Shamir waved it off. “Our existence was and is at stake, Mr. McGarvey.
And so now is yours, if you go up against Baranov without forewarning”
“What are you talking about”
“Simon Asher worked for someone within the Central Intelligence Agency”
Potok said. McGarvey turned on him. “We would not have sent someone here with the intent of destroying your nuclear weapons and killing a lot of people in the process. Whatever we have done, it’s not been that”
“I agree” Shamir said. “This man whom Asher worked for, also works for Baranov. He was another aspect of the plan to neutralize our ability to defend ourselves”
“How do you know”
“I can’t say” Shamir said. “But it is true” He took a folded sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and handed it across the table. McGarvey didn’t immediately reach for it. “Who is it”
“We don’t know for sure” Shamir said. “You just said
“We have it narrowed to five names. Five men who could have caused what has happened over the past ten or more years. There are no other possibilities”
Still McGarvey made no move to take the piece of paper. “You will not be allowed to take this list with you when you leave this room, Mr. McGarvey. And we will deny ever having had this conference with you. You must understand this” Slowly McGarvey reached out and took the paper from Shamir’s outstretched hand. He glanced at Potok, whose eyes were shining, and Liebowitz, who had looked away. He opened the paper. Five names had been typed in the middle of the page. All the air left the room.
McGarvey Lost himself in the crowds of Heli Inikon Airport. He had come in on what was treated as a diplomatic flight, and his passport and single bag had not been checked. Instead of going directly out to the cab ranks, he had doubled back into the main international terminal, where he hung around for nearly a half-hour, watching over his shoulder.
Paranoia comes to every field officer sooner or later. But what happens when there’s a reason for it? Then it’s time, he’d been taught, to trust no one: friends, wives, lovers none of them were free of suspicion. It was a few minutes after three in the afternoon when he finally decided that he had come away clean, and he went down to the Hertz counter to rent a car. He had waited until the flight from London had touched down and its passengers had been released from customs so that the crowds were particularly heavy. His was just another face in the crowd. You shall be known by your tradecraft. That bit of wisdom had been drummed into his head at the CIA’s training facility outside of Williamsburg, called The Farm. When in doubt, change it, do the unexpected. There were a lot of people around the car rental counter, some of them families, others businessmen anxious to get a car and be on their way. McGarvey allowed himself to be jostled in line until he got himself behind a man of the same general build and height, carrying an overnight bag over his shoulder, while shoving two heavy suitcases forward with his foot. The man’s passport jutted out of a side compartment of the overnight bag.
Five minutes later, when they finally got up to one of the busy clerks and the man reached into his overnight bag for his identification, it was gone … “Oh, bloody hell” he swore, his accent British. He unzipped his bag and frantically searched inside. “Sir” the young woman behind the counter asked with concern. “What’s the matter, old man” McGarvey asked. The Brit looked up. “My passport, money, identification … everything. It’s gone”
“Maybe it’s in one of your suitcases”
“No, I just had it coming through customs. I must have dropped the bloody thing” He was extremely agitated. “I thought I saw an information booth upstairs on the main floor” McGarvey said helpfully.
“Maybe someone’s turned it in”
“Right, mate” the Brit said, and he stepped out of line, snatched up his suitcases, and rushed off. “Good luck” McGarvey said to his retreating figure. It would be nothing more than an inconvenience to the Englishman. His embassy would supply him with new papers, and no doubt his home office would arrange for funds.
Turning back to the clerk, he rented a Ford Taurus, and a half an hour later he was making his way through heavy traffic into the city. As he drove he kept looking in his rearview mirror for any sign that he was being followed. But by the time he had reached the city proper he was convinced he was completely clean. It was nearly five by the time he found a place to park the car near the Athens Academy off Venizelou Street. He had kept the ninemillimeter automatic that the Israelis had given him. He took it out of his bag, loaded it, and stuffed it in his belt at the small of his back. Next he opened the passport wallet that he had lifted from the hapless Brit at the airport. The man’s name was Gordon Gutherie, and he was ii-om London. Besides his passport, the wallet contained eight hundred fifty pounds, about half that much in drachmas, a driver’s license, half a dozen major credit cards, and a collection of various business cards, photographs, notes, and one slip of paper on which was written only a telephone number. From what McGarvey could gather, the man had something to do with Ford-Leland, some sort of an engineer or factory rep. Whoever, he was reasonably well heeled. McGarvey took a moment to study the passport and driver’s license photographs. They had been taken at two different times, and really didn’t look like the same man. Nor did Gutherie look much like him. But at a busy border crossing at night it might work. He’d managed to cross other borders on much shakier documents. Stuffing the passport wallet in his coat pocket, he locked up the car and walked, overnight bag in hand, down the block where he found a cab.
“Where in God’s name have you been” Trotter demanded, opening the door of the Askilipiou safehouse where they’d met the last time. “Covering my ass” McGarvey said, coming in and dropping his bag on the couch.
Trotter closed and locked the door behind him, and then went to the window, where he parted the curtain and looked down at the street. “Do you think you were followed”
“If there was anyone waiting at the airport for me, I lost them”
McGarvey said, pouring himself a stiff cognac from the sideboard and drinking it. He poured himself another. “Was it Arkady Kurshin? No doubts in your mind, Kirk”
“No doubts” McGarvey said. “The man is dead”
“Have we got his body”
“Not yet”
“For Christ’s sake, Kirk, what happened out there? I’ve only been getting bits and pieces. And what in heaven’s name did the Israelis want with you”
“There’s no time for that now” McGarvey said, turning away from the sideboard. “Is Baranov still in East Berlin, at the Grosser Mijggelsee house”
“Yes, but he’s scheduled to leave sometime tomorrow morning”
“So far as you know, my equipment is still in place in the boathouse”
“It should be. We’ve kept our distance from the Lighthouse network.
Nothing much else we could do under the circumstances. But of course you wouldn’t be able to use them in any event, nor will you be able to use the Prenzauerberg apartment”
“I’m going after him, John. Tonight. Can you get me to West Berlin”
“We’ve got an Air Force VIP jet standing by for you. It’s a three-hour flight” McGarvey stared at his old friend for a long time. Whom to trust? He’d never really known in this business. But Trotter had always been at the top of his short list. “What” Trotter asked. ‘ How about Murphy? Has he gone to the president with this? Is that why you wanted me back here” Trotter nodded. “You’ve got the green light, Kirk. From the president.