Other than revenge.
He’d been renting a small stone house that had been used for the caretakers at Holy Rood Cemetery in Georgetown when Mac came out of retirement for him. Otto had been doing some computer consulting on the side, but in those days computers were so new that the few people who had them mostly knew what they were doing. Or they knew so little that they didn’t know enough to understand that they needed help. The caretakers’ house was cheap: Who wanted to live in a cemetery? But it had fitted his funereal mood.
He had his computers and his cats, and he didn’t know the depth of his loneliness and discontent.
But then Mac had come to put him to work hacking the CIA’s computers for information on the East German secret police, Stasi. That was the beginning for him. The Agency kept coming back to Mac for help, and Mac kept coming back to Otto.
Mac had legitimized his life.
He got to the CIA before many of the other senior staffers, and he went directly up to his office in the computer center. He checked a couple of his ongoing search programs, which were looking for references to Dr. Nikolayev in Moscow communications, especially SVR telephone intercepts that NSA was providing him. There was nothing yet. But, then, the computers had to sift through tens of thousands of telephone calls that involved tens of millions of words and combinations of words. A couple of minutes before five-thirty he took the elevator down to the first-floor main auditorium. More than fifty people had gathered in the front rows. In addition to Adkins and the deputy directors of the CIA’s four directorates, a lot of section heads and desk supervisors had also been called in. The mood was subdued. Mac had had his share of scrapes and close calls, but a lot of the people here today only vaguely knew the full extent of what their new director had gone through. But they all knew about this, and they were mad. One of their own had been a target. Adkins came in and went directly to the podium. He held up his hand, and an immediate hush fell over the room. “About three hours ago a civilian helicopter which was to have picked up Mr. McGarvey, his wife and their bodyguard, Dick Yemm, exploded, killing the pilot. The incident occurred on the uninhabited island of Hans Lollick in the Virgin Islands, where Mr. and Mrs.
McGarvey were having a picnic lunch.” Adkins looked up from his notes.
“We do not believe that the explosion was an accident. We think that the incident was an assassination attempt on the life of Mr. McGarvey.”
An angry murmur passed through the audience. Though it was what most of them suspected, hearing the deputy DCI say it out loud made it official. “The director and his wife were airlifted by the U.S. Coast Guard to the American navy hospital at San Juan, Puerto Rico, where they will remain under observation until sometime tomorrow, when they will be flown back to Washington. A detail was dispatched from Andrews to provide security at the hospital. It’s my understanding that they’ll be arriving within the hour.” Rencke sat on the edge of his seat, holding tightly to the back of the seat ahead of him. He was three rows from anyone because he was afraid that someone would see the guilt on his face. “An investigative unit is being put together that will work with an FBI crime scene and forensics team and experts from the NTSB. They expect to be on-site first thing in the morning. In the meantime, a U.S. Navy SEAL team, which was dispatched from Guantanamo Bay, has arrived on Hans Lollick to secure the remains of the helicopter.” Adkins paused again to gaze out over the audience.
He looked as if he’d aged ten years since yesterday. He was having his own problems at home, and now this. Rencke did not feel any pity for him, however. They all were in the same boat. If anything, besides guilt, he felt fear. He should have known. He’d seen the developing lavender; he should have realized that something like this would happen. “The media is not on the story yet, and we’re going to try to keep it that way for as long as possible,” Adkins told them. “The explosion was witnessed from St. Thomas, and the Associated Press did pick up the story, of course, but they don’t know who was involved.”
“Come on, Dick, they’re going to put it together,” said Deputy Director of Operations David Whittaker. “They’ll see the SEALs, and they’ll find out soon enough that the Bureau and the NTSB are investigating the crash.” “All air crashes are investigated,” Adkins said. “This one will be no different as far as the media are concerned. We’ll keep this a secret for as long as possible, and that’s a direct order from Mr. McGarvey. I spoke with him by phone two-and-a-half hours ago.
It’s his intention to show up for work Monday morning as if nothing happened.” “How do we justify this meeting?” Tommy Doyle, the deputy director of Intelligence asked. There were almost always media watchdogs outside all major government agencies. The CIA was no exception. “Pakistan will announce its intention to test a thermonuclear weapon. We got the heads-up from State this morning.”
“That’s been on the burner for two weeks,” Doyle argued. “Yes, but it becomes official on Monday. We’re here today to outline the Agency’s intelligence strategy.” “Who had access to the helicopter?” Whittaker asked. “That’s one of the items our team will be looking for,” Adkins said. “We suspect that there will be a fair number of possibilities.”
“How do we know that it wasn’t an accident after all?” Whittaker pressed. “Maybe there was an electrical short in the fuel tank. Not unheard of.” “We don’t have that answer either, David. But Mac and Yemm agree that from where they were standing it appeared as if the explosion originated in the cabin of the aircraft.” Rencke closed his eyes. He could almost feel the heat of the explosion on his face. A determined assassin, willing to give up his life in the attempt, was almost impossible to stop. The key was to get to him before the attempt was made.
He opened his eyes. Maybe it was the helicopter pilot. “This was a close one,” Adkins said. “Any operation that is below a Track Three will be put on hold for the duration. I want every man and woman, every asset, domestic and foreign, focused on finding out who wants to kill Mr. McGarvey, and bring them to justice.” Adkins closed his file folder. “Soon,” he said. Rencke jumped to his feet. “Mr. Adkins,”
he shouted. “Yes, Mr. Rencke.” “How about Todd Van Buren and Elizabeth?” “They’re skiing at Vail. We have a security team on the way out there, and the FBI has sent two agents up from Denver. We’re keeping this low-key, Otto. Mac wants it that way. They’ll be okay.”
“Oh, wow, okay,” Rencke said. He stood for a time, then left the auditorium. Everyone had been looking at him. He felt their eyes all the way down the long corridor. Freak, queer boy. Nerd. Geek. He’d endured it all as a kid. The memories never went away. And now the only family he’d ever known was in danger, and he couldn’t do a thing to help keep them safe. Stupid, stupid man. Bad, bad dog. He was too tired to wait for a cab, so he had a driver from the Office of Security take him home. They rode in silence. The snow had finally stopped falling, but there were still slippery spots on the highway. When they passed the place where he’d had his accident he couldn’t see any sign that it had happened. It was another world, another lifetime ago.
“Thanks,” Otto mumbled in front of his Arlington apartment building.
“Have a good one,” the driver said, and took off. Otto hunched up his coat collar and watched the taillights disappear around the corner. He was cold and felt more alone than he had in years. For a little while he felt as if he didn’t belong to anyone, as if he didn’t fit in anywhere. Stuff and nonsense, he told himself, looking up at the second-story windows of his apartment. But he felt it just the same.