“My ass is now on the line for sure. I’ll be wanting some answers.”
“Remember who hired whom, Kirk.”
“I think you’re running scared, John. You and Day. I think you need me now more than ever before. Janos was killed because of this. Don’t kid yourself into believing otherwise. And you know what I think?”
“What?”
“There’s more going on here than even you or Day can guess. I won’t be followed, just make damned sure you aren’t.”
The sun was low over the rolling green hills of the university and reflected as a blood red ball in the waters of the tiny lake around which were a few lovely English- and Colonial-style homes that were not quite large enough to be considered mansions but were certainly much too large to belong simply to the upper-middle class. Two men in an aluminum fishing boat were in the middle of the lake just across from the stone entrance to Day’s property. In the distance McGarvey could make out the high roof, dormers, and chimneys above the darkening line of trees. The house disappeared into the woods as he drove up, then suddenly appeared across a broad lawn so well tended it looked as if it were a giant putting green on a championship golf course. It made McGarvey think about croquet in Kansas as a child.
McGarvey parked behind two other cars near a side entrance under a broad overhang. By the time he had shut off the ignition, got out, and mounted the two stairs, Trotter had already come to the door. He was still in a business suit, but his tie was loose and his collar undone. He looked frazzled.
“Were you followed, Kirk?” he asked, stepping aside.
“If I was it’s certainly too late now, don’t you think?” McGarvey said, brushing past him. He was beginning to feel mean again. He was lashing out because of Janos and because of his own mistakes.
“Christ,” Trotter swore, hanging by the door a second longer; then he closed it and motioned McGarvey through the mudroom, down a broad corridor, and across the front hall into a huge study with floor-to-ceiling bookcases around which an oak ladder ran on a track. Dominating the far wall was a huge cherrywood desk, to the left of which was a teak buffet and to the right of which was a grouping of mahogany-and-leather furniture. The combination of woods and styles was worse than downtown Washington.
“Leonard will be with us in just a moment,” Trotter said. “Care for a drink?”
“Bourbon,” McGarvey said, crossing the room. “Who else is here?”
Trotter was pouring drinks at the buffet. “What?”
“There was a second car out there. Besides yours.”
“I didn’t notice.”
McGarvey went to the tall windows. He pulled back the drapes and looked outside. From here he could see the front driveway and the road down to the lake. He knew that Trotter was watching him; he could feel the man’s eyes on his back. Who spies on the spy? the old adage went. It was odd though, being here like this; even odder that he hadn’t had as great a reaction to Janos’s murder as he thought he should have.
“Did you really go see him last night?” Trotter asked. “Here’s your drink.”
“Do you suppose Yarnell had him killed?” McGarvey asked, remaining at the window. It was pretty here.
“If he was looking down Basulto’s track, it’s a possibility.”
“That would mean he has people within the Company. At least in records. But the timing would have been tight. It bothers me.”
“You could have been followed, you know.”
“I don’t think so, John,” McGarvey said. He heard a door slam somewhere in the house, and then he heard a car starting.
“Come away from that window.”
McGarvey didn’t move. “Yarnell is at the White House. He has a pass. They even parked his car for him.”
“He’s a powerful man.”
The blue Chevrolet sedan — one of the two cars parked at the side of the house — came around from the back and headed quickly down the long road to the lake. It had flashed by, but not so quickly that McGarvey hadn’t gotten a good look at the man behind the wheel. He watched the car disappear into the trees as the road dipped into a valley and curved left.
“What is so fascinating out there?” Trotter complained.
McGarvey let the drapes fall back into place, then turned and accepted the drink from Trotter. They sat down in leather chairs across a massive mahogany coffee table from each other. Trotter had lost some weight even since Lausanne. His nose seemed more prominent, hawkish. His complexion seemed pale. It was obvious he was under a great strain.
“You owe us an explanation, you know,” Trotter said, breaking the uneasy silence between them.
“And you owe me the truth, John. At least that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
McGarvey looked at the door. It opened a moment later and Leonard Day appeared, out of breath, but fresh looking in a sport coat, open-collared shirt, and tan slacks that just touched his boating shoes. He looked as if he had just stepped off the set of a commercial for after-shave.
“Kirk’s just arrived,” Trotter said unnecessarily.
“Yes, I can see that. And I think we have a lot to get straightened out between us,” Day said, fairly bounding across the room to the buffet. He poured himself a drink. “Anyone for bumps?”
“I’m sorry that Lawrence couldn’t stay,” McGarvey said softly.
“Lawrence?” Day piped without turning around.
“Danielle. I just saw him leaving. Anything to do with our little plot?”
“Whatever gave you such an idea?” Day asked, turning at last. “We’re old friends. He came for a visit.”
Day’s voice had changed. The difference was subtle, but it was there. He was disturbed. “You have some explaining to do, mister. You are in town barely a day and the killing begins. A little extreme I’d say.”
“Do you think I killed him?”
“Heavens no!” Trotter blurted.
“It isn’t a coincidence, despite what John has to say about it.” Day came across the room and flopped down on the edge of the couch. His movements were studied, McGarvey thought.
“Yarnell was at the White House this afternoon,” Trotter volunteered.
“The president is having an impromptu meeting with the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Powers will be there, I suspect. I’m not surprised our little spy wrangled an invitation as well, the bastard!”
“He’s not working alone,” McGarvey said. He thought he was at a sideshow here.
“Of course not. He has his control officer. Baranov, perhaps. Who knows? They’re like a cancer. Cut them out, ruthlessly. It’s the only answer.”
“I meant here in the States. Most likely in the Company. Maybe in the bureau. Maybe even in Justice.”
At this last suggestion, Day flinched, but he didn’t move from his perch on the arm of the couch, nor did his outward manner or expression change. But the barb had hit home; McGarvey could see it in the way Day held himself.
“Because of this Polish DP who ran the agency’s archives?”
“The Polish activists didn’t kill him.”
“Oh?” Day said, his right eyebrow rising. “I see. Who did then, Yarnell himself?”
“I think there is a lot here you haven’t told me. I’m out in the cold.” McGarvey decided in midstride that he did not like nor trust Day. The man wanted to be president. It was written all over him. Next there’d be Secret Service bodyguards crawling all over the place. He expected Day to put out his hand at any moment for him to shake.
“I think you’re forgetting your place, Mr. McGarvey.”
“This isn’t helping anything,” Trotter tried to interject.
“We found you rotting away in some Swiss bookstore. Remember? We should have left you there.”
“Yes, you should have. But now that I’m here, how about cutting the bullshit and telling me what’s really going on.”