“They’ll have to be told the truth. All of it. And they’ll be working directly for me. No middleman, not even yourself. If I find monitoring devices or tapes or any kind of bugs of our surveillance, the deal is off.”
“When would you need them?” Trotter asked.
“Immediately.”
Again Trotter looked to Day, who nodded his sage approval. “All right, Kirk, we’ll do as you say.”
Day leaned forward. “Now, we would like something from you in return. Only fair, wouldn’t you say?”
McGarvey inclined his head. Trotter had come a long way down since they’d last known and worked with each other, he thought. Now he took orders not only from the director of the bureau, but apparently he took orders from a tinhorn bureaucrat as well.
“I would like you to check in with us through the telephone number John provided you. Every six hours, I think.”
McGarvey had to smile. Day was a wheeler-dealer. “Forty-eight.”
“Twelve,” Day said.
“Thirty-six.”
“Eighteen.”
“That’s reasonable, Kirk,” Trotter interjected. He was worried.
“Twenty-four,” McGarvey said. He got to his feet. “With a twenty-four hour fallback.”
“Fallback? What’s this? I’m not familiar with the term.”
“I’ll check in every twenty-four hours unless I’m tied up, in which case I don’t want you doing a thing — nothing — for another twenty-four hours.”
Day laughed. “You got your forty-eight hours in any event. Agreed.”
Yes he had, McGarvey thought. But he wondered if in the end it would be enough for him, or for anyone else for that matter.
Donald Suthland Powers’s Cadillac limousine was passed immediately through the east gate of the White House grounds, where it was met by a uniformed guard. Only a handful of men within the government had instant access, day or night, to the president; among them was the DCI. It was a privilege Powers had never abused.
Powers felt no sense of victory knowing he had predicted this day nearly six months ago. He had been watching the happenings to the south, had personally studied the KH-10 satellite photos, and had felt a mounting sense of frustation and finally fear with what he understood was probably happening at half a dozen places along our southern border.
The Mexican ambassador had been making his president’s warning clear over the past months, not only here in Washington but through their delegation to the United Nations. A new relationship had to be negotiated between the United States and Mexico. Now. Falling oil prices, unjust drug accusations against Mexican government officials, immigration disputes, another Mexico City earthquake, and a failing economy were contributing to a general malaise among his people. Hunger had finally become a major political issue; with it, socialism of the Soviet Russian variety was rearing its ugly head.
For the first time in a very long time, Powers was frightened; not merely concerned, but deeply and utterly convinced that unless something was done — immediately and decisively — a shooting war was about to begin.
He took the stairs up to the office in the West Wing. The president was meeting with some members of the Senate and a few other people in his study down the hall. He promised to return in five minutes.
Powers opened his briefcase and began spreading computer-enhanced satellite photographs on the desk. The president came in. He was alone, though Powers caught a glimpse of his press secretary outside.
“What’s got you so het up, Donald?” the president said, his voice betraying a deep weariness.
“These, Mr. President. Something has to be done.”
The president looked at Powers, then bent over the photos laid out on his desk. He studied them, one at a time, for a long time before he finally straightened up. He leaned back, his hands at the small of his back.
“Well, are you going to tell me what I’m looking at, or am I going to have to guess.”
“Those are photographs of six regions of Mexico, some of them within twenty-five miles of our border …”
“Yes?”
“I think the Mexican government, with the help of the Soviet Union, is constructing bases for the launching of nuclear missiles.”
“Christ,” the president swore. “Oh Christ.”
PART TWO
15
For forty-eight hours, while Trotter assembled the team and found a suitable safe house, McGarvey would have languished at the Sheraton-Carlton within sight of the White House and Yarnell’s office building but for a single occupation. Before their meeting had broken up he had requested from Day excerpts from the staff directories for each of the years Yarnell had been active in the Company. It was a tall order, but one with which Day nevertheless said he would be happy to comply, and did within the first eighteen hours, having the bundle delivered to the hotel by courier.
As he waited for the assembly of his army and a fortress from which he would wage his battle, McGarvey began the first steps of his oblique look down Yarnell’s path.
As he explained much later to a mystified Trotter, it wasn’t as if he were having doubts about Yarnell. On the contrary, by then he was fairly well convinced the man was a spy … or had at least been a spy. But he wanted two things: the first was proof that Yarnell had spied; and the second was the name or names of his contacts here in Washington — his non-Russian contacts, that is.
Also, during these hours when McGarvey did not leave his room, he let a certain amount of guilt wash over him. First about Janos’s death; next about his daughter and ex-wife, who were within a stone’s throw of him; and finally about Marta, whom he missed. Twice he had picked up his telephone and nearly called her in Lausanne. Each time, however, he thought better of it and hung up before he had finished dialing.
He watched television sporadically, especially the news broadcasts and news-magazine shows. In his Swiss life he had kept himself relatively isolated from world events. The country was geared to this state of isolation; in Switzerland if you didn’t want to hear what the superpowers were up to, you merely ignored Swiss Television One and any foreign newspaper. You weren’t considered odd, at least no odder than the average Swiss, for whom neutrality was not only a badge of long-standing honor but one of smug indifference to the other four billion inhabitants of the planet. (The only oddity in Switzerland was the man who didn’t read the financial section!) The isolation had spawned in him a hunger for hard news of the American television variety, even if the networks’ editorial positions were blatantly espoused. U.S. — Mexican relations were troubled again. Coincidence, he wondered as he watched the news, or was this part of some larger picture that somehow included Yarnell, the man’s ex-wife, and Baranov, the Russian everyone seemed so respectful of?
By then, however, he had developed what he called his “short list of rogue’s rogues” and Trotter had telephoned with the setup. Finally it was time for his duty call.
The address was in Chevy Chase, on a curving street that just looked over the south side of the country club. Half dozen white pillars fronted the big Colonial house that sat well back on half an acre of manicured lawn. A powder blue Mercedes 450SL convertible was parked in the driveway, and McGarvey nearly drove past, his courage flagging at the last moment. Kathleen had always wanted just this sort of house. A proper place to raise a daughter, she said. She’d be a member of the country club, which probably was where she’d met her attorney friend; there’d be bridge, debutante balls, and the dozen or so black-tie parties each year. She’d gotten a healthy part of the ranch money, but even that probably wouldn’t have been enough to support this life-style. But then she’d always been an opportunist. It was one of the reasons they’d married — he was an up-and-comer. And of course in the end they had divorced over it when he turned out to be not so much of an up-and-comer after all. He parked behind the Mercedes and got out of his rental car, hesitating only a moment before he went up the walk and rang the bell. A basket of spring flowers hung at eye level. He reached out to pick one when he heard footsteps and withdrew his hand. The door swung inward.