Authors: David Hagberg

Assassin (32 page)

BOOK: Assassin

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“He's disappeared and nobody can find him,” Chernov told General Yuryn at breakfast in the Dzerzhinsky Square headquarters of the FSK shortly after eight in the morning. “We'll have to wait until he contacts Yemlin, or makes a mistake.”

“Maybe he's given up.”

“That's not likely.”

“President Kabatov has to be told something.”

Chernov looked at him coldly. He despised weakness of any kind, and he took Yuryn's obesity to be a sign of a lack of self control. But Tarankov needed the general, at least until after the elections. Then many things would change in Moscow.

“Sorry, General, but we've been working around the clock, and I'm getting tired.”

Yuryn laughed because the remark was so obviously disingenuous. “I'll pass your complaint along to him.”

“Tell him that we're working on it. McGarvey will not succeed. I guarantee it.”

Paris

Elizabeth had slept poorly, and as a result she had a difficult time getting started. She didn't leave the apartment until nearly 7:00 A.M., and her heart wasn't in her jogging. She'd come to enjoy the mornings, as she was sure her father had, in part because by doing the same things he did she felt closer to him. But not this morning because she was frightened and confused. For the first time she was beginning to doubt that even a man such as her father could succeed with the deck so stacked against him.

A half-dozen blocks from the apartment, she stopped at a telephone kiosk, and using her credit card called a number in Alexandria, across the river from Washington. It was one in the morning over there, but she didn't care. She'd wake up the dead if she thought that it would help.

Her old boss Bratislav Toivich answered his home phone on the first ring as if he'd been expecting the call. “Hullo.”

“Mr. B, it's Liz. I'm in Paris.”

“You're up early.”

“I'm jogging the same route my father takes. But we haven't found a thing. And I don't know what to do next.”

“I haven't heard much here either, little
devochka.
Maybe it's time for you to come home.”

“They want to send me and Jacqueline to Moscow to act as bait. But I'm afraid of what my father might do if he finds out.”

“That bastard,” Toivich said with much feeling. “Don't you do it, Elizabeth. Don't you let them bully you into going over there. You know the situation in Moscow. Anything can happen. You and Ms. Belleau could be swallowed up and no one would ever hear from you again.”

“The Russians know what my father is planning to do, and they're waiting for him. He doesn't have a chance, Mr. B. He's walking into a trap, unless we can warn him first. But I don't know what to do anymore. We've tried just about everything.”

“Have you tried reaching him through his friend, Otto Rencke?”

“He's disappeared too.”

“He's a computer genius. The machines are his entire life.”

“We've tried the computer schools here in Paris but no one has heard from him.”

“You're young, Elizabeth. You were raised in the computer age, so think like a computer genius.”

“I don't understand.”

“Rencke is probably helping your father. But that wouldn't take him twenty-four hours a day. He has to amuse himself somehow in the off hours. So what would a man like that do with himself?”

THIRTY

Riga

M
cGarvey crossed the Daugava River that ran through the heart of the Latvian capital around eight o'clock in the morning, his eyes gritty and his stomach rumbling. The traffic-clogged streets were in terrible repair, the drivers even more reckless than in France, so he had to watch his own driving.

Using the Latvian guide book and maps he'd picked up at a truck stop this morning, he found his way to the main Telephone and Telegraph office on Br

bas Boulevard. The Mercedes attracted some attention, but nobody bothered him.

Inside, he gave one of the clerks at the counter a Paris number and she directed him to one of the booths. By the time he closed the door the number was ringing.

“Hiya,” Rencke answered.

“Have you heard from my daughter?” McGarvey asked.

“She called and everything is fine,” Rencke replied breathlessly. “Oh boy, Mac, it's a good thing you called because the heat's been turned up a notch. I can't get a trace on you because of my backscatter encryption program. So where are you calling from?”

“I'm in Riga. What's happening?”

“You're not calling from a hotel phone are you? Because if you are you'd better get out of there. My stuff can't protect past a hotel switchboard, and there might be bugs.”

“I'm at the main telephone office. What's going on, Otto?”

“Ryan is being cagey as hell, but I picked up a reference to a special commission in Moscow that the Russians have put together to find you. It's in the SVR's system now, so there's no doubt that they know who you are and why you're coming. Ever hear the name Yuri Bykov? Ex-KGB?”

McGarvey searched his memory. “No. What'd you find out about him?”

“Not much more than Chernov. He's supposed to be one of the best cops in Russia though. But they know you're coming, Mac, so you're going to have to call it off.”

“What else do they know?”

“Didn't you hear me? They know your name, and they know that you've been hired to kill Tarankov. They're waiting for you. The second they spot you, they'll kill you. But that's not all, Mac. The Russians asked for help from us and the French, and we've agreed. That stupid bastard Ryan agreed. He's sent someone here to Paris to work with the French to find you. They're going to share information with Bykov.”

McGarvey weighed what he was being told. “Who'd Ryan send?”

“I don't know. But didn't you hear me? By now every cop in Europe is looking for you. Which means that if you get busted for so much as spitting on a sidewalk they'll nail your ass to the cross.”

“Did they get my name from Yemlin?”

“If they did, Ryan hasn't put it on the wire. He probably sent whatever he had by courier to Tom Lynch. Which means they might suspect you've got some help.”

“Maybe it's time for you to get out.”

“You magnificently stupid bastard, I'm not going anywhere until you do,” Rencke said, his voice pitched even higher than normal. “Do you think you can still pull it off?”

“I'm going to try.”

“I'll be here.”

“Watch yourself, Otto.”

“You too, Mac.”

McGarvey paid for the phone charge, then drove over to the Radisson International that had opened less than a year ago overlooking the river near the VanÅ¡u bridge. He surrendered the car to an admiring valet, and checked
in, booking a room for a week. Latvia was beginning to have a tourist season, but it didn't start until June, so the hotel was half-empty, and the staff was appreciative and attentive.

Upstairs, he ordered a pot of black coffee, an omelet and toast from room service. While he waited for it to come, he unpacked his bags, and took a quick shower. Afterward he sat by the window overlooking the city, and smoked.

Almost everyone he'd known from the old days at the CIA was gone. It was a safe bet that Ryan would not have come over to Paris himself, nor would the Assistant DCI, Larry Danielle. Which left no one of any importance, or at least no trained field officer. Ryan had probably sent one of his section heads with a stack of files and orders to find McGarvey or else.

McGarvey reasoned it out. The Russians knew his name, and knew that he was coming. But it was a big country, and they could not know his timetable. Nor could they know where he was planning to kill Tarankov. Since the government wanted Tarankov arrested and tried for treason and murder, it was a safe bet that no one in the Kremlin or on the special commission would send a warning to Tarankov. Although on reflection he decided that he could not be certain of that. It just seemed to make sense that there wouldn't be any lines of communications between the opposing forces.

It was possible that Ryan had sent the Russian commission the CIA's files on McGarvey. Combined with the files of the SVR, it would make a formidable record of not only his accomplishments, but of his methods of operation, his tradecraft. In the right hands that would give them a decided advantage. But Bykov was just an unknown investigator. Probably very good, but just an investigator for all that.

The only man in Russia who he had any cause to be concerned about, McGarvey decided, was Leonid Chernov. If somehow he became involved the danger would be a quantum leap greater.

On balance, then, he decided, he would go ahead with his plans made more difficult because they knew his name and face, but still not impossible.

His breakfast came, he signed for it, and the waiter left. He ate the food, drank one cup of coffee, and then went to bed for a few hours sleep. There was much to be done in the coming days, and he wanted to make a good start as soon as possible.

Paris

Elizabeth McGarvey sat on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens in sight of the obelisk in the Place de la Concorde studying the display on her laptop computer. She'd become tired of being cooped up at the apartment, so she had come down here to continue working because the day was beautiful. Jacqueline was in a cramped office at the main telephone exchange a few blocks away, sitting in front of a much larger computer that could instantly trace virtually any telephone number in Paris and its environs. She and Elizabeth
were in contact via one of the two cellular telephones Elizabeth carried. The second cell phone connected her laptop to the Internet.

At the moment she was logged in under the Globalnet name of LIZMAC in a Usenet newsgroup called talk.politics.misc, in which participants posted messages in a sort of dialogue on what was wrong with politics these days.

At the top of each message was the name of the writer, the subject, the date and time the message was posted, and the location of the originating computer system. Following each message was a signature, which as often as not was the participant's nickname. And the nicknames were just as colorful as the messages.

If Otto Rencke had too much time on his hands he would almost certainly be taking part in a number of these newsgroups. His ego would make it impossible for him not to make comments, and Elizabeth hoped to be able to spot him by what he was saying, and by his nickname. It was a sure bet that he would not use his real name, nor would he use his real telephone number.

Elizabeth also hoped that if she did stumble upon a newsgroup which he posted he might recognize her own signature, and out of curiosity, if nothing else, he would have to open a dialogue with her.

His CIA file had been sent over, and combined with what she remembered her father saying about him, she thought she had a good idea what kinds of newsgroups he'd be browsing, and what kinds of messages he would be posting.

Each time she came up with a likely candidate, she passed the computer location telephone number to Jacqueline to check out. So far every possibility had turned out to be legitimate. But worldwide there were more than 60,000 Usenet newsgroups, nearly 95 million computer sites, and hundreds of anonymous remailer sites, through which messages could be retransmitted without valid IDs.

From: Thomas LeBrun 33.1.42-74-21-31
Subject: Lindsay/Chirac trade debate
8/4/99 11.25

Who does the Monk think he's kidding? NAFTA and GATT had exactly the opposite effect he claims. Reducing trade barriers simply means a redistribution of jobs and capital. But it's never a one-way street as he suggests. Foie Gras in France, Toyotas in Japan and commercial airlines in the U.S. (bigdaddyitem7)

Elizabeth speed-dialed the telephone exchange.

“Paris exchange. Four-two, seven-four, two-one, three-one,” she told Jacqueline. “He calls himself âbig daddy.'”

“
Une moment
,” Jacqueline said.

Elizabeth continued to watch the messages continually scrolling up the
screen. This went on twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week across the world. Finding Rencke would be next to impossible, but they had nothing else to go on for the moment.

“Thomas LeBrun. A street number in the twentieth arrondissement,” Jacqueline said. “He's legitimate.”

Elizabeth ran a hand tiredly across her eyes. “Okay, Jacqueline, I'm going to a different newsgroup. I'll try talk.politics.theory, maybe we'll have better luck.”

“How about some lunch,
cherie?
”

“Let's work till noon. That gives us another half hour. I just can't stop.”

“I know,” Jacqueline said soothingly. “We'll find him.”

“We have to.”

Riga

McGarvey got up around two in the afternoon after only a few hours of sleep. He showered, shaved, and got dressed then went downstairs and had a late lunch at the hotel's coffee shop. He was still logy from lack of sleep, but by the time he'd walked two blocks from the hotel he was beginning to feel better. He caught a taxi at Krastmala Boulevard, and ordered the driver to take him out to the airport where he rented a Volkswagen Jetta for one month from Hertz. He explained that he wanted to explore the entire Baltic region, something he'd wanted to do for years. Now that they were independent from the Russians he was finally able to get his wish.

Even though only a small percentage of the population spoke Latvian, all the street signs were in that language, which sometimes caused confusion. In actuality the lingua franca was Russian, a fact that everyone despised, but that everyone lived with.

While at the airport he changed the remainder of his deutchmarks to Latvian latis, then headed back into the city. The weather continued to hold, but if anything traffic was worse than it had been this morning. Riga and its companion city J

rmala, where the international ferries docked, were major Baltic seaports. It was one of the reasons the Soviet Union had fought so hard to keep Latvia. But the nation continued to struggle with its independence from communist rule. Still, nearly half the population was Russian, which created strong ethnic tensions. The new businessmen millionaires were Latvian Mafia, while the Russians, who were constantly being discriminated against, ran their own rackets. Just about anything went here, which was one of the reasons McGarvey had picked this place.

By four o'clock he was in the waterfront district of warehouses and dreary offices above chandeliers and other dingy shops. He found what he was looking for almost immediately, an import/export company under the obviously Latvian name of K

rlis Z

lite, situated above a small machine parts warehouse. Pallets marked in English, MADE IN GERMANY, were being unloaded from a big truck.

McGarvey parked across the street, and went upstairs to a cramped, grimy office in which stacks of files and paperwork were piled on the floor, on chairs, on two small tables, and atop several large filing cabinets. A young pimply-faced man with thick, greasy hair worked at a tiny desk next to the one window, while the proprietor worked in the back from a much larger, cluttered desk. The place smelled like a combination of stale sweat, cigarette smoke and grease from the warehouse below.

“I wish to hire your firm to import Mercedes automobiles from Leipzig. Can you handle this for me?” McGarvey asked.

“Da, of course,” Z

lite, a skinny ferret-faced little man said, rising from his chair. He stuck out his dirty hand. “Mr â¦ ?”

“Pierre Allain. I am Belgian,” McGarvey said, shaking hands.

“Your Russian is very good.”

“My father worked in Moscow and was conscripted into the army when I was a little boy. It wasn't until I was ten before my mother and I could escape.”

“What of your father?”

“He was sent to Siberia to count the birches, and never came back.” McGarvey lowered his eyes for a moment, his jaw tightening. “But that was many years ago. Now I wish to do some business with you.”

“Do you have buyers here in Riga for your cars? Because if we can come to reasonable terms, I would certainly take one of them off your hands.”

“These will be for sale in Moscow. Very cheap.”

“I see,” Z

lite said, sitting back, and eyeing McGarvey with a sudden wariness. “Perhaps you have come to the wrong man.”

“I wouldn't sell one of my cars to you, at any price,” McGarvey continued. “Nor would I sell them to anyone in Latvia, or anywhere else other than Moscow. People could â¦ get hurt in my cars. They will get hurt.”

lite's eyes narrowed. “It's a dangerous game you are playing, Mr. Allain.”

McGarvey sat forward so suddenly that Z

lite reared back. He slammed his fist on the desk. “I'm going to stick it to the bastards for what they did to me, with or without your help!” McGarvey shook with rage. “Goddamn stinking sons of bitches!” He glanced at the young man, who watched with round eyes. “My father went there to help, and they killed him. They killed my mother too. I'm all that's left.”

“How many units are coming?” Z

lite asked respectfully.

“One to begin with, by truck. But there'll be many more later.”

“Do you have buyers for them in Moscow?”

“Mafia,” McGarvey said through clenched teeth.

“And how will you get these cars there?”

“I'll drive them, one at a time. I want to see the looks on their faces.”

lite hesitated.

BOOK: Assassin

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