Countdown (46 page)

Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Countdown

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SOMEONE WAS COMING. McGarvey had been feeling it for several days. He stood on the catwalk of the lighthouse, looking back toward the village, watching the man in khaki trousers and short-sleeved shirt make his way up the path.

He had not thought their isolation would last, but he had hoped they would be left alone at least through Christmas. Lorraine was downstairs fixing their lunch. From time to time the sounds of her singing drifted up to him. She was on the mend, but it was too soon, damnit. Far too soon for her.

Summer had given way to a lovely fall in the Aegean Sea. Each
day was as sparkling and warm as the day before, and time had begun to take on an ethereal quality.

Trotter's bullet had missed McGarvey's lungs, and within ten days he had been allowed to leave the hospital at Tempelhof.

Lorraine had remained at his side for the entire time, his injury seemingly working to bring her out of her deep state of shock, though she would not talk to anyone about what had happened to her at the Grosser MÃ¼ggelsee house.

Lawrence Danielle, the deputy director of central intelligence, had come to West Berlin on the day before McGarvey was discharged, and they had talked for nearly six hours, the story finally emerging that Valentin Baranov had been killed in an automobile accident, and John Trotter had committed suicide, just as his wife had done nearly six years earlier.

“John was a difficult man,” Danielle said. “Everyone knew that. In fact, we all used to think that his ambition would be his downfall one day.”

“But there was never any proof,” McGarvey said. It still hurt.

“No, but then he and Baranov had had years together to perfect their operation. He was a lot like Kim Philby. There was no real proof that he was a traitor either, not until he disappeared from Beirut and showed up in Moscow.”

“It's easy for men like him, is that what you're saying?”

“Even you can't imagine how easy it is,” Danielle said, getting to his feet. He patted McGarvey on the arm. “What can we do for you, and for Dr. Abbott?”

“Just leave us alone, Larry. That's all.”

Danielle looked at him oddly. “I don't know if that's possible, but I'll see what I can do.” He turned and walked across the room. At the door he had stopped and looked back. “By the way, McGarvey, the president sends his thanks.”

The man on the path was much closer now, and McGarvey finally recognized him. He uncocked the hammer of his Walther PPK, switched the safety to the on position, and went downstairs.

Lorraine was just coming from the kitchen to call him down for lunch as he was putting the pistol in the hall cabinet. Her eyes widened and she stopped in her tracks.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It's General Murphy. He's down on the path.”

Her eyes went questioningly to the cabinet.

“I wasn't sure who it was at first. I didn't want to take any chances.”

“Isn't it over yet, Kirk?”

“I'd hoped so.”

She glanced toward the veranda overlooking the sea. “I don't know if I could handle â¦ anything else.”

“You won't have to. I promise you,” McGarvey said.

“I will â¦ someday,” she said, her voice soft, wistful. “At least I think I will.” She turned back to him. “You gave me my life, darling, don't let them take it away from me again.”

“I won't. I promise you. Believe me.” He made no move to go toward her. In the weeks they had been here together they had not touched. He had told himself that when she was ready, he would know it. She wasn't ready now. Perhaps she never would be.

She shivered, as if someone had walked over her grave. “I'll lay out an extra plate,” she said, and she turned and went back to the kitchen.

McGarvey couldn't imagine why the DCI was coming here, unless it was out of morbid curiosity to see his battle-wounded troops. But he and Lorraine had been friends for several years. McGarvey thought he would know better than to bother her now. Unless there was something else. Unless there were more complications.

He went out to the stone bridge just as Murphy reached the bottom of the path.

“Where's your bodyguard?” McGarvey called out. He found that he was angry again.

“I left him in the village,” Murphy said without breaking stride.

“Aren't you afraid I'll shoot you?”

“Will you?”

“I'm an assassin.”

Murphy stopped a few feet away from McGarvey and looked at him critically. “I'm not the enemy, remember?”

“I didn't think John Trotter was either. And he was my friend.” Again Murphy seemed to study him. He shook his head. “My
opinion of you hasn't changed, McGarvey. You're still a dangerous man.”

“But a necessary evil,” McGarvey said, remembering Trotter's words.

“Yes â¦” Murphy started to say when his gaze went beyond McGarvey. “Hello, Lorraine,” he said

McGarvey glanced over his shoulder. Lorraine had come to the door.

“What are you doing here, Roland?” she asked.

“I've come to take you home.”

“Not yet.”

“Mark O'Sheay has been asking about you, and your lab wants to know when you're coming back.”

“I'm not ready for that. I don't know if I'll ever return. Maybe â¦ someday.”

“Listen to me, Lorraine, you can't stay here. Not with him.”

“He saved my life.”

“He nearly got you killed,” Murphy roared. “Come back with me while you still have a chance. For God's sake, you're a scientist. Think, Lorraine!”

But she was shaking her head. “Not yet, Roland, please.”

Murphy started forward, but McGarvey blocked his path. “Go back to Washington, General.”

“Not without her,” Murphy said.

“You don't understand,” McGarvey snapped.

“I think I do. It's you who doesn't realize where this is heading. You don't know, or you don't want to admit to yourself, what danger she's in, being this close to you.”

“Go!” McGarvey shouted, stepping back a pace. His thoughts were getting tangled.

“What you did for us was magnificent. No one is denying that. Your country owes you a debt of gratitude. But for God's sake, let her go!”

“I can't,” McGarvey cried.

“You must!” the general shouted.

“Stop this!” Lorraine screeched.

A gull cried overhead, then swooped down the face of the cliff behind them to the sea.

“Please,” Murphy said softly.

Lorraine said nothing.

After a beat, Murphy took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a look of defeat and genuine pain in his eyes. “I'll wait for you in Athens for twenty-four hours in case you change your mind.”

“I won't,” Lorraine said.

Murphy's gaze shifted again to McGarvey. “If you have any decency in you, let her go. She doesn't belong here with you. You know that. You must.” He hesitated a moment longer, and then turned and headed back up the path.

McGarvey stood there for a long time, conscious only of his own beating heart, and of the conflicting emotions of hate, and rage, and impotence filling his mind.

What had he become, and when had it happened?

He couldn't say, nor did he think he would ever want to know for certain. The past no longer mattered, only the future.

It was very late, well past midnight. McGarvey lay on his back in the front bedroom, his windows open to the sea.

All afternoon he and Lorraine had avoided discussing Murphy's visit, just as in the past weeks they had stayed away from talking about Baranov and everything that had happened since En Gedi.

As was their routine, they had gone to bed early, each in their own room, each with their own thoughts and hopes for the morning.

He listened to the sounds of the sea below as he struggled to sort out his thoughts. He had given Lorraine her life, but as Murphy had suggested, was he now keeping her from it? He loved her, that much he knew. But was it killing her?

He closed his eyes, and immediately he began to see faces, one after the other, floating in a dark void. He knew all of them intimately, as only an assassin could. They were his victims. The men he had killed over the past nine years.
My name is Legion, for we are many.

“There is something missing in you,” his sister had told him once, a long time ago. “Some deep hole that can never be filled.”

He heard a rustle of fabric at the doorway and he opened his
eyes. Lorraine stood there in her nightgown, her body outlined in the starlight filtering in from outside.

“Baranov is really dead?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” McGarvey replied.

She shuddered. “He made me â¦”

“You don't have to do this, my darling.”

“Kirk, he made me believe in him,” she said. “He sat with me on the bed and he talked to me, nothing more. He told me things I didn't know were possible â¦ about himself, about the world, about â¦ me. And in the end I believed everything he said to me, and everything that he could ever say.”

McGarvey's heart was aching not only for her, but for himself.

“Even though I knew he was wrong, I couldn't help myself. He took
me
away from me, and replaced it with his own soul.”

“He's dead â¦”

“Yes,” she cut in. She raised a hand to her heart. “But now he's dead inside here as well.”

Slowly she slipped the nightgown off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. She stepped away from it, her body shimmering.

“I believe in you, Kirk McGarvey. And now I want you to make love to me.”

She came to him, and as he took her into his arms, he knew what had been missing all of these yearsâall of his life.

No one had ever believed in him.

MOSCOW

The connection was imperfect.

Lieutenant Colonel Vasili Semonovich Didenko sat in his nondescript office on the third floor of the Lubyanka, holding the telephone tightly to his ear.

Was it possible? he asked himself. Could it be possible?

“I want you to come in,” he said. “It will take me a few days to arrange something, and in the meantime I want you to go to ground. Do you understand?”

Didenko, who was the newly promoted chief of the KGB's
Department 8 of Directorate S (Illegals)âthe department that used to be called Viktor, for Mokrie Dela (Wet Affairs)âhad been a student of Baranov's. A gifted student. He saw now, for the first time, at least one portion of his future.

“Can you hear me?” he shouted into the telephone. The connection between Moscow and Damascus was never very good, but this evening it was worse than normal.

“Tell me where you are, I can help you.”

Didenko listened closely to what the man was saying. He was not only listening to the words for their meaning, but listening for a weakness. But there was none. There never had been.

“What are you saying to me?” Didenko shouted. “Fuck your mother, you cannot be serious. You need me â¦”

But the connection was broken.

Didenko slowly hung up the telephone. He sat in his dimly lit office for a long time before he got his coat and left the building. On the way across to the parking lot he pondered the other's last words.

“I've become a floater. When I want blood I'll call you. This time, you bastards, I won't let you fuck me up.”

NOVELS BY DAVID HAGBERG

Twister
The Capsule
Last Come the Children
Heartland
Heroes
Without Honor
Countdown

WRITING AS SEAN FLANNERY

The Kremlin Conspiracy
Eagles Fly
The Trinity Factor
The Hollow Men
Broken Idols
False Prophets
Gulag
The Zebra Network
Crossed Swords

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

COUNTDOWN. Copyright Â© 1990 by David Hagberg. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, NewYork, N.Y. 10010.

eISBN 9781466813373

First eBook Edition : February 2012

Hagberg, David.

Countdown / David Hagberg.â1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0â312â93212âX

I. Title.

PS3558.A3227C6 1990

813'.54âdc20

89â25819
CIP

First Edition