Authors: David Hagberg
Without Honor (16 page)
“Perhaps you don't fully appreciate the measure of Darby Yarnell,” Day said at last. He was wounded. He was letting them all know now that he was too big a man to let such a snipe stop him cold, but that he was sensitive enough to be hurt. He went back to the buffet, where he poured himself a second drink. “Besides friends,” he said over his shoulder, “he has quite an extensive organization of his own.”
“His firm?”
“More than that. You've seen his house; it's Fortress Yarnell. He has similar bastions elsewhere: Paris, Monaco, Austria, I'm told, though I don't actually know for a fact about that last. He has cooks and house staff at each place, of course. He has his drivers, his bodyguards. He has his secretaries, even a Learjet for God's sake, complete with a full-time crew, though I'm told he's a pretty fair pilot in his own right.”
“An accomplished man.”
Day turned back, his right eyebrow arching. “Indeed.” He came back with his drink. “He does have his friends, as you say, within the bureau, certainly within the Company, Powers included, and no doubt he has his crowd even within my bailiwick. Unwitting helpers, I'd say. Pass the innocent bit of
information back and forth. Good heavens, the man is a friend of the president himself. Doesn't make him an accomplice, now does it?”
information back and forth. Good heavens, the man is a friend of the president himself. Doesn't make him an accomplice, now does it?”
Day looked to Trotter for confirmation. “Of course not.”
“Enough friends for him to know by now that I am here?” McGarvey asked softly. “Why I am here?”
“That's the point, isn't it?” Day replied. “If it wasn't the Polacks who did in your friend, and it was Darby Yarnell's gang, the implications are somewhat sticky.”
“If Darby Yarnell were to meet with an accident, what would become of his organization?” McGarvey said, trying a new tack.
“I don't catch your drift,” Day said. His expressions were sophomoric.
“Pearson and Darien, his partners in the firm. Mightn't they take over the spy business if their boss departs?”
Day turned again to Trotter. “That's your turf, John. Anything on them?”
“They're clean as far as we can tell.”
“Doesn't that strike you as odd,” McGarvey said.
Trotter shrugged. “If he has help, they'll dry up once he's gone.”
“All on the say-so of a Cuban drug dealer,” McGarvey said, half to himself. “That's what I meant, you know.”
Day wanted to pace. A muscle twitched beneath his left eye. “We've gone over all of that. Don't be tedious.”
“I haven't begun to get tedious, believe me. We have a long ways to go.”
“What exactly is it you want?” Day snapped irritably.
“Your signatures on a piece of paper.”
Day laughed out loud. Trotter reared back until he, too, realized it had only been a joke. He didn't seem amused by it.
“Access to bureau and Justice files,” McGarvey said. “For a start.”
“Only on matters pertaining to this business,” Day said. He glanced at Trotter. “John?” Trotter nodded.
“Now that I no longer have Janos Plónski, I'll need someone with the Company. Lawrence Danielle, for instance.”
Day laughed again. “I'll work on it.”
“I don't want a direct link with him; in fact, it would be better if I dealt exclusively through you.”
“Whatever.” Day shrugged.
“What was he doing here today?”
“I've already told youâ”
“The truth this time.”
A strand of hair had boyishly fallen down on Day's forehead. He brushed it aside. “If I were to promise you that Lawrence's visit here had absolutely nothing to do with why you are here, would that be enough?”
McGarvey was thinking ahead. He nodded and then sat forward. “If at some later date I discover you have lied to me on this point, Mr. Day, held back on me, thus making my position over the coming days more dangerous or difficult, you'll regret it.”
“I don't take kindly to threats,” Day said evenly.
“Not a threat. I am merely telling you that if I find I've been lied to, all bets are off. I'll go to the
Post
as well as the
New York Times
with the entire story. Names, dates, and exactly what I was hired to do.”
Post
as well as the
New York Times
with the entire story. Names, dates, and exactly what I was hired to do.”
Trotter started to protest, but Day held him off with a gesture. “Fair enough. What else?”
“I'll need a safe house somewhere in the city. Close to Yarnell without being obvious.”
“I can arrange that,” Trotter volunteered.
“I'll need four or five of your top legmen assigned to me, John. Someone who knows electronics and will bring along the entire kit. Computers. Cameras. Second-story people. No one squeamish.”
“What are you planning?” Day demanded.
“Getting away with my own skin intact.”
“They cannot be involved in the ⦠actual operation,” Trotter said. “Even so it will be difficult breaking them loose from the bureau. Questions will be asked.”
“Have you someone in mind?”
Trotter nodded.
“They'll have to be told the truth. All of it. And they'll be working directly for me. No middleman, not even yourself. If I find monitoring devices or tapes or any kind of bugs of our surveillance, the deal is off.”
“When would you need them?” Trotter asked.
“Immediately.”
Again Trotter looked to Day, who nodded his sage approval. “All right, Kirk, we'll do as you say.”
Day leaned forward. “Now, we would like something from you in return. Only fair, wouldn't you say?”
McGarvey inclined his head. Trotter had come a long way down since they'd last known and worked with each other, he thought. Now he took orders not only from the director of the bureau, but apparently he took orders from a tinhorn bureaucrat as well.
“I would like you to check in with us through the telephone number John provided you. Every six hours, I think.”
McGarvey had to smile. Day was a wheeler-dealer. “Forty-eight.”
“Twelve,” Day said.
“Thirty-six.”
“Eighteen.”
“That's reasonable, Kirk,” Trotter interjected. He was worried.
“Twenty-four,” McGarvey said. He got to his feet. “With a twenty-four hour fallback.”
“Fallback? What's this? I'm not familiar with the term.”
“I'll check in every twenty-four hours unless I'm tied up, in which case I don't want you doing a thingânothingâfor another twenty-four hours.”
Day laughed. “You got your forty-eight hours in any event. Agreed.”
Yes he had, McGarvey thought. But he wondered if in the end it would be enough for him, or for anyone else for that matter.
Â
Donald Suthland Powers's Cadillac limousine was passed immediately through the east gate of the White House grounds, where it was met by a uniformed guard. Only a handful of men within the government had instant access, day or night, to the president; among them was the DCI. It was a privilege Powers had never abused.
Powers felt no sense of victory knowing he had predicted this day nearly six months ago. He had been watching the happenings to the south, had personally studied the KH-10 satellite photos, and had felt a mounting sense of frustation and finally fear with what he understood was probably happening at half a dozen places along our southern border.
The Mexican ambassador had been making his president's warning clear over the past months, not only here in Washington but through their delegation to the United Nations. A new relationship had to be negotiated between the United States and Mexico. Now. Falling oil prices, unjust drug accusations against Mexican government officials, immigration disputes, another Mexico City earthquake, and a failing economy were contributing to a general
malaise among his people. Hunger had finally become a major political issue; with it, socialism of the Soviet Russian variety was rearing its ugly head.
malaise among his people. Hunger had finally become a major political issue; with it, socialism of the Soviet Russian variety was rearing its ugly head.
For the first time in a very long time, Powers was frightened; not merely concerned, but deeply and utterly convinced that unless something was doneâimmediately and decisivelyâa shooting war was about to begin.
He took the stairs up to the office in the West Wing. The president was meeting with some members of the Senate and a few other people in his study down the hall. He promised to return in five minutes.
Powers opened his briefcase and began spreading computer-enhanced satellite photographs on the desk. The president came in. He was alone, though Powers caught a glimpse of his press secretary outside.
“What's got you so het up, Donald?” the president said, his voice betraying a deep weariness.
“These, Mr. President. Something has to be done.”
The president looked at Powers, then bent over the photos laid out on his desk. He studied them, one at a time, for a long time before he finally straightened up. He leaned back, his hands at the small of his back.
“Well, are you going to tell me what I'm looking at, or am I going to have to guess.”
“Those are photographs of six regions of Mexico, some of them within twenty-five miles of our border ⦔
“Yes?”
“I think the Mexican government, with the help of the Soviet Union, is constructing bases for the launching of nuclear missiles.”
“Christ,” the president swore. “Oh Christ.”
For forty-eight hours, while Trotter assembled the team and found a suitable safe house, McGarvey would have languished at the Sheraton-Carlton within sight of the White House and Yarnell's office building but for a single occupation. Before their meeting had broken up he had requested from Day excerpts from the staff directories for each of the years Yarnell had been active in the Company. It was a tall order, but one with which Day nevertheless said he would be happy to comply, and did within the first eighteen hours, having the bundle delivered to the hotel by courier.
As he waited for the assembly of his army and a fortress from which he would wage his battle, McGarvey began the first steps of his oblique look down Yarnell's path.
As he explained much later to a mystified Trotter, it wasn't as if he were having doubts about Yarnell. On the contrary, by then he was fairly well convinced the man was a spy ⦠or had at least been a spy. But he wanted two things: the first was proof that Yarnell had spied; and the second was the name or names of his contacts here in Washingtonâhis non-Russian contacts, that is.
Also, during these hours when McGarvey did not leave his room, he let a certain amount of guilt wash over him. First about Janos's death; next about his daughter and ex-wife, who were within a stone's throw of him; and finally about Marta, whom he missed. Twice he had picked up his telephone and nearly called her in Lausanne. Each time, however, he thought better of it and hung up before he had finished dialing.
He watched television sporadically, especially the news broadcasts and news-magazine shows. In his Swiss life he had kept himself relatively isolated from world events. The country was geared to this state of isolation; in Switzerland if you didn't want to hear what the superpowers were up to, you merely ignored Swiss Television One and any foreign newspaper. You weren't considered odd, at least no odder than the average Swiss, for whom neutrality was not only a badge of long-standing honor but one of smug indifference to the other four billion inhabitants of the planet. (The only oddity in Switzerland was the man who didn't read the financial section!) The isolation had spawned in him a hunger for hard news of the American television variety, even if the networks' editorial positions were blatantly espoused. U.S.âMexican relations were troubled again. Coincidence, he wondered as he watched the news, or was this part of some larger picture that somehow included Yarnell, the man's ex-wife, and Baranov, the Russian everyone seemed so respectful of?
By then, however, he had developed what he called his “short list of rogue's rogues” and Trotter had telephoned with the setup. Finally it was time for his duty call.
Â
The address was in Chevy Chase, on a curving street that just looked over the south side of the
country club. Half dozen white pillars fronted the big Colonial house that sat well back on half an acre of manicured lawn. A powder blue Mercedes 450SL convertible was parked in the driveway, and McGarvey nearly drove past, his courage flagging at the last moment. Kathleen had always wanted just this sort of house. A proper place to raise a daughter, she said. She'd be a member of the country club, which probably was where she'd met her attorney friend; there'd be bridge, debutante balls, and the dozen or so black-tie parties each year. She'd gotten a healthy part of the ranch money, but even that probably wouldn't have been enough to support this life-style. But then she'd always been an opportunist. It was one of the reasons they'd marriedâhe was an up-and-comer. And of course in the end they had divorced over it when he turned out to be not so much of an up-and-comer after all. He parked behind the Mercedes and got out of his rental car, hesitating only a moment before he went up the walk and rang the bell. A basket of spring flowers hung at eye level. He reached out to pick one when he heard footsteps and withdrew his hand. The door swung inward.
country club. Half dozen white pillars fronted the big Colonial house that sat well back on half an acre of manicured lawn. A powder blue Mercedes 450SL convertible was parked in the driveway, and McGarvey nearly drove past, his courage flagging at the last moment. Kathleen had always wanted just this sort of house. A proper place to raise a daughter, she said. She'd be a member of the country club, which probably was where she'd met her attorney friend; there'd be bridge, debutante balls, and the dozen or so black-tie parties each year. She'd gotten a healthy part of the ranch money, but even that probably wouldn't have been enough to support this life-style. But then she'd always been an opportunist. It was one of the reasons they'd marriedâhe was an up-and-comer. And of course in the end they had divorced over it when he turned out to be not so much of an up-and-comer after all. He parked behind the Mercedes and got out of his rental car, hesitating only a moment before he went up the walk and rang the bell. A basket of spring flowers hung at eye level. He reached out to pick one when he heard footsteps and withdrew his hand. The door swung inward.
She was standing thereâsuddenly, it seemed âwith one hand on the edge of the door, the other up as if in greeting. It struck McGarvey that she had not aged; in fact, if anything she had somehow learned the secret of eternal youth and become younger. She was dressed in a silk lounging suit, high heels on her feet, her hair done up, wearing only the slightest bit of makeup and a thin gold chain around her long, slender neck. She smelled of lilac; clean and fresh and new. He hadn't remembered that her eyes were so green.
“Hello, Kathleen,” he said, finally finding his voice.
“You should have called,” she replied, her voice smoother than he remembered, well modulated, cultured. She'd definitely changed over the past five or six years. For the better.
“I'm sorry. I can come back. I was nearby ⦔
“You never were much on timing,” she said wryly. She looked beyond him to his car. “You'd better come in, then.”
“I can only stay for a minute,” he said, stepping past her into a large hall.
“Yes. I was just leaving. If you'd come five minutes later you would have missed me.”
She led the way into a large living room, extremely well furnished with Queen Anne furniture. A harpsichord, its sound-box lid propped open, its finish an antique lacquer, dominated one end of the room. A large oil painting of Kathleen and Elizabeth hung over a natural-stone fireplace. McGarvey walked over to it.
“Elizabeth is away at school. I'd rather you not bother her there.”
McGarvey couldn't tear his eyes away from the portrait. His daughter was a beautiful young woman; not the little girl in braces he had left, but a young woman with straight, fine features, long lovely hair, and graceful limbs. How much like her mother had she become? The spitting image, he hoped. Yet couldn't he see a spark of rebellion in his daughter's eyes?
“She is a lot like you, Kirk,” Kathleen said. “I suppose I should be grateful. She'll probably grow up to do great things. They absolutely adore her at school. And Phillip thinks the world of her. But she is tiresome at times.”
McGarvey turned. Kathleen hadn't changed after all. “She is beautiful. Like you.”
The compliment was her due. She barely acknowledged
it. “When did you return from Switzerland?”
it. “When did you return from Switzerland?”
“A few days ago.”
“Business?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. I also wanted to see you.”
“If it's about Phillip's letter, the alimony ⦔ she asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
She was actually embarrassed by her own crude comment. “No,” she said. “It wouldn't be that, would it. But you are back in the States for good?”
“I don't know, Kathleen. I doubt it.”
“Then what?” she asked softly. He'd known her for a couple of years before they were married, and they were married for twelve years; they'd been separated now half that long. Yet he was conscious that this was probably the very first time he had ever seen her for what she really was; merely a woman, like others, trying to find her way. He could see her now not blinded by love, nor confused by hatred. And in a small measure he felt sorry for her lonelinessâthough he also felt a great deal of pride that this self-sufficient, classy, and certainly tough woman had once been his to love, had once been in love with him. He could see her now through more objective eyes, however. He saw that she had indeed aged, but that the process had not been unkind to her. She'd matured, advanced along with the times; she was a modern woman in makeup, dress, life-style, and certainly in attitudes. There was no lagging for her. He saw also that she was frightened of him. Frightened that he would somehow disrupt her carefully constructed life. But perhaps also frightened that she was still vulnerable to him.
For the very first time he felt no need or desire to find out.
“I never knew what to say to you,” he said. “Is Elizabeth the same? Does she hate me?”
She softened. “I haven't taught her that, Kirk. I promise you. She doesn't hate you.”
He wondered why he had come here. He looked back up at the portrait over the fireplace.
“I wanted to make sure,” he said. He turned back.
“We were on a different plane, Kirk. We still are, for that matter. Nothing has changed ⦠or if it has, it's changed for the worse.” Her eyes glistened. “The odd part is that I never stopped loving you, Kirk. It's just that I can't live with you.”
She took out a handkerchief and daubed her eyes with it. She came across the room and took his arm. Her touch shocked him with its sudden tenderness. Together they looked up at the painting of their child. Theirs. The artist had only rendered what they had created with their love, with their bodies. At this moment looking at their creation, they were both proud. They could feel their pride in each other. It was something at least.
“Phillip is a good man, Kirk,” she said. “Elizabeth has a lot of respect for him.”
Of all the statements she had made that one hurt the most. “Will you marry him?”
“It's possible. He hasn't asked yet.” She looked into his eyes. “I plan to say yes when he does. Happiness is out there for some of us, you know.”
“He writes a nasty letter.”
She laughed. “You didn't take it that seriously, I hope. Good Lord, Kirk, you haven't changed that much have you? Even I might get to like you if you had, you know.”
They no longer knew each other. Maybe they never had, he thought.
He drove away wondering again why he had
come out to see her. Elizabeth was away at school. He knew that, yet he had come out anyway. It was a beautiful spring day, quite different from a lot of the days he had had in Lausanne. He'd never really given Marta a chance. Another of his mistakes. She had put up with a lot of his uncertainties, which had caused him to do a lot of lashing out. At first it had been duty, she tried to tell him. “I swear it was only duty at first. Not later. I love you, Kirk.” She had pleaded with him. “I have loved you for a long time. Didn't you know that, too?” They used to read Elizabeth Barrett Browning to each other:
come out to see her. Elizabeth was away at school. He knew that, yet he had come out anyway. It was a beautiful spring day, quite different from a lot of the days he had had in Lausanne. He'd never really given Marta a chance. Another of his mistakes. She had put up with a lot of his uncertainties, which had caused him to do a lot of lashing out. At first it had been duty, she tried to tell him. “I swear it was only duty at first. Not later. I love you, Kirk.” She had pleaded with him. “I have loved you for a long time. Didn't you know that, too?” They used to read Elizabeth Barrett Browning to each other:
When no song of mine comes near thee,
Will its memory fail to soften?
Will its memory fail to soften?
The Boynton Tower apartments on the corner of R and 31st streets in Georgetown, overlooked Dumbarton Oaks Park to the north and Yarnell's fortress to the south across 32nd Street in its own little mews. McGarvey adjusted the the focus on his powerful binoculars, and the roof and top two floors of the house came into sharp focus. The attic window was dark, though as he watched a man in short sleeves, his tie loose, appeared momentarily and then disappeared. He looked bored to McGarvey. Bored but professional and very dangerous. He had seen the type before.
“Do you know him?” Trotter asked, standing at his elbow.
McGarvey looked up from the binoculars. Trotter was worn out, though here he was in his element. It was like the old days.
“No. Do you?” McGarvey asked.
“There's another up there, too. Shorter. Black, I think. Maybe a Mexican. God only knows. We'll run photos on them both.”
McGarvey nodded. “In two hours? By yourself?” Trotter had held the others back for just a moment or so. He wanted to get a few things straight with McGarvey first.
“They're watching, all right. But I don't think they're expecting anyone, Kirk. They're sloppy. Our advantage.”
Trotter had found them a top-floor apartment in the eight-story building; it was just tall enough for them to have a clear line of sight to Yarnell's house and Wisconsin Avenue beyond, yet it wasn't so far away that they couldn't make out a reasonable amount of detail with optics. The only disadvantage was that they had no clear view of the garage behind the house where the cars were kept. The first they would know that Yarnell or anyone else was on the move would be when a car came around the corner of the house and emerged from the gate directly onto Scott Place and then 32nd Street. But by then the angle would be all wrong for them to see inside the car. Yarnell could come and go as he pleased unless they permanently stationed a man down on the street, which at best was dangerous, no matter how lax Yarnell's people seemed to be. But if anyone showed up they would know it. And they had a clear view into at least six rooms of the house.
“We couldn't get much closer, in all good conscience, Kirk,” Trotter explained. “I don't want his people picking us out. He'd go to ground immediately.”
McGarvey straightened up and lit a cigarette. From here they would begin their surveillance of Yarnell. For better or worse, whether the man picked them out of the crowd or not (and McGarvey suspected he would), he wanted to see what Yarnell was up to, what his routine was. He wanted a measure of the man's daily habits; his comings and
goings; the time the electric meter reader came by; the time the postman delivered the mail; the grocery runs, the emergencies, if any. McGarvey wanted it all. Once a base had been built, then they would find the weak link in the man's armor.
goings; the time the electric meter reader came by; the time the postman delivered the mail; the grocery runs, the emergencies, if any. McGarvey wanted it all. Once a base had been built, then they would find the weak link in the man's armor.
“Have you got good people for me, John? Anyone I know? Experts?”
Trotter had to smile. “You know two of them from Lausanne. They're professionals, believe me. They'll do the job for you.”
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