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked. “I quit three years ago, but now seems to be a good time to start again.”
McGarvey gave her a cigarette and held the match. “Get the message to him, Ms. Kilbourne.”
“Dominique,” she said, and inhaled. “I'd call him now, but that would be too public for what you've got to tell him, I think. So I'll do as you ask, and meet his flight.”
“Good,” McGarvey said, and he turned to go.
“In the meantime I've learned something about you since you were here last, and now I want to know more.”
He turned back. It was always the same. “You're like a very bright flame,” Kathleen had told him when he'd gotten back from Europe the last time. “Women are like moths around you. I don't understand it. Even your own daughter, who should know better, is blind.” It was true, but he didn't know why.
“What have you learned about me?” he asked.
“Get your brandy,” she said. “You were a spy for the CIA, and you still do work for them sometimes. Freelance.”
“You don't have to be a part of this. Tell Kennedy that you're quitting. He can come up with another Washington contact for me.”
Her eyes were bright, and she was frightened, but she was trying hard to hide it. “You were an assassin.”
McGarvey was surprised that she knew what she did, but Kennedy had explained that Guerin's CEO had an in at Langley. It was disturbing though that the general would allow his chief counsel to give out such information. Or even hint at it.
“Our government does not hire assassins,” he said.
“It's what you do.”
“My job is saving lives,” McGarvey said gently. “That's all I ever did.”
“The Cold War is over, Mr. McGarvey. There's no more threat of nuclear war. The Pentagon's budget has been cut, and it'll be cut even more. But that's not good enough for you, because you enjoy it. I can see it in your eyes. You fucking love it!”
“Get out while you can, Ms. Kilbourne ⦠Dominique,” he said. “Forget you ever heard my name.”
“I want to know why.”
When Moses had challenged God for being too harsh, God had told him, “I am what I am.” And He had left it at that. People were not gods, they were expected to change, to go with the flow, to accept the new and discard the old. But as a child he had his own set of demons that he'd never managed to exorcise. His parents were dead, the Wall was down, the Soviet Union no longer existed, but he still had his demons, stronger now in some ways than before. Probably because of the fertile ground they'd had to grow in since Kansas.
It was her last questionâwhy?âthat had sent him away. He had no answer.
The cabby dropped him off at the Hyatt Regency
Washington on D Street and New Jersey Avenue. He went inside to the atrium restaurant where David Kennedy was waiting for him. Like Dominique, the former astronaut lived in a different world than McGarvey did. What cop, after a few years on the force dealing on a daily basis with the dregs of society, could look at the world through anything but a jaundiced eye? Spies were the same; they saw conspiracies and dangers lurking everywhere. And most of the good ones he knew at Langley, and elsewhere, wore their cynicism like a badge of honor because it didn't come naturally; they'd earned it.
“Have you ordered yet?” he asked, reaching Kennedy's table.
Kennedy looked up. “I was waiting for you,” he said, and they shook hands. “Dominique is shook up.”
“I know,” McGarvey said, sitting down. “My CIA friend stopped by last night.”
“I talked to Al Vasilanti, and he said the CIA was hinting that what we were doing might not sit so well on the Hill.”
McGarvey wished he could have been there. According to Dominique, Vasilanti wasn't a man to be pushed around. Guerin's annual budget, as the company's CEO liked to point out, was larger than the budgets of ninety percent of all the countries in the world. “Should give us diplomatic status.”
“What'd he tell them?”
Kennedy smiled, though it was clear he was troubled. “Told them to go to hell. He's behind you one hundred percent, but he told me to tell you to watch your ass. If you get in over your head there might not be anything we can do for you.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Told me to trust my instincts or get out of the business. And since I'm not going to fire you, I'm going to take you at your word. You said that the least we could face would be charges of industrial espionage, and at the most treason. You've got to admit, Mac, that's pretty heavy going.”
“Cold feet?”
“Goddamned right I've got cold feet, but you're the expert. You tell me.”
Their waiter came. Kennedy ordered a tossed salad and a cup of tea. McGarvey ordered a brandy neat, no water, no ice.
“You must have had a bad night,” Kennedy said when the waiter was gone.
“I've had worse,” McGarvey replied. “Did Vasilanti say who he spoke with at the Agency, and when?”
“Lawrence Danielle, evidently just after you'd met with Phil Carrara.”
The DCI Roland Murphy would have called Vasilanti if Danielle had brought the problem across the hall to him. But it was the DCI's style to insulate his boss. This time it would work to their advantage.
“I met with Viktor Yemlin again this morning. He's invited me to go to Moscow with him. We leave from Dulles in a few hours.”
“Jesus,” Kennedy said softly. He looked across the dining room as if he expected someone was listening to them. “You'll have to stall him. We'll need at least twenty-four hours to put together a negotiating team. We'll fly over on our own equipment, of course.”
“They want me, David. Alone.”
Kennedy looked at him. “Why?”
“Because of what happened yesterday afternoon, and because they want to make sure that I'll tell them the truth.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A Japanese submarine attacked and sank a Russian naval vessel in the Tatar Strait ⦠in waters the Russians are claiming as their own.”
Kennedy was stunned. “There's been nothing in the news.”
“There won't be, at least for the next day or two,” McGarvey said. “Phil Carrara told me last night, and Yemlin confirmed it this morning. There're going to be a lot of people wanting to know why we picked just now to ask for help spying on the Japanese.”
“What do we tell them?”
“The truth.”
“The CIA didn't buy it, what makes you think the Russians will?” Kennedy asked. “You can't be serious about going alone to Moscow. If something happened there wouldn't be a damned thing we could do for you. And I don't think the CIA would lift a finger either.”
“I know,” McGarvey said. He'd gone over this with himself a dozen times in the last few hours. “But we asked for their help, and now they're willing to talk about it. So what do we do?”
“Christ, what a mess,” Kennedy said looking away again.
“It's become a different world out there, David. One I don't think anyone really understands yet. Our only choice is to deal with it as best we can.”
“What if you're wrong?”
“Then I'm wrong, and we go from there,” McGarvey said, his gut in a knot. “But if I'm right, and if we don't even try to stop them, a lot of innocent people could get hurt.”
“Yeah,” Kennedy said softly.
“It's a bitch, but it was us who made it this way.”
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Yemlin was waiting for him in a VIP lounge at Dulles when he showed up at 2:00 P.M. An Aeroflot Ilyushin 11-86 was parked at the gate, connected to the boarding area by a jetway. The aircraft looked old, and shabby, its paint job faded and peeling. Once the largest airline in the world, the Russian carrier was in desperate straits.
“I was about to give up hope,” Yemlin said. “I didn't think you were coming.”
“This is important to my company, Viktor Pavlovich. I've met with my boss about the details of our offer.”
Yemlin peered at him for a long beat, as if he were trying to decide what to make of what he was hearing. Something had changed since this morning. The Russian no longer seemed apologetic as before. Evidently he'd gotten further instructions from Moscow. “They'll want to talk to you about that.”
“I've got nothing to hide,” McGarvey said. “I came to you for help, remember?”
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Taking his place beside Yemlin as the only passengers in first class, it felt like Russia already to McGarveyâeven before the jumbo jet left the U.S. The interior of the aircraft was just as threadbare and chipped as the exterior had suggested, and as all of Russia was. McGarvey remembered the first time he'd come into Moscow with his chief of station. It was his first assignment. He'd had the thought that the city needed a coat of paint. A major spring cleaning that all the
babushkas
out sweeping the roads with straw brooms couldn't accomplish. The country needed refurbishing, remodeling, updating. Just as this aircraft did. Aeroflot might be having its troubles at home, but in the Western world it wouldn't last five minutes with shabby, outdated equipment like this. From a practical standpoint he had to wonder if the jetliner would make it across the Atlantic. It'd be a hell of a note, he thought wryly, to die this way.
Yemlin had a word with the crew, and even before they pulled away from the gate first class was closed off from the rest of the plane, and a good-looking young woman offered them drinks. By the time they were airborne McGarvey was on his second cognac, neat, no water, no ice, but he was still tied up in knots. He was going back, going back and back, down and down, as if he were falling into a bottomless pit with darkness all around him.
Her name was Tania Fedorovna Sorokin, and she worked as a technical translator and adviser for the government, rendering into Russian sensitive Western technical documents that she would explain in lay terms to the politicians. She was good at her job, but from the beginning she'd never trusted Brezhnev. “The man is mad for power, and he'll lead the country to nuclear holocaust before he'll step aside.”
So far as she knew, or allowed herself to know, McGarvey was a dissident American scientist. An intellectual
who wanted to end war once and for all by freely sharing nuclear information with anyone who wanted it. If there are no secrets there will be no wars.