Countdown (42 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Countdown
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IT WAS NIGHT. Valentin Illen Baranov stood at the water's edge gazing across the lake toward the mostly dark southern shore.
His mouth was foul from too many cigarettes, and most of his outward passion had been spent on his attack against Lorraine Abbott. There would be no permanent scars, at least not on her delicate body, but the encounter would be something she would never forget for the rest of her life.
The fire, however, still burned brightly within his breast. The
great destroyer was finally coming. He had received the telephone call less than an hour ago, confirming the fact that McGarvey had come to Athens and was presently en route to West Berlin. There was no doubt what his plans were. He would come across the border using falsified documents that would identify him as Arkady Kurshin. He could not know that his cache of equipment in the boathouse had been discovered and had been tampered with.
Yenikeev had filed down a crucial part within the rebreather's regulator valve, making it very likely that it would fail, and McGarvey would drown.
If, by some chance, the man survived that, and brought the AK74 ashore with him, he would be in for another surprise. Yenikeev had removed the assault rifle's firing pin, rendering it useless.
In a very large way, Baranov fervently hoped that McGarvey would make it this far. He wanted to see the man's face with his own eyes. He wanted to look at the devil at the moment of his death.
For thirty years Baranov had made his plans, had bided his time when necessary, and leapt forward when it was possible. From Mexico to Cuba; from Czechoslovakia and Hungary to Laos and Vietnam; from Poland to Afghanistan, his touch had been felt. At home he had patiently consolidated his power, his cause getting an unexpected boost when that moderate fool Gorbachev had become party secretary with his prattle about
perestroika
and
glasnost
. There were still enough men in positions of power within the Rodina who distrusted that bastard.
The shift of power would have happened this year. There would have been a bloodless coup.
Would have been … except for one man. Depending upon what was waiting for him back in Moscow, the takeover could be delayed for years.
But McGarvey was coming here. This very night. It was going to give Baranov the greatest of pleasures to spit in his face when he was finally dead.
A dark figure appeared out of the woods to his left. Baranov flinched and started to step back before he realized that it was
Yevgeni Mikhailovich Kedrov, the chief of his six-man bodyguard contingent.
“Comrade Chairman, you have a visitor at the house,” Kedrov called softly.
“Who is it?” Baranov demanded. He'd half expected some of those fools from the Horst Wessel to come out here. The conference had gone as he had expected it would, even though he had been preoccupied with his own thoughts.
“A Militia captain.”
Baranov's eyes narrowed. “From where?” The Militia were the Soviet Union's civilian police.
“Moscow. He says he's come here on orders to arrest you, sir.”
For a moment Baranov could hardly believe his own ears. But then everything fell into place for him. Of course the American president would have called Gorbachev after the debacle in the Med. There had been no proof linking that operation to the KGB … no hard proof, that is. But Gorbachev would have instigated an investigation nonetheless.
He glanced again toward the opposite shore.
“Keep a sharp watch here, Yevgeni Mikhailovich. He'll be coming across tonight.”
“Yes, Comrade Chairman. But what about that Militia captain?”
“Not to worry. I'll take care of it. Who is up there with him?”
“Sergei.”
“Where are the others?”
“Dmitri and Leonty are on the road by the gate. Gennadi and Rotislav are here in the woods with me.”
The house was perched on the crest of the hill overlooking the lake. On the other side of the hill was a broad swampy area thick with underbrush and brambles.
McGarvey was coming, and he was coming from across the lake. There was no doubt of it.
“Keep your eyes open,” Baranov said again and he started up the path to the house, its lights visible through the woods.
On the way up he felt in his jacket pocket for the reassuring bulk of his pistol, and he smiled. The fools had sent a Militia
captain out here to arrest him. It was ludicrous. He would return to Moscow, all right, but under his own power and in his own good time. Once there, they would never dare to arrest him. The Lubyanka was a fortress in more than one way, with its many dark secrets. Once home they would not touch him. They could not.
A Mercedes 240D was parked on the driveway in front of the house. A man sat behind the wheel. Baranov angled over to the car. As he approached, the car door opened and the man got out. He looked young and very nervous.
“You are Captain … ?” Baranov demanded.
“No, Comrade. I am Lieutenant Lubyanov,” the young man said.
The irony of the man's last name was rare just at this moment, but Baranov suppressed a smile. “Your captain is in the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What are your orders?”
The young man was embarrassed. “Ah … we were sent to …”
“Never mind,” Baranov said, smiling warmly this time to put the man at ease. “I will speak with your captain. We'll get this straightened out in no time at all.”
Baranov turned and walked up to the house. He could feel the young lieutenant's eyes on his back, and it irked him. But his control was marvelous, as it had always been.
He was met in the main stairhall by Sergei Sergeevich Nemchin, one of his bodyguards.
“Where is he?”
“In your study, Comrade Chairman,” Nemchin said. “I didn't know what to do with the stupid bastard.”
“What's his name?”
“Rybalkin. Nikolai Petrovich. He's a captain with the Moscow District Militia.”
“Here to arrest me?”
“Yes, sir,” Nemchin said with a laugh, but he seemed just a little nervous about it.
“Stay here, Sergei Sergeevich, I'll handle the captain.”
Nemchin nodded. His jacket was off, and a big sweat stain had darkened his shirt beneath his shoulder holster.
“Stay here,” Baranov repeated, and he went back to his study, hesitated for just a moment at the door, and then went in.
Militia Captain Rybalkin was a moderately built man with thick black hair, which was combed straight back, and a broad honest face. Baranov thought the name might be familiar; perhaps his father or an uncle worked in Directorate One headquarters out on the circumferential highway.
“Good evening, Captain,” Baranov said.
Rybalkin had been standing at the window looking outside. He nodded grimly. “Comrade Valentin Illen Baranov, I have come to place you under arrest and return you immediately to Moscow for prosecution.”
“I see,” Baranov said. “On what charges?”
“Treason.”
Baranov's breath caught in his throat.
“I am under orders from Special Moscow District Prosecutor Kuryanov. Sir, I wish no trouble from you or your men.”
“Nor shall you have any, Comrade Captain, if indeed you are who you claim to be, and you do have the orders and proper authority.”
Rybalkin pulled out his Militia identification and held it up for Baranov to see. Then he handed over a sheaf of papers which was the Bill of Arrest.
Baranov took it to his desk, where he put on his glasses and quickly read through the legal document that named him and Arkady Kurshin as co-conspirators in three indictments: adventurism, engaging in acts contrary to Soviet law, and engaging in activities likely to bring harm to the Soviet Union.
It was Gorbachev, of course. But he had had no direct hand in this. He had simply pointed a special prosecutor in the right direction and allowed his much-vaunted “rights of Soviet law” to go into action.
Baranov looked up. The Militia captain was watching him closely.
“Call Sergei in here, would you please, Captain?”
Rybalkin's eyes narrowed and he stiffened, his hand going instinctively to the gun at his side.
“I promised you no trouble, Captain, and I meant it. But if I am to leave with you, I will have to instruct my people what to do here.”
“Very well,” Rybalkin said. “We will also require Comrade Kurshin to accompany us back to Moscow.”
“That, I'm afraid, will be impossible. Major Kurshin is dead.”
“Who killed him?”
“The Americans, I think.”
“Where is his body?”
“That I couldn't say, Captain. But it is not here.”
Again Rybalkin hesitated. It was clear that he understood something was not quite right here, and that he was probably in some sort of danger. But his orders were official. They were his protection.
He turned and had started to open the door into the corridor when Baranov withdrew his pistol from his pocket, switched the safety off, cocked the hammer, and fired two shots. The first bullet smashed into Rybalkin's left lung a couple of inches from his spine, and the second entered his head just below his left ear, slamming him against the door, where his legs collapsed and he fell dead.
The door was shoved open seconds later by a white-faced Nemchin, his pistol in hand.
“It was a mistake, Sergei Sergeevich,” Baranov said. “He hadn't come here to arrest me at all. I think he was here to assassinate me.”
Nemchin's eyes went from Rybalkin's body to the gun in Baranov's hand. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“He probably works for the Americans. His lieutenant is out in the car. Kill him.”
Nemchin hesitated for only an instant, but then turned on his heel and raced down the corridor. Baranov could hear his steps in the stairhall and the front door being flung open.
He folded the Bill of Arrest and put it in his pocket as he came around the desk. It would turn out, he supposed, that these two had been gunned down by McGarvey. Unfortunate.
Nemchin was back moments later. Baranov met him out in the corridor.
“The car is gone.”
“He must have heard the shots. Call Dmitri at the gate. Have him stop the car.”
Nemchin grabbed the walkie-talkie from the hall table and keyed it. “Dmitri, are you there?”
“Is that you, Sergei?”
“Yes. That Mercedes that came up a few minutes ago is on its way back down. Stop it.”
“We can't. We just let him through.”
Nemchin turned to Baranov who had heard the exchange. “Shall we go after him?”
Baranov thought about it for just a moment, then shook his head. “No, we'll attend to it later.”
“But, Comrade …”
“Later,” Baranov snapped, and Nemchin blanched.
IT WAS A FEW MINUTES after 11:00 P.M. The weekend was winding down and traffic in West Berlin was almost frantic in its intensity. It seemed as if the city was trying to have fun at a breakneck speed, perhaps because so many Berliners thought there might not be a tomorrow.
McGarvey sat in the backseat of a cab waiting to cross the frontier. There were two cars ahead of them.
He had picked up the same Fiat with the East German license tags from the Operations hangar at Templehof. No one had been
around this time to greet him, or to ask him any questions, and the airbase gate guard had simply waved him through.
He had driven directly up to the British Sector of the city where he had left the car and his Kurshin identification in a car park on Kant Strasse a couple of blocks west of the main post office and tourist information center. Then he had walked down to the bright lights of the Ku'damm where he had caught a cab.
Baranov would know that he was coming tonight. And the man would know that he would be using the Kurshin ID. It made him sick to think how long this had gone on. All this time Baranov had been at least one step ahead of him because of the penetration agent in Washington. Christ, it was galling.
Sitting in the cab, watching the lights of the crossing and the East German border guards doing their jobs, McGarvey tried not to think in any great detail about Lorraine Abbott. Baranov had taken her for bait. As extra insurance to make sure McGarvey would show up.
He didn't think Baranov would have harmed her. Not yet. The man would wait until later. In a way she was going to be the spoils for the victor; if Baranov won, she would be destroyed. McGarvey had to wonder: if he killed Baranov, would Lorraine have any better chance for survival?
Border restrictions between the east and west sectors of the city were almost nonexistent, though identification papers were still being demanded and closely scrutinized.
When it was finally their turn, McGarvey wound down his window and handed out his Gutherie passport.
The border guard looked up sharply from the passport photograph to McGarvey's face bathed in the harsh violet glow of the big lights.
“Do you have another form of identification? Something else with your photograph on it?”
“Bloody hell,” McGarvey swore, but he dug out the driver's license and handed it out.
The guard studied it for several seconds. One of the other guards walked over and looked at the passport and driver's license and then studied McGarvey's face.
“Shake a leg, would you be so kind, chaps? I'm thirsty,” McGarvey said. He feigned a little drunkenness.
“Where are you going at this hour?” the one guard demanded.
“The Palast Hotel, where the hell else would I be going?”
“Let me see your reservations,” the guard asked. He looked on the seat beside McGarvey. “Where is your luggage?”
“I've got no reservations, you silly bugger. Don't you understand. I want a drink. A drink! When I'm done I'll be returning.”
The West Berlin cabbie had turned in his seat. He didn't look happy. “Please, sir, I wish no trouble. Perhaps you should go back now.”
“Where did you pick him up?” the guard asked the cabbie.
“The Ku'damm, where else?”
The guard nodded, hesitated just a moment longer, then handed the papers back to McGarvey. “See that you stay out of trouble, Herr Gutherie. You wouldn't find our jails pleasant.”
McGarvey slouched down in his seat as they were waved through and the cab headed into the east zone. It was a matter of hard Western currencies, of course. The East Germans were allowing practically anything to attract American dollars, British pounds, or especially West German marks into the country. And who knew, maybe a strong-arm bandit would mug him. At least the money thus gained would find its way into the economy.
This side of the city was much darker than the West, though traffic was about the same. A few minutes later the cabbie dropped him off in front of the modern Swedish-built hotel. McGarvey paid his fare and stumbled into the hotel, crossing the lobby and entering the relatively crowded bar.
He ordered a cognac, drank it down, then left the hotel, walking away without looking back.
It was possible that the border guards might have called the hotel, and that the security people there would be watching for
him. They had been suspicious of the poor photographs in his passport and driver's license, and of his attitude.
A police car, its blue lights flashing, raced past as McGarvey ducked into the darkness of a doorway. He watched until it turned a corner two blocks away, and then he hurried east, away from the Unter den Linden and the other well-lit main streets.
Four blocks away he found what he was looking for in a neighborhood of apartment buildings. The streetlights here were out at both ends of the tree-lined block and very few lights shone from any of the apartment windows. A lot of cars and small trucks were parked on both sides of the street, all of them in the shadows beneath the thick trees.
The doors of the fifth car he tried were unlocked. It was a small Renault, fairly new and in reasonable condition. In under sixty seconds he had the ignition lock out of its slot in the steering column, thus releasing the locking pin, and had scraped three wires bare, twisting two of them together. When he touched the third against the pair, the motor came to life.
For just a second before he pulled away from the curb and drove off he had the feeling that he had somehow slipped into the edge of a powerful whirlpool, and that he was being inexorably sucked down toward the center in ever-accelerating spirals.
But it was too late for second thoughts. It had been too late for a long time now.
The night was pitch-black beneath a deepening overcast. A cool wind had sprung up from the northwest, bringing with it the odors of dampness, decaying wood, rotting vegetation.
McGarvey had hidden the car a quarter of a mile away from the boathouse on the lake's south shore. He stood now in the dark woods looking down at the driveway, and the house and beyond it the boathouse on the water's edge.
Nothing moved except the tree branches in the wind and the
wavelets lapping against the shoreline. Nor were there any sounds, or any hints that someone was here waiting for him.
Yet he sensed danger all around him. On the way out of the city he had intended to write this place off. The penetration agent had told Baranov that he would be coming. He would also have told the man about the equipment that had been left here.
But of the five men on the Mossad's list of suspects, did all of them know every operational detail? Did all of them know about this place, and what had been left here for him?
He had to find out, and yet he was sick with apprehension about what he would discover here.
His pistol in hand, McGarvey moved quietly from tree to tree, working his way through the woods parallel to the driveway until he came to the final clearing up from the lake and the boathouse.
Again he stopped for a few seconds, his every sense straining to detect the presence of someone else. But there was nothing.
Keeping low, he stepped out from behind the bole of a tree and raced across to the boathouse. He hurriedly unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The boat was still there. Outwardly it seemed as if nothing had been disturbed since the last time he had been here.
Holstering his gun, he stepped down into the boat and pulled out the packages containing the rebreathing equipment and the assault rifle.
Had someone been here? Did Baranov know about this place, these things?
Whom to trust? Always in the end it came down to that. Trust no one and your job becomes impossible. Trust the wrong person and you're dead.
Holding the tiny penlight in his mouth, he unwrapped the AK74 and quickly field-stripped it, finding his answer in less than twenty seconds.
“Christ,” he swore softly.
The firing pin had been removed from the rifle.
Maybe it had come like that. Maybe someone in LIGHTHOUSE had been tricked. Maybe someone else had an ax to grind.
He shook his head. He knew who it was, just as he supposed
he had known for a long time. It was no easier seeing it confirmed here and now.
Laying the gun back in the boat, he climbed up on the dock and let himself out of the boathouse. There were a few lights across the lake. Perhaps the answers, or more accurately the reasons, were there.
Perhaps there would be nothing for him. Perhaps there never had been.

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