“I'm in the next room,” Mueller whispered, looking into the general's eyes for any sign that the man would betray him. There was nothing but impatience.
“I was expecting you,” General Schey said. “Go back in there and I'll join you in a couple of hours.”
Mueller reached out and took the general's scrawny arm by the biceps. “Get rid of her now.”
“No.”
“I'll kill them all, you included.”
“I have no doubt that you mean it,” the general said, undaunted, “in which case you'd be captured or dead within twenty-four hours. Interpol is already looking for you. The French found the helicopter at the border. They know you're in Germany.”
The normally inefficient French had evidently taken umbrage with him for what he'd done and were moving much faster than normal.
“You'll be leaving before dawn, and you'll be out of Europe within twelve hours. It's all been arranged.”
“But where?” Mueller asked, surprised despite himself.
“America. I have a friend in Washington who has need of your services. I talked to him a few hours ago. He's getting everything ready. Now get out of sight until I can come for you.”
Mueller stepped back, the gun hanging loosely at his side. He was going back to America.
Â
The Aeroflot Ilyushin touched down at Moscow's Sheremeteyvo Airport a few minutes before eleven in the morning, local. Surface air temperature was minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit, and as they taxied to the terminal McGarvey could see smoke rising straight up from chimneys, which meant there was no wind to make it feel colder. A black Zil was waiting for them when they parked, and a tall angular man in civilian clothes got out from the back seat.
The other passengers were held in their seats until McGarvey and Yemlin donned their coats, got their bags
from the overhead, and went down the boarding steps to the apron.
“The man waiting for us by the car is my boss, Colonel Amosovich Lyalin,” Yemlin said at McGarvey's side. “He's a good man, Kirk, but you will have to play straight with him if you want our help.”
“If he's the highest-ranking authority I'm going to be allowed to speak to, we might as well turn around and go back to Washington,” McGarvey answered.
“Not the highest, just the first.”
They hurried across the apron to Colonel Lyalin, and Yemlin made the introductions.
“I can't say that it's good to be here, Colonel,” McGarvey said, shaking the man's hand. “I thought I would start with General Polunin.”
Lyalin's left eyebrow rose. “You and I have some things to clear up first.”
McGarvey stepped closer and switched to Russian. “We're talking about a one billion dollar airplane factory, plus a long-term relationship that will generate a lot of American dollars for your economy. Lean on me, and you'll fuck the entire deal, Colonel.”
Lyalin showed no reaction. It was bitterly cold, but he made no move to invite them into the warmth of the car. “How did you find out about the Japanese attack?” he asked.
“I'm not at liberty to say.”
“This is important to us, Kirk,” Yemlin said. “No matter what we do, the international repercussions could be damaging.”
It was a rare admission on the part of a Russian, even these days, and it told McGarvey just how worried they were about the Japanese.
“It was an old friend, but I can't say anything beyond that, except that I'm here representing Guerin Airplane Company, not my government.”
“You want us to spy on the Japanese for your company, Mr. McGarvey,” Lyalin said patiently. “Coincident with your request, the Japanese sank one of our navy
ships. All hands were lost. That's two hundred twenty men and officers ⦠boys, many of them. You can understand why we are so ⦠anxious to find out what you know.”
“That's why I'm here. To tell you what we know and what we suspect and ask for your help to find out more, in exchange for a long-term financial investment.”
“Perhaps you have come to the wrong people, Mr. McGarvey,” Lyalin said after a long measure.
“If it's any consolation, Colonel, I don't think the attacks on our company, or the attack on your ship, were directed by the Japanese government. I think private interests are at work here.”
“You claim not to speak for your government?”
“That's right,” McGarvey said.
“Do they know that you are here?”
“By now, yes, assuming that the FBI still keeps track of who comes and goes aboard your aircraft.”
Lyalin glanced at Yemlin, then nodded. “Let's not keep the general waiting.”
The interior of the limousine was overheated, and wedged between Lyalin and Yemlin, McGarvey was sweating heavily by the time they had cleared the airport gate and were speeding toward the city at nearly one hundred, miles per hour. There were only two speeds in all of Russia: very slow for ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the people, or very fast for the elite or the frightened.
The birch forests at the side of the road passed in a blur, the landscape gradually opening to farm fields, fallow for the winter, and factories broken down and closed because of the economy.
In 1972 the KGB constructed its new headquarters building off the circumferential highway, Outer Ring Road, that circled Moscow. Copied almost line for line after the CIA's headquarters at Langley, the seven-story structure housed the KGB's, now the SUR's, First Chief Directorate, which was responsible for all foreign operations. It was from here that the spies, the agent provocateurs,
the assassins, and the terrorists trained and funded by the Soviet Union had been directed. And still were, McGarvey had no doubt. The spy business had not ended with the Cold War and the breakup of the old Soviet Union, it had merely changed. New masters perhaps, but the targets were essentially the same as they'd always been. The world, after all, was a finite place with only so many nations, armies, and intelligence agencies.
Armed guards at the gate passed them through without checking their credentials, and Colonel Lyalin led them to the seventh floor, which was the carbon of the seventh floor at Langley except that like the airplane this place was in desperate need of paint and repairs. The way everyone acted and talked, however, McGarvey didn't think any of them saw the shabbiness. It was taken for granted.
The colonel left them in an anteroom with a tall, large man who was armed, by the look of the bulge under his suit coat. His eyes never left them until Lyalin came back two minutes later and ushered them into a nicely furnished office.
General Leonty Dmitrevich Polunin, an even larger man, with thick black eyebrows and huge ears, came from behind a massive desk, his face a study in intrigue and mystery. McGarvey found himself thanking whatever gods there were that this one wasn't the director of the entire SUR, or worse, the President of the country. General Polunin, from what McGarvey knew of the man, had been Yeltsin's choice to head the Komitet, but something had gone wrong, and this was as far as he was going to rise in the hierarchy. He wore a well-cut dark gray suit and tie, with no medals or other adornment, yet it was obvious by his bearing that he had a military background and would be accustomed to being obeyed without question. The thought of Polunin facing off with Lawrence Danielle or Phil Carrara was ludicrous. The Russian would have their asses on a platter in nothing flat.
“General, this is Kirk McGarvey,” Lyalin said.
“You're certainly something of a surprise, Mr. McGarvey,” the general said.
McGarvey shook his hand, the general's grip firm but not crushing. “This isn't a pleasure trip.”
“Nobody suspected that you would think so, not even after all these years.” Polunin motioned them to a sofa and chairs across the room. “Coffee or tea?”
“Not for me,” McGarvey said.
“You are presenting yourself as a man of business this time, very well.”
“Within forty-eight hours a team of Guerin engineers, designers, and financial planners could be here to work with whoever will be assigned to the project, General,” McGarvey said.
“I'm not a Baranov or a Didenko, but I have read your file. The
complete
file, including Kansas.”
“My father loved his country, and he fought for what he believed.” McGarvey looked directly into the general's eyes. “He died for his beliefs.”
“We didn't kill him.”
A hand clutched at McGarvey's heart. “That was a long time ago.”
“Then why are you here, Mr. McGarvey? Didn't your experiences at Volodga teach you anything?”
“I don't work for the CIA.”
“No?”
“If I did, I wouldn't be here making such an offer, General.”
“Was it Phillip Carrara who told you about the Japanese attack?”
“No, but he made the initial contact with Viktor Pavlovich.”
“Why?” Polunin shot back, his eyes narrowed.
“Perhaps because he's just as concerned about the Japanese as we are.”
“We?”
“Guerin Airplane Company.”
“Are you saying that it's not a view shared by Mr. Danielle or General Murphy?”
“I haven't spoken to the Director about it, but Mr. Danielle apparently does not share our concern. At least he didn't on the day before the submarine attack.”
“Has he changed his mind?”
“I don't know, General, but it's certainly possible.”
“Then who was it told you about the attack, Mr. McGarvey?” Polunin demanded. “We won't go any further until that mystery is cleared up.”
It suddenly occurred to McGarvey that General Polunin and the others were frightened. The entire country had its collective back to the wall, and the attitudes of these three men reflected it.
“An airplane factory in what used to be East Germany would be welcomed,” he said. “I think the BND might be persuaded to go along with us. I have a few friends in Munich.”
The general flared. “We didn't bring you here to bargain with you like Jews.”
“Nor did I come here to be threatened,” McGarvey. said, stiffening. “This country is no longer the superpower it once was, but the SUR has something that
may
be of commercial use to the company I represent. If you help us, we'll help you.”
Polunin exchanged glances with Yemlin, then nodded. “Something can be worked out. It will be up to the negotiating team.”
McGarvey sat back, surprised by the suddenness of Polunin's flip-flop in position. “I'll send word to Portland.”
“The Director wishes to speak with you.”
“All right,” McGarvey said cautiously.
Polunin smiled wanly. “I think our relationship this time will be mutually advantageous, Mr. McGarvey. Don't you agree?”
Â
For a secret to be kept in Washington more than twenty-four hours a miracle had to happen. But it had been more than thirty-six hours since the incident in the Tatar Strait, and by a stroke of good fortune the media was still in the dark, although there'd been a few rumblings
in the
Washington Post
about strained relations between Japan and Russia. There'd also been quite a few queries to the White House about what was going on in Tokyo, which the President's press secretary, Michael Harding, had stonewalled. It would not last, of course. Sooner or later someone would leak the story, and once the floodgates were open nothing would stop the flow.
General Roland Murphy (retired) had been director of the Central Intelligence Agency for nine years, his appointment coming on the heels of the 1988 presidential election. In the old days the usual morning intelligence briefing was conducted by Agency officers for the National Security Adviser to the President. Now Murphy briefed the new President himself every weekday morning at nine sharp. Only on weekends were the summaries presented to the President's staff. Murphy liked the new arrangement because he felt it gave him much better control of the situation. If there were any nuances to be passed along to the President, they would be his, not those of his subordinates.
It was a few minutes before 9:00 A.M. when the general's chauffeured limousine pulled up at the White House's west portico and his bodyguard Ken Chapin followed him inside. Murphy was a heavyset man, with thick shoulders and surprisingly long and delicate fingers. His were the hands of a pianist. He spent as much time outdoors as he possibly could, sailing his forty-two-foot sloop on Chesapeake Bay or hunting wild boar in eastern Tennessee, so his square face was lined and tanned in fine contrast to his thick white hair. He'd been called “Bulldog” commanding a regiment in Vietnam with the same iron fist he'd brought to the joint chiefs and to Langley, but he also played classical piano and was quite good.