“At least he didn’t bring his mob with him this time,” Trotter said into the darkness.
McGarvey glanced over at him. “They’ll have to be dealt with.”
“That depends upon what happens tonight.”
“I’m not going to assassinate him for you, John, if that’s what you mean,” McGarvey said. “It’s gone beyond that now. No need any longer to protect Powers.”
“I meant with Leonard. He’ll have to talk to them.”
“They’ll deny it.”
“Probably.”
“Maybe they’ll shoot him dead.”
“Good Lord, it’s not Donald Powers,” Trotter blurted. “It simply cannot be. And let me remind you that you don’t have a shred of proof linking him to any crime, to any wrongdoing.”
Looking out the window again, McGarvey had to admit that it was true. There was no proof. Not even proof against Yarnell now that Basulto had skipped out. Evita’s testimony would be thrown out of any court; she was an ex-wife with a grudge, she was a prostitute, and a drug addict. Hardly a reliable witness. He was an assassin who had been fired by the Carter administration for political unreliability. Owens, with his testimony about the old days, was dead, as was poor Janos and his story about altered records: There was no one left. And all the while, lurking in the background, was Baranov. This was his doing. Why? What had he hoped to accomplish? What were they still missing?
“It’s all such a mess,” Trotter murmured. “An incredible, stinking mess.”
They both heard the shot from up at the house, like a tiny firecracker popping.
“Good Lord,” Trotter said, looking up.
“Give me your gun,” McGarvey demanded, and he jumped out of the car.
Trotter fumbled in his jacket pocket, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
“Come on, John!” McGarvey snapped. He looked over his shoulder toward the house.
Trotter handed him the gun, a big, bulky nine-millimeter automatic. “What the hell is going on, Kirk?”
The guard had come out of the gate house. He was looking up toward the house, his pistol drawn.
“Block the driveway and then get the hell away from the car,” McGarvey shouted over his shoulder as he raced across the street. He levered a round into the firing chamber and switched the safety off.
Behind him Trotter started the car and pulled up the street, screeching to a halt just in front of the gate house. The guard had spun around as Trotter, his badge held high over his head, jumped out of the car. “FBI,” he shouted. “FBI!”
Automobile headlights appeared at the head of the driveway, flashing in the trees and illuminating the thickening fog. A powerful car engine was racing at top speed. Lights were coming on all over the house above, and a siren began to sound, its metallic wail piercing the night.
The gate guard was looking from Trotter, who had backed away from his car, to the driveway and back again, not quite sure what was happening but understanding that a situation of some sort was rapidly developing in front of his nose. He had not spotted McGarvey, who had taken up position in the shadows off to the side.
There had been only one shot, but any lingering doubt that tonight’s meeting between Yarnell and Powers had been innocent in purpose was gone. Baranov had set up the mechanism, McGarvey had managed to push all the right buttons, and now the principle players had leapt into action.
The car’s headlights suddenly backlit the iron bars of the gate, throwing long shadows across the road and over Trotter’s car. McGarvey dropped into a shooter’s crouch, both hands on the pistol, his arms extended. All at once Yarnell’s Mercedes burst into view on the driveway, moving at a high rate of speed. The guard just barely managed to leap aside as the car hit the gate with a tremendous crash, sending one half of the heavy metal structure flying off to one side. At the last possible instant, the Mercedes swung very hard to the left in a futile effort to avoid crashing into Trotter’s car, its right fender caving in Trotter’s door, both cars skidding across the street and up onto the curb.
The gate guard rushed down the driveway as Yarnell half rolled, half fell out of his car.
“Stop! Stop!” the guard shouted.
Yarnell was hidden behind the open car door. McGarvey started across the street as two shots were fired in rapid succession. The guard was thrown backward off his feet, a big geyser of blood erupting from the center of his chest.
“Yarnell!” McGarvey shouted.
Yarnell’s figure filled the window opening and he fired, the shot ricochetting off the pavement. McGarvey fired three times, the first catching Yarnell in the chest, the second smacking into the door panel and catching him in the groin, and the third hitting him in the neck just above the sternum, destroying his throat and filling his lungs with blood.
Trotter was racing up the road.
“See about the guard,” McGarvey shouted, approaching the Mercedes with caution.
Another car raced down the driveway from the house and skidded to a halt in the street.
“FBI! FBI!” Trotter shouted.
McGarvey didn’t bother looking back. Yarnell half lay, half sat in a bloody heap beside the Mercedes, his head lolling back on the leather-upholstered seat. A beretta automatic lay beside him. He was dead, there was absolutely no doubt of it. His eyes were open and his tongue filled his mouth as if he were gagging on something. Even in death, however, McGarvey could feel the power of the man. For two and a half decades no one had been able to touch him. Twenty-five years or more he had been allowed to operate unchecked. McGarvey thought how the man should have seemed diminished in death. But he didn’t.
Stuffing Trotter’s pistol in his pocket, McGarvey bent down over Yarnell’s body and went through his pockets. No proof. Still there was no proof of anything other than the fact that Yarnell may have tried to assassinate the director of Central Intelligence tonight.
In Yarnell’s breast pocket he found a miniature tape recorder. It was still running. McGarvey switched it off, and glanced over his shoulder. Four guards had come down from the house. One of them had broken away and was coming this way. McGarvey quickly stuffed the tape recorder in his pocket and got to his feet. In the distance he could hear the sounds of the first sirens.
“An ambulance is coming,” the guard said, out of breath.
“Yarnell won’t need it,” McGarvey said stepping aside.
The guard caught sight of Yarnell’s body and he stopped short. “Christ,” he said. “You two put it to him, didn’t you?”
“He was trying to escape. Shot your gate guard.”
“What the hell were you two doing here in the first place?” the bodyguard asked, his eyes narrow. “We weren’t informed of any bureau operation.”
“We were following Yarnell,” McGarvey said. “What happened at the house? We heard the shot.”
“Following Mr. Yarnell for what reason, exactly?” There would be an investigation, and the man was thinking about his own future.