come here to convince us . . . of what?”
“The shooters were hired by an ex-KGB general, Alexandar Turov, who’s living in Tokyo.”
“The Russians?” Adkins asked. He too was incredulous.
“No,” McGarvey said. “Apparently he’s just an expediter working for somebody else.”
“Who?” Adkins asked
“I don’t know.”
“But you believed your bosom buddy, is that it?” McCann demanded. “Is that why you didn’t report this to the Bureau’s counterespionage people—you’ve got pals over there too—and let them take it from here?”
“Because I believed him,” McGarvey said.
“No,” Adkins said. “I agree with Carleton 100 percent. I’ll get you together with Bob Everhardt and someone from the Korean desk to debrief you and afterward we’ll see where we’re at.” Everhardt was chief of the DO’s counterintelligence staff, and one of the people McGarvey had hired as DDO.
“In the meantime we’re faced with a situation that go could nuclear at anytime.”
“That’s for the politicians to work out,” Adkins countered.
“Which is only possible if they have good intel,” McGarvey shot back. This was about the reaction he thought he’d get. But he had to make the try.
McCann took out his cell phone. “I’ll get security up here to arrest him until we can straighten this shit out.”
“I don’t think you want to do that,” McGarvey said mildly, getting up.
McCann glared up at him. “You won’t get out of the building.”
“For Christ’s sake, Howard, leave it,” Adkins said. He turned back to McGarvey. “Ball’s in your court, Kirk. You know what’s at stake, professionally as well as personally.”
“I’ve always known,” McGarvey said, and he walked out.
TWENTY-ONE
Rencke’s office was on the third floor, and although he was authorized to have a secretary, and there was a desk and funding for that position, he’d always declined the offer. He worked at his own pace and he didn’t want someone looking over his shoulder, or arranging his itineraries, or, God forbid, trying to clean him up. He owned one suit, one white shirt, and one tie, which he only ever used for funerals.
McGarvey’s key card authorized his entry, and he knew the four-digit code for the door lock. The desk in the outer office was piled with files, maps, and satellite images, as were the couch, two easy chairs, and coffee table. It looked as if it had not been cleaned since Rencke had moved in.
Rencke was seated at a bank of computer monitors in the shape of a U, his fingers flying over one of the keyboards. Three eighty-two-inch flat-panel monitors on which were displayed the real time outputs of various spy satellites around the world were lined up above the computers. McGarvey recognized the images on one of them as downtown Pyongyang.
“Where will it be first,” Rencke asked without turning around. “Seoul, Pyongyang, or Tokyo?”
“Before I try to find Turov and whoever hired him, I’m going to need more answers,” McGarvey said. “Huk Soon is still in Pyongyang, but his wife Kim made it out.”
“Seoul it is,” Rencke said. He looked over his shoulder. “Ten minutes ago the Chinese brought their missile and air forces up to a stage one alert. DEFCON four.”
“Any response from Pyongyang?”
“Not yet. But I think we’re running out of time. And if the shit does go down, you’re going to be in a seriously unhealthy place.”
“How soon can you get me over there?”
“Are you packed?”
“Bag’s in the rental car out front.”
“An Aurora is rolling out at Andrews. I’ll drive you over there now, and take care of your car first thing in the morning. By the time you’re airborne I’ll have an NIS guide-interpreter standing by. They want this thing to go away as much as everybody does, so they’re going to cooperate.”
“What did you tell them?” McGarvey asked.
Rencke grinned. “You’re looking for an old friend, but they want
“The shooters were hired by an ex-KGB general, Alexandar Turov, who’s living in Tokyo.”
“The Russians?” Adkins asked. He too was incredulous.
“No,” McGarvey said. “Apparently he’s just an expediter working for somebody else.”
“Who?” Adkins asked
“I don’t know.”
“But you believed your bosom buddy, is that it?” McCann demanded. “Is that why you didn’t report this to the Bureau’s counterespionage people—you’ve got pals over there too—and let them take it from here?”
“Because I believed him,” McGarvey said.
“No,” Adkins said. “I agree with Carleton 100 percent. I’ll get you together with Bob Everhardt and someone from the Korean desk to debrief you and afterward we’ll see where we’re at.” Everhardt was chief of the DO’s counterintelligence staff, and one of the people McGarvey had hired as DDO.
“In the meantime we’re faced with a situation that go could nuclear at anytime.”
“That’s for the politicians to work out,” Adkins countered.
“Which is only possible if they have good intel,” McGarvey shot back. This was about the reaction he thought he’d get. But he had to make the try.
McCann took out his cell phone. “I’ll get security up here to arrest him until we can straighten this shit out.”
“I don’t think you want to do that,” McGarvey said mildly, getting up.
McCann glared up at him. “You won’t get out of the building.”
“For Christ’s sake, Howard, leave it,” Adkins said. He turned back to McGarvey. “Ball’s in your court, Kirk. You know what’s at stake, professionally as well as personally.”
“I’ve always known,” McGarvey said, and he walked out.
TWENTY-ONE
Rencke’s office was on the third floor, and although he was authorized to have a secretary, and there was a desk and funding for that position, he’d always declined the offer. He worked at his own pace and he didn’t want someone looking over his shoulder, or arranging his itineraries, or, God forbid, trying to clean him up. He owned one suit, one white shirt, and one tie, which he only ever used for funerals.
McGarvey’s key card authorized his entry, and he knew the four-digit code for the door lock. The desk in the outer office was piled with files, maps, and satellite images, as were the couch, two easy chairs, and coffee table. It looked as if it had not been cleaned since Rencke had moved in.
Rencke was seated at a bank of computer monitors in the shape of a U, his fingers flying over one of the keyboards. Three eighty-two-inch flat-panel monitors on which were displayed the real time outputs of various spy satellites around the world were lined up above the computers. McGarvey recognized the images on one of them as downtown Pyongyang.
“Where will it be first,” Rencke asked without turning around. “Seoul, Pyongyang, or Tokyo?”
“Before I try to find Turov and whoever hired him, I’m going to need more answers,” McGarvey said. “Huk Soon is still in Pyongyang, but his wife Kim made it out.”
“Seoul it is,” Rencke said. He looked over his shoulder. “Ten minutes ago the Chinese brought their missile and air forces up to a stage one alert. DEFCON four.”
“Any response from Pyongyang?”
“Not yet. But I think we’re running out of time. And if the shit does go down, you’re going to be in a seriously unhealthy place.”
“How soon can you get me over there?”
“Are you packed?”
“Bag’s in the rental car out front.”
“An Aurora is rolling out at Andrews. I’ll drive you over there now, and take care of your car first thing in the morning. By the time you’re airborne I’ll have an NIS guide-interpreter standing by. They want this thing to go away as much as everybody does, so they’re going to cooperate.”
“What did you tell them?” McGarvey asked.
Rencke grinned. “You’re looking for an old friend, but they want
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