“Not until he had the proof, Mr. Kennedy. The Russians are working on it.”
“But not us?” Dominique asked. “Not the CIA?”
“No.” Carrara turned back to Kennedy. “What's this about Sunday? Are you talking about the Honolulu flight?”
“That's right. McGarvey thinks that whatever is going to happen, will happen then.”
“Like bringing that flight down?”
“And maybe some others. Enough to wipe us off the map.” Kennedy sat forward. “But Dulles was no accident. McGarvey is convinced of it, and so am I. We just can't find out how it happened.”
“Ground the fleet. The FAA could be convinced to issue the order. At least our carriers would have to comply.”
“The net effect would be the same,” Kennedy said tiredly. He was strung out. “And I don't know what I would tell the FAA, not to mention my board of directors and stockholders. All that, providing McGarvey is right. He could be wrong. Hell, even my own government doesn't believe it.”
“I do,” Carrara said quietly. “Why'd you fire him?”
“There was a lot of dissension because of him, which we don't need. But McGarvey's a dangerous man. He's an assassin. We build airplanes, not sniper rifles.”
“Excuse me for saying that firing McGarvey because he's dangerous is like pulling the lightning rods off the barn because they attract lightning. If anybody is going to find out who's after you, it's him.”
“Our real troubles didn't start until after we hired him.”
“You're wrong. Otherwise why'd Al Vasilanti ask the General for help? And why'd you hire Mac in the first place? You understood what you were getting into. You were told about him, about what he does, and how he goes about his business. You must also have been told that he doesn't give up so easily.”
“We hired him, we can fire him,” Kennedy said doggedly. “He's caused us no end of trouble. One of our airplanes went down for Christ's sake. We lost some very good people at Dulles. There's no end to it.”
“Not the way you want to go at it.”
“I'm here in Washington to officially ask the FBI for help. Hiring some maverick sharpshooter was a bad idea at best. It should never have happened. Whether or not he's guilty of anything, the man is bad business.”
“Why didn't you go to the Bureau for help in the first
place?” Carrara asked, although he already knew the answer.
Kennedy seemed a little uncomfortable. “Without evidence there was nothing they could do for us.”
“Do you have the evidence now?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Where did you get it, Mr. Kennedy? Who supplied it to your company? Because if you tell the Bureau that McGarvey came up with it, I don't think they'll be very impressed. After all, they think he's a bad apple.”
“He's innocent until proven guilty.”
“The Bureau doesn't investigate people they believe are innocent. And I don't suspect you fire them.”
“I didn't fire McGarvey because I thought he was guilty of any crime. I fired him because I can no longer justify keeping a murderer on the payroll. My job is to build and sell safe airplanes, nothing more. I don't need someone like McGarvey to fuck us up.”
“Someone like McGarvey,” Carrara repeated. “I don't think either of you has any idea who he is, what he's gone through.”
“He's a loser,” Dominique said angrily. “The CIA fired him!”
“Yes. And since then we've given him assignments that our people simply couldn't manage. Without exception he's come through for us, because ⦠he loves his country. He's one of the best men I know. Even his ex-wife will defend him.”
“Then why's she his ex?”
“Because she couldn't stand seeing what the job was doing to him. She had a hard time living with a man who has the habit of putting his life on the line for nothing more than an ideal while the people around himâsupposedly his friendsâhave the habit of stabbing him in the back.”
“You're taking a big risk coming here like this,” Kennedy said.
“Yes, I am,” Carrara admitted. “But before you write McGarvey offâwhich I think would be the biggest
mistake you've ever madeâI want you to hear me out. The Bureau knows that you fired him, which is a strike against him. And they know that he spoke to his Russian contact on Guerin's behalf, which is another strike against him. When the CIA's Internal Affairs Division finishes with its witch hunt, it'll be all over unless he can find out who's after you and stop them.”
“He's got a dark secret ⦔
“That's right, and it's all crap, but they'll use it against him. When it comes time to corner him he'll fight back, and he'll lose. They'll kill him. I can guarantee it.”
“Does he know?” Dominique asked.
“Yes, he does. I told him.”
“When?” Kennedy asked.
“Before you fired him.”
“God,” Dominique said softly.
“Don and Elsie McGarvey, Kirk's parents, were graduate students of engineering at the University of Chicago. They worked with Enrico Fermi on the first atomic pile, and then went down to Los Alamos during the war to help develop the atomic bomb. They weren't outstanding, but they were bright enough to stick around for Teller's hydrogen bomb program. That was the big deal back then, and they stuck it out. Saved their money, and when Kirk's sister was born they headed north and bought a big cattle ranch in western Kansas. Did okay for themselves.
“Funny thing about them. They were friends with Oppenheimer. And Don McGarvey was an avid student of Russian history and the Russian language. It was in their security clearance files. But at the time no one took much of an interest. They were just engineers, not scientists. When Oppenheimer fell, and when Klaus Fuchs was arrested, nothing ever happened to the McGarveys. Nobody thought much about them.”
“Are you telling us that Kirk's parents were spies for the Russians?” Dominique demanded.
“Kirk and his sister were raised on the ranch, and all they ever knew about their parents was that they were a
loving, very intelligent couple who doted on their children and who had a deep interest in Russia.
“They were killed in a car accident in the sixties. Left their money to their daughter, who by then was married and had a family of her own, and the ranch to Kirk. But a few days after their funeral, he put the place up for sale, and took the first offer.”
“He found out they were Russian spies?”
“He was working for us by then, and since he spoke pretty good Russian, and he understood them, he was on a debriefing of a KGB defector. The man was one of the bankers for North American operations. He brought out a list of agents, identified only by code names, and what and when they had been paid. One of the names on the list matched something he found going through his parents' files and records. Some of them, I guess, were hidden on the ranch. But he found out.”
“He didn't tell anybody?”
“No,” Carrara said. “That was the first time someone he loved and trusted betrayed him. There were others. Still are. There was also some evidence that his parents had been assassinated, to keep them quiet.”
“By the Russians?”
“It pointed that way.”
“So he became a super-spy not only to atone for what his parents did but to get back at the Russians.”
“That's right. He's taken a lot of hits since then. Damned near died several times. Lost just about everything he ever had. His first wife died of alcohol poisoning. His second wife and daughter were almost killed by someone trying to get to him. A woman he lived with in Switzerland for five years was killed by the East Germans. And one of his best friends, a man named John Lyman Trotter, who was his control officer, turned out to be a double agent for the Russians.”
Dominique glanced at Kennedy. “Now us.”
“It's even worse than that. Could be the Russians didn't kill his parents after all. Might have been us. A lot of crazy shit happened in those days.”
“Does he know?”
Carrara shook his head. “There's no proof. And I don't think I'd care to be in the same room with him when he was told.”
“What do you want?” Kennedy asked Carrara. “I don't know what to do anymore. Where to turn. Should I rehire him?”
“No,” Carrara said. “Just don't write him off.”
“I was wrong ⦔
“We were wrong, David,” Dominique interrupted. “What happens next, Mr. Carrara?”
“I'm going to help out. But we don't have much time, so I'm going to need your cooperation.”
“You've got it,” Kennedy said.
Dominique nodded. She had started to cry, but she cut it off. “What can we do?”
“Mac cares about you, and they probably know it. Makes you a target. So you're going to have to disappear for a while.”
She wanted to protest, but she didn't.
“I'll talk to him first, and then arrange something. In the meantime both of you should go back to what you were doing.”
“Should I go to the Bureau for help?” Kennedy asked.
“Definitely, and then return to Portland.”
“It's going to be difficultâ” Dominique was shivering.
Carrara felt genuinely sorry for her, but she was one tough woman. “Welcome to the club,” he said, not unkindly.
Â
Arimoto Yamagata was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the Hyatt Regency penthouse when Chance Kennedy let herself in. The afternoon sun slanting through the windows gave his skin a golden glow. God-like, the thought popped into her head, and she shivered despite her resolve that she would be objective. She didn't want him to leave, but if he stayed she was convinced that he would get hurt. They were talking about a multibillion dollar business that Al Vasilanti
would do anything to save. He'd hired McGarvey, some ex-paramilitary thug. God only knew who else was out there ready to pounce.
She watched him from the entry hall. He was doing something to the branches of a very small tree, his movements precise, very liquid. It was the same each time they made love. He made it an experience. Something more than sex. Something almost transcendental. She knew that she was gushing like a teenager, but she couldn't help herself.
“The bonsai tree is a horribly mutilated, terribly misshapen dwarf that lives in particular agony for many years,” Yamagata said without turning. “But look closely, and you will see that all of its partsâits stems, its leaves, its flowersâare in perfect proportion. It glories in its perfection.”
“You have to leave Portland,” Chance said.
“Only through patience can come perfection. In the doing, one receives tranquility and beauty as a reward.”
“Did you hear me?” Chance asked, coming into the living room. “My husband knows about us. And Guerin has hired a CIA agent or something to come after you. He knows about us too. He warned me about you.”
“Are you distressed?”
The question caught her off guard. “For God's sake, Ari, aren't you listening to me?”
Yamagata got smoothly to his feet and turned to her. He wore a black kimono with a red rose embroidered over his left breast. “The feeling of distress is the root of benevolence. This is very important in my society, Chance.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips.
The intimacy of his touch was staggering. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
He pushed her coat off her shoulders, and she let it fall to the floor with her purse. Next he unbuttoned her blouse.
“This man's name is Kirk Collough McGarvey, is this correct?”
She nodded. Her entire body was humming, as if she'd been plugged into a high-tension circuit.
He removed her bra and brushed his fingers so lightly against the nipples that she could barely feel it. Her knees were weak. She wanted to sink to the floor with him and make love now.
“He knows that I am your lover?” Yamagata asked, his voice distant, dreamy.
“David told him.”
“Has David spoken to you about this?”
“He can't do a thing until after Sunday, except send McGarvey after you.” Chance's breath caught in her throat as Yamagata touched her just above the waistband of her skirt. She was more than ready for him.
“What did Mr. McGarvey tell you about me?”
“You're here to hurt Guerin, and you'll use anything or anyone.”
Yamagata slowly unzipped her skirt and eased it off her hips. He Steadied her as she stepped out of it.