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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Countdown
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THE MORNING WAS very bright, heat shimmering up from the tarmac as McGarvey and Potok hobbled down the Sea Dragon's aft loading ramp.
They had not said much to each other on the three-hundred-mile flight from the
Worden
. Potok had laid his head back and had closed his eyes. He was on the verge of collapse. “Just one more thing to do,” he'd said.
McGarvey let his thoughts drift back and forth between Lorraine Abbott and John Trotter. It wasn't finished, of course, and
would not be until Baranov was destroyed. He'd known that all along. He'd known it most acutely the moment he had seen the look of triumph in Kurshin's eyes. He'd thought he had won. There would be others like him, other handmaidens to Baranov. Sooner or later they would succeed.
He was filled with fear now; Baranov had become his worst nightmare, and Lorraine Abbott his greatest challenge. He had thought of both of them as Kurshin died.
But he was an assassin.
He would give Baranov death, or die trying. What could he give to Lorraine? He had nothing. Men such as he never did.
They had landed on the military side of Lod Airport. A fuel truck lumbered across the taxiway, toward the helicopter, at the same moment an army jeep raced over from the AMAN Headquarters building a half mile away.
Potok's number two, Abraham Liebowitz, was driving. He pulled up at the base of the ramp, jumped out, and hurried around to them. He said something in Hebrew.
“In English,” Potok said, straightening up.
Liebowitz glanced at McGarvey. “He's waiting for us. If you want, I can take care of everything. You should be in the hospital.”
Potok shook his head. “No,” he said. “We owe this man, Abraham. I'll see it through.”
He helped Potok into the front seat, and McGarvey climbed in the back as Liebowitz got behind the wheel. He turned around.
“We have a plane standing by for you, Mr. McGarvey. As soon as we're finished here you'll be flown directly to Athens. In the meantime, is there anything I can get for you, or arrange?”
“No,” McGarvey said. He was very tired, and it was difficult at this moment to keep his thoughts straight. But as they drove back across the field toward the collection of low cement block buildings he knew that what he had done hadn't been for Israel. It had been for himself.
In fact, he thought, turning that notion over in his mind, everything he had ever done had been for himself. Some inner need to prove himself, over and over again. To prove his
strength, his virility, his loyalty, his honor. And again he was struck with the idea that there wasn't very much difference between himself and men such as Kurshin, other than their place of birth.
Someone had asked him once if he was proud of what he had done for his country. He had wanted to immediately say: Yes, of course I'm proud. But something had stayed him. He hadn't known the answer to that question then, and he didn't know it now.
They pulled up at the rear of one of the three-story buildings and inside took the elevator up to the top floor, where Liebowitz ushered them into a small conference room.
A very short man, with longish white hair and hunched shoulders, stood looking out the window toward the U.S. Navy helicopter that had brought them in. He wore a shapeless dark suit, the collar of his white shirt on the outside of his jacket. When he turned around McGarvey was struck by the knowledge, understanding, and sympathy in the man's eyes. If there were an opposite of Baranov, this man was he.
“Are you up to this, Lev?” he asked.
“I want to see it through, sir,” Potok said.
“Then sit down, please. Everyone.”
They sat down across the bare table from him. A pair of fighter-interceptors roared across the field, and when the sound faded McGarvey thought he could hear his own heart.
“Do you know who I am, Mr. McGarvey?”
“Isser Shamir. Director of the Mossad,” McGarvey replied. It was highly classified information in Israel.
Shamir inclined his head. “Just so. It would seem that the range of your knowledge is quite good. Good enough, I believe, for you to understand that I'm not given to idle boasting, false accusations, or rumors.”
“I've heard that, sir,” McGarvey said. He was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling that he had not been brought here merely to be thanked. There was something else going on.
“Israel would like to offer you her gratitude. Twice now you have saved my country from something very terrible, each time at the extreme risk of your own life.”
“There is no debt of gratitude, Mr. Shamir.”
“Oh, but there is, Mr. McGarvey. And Israel pays her debts. Always.” Shamir glanced over at Potok, and then back again. He seemed to be debating with himself, as if he were carrying an impossibly heavy burden that made any kind of a decision nearly out of the question.
“My government knows what is stored at En Gedi, Mr. Director. And so do the Russians.”
“Yes. It will forever change the politics of this region. The age of our innocence—as bloody as it has been—is gone. That cannot be altered.”
“That's a matter for the politicians, not for me.”
“But you are not finished, I believe,” Shamir said, watching him carefully. “Am I correct in assuming that you will make an attempt in the very near future on the life of Valentin Baranov?”
McGarvey held his surprise in check. “I can't say.”
“This operation has the backing of your Agency and, I would suspect, even your president.”
McGarvey said nothing.
“Such an operation would take planning. The need-to-know list will be quite small, nevertheless there are others who know what your orders are. The specifics of your orders.”
“Even if that were the case, you know that I could not discuss it with you.”
“There will have been some agonizing over this decision, I think …”
McGarvey got to his feet. “I'm sorry, sir, but I would like to leave now.”
“As I said, Mr. McGarvey, Israel owes you a debt of gratitude. I would like to repay it now by saving your life.”
“Please, Kirk,” Potok said. “Sit down and merely listen to what we have to tell you. I promise you will not be asked to reveal anything sensitive to your government. You have my word.”
“And mine,” Shamir said.
“What do you want with me?” McGarvey asked, his voice tight in his throat. “What more do you want?”
“En Gedi was penetrated, Kirk,” Potok said.
McGarvey turned to him. “By the Russians, yes we know this. They needed the proof and they got it.”
“We thought he was one of us. He went by the name of Benjamin Rothstein. His real name was Vladimir Ivanovich Tsarev. KGB. He worked directly for Baranov.”
“How did you find this out?”
“It's not important. Listen to me, Kirk. En Gedi was penetrated twice. Once by a man named Simon Asher. He died in the … vault, trying to sabotage one of the …” Potok cut it off, and he glanced at Shamir.
“Go on,” the old man said softly.
“Asher was trying to sabotage one of our nuclear weapons. We think he may have been trying to set it off. We're not sure about that part.”
“He worked for the Russians too?” McGarvey asked. It was typical of a Baranov operation. The man covered all of his bases. He never relied on a single line of action. Always there were many paths down which his people were directed.
“He had one connection with the Russians. With the same man who was Tsarev's control officer here in Israel. We didn't find that out until later. By then we had found out something else … something even more disturbing.”
“Go on,” McGarvey prompted.
“Kirk, we are very sure of our facts. I can't tell you how we came to know what we do, but it has to do with thousands of telephone intercepts, a records search that has taken us six weeks, and a complete search of … your own background. We checked your record, all the way from the day you joined the Agency until you were asked to resign after the incident in Santiago.”
McGarvey's chest was suddenly tight. It felt as if all the air were being squeezed out of his lungs. “Is this how you repay your debts?” he asked sharply. “By spying on your friends?”
Shamir waved it off. “Our existence was and is at stake, Mr. McGarvey. And so now is yours, if you go up against Baranov without forewarning.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Simon Asher worked for someone within the Central Intelligence Agency,” Potok said.
McGarvey turned on him. “We would not have sent someone here with the intent of destroying your nuclear weapons and
killing a lot of people in the process. Whatever we have done, it's not been that.”
“I agree,” Shamir said. “This man whom Asher worked for, also works for Baranov. He was another aspect of the plan to neutralize our ability to defend ourselves.”
“How do you know?”
“I can't say,” Shamir said. “But it is true.” He took a folded sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it across the table.
McGarvey didn't immediately reach for it. “Who is it?”
“We don't know for sure,” Shamir said.
“You just said …”
“We have it narrowed to five names. Five men who could have caused what has happened over the past ten or more years. There are no other possibilities.”
Still McGarvey made no move to take the piece of paper.
“You will not be allowed to take this list with you when you leave this room, Mr. McGarvey. And we will deny ever having had this conference with you. You must understand this.”
Slowly McGarvey reached out and took the paper from Shamir's outstretched hand. He glanced at Potok, whose eyes were shining, and Liebowitz, who had looked away.
He opened the paper. Five names had been typed in the middle of the page. All the air left the room.
MCGARVEY LOST HIMSELF in the crowds of Hellinikon Airport. He had come in on what was treated as a diplomatic flight, and his passport and single bag had not been checked.
Instead of going directly out to the cab ranks, he had doubled back into the main international terminal, where he hung around for nearly a half hour, watching over his shoulder.
Paranoia comes to every field officer sooner or later. But what happens when there's a reason for it? Then it's time, he'd been taught, to trust no one: friends, wives, lovers, none of them were free of suspicion.
It was a few minutes after three in the afternoon when he finally decided that he had come away clean, and he went down to the Hertz counter to rent a car. He had waited until the flight from London had touched down and its passengers had been released from customs so that the crowds were particularly heavy. His was just another face in the crowd.
You shall be known by your tradecraft. That bit of wisdom had been drummed into his head at the CIA's training facility outside of Williamsburg, called The Farm. When in doubt, change it, do the unexpected.
There were a lot of people around the car rental counter, some of them families, others businessmen anxious to get a car and be on their way. McGarvey allowed himself to be jostled in line until he got himself behind a man of the same general build and height, carrying an overnight bag over his shoulder, while shoving two heavy suitcases forward with his foot.
The man's passport wallet jutted out of a side compartment of the overnight bag.
Five minutes later when they finally got up to one of the busy clerks, and the man reached into his overnight bag for his identification, it was gone.
“Oh, bloody hell,” he swore, his accent British. He unzippered his bag and frantically searched inside.
“Sir?” the young woman behind the counter asked in concern.
“What's the matter, old man?” McGarvey asked.
The Brit looked up. “My passport, money, identification … everything. It's gone.”
“Maybe it's in one of your suitcases?”
“No, I just had it coming through customs. I must have dropped the bloody thing.” He was extremely agitated.
“I thought I saw an information booth upstairs on the main floor,” McGarvey said helpfully. “Maybe someone's turned it in.”
“Right, mate,” the Brit said, and he stepped out of line, snatched up his suitcases, and rushed off.
“Good luck,” McGarvey said to his retreating figure. It would be nothing more than an inconvenience to the Englishman. His embassy would supply him with new papers, and no doubt his home office would arrange for funds.
Turning back to the clerk, he rented a Ford Taurus, and a half
an hour later he was making his way through heavy traffic into the city.
As he drove he kept looking in his rearview mirror for any sign that he was being followed. But by the time he had reached the city proper he was convinced he was completely clean.
It was nearly five by the time he found a place to park the car near the Athens Academy off Venizelou Street. He had kept the nine-millimeter automatic that the Israelis had given him. He took it out of his bag, loaded it, and stuffed it in his belt at the small of his back.
Next he opened the passport wallet that he had lifted from the hapless Brit at the airport. The man's name was Gordon Gutherie, and he was from London. Besides his passport, the wallet contained eight hundred fifty pounds, about half that much in drachmas, a driver's license, half a dozen major credit cards, and a collection of various business cards, photographs, notes, and one slip of paper on which was written only a telephone number. From what McGarvey could gather, the man had something to do with Ford-Leland, some sort of an engineer or factory rep. Whoever, he was reasonably well heeled.
McGarvey took a moment to study the passport and driver's license photographs. They had been taken at two different times, and really didn't look like the same man. Nor did Gutherie look much like him. But at a busy border crossing at night it might work. He'd managed to cross other borders on much shakier documents.
Stuffing the passport wallet in his coat pocket, he locked up the car and walked, overnight bag in hand, down the block where he found a cab.
 
“Where in God's name have you been?” Trotter demanded, opening the door of the Askilipiou safehouse where they'd met the last time.
“Covering my ass,” McGarvey said, coming in and dropping his bag on the couch.
Trotter closed and locked the door behind him, and then went to the window, where he parted the curtain and looked down at the street. “Do you think you were followed?”
“If there was anyone waiting at the airport for me, I lost them,”
McGarvey said, pouring himself a stiff cognac from the sideboard and drinking it. He poured himself another.
“Was it Arkady Kurshin? No doubts in your mind, Kirk?”
“No doubts,” McGarvey said. “The man is dead.”
“Have we got his body?”
“Not yet.”
“For Christ's sake, Kirk, what happened out there? I've only been getting bits and pieces. And what in heaven's name did the Israelis want with you?”
“There's no time for that now,” McGarvey said, turning away from the sideboard. “Is Baranov still in East Berlin, at the Grosser Müggelsee house?”
“Yes, but he's scheduled to leave sometime tomorrow morning.”
“So far as you know my equipment is still in place in the boathouse?”
“It should be. We've kept our distance from the LIGHTHOUSE network. Nothing much else we could do under the circumstances. But of course you wouldn't be able to use them in any event, nor will you be able to use the Prenzlauerberg apartment.”
“I'm going after him, John. Tonight. Can you get me to West Berlin?”
“We've got an Air Force VIP jet standing by for you. It's a three-hour flight.”
McGarvey stared at his old friend for a long time. Whom to trust? He'd never really known in this business. But Trotter had always been at the top of his short list.
“What?” Trotter asked.
“How about Murphy? Has he gone to the president with this? Is that why you wanted me back here?”
Trotter nodded. “You've got the green light, Kirk. From the president.”
“No mistakes now. I want this perfectly clear between us. My orders are to assassinate Valentin Baranov, the director of the KGB. Is that correct?”
“Yes it is. From the president himself.”
“Who else knows?”
“What do you mean?”
“Besides the president, General Murphy, you and me, who else knows that I'm going across the border tonight to kill him?”
“I don't know. The president's advisers, possibly the secretary of state.”
“How about in the Agency? Is Larry Danielle in on it?”
“Yes, I'm sure he …”
“Van Cleeve?” McGarvey asked. He was deputy director of intelligence. “Phil Carrara?” He was DDO, Trotter's boss.
“Phil, yes. But I don't know about Howard. What are you getting at?”
Again McGarvey stared at his friend for a long time. They had been through a lot together; too much?
“Someone is selling us out to the Russians. Selling me. Baranov knows every move I make. They're the ones who would be in the right position to know.”
“And me, Kirk,” Trotter said. “Don't forget about me.” His eyes were wide and naked behind his thick glasses. He looked like a scarecrow. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame.
“Do all of them know the details of my crossing, and about the equipment at the boathouse?”
“Some of it. But you don't have to do this. Just say no, Kirk. Everyone will understand. Good Lord, you've certainly done your bit. You've saved their ass twice now—at Ramstein, and aboard the
Stephos
. They've got no right to ask for more.”
McGarvey managed a slight smile. “But you and they were right all along, John. This is a vendetta. The man has to be destroyed, or else he will destroy us all.”
“There are other ways. There will be another time.”
“Have you still got the Kurshin identification? I can still use it. There's no way for Baranov to be certain yet that Kurshin is actually dead.”
“I've got it, Kirk. But not now. Please. Especially not now for you!”
The half smile left McGarvey's face. “What is it, John? What aren't you telling me this time?”
Trotter stepped back almost as if he were suddenly afraid of McGarvey. His face was contorted with dismay. “I'm sorry … I …”
“What is it?”
“Murphy told me to keep my mouth shut.”
“This is us talking now, John. You and I. Come on.”
“It's Lorraine Abbott,” Trotter blurted.
McGarvey's heart skipped a beat. “She's at the hotel in West Berlin. Your people are watching her.”
“No,” Trotter whispered.
“Where is she?”
“We don't know for sure. Not yet.”
“John, goddamnit, talk to me.”
“Kirk, she disappeared from the hotel a few hours after you had gone across. We think that Baranov took her. She's probably at the Grosser Müggelsee house with him now. As bait.”
A black rage threatened to engulf him, blotting out all reason and sanity. But he held on. “Why wasn't I told?” he asked, his voice low, menacing.
“It was thought that stopping Kurshin and recovering the Tomahawk missile were more important …”
“By whom, John? Who thought that?”
“The president. General Murphy.”
One of the names dropped off the Mossad list of suspected penetration agents.
“Were you going to let me go across tonight without telling me, John? Has it gone that far?”
“No, I swear it. If I couldn't talk you out of crossing, I promised myself that I'd tell you.”
McGarvey believed him, though he no longer knew if he believed
in
the man.
“I'm going across. I'll kill Baranov and I'll bring Lorraine back with me.” McGarvey looked directly into Trotter's eyes. “If anyone gets in my way, John,
anyone
, I'll kill them too.”
Trotter swallowed hard. He nodded.
“When Baranov is dead, I'll return to Washington and finish the job. And I don't care who you tell that to.”

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