MCGARVEY HAD TAKEN an Air-Inter flight from Paris to Marseille on the Côte d'Azur, and a cab into town where he set up at a sleazy little hotel. Trotter agreed to remain in Paris at least through the next forty-eight hours to provide backup, especially information from the CIA Paris Station and, through their liaison services, from the SDECEâthe French Secret Service.
He sacrificed stealth for speed in his search, though it wasn't likely that Kurshin was still here. And it didn't matter if he found out that questions were being asked. McGarvey wanted him to know that someone was dogging his heels.
Still, it took the better part of three hours and seven waterfront bars before he came up with the name of a man who could be bought for a few francs and a cheap bottle of wine. Every city had such men. Marseille was no exception.
“
Mon dieu,
the Russians mind their own business here just like the rest of us do,” the old man said. He and McGarvey were seated across from each other at a small table. The bar was very noisy. Traffic on the nearby Canebiere was intense.
“Nothing has happened in the city in the past few days,
mon vieux?”
McGarvey asked, pouring a little more wine.
The old man shrugged. “Many things happen in Marseille, monsieur.” He sipped at his wine.
McGarvey took out Kurshin's photograph and slid it across the table. The old man looked at it for a long moment or two, but then shook his head.
“Non.”
“You say the Russians mind their own business here, like everyone else,” McGarvey said, masking his disappointment. “Is it because of the French Mafia?”
The old man smiled slightly, his face wrinkling, his lips parting to show his brown, chipped teeth. “There is no such organization, didn't you know?”
“But everyone behaves.”
Again the old man shrugged. “They sometimes do not.”
McGarvey waited.
“A few days ago, for instance, a very bad man disappeared to no one's sorrow. It happens,
tant pis
.”
“Who was this man?”
“Edmon Railliarde. His loss will not be mourned, let me tell you.”
“He simply disappeared?”
“Oui.”
McGarvey sat back, a vague connection beginning at the back of his mind. Trotter had called Kurshin the chameleon. “Do you know what he looked like, this Railliarde? Can you describe him to me?”
“Yes, of course,” the old man said, glancing again at Kurshin's photograph. “Much like this one. Of course I cannot tell his bulk from a simple photograph, but Railliarde was a large man. A very bad man.”
“And he is missing.”
“Yes, but as I say no one will mourn that one.”
McGarvey laid a fifty-franc note on the table, snatched the photograph, and got up. “
Merci, mon vieux
. You have been of inestimable service.”
Outside, McGarvey turned away from the waterfront and hurried on foot up the main boulevard finding a public telephone box five minutes later. He placed a call to Trotter at the embassy in Paris on the Avenue Gabriel.
“I think I have a line on Kurshin,” McGarvey said. “It's possible he's assumed the identity of a French Mafia boss from Marseille by the name of Edmon Railliarde.” He quickly explained what he had learned.
“Are you certain about this, Kirk?” Trotter asked. He seemed oddly subdued, almost as if he were disappointed by McGarvey's news.
“Of course not, but it's a start. What's up?”
Again Trotter hesitated. “There is a developing situation at this moment in Germany. Ramstein Air Force Base. We were getting set to follow it up.”
“I'm listening,” McGarvey said. He had learned the hard way never to underestimate a Baranov plan. The man was as brilliant as he was convoluted and devious.
“An Army Pershing II missile has apparently been hijacked from the base.”
“By whom?”
“Apparently an Air Force colonel by the name of Brad Allworth. He's got help. But what started us thinking is that Allworth was here on leave in Paris until yesterday.”
“What does he look like?”
“We're getting it off the Associated Press wire. Tall, well built, good-looking, an all-American.”
The connections were suddenly completed in McGarvey's head. “It's him,” he shouted. “Kurshin has got that missile.”
“I thought you said he took on the persona of this Mafia boss.”
“Listen to me, John. I'm going to get up to Ramstein as quickly as I can. I want you to meet me there. You're going to have to open some doors for me. But in the meantime ask the French
if they have turned up a mutilated body somewhere in or around Paris within the past twenty-four hours.”
“Mutilated ⦠?” Trotter asked.
“Yeah,” McGarvey said. “My guess would be that his fingerprints, dental work, and face would have been destroyed. Perhaps in an accident.”
Sudden understanding dawned in Trotter's voice. “Railliarde,” he said.
“He'll be carrying the man's identification,” McGarvey said.
“But my guess is he will be Colonel Allworth. Railliarde's body will probably never be found.”
“Good lord ⦔ Trotter started to say, but McGarvey had hung up the telephone and was rushing down the street to the nearest cab stand.
The silence was eerie in the Hauptbahnhof Plaza across from the large train station a few blocks north of the city center. For nearly three hours the missile transporter had remained motionless in the middle of the square where it had been carefully positioned.
“We must give them time to stabilize the situation,” Kurshin explained. “I don't want some nervous sharpshooter or overzealous
polizei
opening fire.”
Schey had said nothing, and although Yegorov had become clearly impatient, he too understood the wisdom of Kurshin's order. They had switched off the radio so as not to be disturbed. The three hours had also been necessary so that the means of their eventual escape could be put in place.
Kurshin had been smoking a cigarette. He ground it out on the floor and then turned up the gain on the radar set. Three blips appeared, two to the south and one north. All three of them appeared nearly stationary. Helicopter gunships, he figured.
Next he glanced at the transporter's rearward-looking television
monitor. Across the square, about one hundred fifty meters away, he could see that all the streets entering had been blocked off by armored personnel carriers, uniformed police, and U.S. soldiers standing behind the barriers.
He leaned forward and peered out the Lexan-covered slits. The streets leading into the square from the north and northeast were also blocked off. In addition, he spotted at least half a dozen armed soldiers on the roofs of nearby buildings.
“We're hemmed in,” Yegorov said.
“Exactly. We've no means of escape so they'll have calmed down by now,” Kurshin said. He glanced over his shoulder at the East German, whose eyes were shining for the first time. He was still holding the trigger.
“Are you ready?”
Schey nodded.
Turning back, Kurshin switched on the radio. “Colonel Collingwood, this is Flybaby Six-P-Two. Do you copy?”
“That's affirmative,” the radio blared immediately.
“May I assume that you have this part of the city evacuated by now, and that you have positioned only disciplined troops around the perimeter?”
“You may,” Collingwood responded.
“Very good, Colonel. Within the next sixty seconds two of us will be stepping out of the transporter and we will be going back to the missile itself. Let me remind you that one of our number shall remain at all times protected within the transporter, his finger on the device that controls the plastique. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“You do,” the Air Force security chief replied. “What are your intentions?”
“In due time, Colonel. For the moment suffice it that if anyone tries to interfere with our operation in any way, disaster will strike.”
“What do you want, goddamnit?” Collingwood shouted. “Make your demands!”
“Again, in due time, Colonel. But you have my word as an officer and a gentleman that we mean no harm to either the German or American peoples.”
“Then stand down.”
“I'm afraid that is not possible. You will understand very soon what we mean to do. I will explain everything to you at 2000 hours. But one final word of caution. We mean to raise the missile into its firing position now. But nothing, absolutely nothing will happen if you and your men show restraint. Until 2000 hours.”
Collingwood was shouting something when Kurshin switched off the radio. He turned again to Schey. “Give Ivan the trigger. It is time for us to get to work.”
MCGARVEY WAS MET at Frankfurt's Rhine-Main Airport by the CIA's number two out of Bonn, a husky but studious-looking man dressed in a dark blue blazer.
“Todd Kraus,” he introduced himself. “I've got a chopper standing by for you, sir.”
It was a little past six in the afternoon. The airport was extremely busy but McGarvey had been passed through customs immediately. He followed the younger man across the terminal where they got in an Air Force sedan and sped to the opposite
side of the field which housed the U.S. Rhine-Main Air Force Base. A Bell AH-1W Super Cobra ground attack helicopter was already warming up for them.
“We'll get you down there in under twenty minutes,” Kraus said as they climbed aboard.
“In the meantime I've got a couple dozen questions for you,” McGarvey said.
“Yes, sir, I expect you do. I've been instructed to brief you on the way down. Mr. Trotter is already on site.”
The instant they'd strapped in, a crewman jumped aboard, closed and dogged the hatch, and went forward into the cockpit leaving them alone. They lifted off with a sickening lurch and swung left as they climbed, the helicopter taking a nose-down attitude as it rapidly picked up speed. The pilot was sparing nothing.
Kraus reached up behind him, flipped on a small overhead light, and turned back to McGarvey. He pulled a map of downtown Kaiserslautern from his jacket pocket and spread it out between them.
“I'll give you the broad strokes first,” Kraus began. “A man identifying himself as Air Force Colonel Brad Allworth managed to steal a nuclear-armed Pershing missile and transporter from Ramstein Air Force Base. He drove it off the base and onto the autobahn where he was met by two other men ⦠identification at this point unknown. They placed what appears to be a plastique explosive around the outside of the missile body itself, which they promise to blow if we make any threatening moves. From there they drove directly into the city of Kaiserslautern where they parked in front of the train station. They haven't moved since.”
“Any casualties?” McGarvey asked.
“Major Tom McCann was found shot to death in the Pershing's missile bay.”
“Anyone else?”
“Eleven German nationals were injured and three killed on the autobahn just outside Ramstein. The transporter ran over one car and touched off a chain reaction. Four of them are in critical condition in the base burn unit.”
“They mean business,” McGarvey said.
“Yes, sir, that they do.”
“Any communications with the transporter?”
Kraus nodded. “Colonel Bob Collingwood, the man in charge of Ramstein security, has been talking with them ⦠or at least with the one who has been identified as Brad Allworth.”
“He's not,” McGarvey said.
“Sir?”
“He's not Brad Allworth. His name is Arkady Kurshin.”
“Russians?” Kraus asked, his eyes widening. “Sonofabitch. What the hell are they up to?”
“Whatever it is, it's not going to be pleasant, I can tell you that much. And I can also tell you that Kurshin is a pro. He'll have this entire operation figured out to the last detail, including his escape.”
“Pardon me, sir, but I don't think that's possible.”
“Perhaps not, but Kurshin evidently thinks so,” McGarvey said. “What's the present situation?”
“As of 1630 the missile and transporter were parked, as I said, in the middle of the square in front of K-Town's main railroad station. Two men, one of them apparently this Arkady Kurshin, and another man, have been outside the transporter doing something to the missile's control units.”
McGarvey nodded. “Reprogramming its guidance system, no doubt, and probably disarming the fire control officer's abort function.”
“That's our best guess.”
“Have they made any demands, given us any sort of a time limit?”
“No demands so far, other than to leave them alone. They've promised that they would make their intentions clear at 2000 hours.”
McGarvey glanced at his watch. They had a full hour.
“But,” Kraus said. “And this is the part that has everyone worried. They say they intend raising the missile into launch position.”
McGarvey sat back in his seat and lit a cigarette. “Kurshin wouldn't have taken the risk of stealing a missile unless he intended launching it.”
“We're hoping not, sir,” Kraus said. “Collingwood seems to think that they'll make some demand and when it's met have us provide them transportation into the east zone.”
“No,” McGarvey said, Baranov's picture rising up in his mind. “He'll launch the missile and then make his escape.”
“Launch it where, for God's sake?”
“The sixty-four-dollar question,” McGarvey said, shaking his head. “What's the Pershing's range, a thousand miles or so?”
“This is a Pershing IIA. She has a range of more than two thousand miles.”
“The warhead is armed?”
Kraus nodded glumly. “You can say that again. Five hundred kilotons.”
“But it's a cruise missile.”
“Not quite, sir. It's RADAG controlled ⦠Radar Area Guidance. It's set for a latitude and longitude, and once it gets near its target the radar unit compares the returns it's getting from the ground with what's programmed into it.”
“What's its target?”
“That's highly classified ⦔
McGarvey just looked at him.
“Kiev.”
“They'll change it.”
“They'd have to have a systems expert with them. None of ours is missing. It's the first thing we had Langley check. There aren't many men around who have that knowledge.”
“Whoever is working with Kurshin does,” McGarvey said. “You can bet your life on it.”
Kurshin looked up as another helicopter came in for a landing a couple of blocks away in what he was assuming was the market square they'd passed through on the way in. It made the third since he and Schey had gotten out of the tractor and climbed up on the trailer with the missile.
“How much longer?” he asked the East German.
Schey looked up from the open hatch in the missile's side. “I was finished ten minutes ago. You asked me to stall for time.”
“It's set on the new target?”
“Yes, of course, providing the data you supplied me with is correct.”
“It is,” Kurshin said curtly. “What about the abort mechanism?”
“Disconnected.”
“At this point then, once the missile is launched there is no way for their Missile Control facility to recall it or destroy it?”
The East German shook his head. “Short of sending a fighter interceptor after it and shooting it out of the skyâan almost impossible featâno.”
“Very good,” Kurshin said, glancing over his shoulder again toward the blockade at the south side of the plaza. “Button it up, let's begin.”
Schey closed and relocked the small hatch on the missile's radar guidance system, and then replaced the section of outer skin he'd removed, dogging it down with a dozen flush-mounted fasteners.
“What about the plastique collar?” Kurshin asked.
“It will fall harmlessly away within the first few seconds after launch.”
“There will be no effect on the missile's course?”
“None that the guidance system won't correct for.”
“Good,” Kurshin said, his eyes hard. He jumped down from the trailer bed and one at a time lowered the hydraulic stabilizing jacks at each corner, while Schey was connecting the four launch control umbilical cords.
If there was going to be trouble, Kurshin thought, sweating lightly, it would come now. They would be fools not to try to stop what was happening here. But then they had been fools at the base with their lack of security. This would never happen in the Rodina, not even now, though if it ever did it would shake up those pricks in the Kremlin even more than the German kid had done by flying his little toy airplane into Red Square.
Ten minutes later, Schey checked all the wires and steadying
jacks to make certain everything was in order, then opened a control hatch at the side of the trailer and flipped a switch.
The Pershing missile began to slowly rise from the trailer bed.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Colonel Collingwood said as the missile began to elevate from its transport trailer.
McGarvey had been looking through binoculars at the two men. The taller of them, dressed in an Air Force uniform, had turned several times, giving him a good look. He had the same bulk and general appearance as Kurshin, but his face was different. From here he looked very much like the photographs McGarvey had been shown of Brad Allworth.
He lowered the binoculars. “Blow the missile now,” he said.
Trotter, who had met him when the chopper had set down, stepped back a pace and Colonel Collingwood's eyes widened.
“Is this the hotshot who was supposed to come up with the good ideas?” the security chief spat at Trotter. He looked coldly at McGarvey. “Do you know what such an action would mean? Do you know what it would do here?”
“You say the civilians have been pulled out. Clear the rest of your men except for one volunteer sharpshooter who can hit the plastique. And blow it now before it's too late.”
“It would spread radioactive materials for hundreds of yards,” Collingwood growled. “There would be a three-block area of no-man's-land for a long time to come.”
“Yes,” McGarvey said, watching the missile rise. “And probably a number of casualties. An increase in the cancer rate over the next twenty or thirty years. The news media would be on your ass. The Pentagon would probably set you out to dry. You'd be a scapegoat.”
“You're goddamned right ⦔
“What do you suppose five hundred kilotons is going to do when it explodes on whatever target they've programmed it for?”
“They won't launch it,” Collingwood said, but he wasn't as sure as he had been a moment earlier.
McGarvey looked at him again. “Yes they will, unless we stop them.”
“Is it Kurshin?” Trotter asked.
“I don't know for sure,” McGarvey admitted. “I think so, but he's wearing a damned good disguise. Had to if he was able to fool the people at the base.”
“We can't destroy that missile here, Kirk,” Trotter said emphatically.
Collingwood was closely watching the exchange.
McGarvey turned back to him. “If they do launch it, what's the possibility of shooting it down?”
“About one in a thousand.”
Again McGarvey stared at the missile which by now was nearly at the vertical. “Well, I'd suggest that you inform your people to at least give it a try in case we fail here and that thing actually gets airborne.”
That was a logic the colonel could understand. “Will do,” he said, and he turned to his radioman and began issuing orders.
McGarvey raised his binoculars and slowly began to search the entire square foot by foot, from the front of the train station all the way across to the missile transporter.
It was Kurshin. He could feel it in his bones. Trotter had reported that the French police had indeed discovered a mutilated body along the railroad tracks fifty miles east of Paris. “Along the same line that Brad Allworth took to get here,” Trotter had said.
That fact clinched it in McGarvey's mind. But that meant that Kurshin had had some very good intelligence information. He'd known Brad Allworth's orders, what he looked like, and what train he would be on. He also had the information needed to reprogram the missile. It was not beyond Baranov, coming up with such information. But the risks he had taken to get the data, and then so openly display that fact here like this, meant Baranov had a very large prize in mind. A very large prize indeed.
“Get the city engineer here,” McGarvey said.
Kurshin and the other man went around to the side of the transporter, the hatch opened and they climbed inside.
“What?” Trotter asked.
“The city engineer,” McGarvey repeated. “I know how Kurshin means to escape.”