Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel by David Hagberg

Author:David Hagberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

THIRTY-SEVEN

Bambridge had driven over to Turkey Run Park just north of the CIA’s main entrance on the GW Parkway, which followed the Potomac River, and parked at the start of one of the footpaths. It was a weekday, and just enough people were present to make his arrival nearly anonymous. Another visitor taking a break from a busy day.

The man he knew as William Rodak, a midlevel aide to President Weaver, had been friends with an old college buddy of Marty’s. He’d been introduced a couple of years ago, in the middle of Weaver’s incendiary presidential campaign, as a man who might prove useful to the agency if the impossible happened and Weaver won.

Rodak’s specialty was Russia. He’d actually lived and studied for his Ph.D. in Moscow and Vladivostok and had gone back to do a couple of research papers for the State Department. The media had viewed him as the most likely link between the White House and the Kremlin.

Marty had always considered him a valuable resource.

He was a powerfully built man with broad shoulders, a sturdy frame, and a no-nonsense, all-business demeanor. It was said that he never smiled, because he felt that he carried the fate of American–Russian relationship on his shoulders.

“Rapprochement is our only viable option,” President Weaver was fond of saying. They were Rodak’s words.

Marty had three favorite soft-porn sites that he visited on his personal tablet from time to time. Rodak had the means to hack all three sites. One meant Marty wanted to set up a meeting at the Lincoln Memorial at noon in two days. Another meant Marty wanted to meet at the bar in the Watergate the same evening at ten. And the third was the most urgent: Marty wanted a meeting immediately, this time at Turkey Run Park. Wherever they met, they would agree on the next meeting place, never using the same places twice.

Rodak was sitting on a park bench, smoking one of his ever-present unfiltered Camel cigarettes.

Marty sat down next to him, and for a minute or so neither of them spoke, until Rodak broke the silence.

“What has you bothered, my friend?”

“The Paris thing may be spinning out of control.”

“Because of the possible connection with Moscow? If that’s the case, you needn’t worry. From what I’ve learned, the entire business was directed from the lowest possible level.”

“Deniable?”

Rodak looked at him. “Of course. Your hands remain clean, Martin. In that you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Some of the man’s mannerisms and occasional turns of phrase sounded almost Russian. The media had picked up on it during Weaver’s campaign and Rodak had merely laughed it off.

“I suppose that too much of my formative youth and zeal was spent over there in my studies.”

“A girlfriend?” a Washington Post reporter had asked.

Rodak had smiled good-naturedly. “Maybe more than one.”

Marty was startled. “What do you mean my hands will remain clean? I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing contrary to my charter.”

“No one, least of all me, is saying anything to the contrary.

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