Authors: David Hagberg
Without Honor (15 page)
Until this day McGarvey had had a fairly clear sense of his own past and at least some idea what possibilities the future might hold. He was not proud of his past, nor did he hold much real hope for the future. But they were his, nonetheless. He'd always thought, for instance, that despite his previous bad luck with women he would eventually settle down with a good one. He could see himself at a ripe old age, finally understood. Now he wasn't so sure.
Up to this point he had not really committed himself to Trotter and Day. Oh, he'd gone through the motions all right. He had left Switzerland, hadn't he? No matter. The end there had been inevitable. And once back he had gone to see Yarnell's ex-wife, though how much of that had been out of idle curiosity and not his duty was a moot point. And he had come here to Washington to take a run past Yarnell and a brief look see down Basulto's track. He wanted to do his preliminary sums before he got himself totally committed. A lot of what they had told him in the mountain safe house an age ago didn't seem to make sense; the twos and fours were coming out nines and thirteens. “After the Bay of Pigs business, Yarnell was assigned to the embassy in
Moscow,” was how Trotter had begun to build his case. After that he became assistant DDO, then a U.S. senator, and now he was one of the most influential men in Washington. This morning McGarvey had driven over to Yarnell's house, where he waited around the corner up on Wisconsin Avenue out of sight of the attic windows, and at ten when Yarnell had emerged, he had followed him over to an office building on 16th, a couple of blocks from the Sheraton-Carlton. The entire day had been a waste. Yarnell had not moved. Once in the first hour, twice in the second, and six times every hour after that, McGarvey had said the hell with it and had started away. Each time something drew him back. Like iron filings to a magnet, or more like a hungry bear to a cache of tender meat, McGarvey returned. At four Yarnell went on the move, and by 4:20 McGarvey had gotten his reward.
Moscow,” was how Trotter had begun to build his case. After that he became assistant DDO, then a U.S. senator, and now he was one of the most influential men in Washington. This morning McGarvey had driven over to Yarnell's house, where he waited around the corner up on Wisconsin Avenue out of sight of the attic windows, and at ten when Yarnell had emerged, he had followed him over to an office building on 16th, a couple of blocks from the Sheraton-Carlton. The entire day had been a waste. Yarnell had not moved. Once in the first hour, twice in the second, and six times every hour after that, McGarvey had said the hell with it and had started away. Each time something drew him back. Like iron filings to a magnet, or more like a hungry bear to a cache of tender meat, McGarvey returned. At four Yarnell went on the move, and by 4:20 McGarvey had gotten his reward.
He telephoned from a booth in the International Visitors Information Center across the street from Lafayette Park and within sight of the White House entrance. “I need to talk to Trotter,” he said.
“I'm sorry, but that's not possible,” the same voice from before replied calmly. “If you would give me your message ⦔
“Listen, you sonofabitch, I want Trotter. I'll call again in five minutes. He'd better be there or I'll run down to the Washington Post and tell them everything. Loudly.”
McGarvey hung up and went outside where he lit a cigarette, then crossed the street into the park. From where he strolled he could see through the Pennsylvania Avenue fence to the north portico of the White House where Yarnell's car was parked. He'd shown the guards a pass, McGarvey had seen that. And he'd been met at the door. The man was there as a friend of the president's.
Someone in uniform came out of the White House, got behind the wheel, and drove off with Yarnell's car. McGarvey watched until the car disappeared around the back. He threw his cigarette down, turned and went back across the park, crossed the street, and entered the Visitors Center. The five minutes were up. He dialed the number.
Trotter answered it on the first ring. “Yes.”
“It's me.”
“Where are you?” Trotter demanded. He sounded all out of breath.
“Across the street from the White House.”
“What the hell are you doing there? You must leave immediately. But not back to your hotel. Check into another one and then call me here.”
“Wait a minute,” McGarvey snapped. A clerk was looking at him. He smiled, then turned away and lowered his voice. “Yarnell just drove up. He's in the bloody White House right this moment. But he didn't come alone. He's with a young, good looking woman. I saw her coming from his house yesterday.”
“Probably his daughter. But don't worry about her. You must get away from there now, Kirk. It's very important.”
McGarvey realized the urgency in Trotter's voice. “What's happened, John?”
“Everything has changed. We're going to have to meet with Leonard. Now. Tonight.”
“What's happened?”
“Maybe nothing, maybe everything. I just don't know any longer, Kirk, in this you must believe me. I am holding nothing back. Nothing. But it's ⦠simply too coincidental. Everything is. Believe me, you must get out of there, we'll talk tonight.”
“Don't hang up on me, goddamnit. I want to know.”
The line was quiet. McGarvey tried to hear any
stray noises from the other end, anything that might give him a clue where the number was located. But there was nothing.
stray noises from the other end, anything that might give him a clue where the number was located. But there was nothing.
“This may be simply a coincidence, Kirk. Believe me, I hope it is. I just received word that an agency officer was killed somewhere in Virginia. At some gas station along the highway.”
McGarvey was cold. He looked toward the window that overlooked the park. He was just able to see a portion of busy Pennsylvania Avenue and the edge of the gate house past which Yarnell had driven. “Anyone we know, John?” he asked softly. “Anyone I would know?”
“You knew him from the old days ⦔ Trotter started, but then he stopped. “Kirk? Christ. It was Janos. Janos Plónski. Was he doing something for you? Did you make contact with him?”
“How did it happen?” McGarvey asked, his voice choked. It wasn't possible. It had happened far too fast. He had the terrible urge to throw down the telephone, race across to the White House and put a bullet in Yarnell's brain. No mercy. No more questions. How in God's name was he going to face Pat and the children? He should have provided Janos with a backup. It was the least he could have done for an old friend. But then he hadn't believed any of this nonsense until now; he hadn't believed Basulto, he hadn't believed Day or even Trotter. None of it.
“He was calling on the telephone and they shot him. No one saw it, no one saw a thing, Kirk. His prints were lifted off the phone. An attendant found his body in the men's room. I repeat, Kirk, was he doing something for you?”
“He was working for me. Yes,” McGarvey said. “He was looking down Basulto's track. The records must have been flagged or something. Maybe they followed him down, I don't know. But I'll call you
within the next two hours. Set up a meeting with Day, I need some answers.”
within the next two hours. Set up a meeting with Day, I need some answers.”
“You had no authorization to approach anyone at the Company, Kirk. Why the hell did you do it â¦?”
McGarvey hung up and left. A lot of people had been trusting him lately, and it was getting to be dangerous.
McGarvey took his time driving out of the city. Cherry blossoms seemed to have appeared overnight; they were everywhere, along with the blossoming tourist traffic. Washington had become somehow garish since he had last been here. Or had he gotten used to a different standard? There seemed to be more people in smaller spaces and more buildings rising vertically in dozens of contrasting and certainly not complimentary architectural styles. He had crossed the district. line into Maryland on Rhode Island Avenue and then headed up through Riverdale toward the University of Maryland's College Park. In distance it wasn't very far. But in style it was forever.
“We'll meet at Leonard Day's house on Lake Artemesia. It's near College Park. Do you know it?” Trotter had said excitedly on the telephone. “Seven o'clock. But for heaven's sake, make sure you're not followed.”
“Anything further about Janos?”
“Leonard is upset. And I can't say as I blame him, Kirk. You may have jeopardized this entire project. Or, at least you could have.”
“What?”
“It may not have had a thing to do with ⦠you after all,” Trotter said softly. “A Polish activist group has been operating here in the area for the past few months. We've been watching them. Apparently they think they'd like to settle some old scores, though they'd all have to be in their fifties or sixties in order to have any memories at all. It's possible they may have killed him.”
“I don't understand, John.”
“It was his mother. I don't know if you knew it. She was an activist during the war and then afterward in England.”
“It's been years.”
“What can I say? There are fanatics out there. You wouldn't believe ⦔
“There certainly are,” McGarvey said, letting out his breath.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” McGarvey said tiredly. He was looking out the window of his hotel at Yarnell's office building. He had checked in to a hotel this close to it as a joke. It was beginning to pale now for him. “I'll be there at seven sharp. And, John ⦠?”
“Yes?” Trotter replied hesitantly.
“My ass is now on the line for sure. I'll be wanting some answers.”
“Remember who hired whom, Kirk.”
“I think you're running scared, John. You and Day. I think you need me now more than ever before. Janos was killed because of this. Don't kid yourself into believing otherwise. And you know what I think?”
“What?”
“There's more going on here than even you or Day can guess. I won't be followed, just make damned sure you aren't.”
The sun was low over the rolling green hills of
the university and reflected as a blood red ball in the waters of the tiny lake around which were a few lovely English- and Colonial-style homes that were not quite large enough to be considered mansions but were certainly much too large to belong simply to the upper-middle class. Two men in an aluminum fishing boat were in the middle of the lake just across from the stone entrance to Day's property. In the distance McGarvey could make out the high roof, dormers, and chimneys above the darkening line of trees. The house disappeared into the woods as he drove up, then suddenly appeared across a broad lawn so well tended it looked as if it were a giant putting green on a championship golf course. It made McGarvey think about croquet in Kansas as a child.
the university and reflected as a blood red ball in the waters of the tiny lake around which were a few lovely English- and Colonial-style homes that were not quite large enough to be considered mansions but were certainly much too large to belong simply to the upper-middle class. Two men in an aluminum fishing boat were in the middle of the lake just across from the stone entrance to Day's property. In the distance McGarvey could make out the high roof, dormers, and chimneys above the darkening line of trees. The house disappeared into the woods as he drove up, then suddenly appeared across a broad lawn so well tended it looked as if it were a giant putting green on a championship golf course. It made McGarvey think about croquet in Kansas as a child.
Â
McGarvey parked behind two other cars near a side entrance under a broad overhang. By the time he had shut off the ignition, got out, and mounted the two stairs, Trotter had already come to the door. He was still in a business suit, but his tie was loose and his collar undone. He looked frazzled.
“Were you followed, Kirk?” he asked, stepping aside.
“If I was it's certainly too late now, don't you think?” McGarvey said, brushing past him. He was beginning to feel mean again. He was lashing out because of Janos and because of his own mistakes.
“Christ,” Trotter swore, hanging by the door a second longer; then he closed it and motioned McGarvey through the mudroom, down a broad corridor, and across the front hall into a huge study with floor-to-ceiling bookcases around which an oak ladder ran on a track. Dominating the far wall was a huge cherrywood desk, to the left of which was a teak buffet and to the right of which was a grouping of
mahogany-and-leather furniture. The combination of woods and styles was worse than downtown Washington.
mahogany-and-leather furniture. The combination of woods and styles was worse than downtown Washington.
“Leonard will be with us in just a moment,” Trotter said. “Care for a drink?”
“Bourbon,” McGarvey said, crossing the room. “Who else is here?”
Trotter was pouring drinks at the buffet. “What?”
“There was a second car out there. Besides yours.”
“I didn't notice.”
McGarvey went to the tall windows. He pulled back the drapes and looked outside. From here he could see the front driveway and the road down to the lake. He knew that Trotter was watching him; he could feel the man's eyes on his back. Who spies on the spy? the old adage went. It was odd though, being here like this; even odder that he hadn't had as great a reaction to Janos's murder as he thought he should have.
“Did you really go see him last night?” Trotter asked. “Here's your drink.”
“Do you suppose Yarnell had him killed?” McGarvey asked, remaining at the window. It was pretty here.
“If he was looking down Basulto's track, it's a possibility.”
“That would mean he has people within the Company. At least in records. But the timing would have been tight. It bothers me.”
“You could have been followed, you know.”
“I don't think so, John,” McGarvey said. He heard a door slam somewhere in the house, and then he heard a car starting.
“Come away from that window.”
McGarvey didn't move. “Yarnell is at the White
House. He has a pass. They even parked his car for him.”
House. He has a pass. They even parked his car for him.”
“He's a powerful man.”
The blue Chevrolet sedanâone of the two cars parked at the side of the houseâcame around from the back and headed quickly down the long road to the lake. It had flashed by, but not so quickly that McGarvey hadn't gotten a good look at the man behind the wheel. He watched the car disappear into the trees as the road dipped into a valley and curved left.
“What is so fascinating out there?” Trotter complained.
. McGarvey let the drapes fall back into place, then turned and accepted the drink from Trotter. They sat down in leather chairs across a massive mahogany coffee table from each other. Trotter had lost some weight even since Lausanne. His nose seemed more prominent, hawkish. His complexion seemed pale. It was obvious he was under a great strain.
“You owe us an explanation, you know,” Trotter said, breaking the uneasy silence between them.
“And you owe me the truth, John. At least that.”
“I don't know what you mean.”
McGarvey looked at the door. It opened a moment later and Leonard Day appeared, out of breath, but fresh looking in a sport coat, open-collared shirt, and tan slacks that just touched his boating shoes. He looked as if he had just stepped off the set of a commercial for after-shave.
“Kirk's just arrived,” Trotter said unnecessarily.
“Yes, I can see that. And I think we have a lot to get straightened out between us,” Day said, fairly bounding across the room to the buffet. He poured himself a drink. “Anyone for bumps?”
“I'm sorry that Lawrence couldn't stay,” McGarvey said softly.
“Lawrence?” Day piped without turning around.
“Danielle. I just saw him leaving. Anything to do with our little plot?”
“Whatever gave you such an idea?” Day asked, turning at last. “We're old friends. He came for a visit.”
Day's voice had changed. The difference was subtle, but it was there. He was disturbed. “You have some explaining to do, mister. You are in town barely a day and the killing begins. A little extreme I'd say.”
“Do you think I killed him?”
“Heavens no!” Trotter blurted.
“It isn't a coincidence, despite what John has to say about it.” Day came across the room and flopped down on the edge of the couch. His movements were studied, McGarvey thought.
“Yarnell was at the White House this afternoon,” Trotter volunteered.
“The president is having an impromptu meeting with the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Powers will be there, I suspect. I'm not surprised our little spy wrangled an invitation as well, the bastard!”
“He's not working alone,” McGarvey said. He thought he was at a sideshow here.
“Of course not. He has his control officer. Baranov, perhaps. Who knows? They're like a cancer. Cut them out, ruthlessly. It's the only answer.”
“I meant here in the States. Most likely in the Company. Maybe in the bureau. Maybe even in Justice.”
At this last suggestion, Day flinched, but he
didn't move from his perch on the arm of the couch, nor did his outward manner or expression change. But the barb had hit home; McGarvey could see it in the way Day held himself.
didn't move from his perch on the arm of the couch, nor did his outward manner or expression change. But the barb had hit home; McGarvey could see it in the way Day held himself.
“Because of this Polish DP who ran the agency's archives?”
“The Polish activists didn't kill him.”
“Oh?” Day said, his right eyebrow rising. “I see. Who did then, Yarnell himself?”
“I think there is a lot here you haven't told me. I'm out in the cold.” McGarvey decided in midstride that he did not like nor trust Day. The man wanted to be president. It was written all over him. Next there'd be Secret Service bodyguards crawling all over the place. He expected Day to put out his hand at any moment for him to shake.
“I think you're forgetting your place, Mr. McGarvey.”
“This isn't helping anything,” Trotter tried to interject.
“We found you rotting away in some Swiss bookstore. Remember? We should have left you there.”
“Yes, you should have. But now that I'm here, how about cutting the bullshit and telling me what's really going on.”
“We're not getting anywhere this way, Kirk,” Trotter said a little more forcefully. “Please. This is counterproductive.”
McGarvey's eyes had not left Day's. “Just what is it you want from me, Mr. Day?”
Day slowly stood. He looked across at McGarvey for a long time, then he threw back his drink. Not a sideshow, McGarvey thought, more like a bloody circus or a B movie.
“You are an assassin, Mr. McGarvey. We have
hired you to assassinate Darby Yarnell.”
hired you to assassinate Darby Yarnell.”
McGarvey grinned and sat back with his drink. He hadn't thought Day would actually commit himself like that. “You don't want an investigation, then?”
Trotter jumped up too. “Good God, what are you trying to imply, Kirk? What do you take us for?”
“You've already asked that question once, John. But Mr. Day hasn't answered mine.”
Day stared through hooded eyes. He must have to jog at least five miles a day to look so fit at his age. Probably around the lake every morning before a breakfast of whole-wheat toast, guava juice, and wheat germ on everything.
“Yes, an investigation, but not at the expense of innocent people.” Day could have been lecturing. “It is the innocent who must be protected. That's why we are in business. Too often the little man gets in the way and instead of our kind making the proper considerations, he gets steamrollered.”
From his chair Trotter voiced his agreement. “Poor Janos Plónski, case in point.”
“Then you are convinced he is guilty. No trial. The man is a spy. I'm simply to walk up to him some dark evening and put a bullet into his brain. That it?”
“Don't be tiresome, McGarvey. I don't care about the details. It must be done. He's murdered one of your own, by your own account. What more do you want?”
“The truth.”
“What do you mean by that?” Day asked indignantly. He played the role well. “Exactly.”
“Who else is Yarnell working with, besides the Russians? You?”
A dangerous silence came over the study. Even Trotter was moved to keep his peace, apparently
because of the monstrousness of the question. Chile had taught McGarvey a painful lesson: Nothing is ever the way it seems, especially not in this business. Connections within connections, plots within plots, there never were any simple or rational answers. Janos's world as a field man had been relatively simple by comparison. Kill or be killed. The real perfidy was at the upper echelons of the business. That treachery had gotten Janos killed in the end; McGarvey's sloppiness after five years of inactivity was a contributing factor. Knowing this didn't make him feel particularly secure.
because of the monstrousness of the question. Chile had taught McGarvey a painful lesson: Nothing is ever the way it seems, especially not in this business. Connections within connections, plots within plots, there never were any simple or rational answers. Janos's world as a field man had been relatively simple by comparison. Kill or be killed. The real perfidy was at the upper echelons of the business. That treachery had gotten Janos killed in the end; McGarvey's sloppiness after five years of inactivity was a contributing factor. Knowing this didn't make him feel particularly secure.
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