A
lgeria's fight for independence had been as big a blot on France's honor as Vietnam had been on America's. But as a young man, Philippe Marquand had made his mark with the army on the desert, and he had been fighting one war or another ever since. He'd lost some, but had won most, picking up a few scars, mental as well as physical, along the way. Now, standing in the cold just beyond the rear of the stone farmhouse, he rubbed the muscles at the base of his spine. He'd wrenched his back when he'd been thrown forward by the force of the blast and had compounded the problem by spending six hours tromping around in the cold. It was midnight, the storm had not let up, if anything it was intensifying, and they'd still not found
the missing East German. It was at times like these when he seriously wondered if he could continue, or even should go on being a gun-carrying cop. The SDECE wanted him to take over the entire Service 5, an administrative post that would as surely tie him to a desk in Paris as if he been chained and padlocked to it. But until the moment when he'd entered the farmhouse and saw what had been done, he'd not even considered it. The Germans had sent them a clear message: Frogs are subhuman. The old couple, whose tiny farm this was, had been stripped naked, hung from the ceiling rafters by their ankles, and their throats slit. They'd been bled to death like pigs.
Belleau came out of the house. “The police downriver have been alerted.” He had to raise his voice over the wind. “Dreux, Anet, Louviers, and even Rouen.”
The body the police had fished out of the river minutes after the shooting had been one of their own. The missing East German was Bruno Mueller, the same one Lieutenant Regis had spotted and identified in Chartres.
“He's the very best, René. The most cold-blooded and ruthless. He did that to those old people in there. And enjoyed it.”
Marquand had been witness to the Stasi lieutenant colonel's handiwork on more than one occasion over the past eight years. But always the aftermaths. This was the nearest he'd ever come to the man. So close, he thought, unconsciously clenching his fists. They'd searched and re-searched the house and grounds, but he was gone.
“His body will wash up somewhere downstream,” Belleau said. “In this weather no one could survive for long in the water.”
“He may have climbed out a hundred meters from here, walked to the highway, and flagged down a car or truck.”
“There are roadblocks, Philippe. He will not escape again.”
“Maybe he has found a boat,” Marquand said, staring
at the small stream. “Did someone visually identify that dead police officer?”
“His name was Georges Level, and he had one bullet in his heart, two in his brain, and more in his lungs and back. His own people mistook him for Mueller.”
“The ultimate joke,
hein,”
Marquand said.
“Let's go, Philippe,” Belleau said gently. “There is nothing more for us to do here.”
“Has the helicopter been secured?”
“Oui. There'll be no flying until tomorrow. Gisgard and Boutet will remain here with the machine. I have a halftrack standing by to get us to Chartres, where there's a train for us. It's the only way tonight, unless you want to stay.”
“No, we'll go,” Marquand said, taking a last look at the river. He could almost feel Mueller's presence. Each time he'd come close to the man there'd been a lingering stench, as if the air was tainted. Death and destruction were everywhere, and wouldn't end until Mueller was dead. Not in jail, but
dead.
“Even if he does manage to break loose, which isn't likely, it's still all over for him,” Belleau said. “There's nobody left. We know the whereabouts of most of the other ex-Stasi officers, the ones who retired and stayed retired. There's no help for him there.”
“Don't be so sure, Rene. A man like him has friends. People who owe him favors, or people who are frightened of him. If he gets away he will strike again, I guarantee it.”
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McGarvey arrived at the Watergate apartment of Dominique Kilbourne a few minutes after six. The snow had finally come with the lowering afternoon temperatures. Rush-hour traffic had been all snarled up so he was a half-hour late. Kennedy would be wondering what had happened to him. But there was a lot he'd had to get straight in his own mind before he finally decided he would take this job.
He'd driven out to Chevy Chase to his ex-wife's house,
but at the last moment decided not to stop. He had nothing to say to her. She knew what he was doing, where he was teaching. Elizabeth, he was sure, gave her mother detailed reports. It was for the best, he supposed. Old wounds, when reopened, hurt the worst.
Seeing Yemlin hadn't done much for his mood either. The old days had been brought back to him in living color. The bad along with what little good there'd been. It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to kill the Russian with his bare hands. He kept telling himself that the war was over. It was done.
Yet here he was, back in the fray.
Dominique Kilbourne, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up above her elbows, answered the door. Something was cooking in the kitchen, and whatever it was smelled wonderful.
“I hope you've made enough for dinner, because I'm going to want at least two helpings, and maybe more,” McGarvey said.
Her narrow but pleasant face lit up. “Kirk McGarvey?” she asked. She was a slightly built woman with short dark hair, deep, almost coal-black eyes, and a very good, if small, figure. She looked to be in her mid- to late thirties.
“That's right. You must be Dominique Kilbourne. Kennedy didn't tell me that you were beautiful.”
She laughed. “Are you a chauvinist?”
“In the worst way.”
“Well, at least your candor is refreshing,” she said. She stepped aside. “David's waiting in the living room. Are you going to accept his job offer?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
McGarvey studied her eyes for a long moment. She was a grown-up woman doing a difficult job in what was possibly the most chaotic and arguably the most dangerous city in America. But for all of that she still had the look of an innocent. Self-confident, but naive.
“It's what I do,” he said. “Has Kennedy told you about me?”
“He has. But I have to admit I've never met anyone in your ⦠profession before.”
McGarvey smiled. “I'll try to keep my contact with you to a minimum,” he said. He brushed past her and went down a short hall that opened into a large well-furnished living room.
David Kennedy stood at the broad windows facing the Potomac River, looking at the falling snow and the lights of the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts to the south. He was dressed casually, like Dominique, in slacks and a pullover.
“What have you decided?” he asked, turning.
McGarvey spotted a bar set up on a buffet. He went to it and poured a brandy without ice or water. “I'll need a different contact here in Washington. I don't think Ms. Kilbourne will do.”
“Why is that?” she asked, perching on the arm of a long, low white couch.
“This has the possibility of getting ugly,” McGarvey said.
“I'm a big girl.”
“A lot of people could get hurt. I wouldn't want to see someone like you get in the middle of a firing line.”
“People like me. You mean a woman.”
“That's right.”
She bridled. “Every major airline in this country flies Guerin equipment. I think I'm entitled to know if we're facing a threat.”
McGarvey shrugged, and turned to Kennedy. “It's your call.”
“But not yours?”
“We're talking about industrial espionage at the very least. That's a felony. Guerin could be hit with a hell of a fine, and the co-conspirators could go to jail. Might even involve treason, considering who we're dealing with.”
“We went over that,” Kennedy said. “We understand what we're getting into.”
“I don't think you do, but there's 1990 to consider. If your enemies brought down that airplane, and they mean to bring down another, possibly more than one, it
means they won't hesitate to kill whoever gets in their way. Me. You. Ms. Kilbourne.”
“I'm a part of the industry, Mr. McGarvey, whether you like it or not,” Dominique said evenly. “A lot of people trust my judgment in spite of the fact I'm a woman.”
“Still your call,” McGarvey told Kennedy.
The ex-astronaut hesitated for just a moment. “Unless you have some other objection to working with Dominique I'll have to go along with her. She knows your background, she knows the situation, and she has the contacts in the industry that you might need. I trust her completely.”
“It's not a matter of trust,” McGarvey said.
“Are you taking the job?” Kennedy asked.
“When you came to see me you said that you understood my methods were unorthodox.”
“He told me he was taking the job,” Dominique said.
“I spoke with someone today who might be able to help us. But we would have to give him something in return.”
Kennedy's eyes were bright. “Like what?”
“Some money, maybe a couple of hundred thousand dollars, give or take.”
“We won't get involved in bribery.”
“This would be for operational funds,” McGarvey said. “But there'd be more. I told him that if his people helped us, Guerin might be willing to build a subassembly plant.”
Kennedy had a half-smile on his face. “Where?” he asked.
“Outside Moscow.”
Kennedy's left eyebrow rose. “Okay,” he said to cover his hesitation. “You've got my attention.”
Dominique was staring at him, her mouth open.
“I met with a friend at the CIA and asked if the Agency could help out. The key is finding out who is involved with this
zaibatsu,
and then putting a man at one of their board meetings. I was turned down, as I
suspected I would be, so I went to the next best organization that watches Tokyo.”
“The Russians?” Dominique asked.
“Viktor Yemlin. He's the chief of Russian intelligence operations for all of North America. He and I go a long way back together, and he owes me a favor.”
“You went to the Russians for help?” Dominique asked again.
“Do you still want to be a part of this, Ms. Kilbourne?” McGarvey asked.
“David, what the hell is going on?” she demanded, turning to Kennedy.
McGarvey didn't wait for the Guerin executive to reply. “Yemlin has agreed to query Moscow. If they go along with us, they'll expect you to make good on my suggestion, or at least talk to them about it. They have a network already in place in Tokyo, and if they take the job we'll have some answers fairly fast.”
“I never thought you'd go to a foreign intelligence service. I don't know what to say.”
“You came to me, Mr. Kennedy, with a story that your company is on the line. That there've been deaths, and that there may be more. It's your call.”
Kennedy looked bleakly at Dominique then turned away to watch the blowing snow and the lights along the river. He was a former astronaut. One of the men with the right stuff. A straight shooter. A fair player. A man whose word was his bond. A simple handshake was enough.
The trouble was, McGarvey thought, the man was coming face-to-face with the real world, possibly for the first time in his life. Some of it wasn't very nice.
“The money will be no problem,” Kennedy said.
“You can't be serious, David,” Dominique blurted. “Think about what you're getting yourself into. Think!”
“I have,” Kennedy said. “So has Al, so has your brother. We've thought about it, and we all came to the same conclusion. We need help, and we need it now, before anyone else gets hurt.”
“Maybe you're right after all, Mr. McGarvey,” Dominique said. “Maybe I have no business being involved.”
“Then go downstairs for a drink. We'll be finished in a few minutes.”
She shook her head. “No. I'm staying. As I said before, there are a lot of people in the industry who trust my judgment. If there's a threat to them, I need to know about it.”
“What about the subassembly factory?” Kennedy asked, turning back. He seemed to have recovered somewhat from the shock.
“Nothing is written in stone. But what the Russians need most is foreign exchange. They've got the engineers and a trained work force, and certainly the willingness to go to work. It might make sense for you from a strictly financial point. You and I talked about it.”