THE AFTERNOON WAS CLEAR and sunny when the Pan Am flight from Athens touched down at Tegel Airport with a sharp bark of its tires and taxied over to the terminal.
McGarvey had known someone was following him from the moment he'd left the Lykabettos safehouse, but he had taken no particular precautions. In fact he had become obvious about his movements, keeping to the open squares on foot, and finally taking a taxi directly out to Hellinikon Airport.
He'd expected to see someone on the flight, an out-of-place
face, eyes that were quickly averted as he passed. But if they'd been there, they were very good because he'd spotted no one.
Walking with the rest of the passengers down the jetway, he was passed through customs without event. At this point he was still traveling under his real name. It would have been too risky, they'd decided, for him to use his Kurshin persona anywhere far from the eastern frontier. The secret services in every Western European country had a file on the Russian KGB colonel. It would have unnecessarily complicated things if he had been spotted using the Russian passport.
Berlin was soon enough.
Trotter had promised that he would be kept at arm's length for everyone's sake. There would be no shadows, nor any contact on either side of the East-West border. The setup team in East Berlin who had arranged for his weapons and equipment, as well as the apartment and automobile, had already been cut out of the operation. They had no idea what or who was coming. Nor had they displayed, according to Trotter, any interest in knowing. They were professionals who understood that in this business unnecessary knowledge could oftentimes prove fatal. The fallout was going to be terrific once Baranov went down. Lesser crises had tumbled presidents and entire governments.
So, who knew he was in Athens? Who knew or suspected that he would be traveling east? It was called “covering your own back door.” Before he went across he wanted to know who was back there.
But no one had been on his flight, which meant that either a message had been sent ahead, or whoever it was who'd been following him would be showing up on the next flight.
Walking across the main entry hall, he checked the incoming flight board. The next flight from Athens, via Rome this time, was due to arrive at 2:15, barely a half hour from now.
He took the stairs up to the mezzanine where he got a spot at a stand-up table in the
bierstube
from which he had a clear line of sight to the exit doors from customs.
If a message had been sent ahead, they would easily spot him here. If someone was coming on the next flight, he would spot them.
Sipping his beer he watched the comings and goings below in the main arrivals hall. Most of them were ordinary people, nine-to-fivers, some of them here in West Berlin on business, others with their families here on vacation.
His life had never been ordinary, certainly not his adult life, and often he found himself pining for something he could never quite reach. For a time when he'd lived in Switzerland, after he had left the Agency, he had tried for such a thing. But the Swiss Federal Police had set their watchdogs on him. Assassins, even retired assassins, were not to be trusted under any circumstances. The Swiss were pragmatic, they'd more or less left him to his own devices, so long as he kept his nose clean. But the moment Trotter had shown up with an assignment for him, his tenure in Switzerland was at an end. Nor could he ever go back, legally.
Too, he often thought about Marta Fredricks, the Swiss cop who'd been assigned to live with him so that they could keep closer tabs on his movements.
When he finally left Lausanne she'd told him that she had fallen in love with him. They had both known at the time that any life for them together would be impossible. Nevertheless he had telephoned her last year. They had talked for a few minutes, only that long, but he had been able to hear in her voice that she had gotten over him. She was on a new, exciting assignment. And besides, he told himself, she was Swiss. She would never leave her country. Her family and friends were all there. Her career, her life, was there. And there was absolutely nothing that he could offer her.
For instance, he thought, at this moment there would have been nothing for her to do except worry about him. It was a callous attitude, he knew, but he simply did not need that sort of excess baggage.
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The AthensâRome flight was on time, and fifteen minutes later the first of the passengers began streaming out of customs. McGarvey watched them closely, most of them nine-to-fivers, more ordinary people.
He had no real idea exactly what or who he was looking for,
he just knew that when he spotted the face he would recognize it for what it was; either one of Trotter's people along to make sure that McGarvey did as he was told, or one of the opposition here with orders to kill the American assassin.
When Lorraine Abbott emerged from customs, he was totally unprepared for her, and he nearly dropped his beer stein.
“Oh, Christ,” he said to himself.
He slammed his stein on the table, grabbed his single overnight bag, and hurried down the stairs, his movements studied and very careful. What he did not need now was to attract unnecessary attention to himself.
Lorraine had walked directly across the arrivals hall, her stride purposeful, so that McGarvey didn't catch up to her until she had reached the taxi ranks outside. He came up behind her, took her arm without a word, and propelled her to the next taxi in line, where he unceremoniously shoved her in the backseat, climbing in after her.
“The Hotel Berlin,” he told the driver. It was one of the better hotels in the city, on the Ku'Damm. It was expensive but he figured she could afford it, and security there was reasonably good. Berlin was still a difficult city during the night.
Her eyes were wide, her nostrils flared with fright, and a little indignation. She started to say something, but he held her off with a fierce warning stare, and she sat back, her mouth set, her shoulders stiff.
They rode into town in silence. The afternoon was warm and lovely. Children were playing in the Tiergarten, and she smiled when she saw them.
A few minutes later they pulled up in front of the big, modern hotel. McGarvey paid the cabbie and inside directed Lorraine to the registration desk.
“Get a room in your own name, I'll be up in a couple of minutes.”
“I've come this far, I'm not going to let you slip away ⦔ Lorraine started to say.
McGarvey still held her arm, and squeezed it hard, a sharp expression of pain crossing her features. “Get yourself a room, you goddamned fool. I'll come up in a couple of minutes. Do it now!”
He let her go, then turned on his heel and walked directly across the lobby without bothering to look back. At the bell captain's desk, he handed over his bag for temporary storage, got his chit, and went into the bar of the Berlin's famous Grill Restaurant, where he ordered a cognac and lit a cigarette.
So much for Yablonski's expertise, he thought angrily. But then the man had been sent out to protect her from harm. He wasn't in fact her baby-sitter in the sense that he was to watch for her to slip out the back door.
By now Trotter would be beside himself. The entire mission could be jeopardized by her presence here. But, he decided, it would be even worse if a fuss were to be made. She was here in Berlin, and this is where she would remain, out of harm's way (no one would expect her to be here) until he was finished.
He waited a full five minutes before he paid his tab, and in the lobby used a house phone to call her. She answered on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
McGarvey hung up, crossed the lobby, and took the stairs up to the second floor where the hotel's ballroom and other meeting rooms were located. He waited for a couple more minutes, to make sure he hadn't been spotted, with someone else on his tail, then took the elevator up to the seventh floor.
She let him in immediately. He locked and chained the door.
“You followed me from Lykabettos,” he said.
She was definitely frightened. “I waited outside until you left, and then followed you out to the airport.”
“What in God's name are you doing here?”
“I came to ⦠stop you,” she said breathlessly.
“What?”
“You're going to cross the border to kill someone. I know it. I'm going to stop you ⦠any way I can.”
McGarvey looked at her in open amazement. “You're an antinuclear activist, for Christ's sake.”
“It just happened. But it's not so strange.”
“For a nuclear physicist?”
“Less strange than you'd think,” she said defiantly. “If need be, I'll go to the newspapers with this story.”
McGarvey was shaking his head. “The only things that would accomplish would be your arrest and most likely my death.”
“If you went across. But you're not going to do it.”
“Yes I am.”
“For what?” she cried, her voice rising. “Revenge. You're going to risk your life to kill a Russian spy who made a fool of you?”
“You can't possibly know how wrong, how dangerously wrong you are,” McGarvey said. “I'm not going after Kurshin.”
“Then who?”
“You don't want to know.”
“Who?” she shrieked.
He was across the room to her in three steps. He took her by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. She wanted to cry out again, but she couldn't catch her breath.
“Goddamnit, Lorraine, don't do this to me. My life is on the line. So are the lives of a lot of other people.”
She was shaking her head. “I can't let you do this, Kirk,” she sobbed. “Please ⦠oh, God, please.”
“I'll telephone Trotter. He'll send someone over here to place you under arrest. He can do it, believe me.”
“No.”
“I'm trying to save your life, Lorraine.”
“And I'm trying to save yours.”
McGarvey let go of her shoulders and turned away from her. He stared at the telephone. Trotter would be in transit back to Washington, unavailable until tonight, or possibly tomorrow morning. There was no one else he could trust. If there was a penetration agent within the CIA, another of Baranov's men, calling Washington would place Lorraine in an impossibly dangerous position here. But he simply could not wait here with her. He was not going to turn his back on this assignment. Too many good people
had
died because of Baranov, and there would be others. This opportunity might never present itself again.
He walked across the room to the telephone and picked it up. The hotel operator came on a moment later. “Give me an outside line, please. I would like to make a transatlantic call.”
“Yes,
mein Herr,”
the operator replied.
Lorraine had come across the room. Tears were leaking from her eyes, and she was shaking her head. “No,” she said.
McGarvey looked at her.
“I promise you, Kirk, I'll do whatever it is you want me to do. I swear to God.”
“Operator?” McGarvey spoke into the phone.
“Sir?”
“I don't need to make that call after all. Thank you.”
Valentin Illen Baranov's black Zil limousine passed the Ukraine Hotel and headed down Kutuzovsky Prospekt at a high rate of speed. It was a few minutes after six in the evening, and the KGB chairman was on his way home. His security people rode in chase cars ahead and behind his limo. The only other person in the Zil with him, besides his driver-bodyguard, was his personal secretary, Petr Nikolaievich Borisov, a young KGB major whose loyalty was beyond question.
The limousine's telephone burred softly. Borisov answered it.
“Da,
” he said, and he listened for a full thirty seconds before hanging up and turning to Baranov.
“What crises now, Petr Nikolaievich?” Baranov asked. He was a short, extremely stocky man, with a barrel chest, a thick bulldog neck, and a huge head. But his voice was as soft as a gentle wind through a graveyard, and his eyes always seemed to hold a hint of amusement.
“It is WHITE KNIGHT. He has attempted to make contact. Direct contact.”
WHITE KNIGHT was the code name of Baranov's personal source in Washington. They'd worked together for a lot of years.
“What was he told?”
“To stand by for the usual procedure,” Borisov replied. Despite his nearness to Baranov, even he did not know WHITE KNIGHT's true identity. Baranov shared that with no one.
“Very good,” Baranov said, and he settled back in his seat. It was about McGarvey, he was certain of it. Considering what was happening at this very moment in the Mediterraneanâdid the CIA already know about the
Indianapolis?
âthis call was extremely important.
Baranov's apartment sprawled over the entire top floor of a twenty-five-story apartment building a few blocks from where Leonid Brezhnev had once lived. His private study was directly in the middle of the apartment, with no windows to the outside. The room, and its telephone equipment, was as secure from eavesdropping, electronic or otherwise, as Soviet technical abilities could make it.
When he was alone, he made his call. It was answered on the first ring.
“It is me,” Baranov said. “What is the matter?”
“It is McGarvey,” a man said. There was no mistaking his voice. “He has been sent to East Berlin to kill you. It will happen on Thursday night, after the reception. He will be coming across the lake ⦠actually beneath the lake.”
Baranov smiled. “I will be most happy to finally come face to face with him. Thank you, my old friend.”
“There is more.”
“Yes?”
“The scientist, Dr. Abbott. She is missing.”
“Any idea where she might have gotten herself to?” Baranov asked, very interested by this latest development.
“No, but it would be my guess that she's followed McGarvey, or tried to.”
“Is there a thing, then, between them?” Baranov asked. Kurshin had mentioned something about it.
“I believe so. I thought you should know.”
“Yes, thank you. Now, sit tight, my friend. No matter what happens in the next twenty-four hours or so, sit very tight.”
“I know.”
“No you don't,” Baranov said softly. “But you will.”