Countdown by David Hagberg

and poured him a glass of wine. Their waiter came, handed them menus, and left.
    â€œDon thought you might have spotted him on Wednesday.”
    â€œOutside the Louvre?”
    Trotter nodded.
    â€œAnd Thursday outside my apartment. Not very professional.”
    â€œProfessional enough,” Trotter said, looking around at the other diners. “Nice place.”
    McGarvey shrugged. “I can watch the door from here.”
    Trotter managed a slight smile. “Nothing changes, does it?”
    â€œHow about you, John, still with the Bureau?”
    Trotter shook his head. “I’m back over at Langley. Assistant deputy director of operations.”

    â€œLarry Danielle still there?”
    â€œSeventh floor. He’s our new deputy DCI. Phil Carrara is my boss. I don’t think you knew him. He came over last year from NSA.”
    â€œA technologist?”
    Again Trotter managed a slight smile. National Security Agency types were very often electronic freaks. “He’s a good man.”
    McGarvey sipped at his wine. To this point Trotter had studiously avoided any direct eye contact. McGarvey stared at him.
    â€œIt’s Baranov, isn’t it, John. That’s why you’ve come.” Trotter nodded grimly.
    â€œHe’s on the move again?”
    â€œIt looks like it. Larry suggested you this time, though, not me. I swear to God. I told him that you’d had enough. That you wanted to be left alone.”
    â€œBut he didn’t agree.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhy all the pussyfooting around again, John?”
    â€œWe didn’t know your circumstances,” Trotter replied simply.
    At this point McGarvey could have been a changed man, could have turned into almost anything. They had to make certain that he was clean, and that the opposition hadn’t gotten a line on him. As Trotter unnecessarily explained: “Valentin Baranov has got a very large grudge against you, Kirk. Now that he is director of the KGB he has the power to do something about it.”
    â€œYou’re here to save my skin, is that it?” McGarvey asked, feeling some of his old meanness coming back. His stomach was sour. It was the thrill of the opening moves of a hunt he’d been waiting for.
    â€œTo save all of our skins. The man has got to be stopped.”
    This time McGarvey had to smile. “What do you want this time, John? Am I to go to Moscow and assassinate the director of the KGB?”
    â€œIf only it were that easy I’d say yes.” Trotter shook his head and glanced again at the other diners. “I don’t know if we’ll ever
really stop the man in that sense. It’s become a continual mop-up operation. You know how it is.”
    â€œYes, I do,” McGarvey said pointedly. “So what’s the sonofabitch up to this time?”
    â€œWe don’t know. Leastways not for sure yet. But we need your help.”
    â€œWhy?”
    The direct question startled Trotter but he recovered nicely. “We’re in over our heads, I don’t mind admitting that. And you know Baranov better than any man on our side of the fence. His habits, his methods, the way his mind works.”
    â€œAnd your people are spotted.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd if I start after him, it might draw him out. I’d be bait.”
    Trotter nodded. He opened his briefcase and took out a thin file folder. He handed it across and relatched his briefcase.
    McGarvey opened the file folder which contained a summary of a KGB officer, with several photographs, one of them a head shot, the others obviously obtained in the field. The man was tall, good-looking in an athletic sort of a way, with deep eyes that even in the photographs seemed cold, distant, and very professional.
    â€œFormerly a Department Viktor hit man. One of the best. Baranov took him under his wing just after he returned to Moscow from the Powers thing, and the man has been busy. I’ve