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.
“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.”
“You had no authorization to approach anyone at the Company, Kirk. Why the hell did you do it …?”
McGarvey hung up and left. A lot of people had been trusting him lately, and it was getting to be dangerous.
14
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.