The Cabal (10 page)

It was ten in the evening when McGarvey’s cell phone vibrated silently in his pocket. Katy had been transferred to one of the rooms in the visiting VIP building and he’d been sitting next to her bed for the past three hours watching her troubled sleep. He wanted to reach out to her with more than just a touch; he wanted to let her inside his soul
so that she could see exactly who he was. No artifice, no hiding of any truth no matter how ugly, just his real self with all the complexities and contradictions of a man who had lived the life he had.

He went out into the corridor and answered the call, the ID was blank but he knew that it was Otto. “What do you have for me?”

“How’re Mrs. M and Elizabeth?”

“Both sleeping.”

“How about you?” Otto asked, an edginess to his voice. He was worried, just as everyone was, which way McGarvey was going to jump. Because Mac was going to jump and everybody knew it.

“Impatient,” McGarvey said. He was being short with his friend, but he couldn’t wait around down here much longer. He was on the verge of exploding, and yet he knew that he had to hang on; when the shit started to happen it would have to be done right. He wasn’t going to lose his life because he had blinders on and was rushing things.

“Sandberger’s in Baghdad, but his pilot filed a flight plan for Frankfurt. Apparently it’s a layover, because no flight plan has been filed beyond that.”

“Any idea where he’ll be staying? Or for how long?”

“He’s been to Frankfurt four times in the past two years. Twice he’s disappeared into the city, apparently staying someplace other than a hotel, and the other two times he’s stayed at the Steigenberger Airport Hotel, each time for one night only.”

“Bodyguards?”

“He almost always travels with muscle, and over the past eighteen months or so it’s been the same two. Carl Alphonse, who was a New York City SWAT team commander until he retired to go to work for Admin, and Brody Hanson, who was kicked out of Delta Forces for reason or reasons unknown, except that he was discharged an E-7 under other than honorable conditions. Both men had the highest grades for marksmanship, hand-to-hand, infiltration, and exfiltration—about what you’d expect from guys like these.”

“Any idea why he’s flying out to Germany all of a sudden?” McGarvey asked. “Meeting someone?”

“My guess would be Remington, but I’m not coming up with any air reservations yet,” Otto said.

“How about flight plans?”

“Admin has only the one Gulfstream. So if it’s Remington he’ll be traveling commercial. Maybe under an assumed name. Anyway my babies are chewing on it.” Rencke’s babies were his computers and some of the most sophisticated programs on the planet.

Now that it was beginning, now that he was preparing to go back into the field, he began to calm down; his nerves had been jumping all over the place since he’d gotten word of Todd’s assassination, but now they were steadying out. He held out his right hand, palm down, his fingers spread, and he was rock solid.

“I need to get over there by morning, at least before noon. Noncommercial. A clean diplomatic passport, no questions asked by anyone on the seventh floor, at least not until I’m finished. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

“To do what, Mac?” Otto asked. “Lean on Sandberger? The guy’s a tough son of a bitch. And if the German
federales
catch you carrying—or worse, if you shoot someone—it’ll get back to Adkins at the speed of light.”

“And he’d have to sit up and take notice,” McGarvey said. “We’re talking about the murder of my son-in-law. The son-in-law of a former CIA director. That carries some weight.”

“Yes, it does,” Rencke said. “From both sides of the fence. Your shooting days are supposed to be over. You’re too personally involved this time. It’s expected that you’ll back off and let the Bureau handle it.”

“I’ve always been personally involved,” McGarvey said, bitterly. “All my life.” And he knew that he should be asking himself if it was worth it, but at this moment the question was moot.

Rencke was silent for a long time, and when he came back he sounded sad, resigned, as if he knew that no matter what McGarvey did, no matter what action his old friend took, he would be there for him, as he had been for years now. Mac was family, and except for his wife, Louise, his only family.

“A Gulfstream and crew will be ready at Andrews within the hour. Your passport will be aboard. What else do you need?”

“Give me one hour on the ground in Frankfurt, then call Dave Whittaker and tell him I might need some backup.” Whittaker, who was a stand-up guy, was the deputy director of operations when Mac was the DCI. Now, under Adkins, he’d become the deputy director of the agency. His was a steady if stern hand, and although he’d never completely approved of McGarvey’s tradecraft, he’d always supported his boss one hundred ten percent.

“Shit, Mac,” Rencke said after a long moment. “You’re not thinking straight. Honest injun.”

“You’re probably right,” McGarvey agreed. “But I didn’t create the situation.” The hard edge was back in his voice, and in his heart.

He shook his head, and the only thing he could think of were the bastards, the dirty rotten bastards. And he could see the son of a bitch putting the insurance round into the back of Todd’s head.

“I didn’t start it,” he said bleakly.

“I’ll be here for you.”

“Thank you,” McGarvey said and he broke the connection. And for a long time he stood in the semidark corridor, the only light coming from the exit sign at the door to the stairs, and thought frankly about his life, about his contributions to the safety of the United States. Thinking about his career that way seemed almost filled with hubris, and yet he was proud of what he had done—or most of what he had done. And now he was back at it, only this time his motives were a whole hell of a lot more personal.

Katy was still sleeping when he went back into the room, took a small leather satchel, about the size of a dopp kit, out of their luggage, and went across the hall to one of the empty rooms where he switched on a nightstand light after he’d closed the door.

She had watched him open the floor safe in their bedroom back in Florida as she was packing and pull out a 9mm Wilson semiautomatic pistol with custom grips and sight, three spare magazines of ammunition, and a suppressor.

He holstered the pistol at the small of his back and, turning out the light, went back across the hall and returned the kit to their luggage.

For a long time he stood near the bed, watching his wife’s sleeping face. She didn’t look exactly at peace, but she was finally getting some rest. He hoped she wasn’t dreaming.

Leaning down he kissed her lightly on the cheek, took his small overnight bag from the closet, and went downstairs.

Liz was waiting in the darkened dayroom, sitting in the corner smoking a cigarette, something she hadn’t done for a long time.

McGarvey held up across the room from her. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Waiting for you,” she said.

“What about Pete and Dan Green?”

“I sent them back to Langley. They were done here and they knew it. So I didn’t get any argument.” Liz stubbed out her cigarette. “Anyway, you don’t have to keep watching over your shoulder for them. They won’t be there. They understand the score, and in fact Pete said to wish you good luck.”

McGarvey put down his bag by the door and went across to her. “I’m so sorry. I wish—”

Liz looked up at him with so much anguish and such total devastation written all over her face that she took his breath away. “When we raised our right hands and took the oath, we understood the risks,” she said. “You know this probably better than anyone else.” She didn’t avert her eyes. “How did you handle it?”

“Sometimes not very well,” McGarvey replied, thinking back to the day Katy had given him her ultimatum—me or the CIA—and he had run away.

She looked away for just a moment, finally, maybe seeing some of the anguish and devastation on his face. “Do you know what’s keeping me on track? The only thing?”

“Audie?”

She looked up at her father and a brief smile passed her mouth.
“Her too. But it’s you, Daddy. And Mother.” She shook her head. “Christ, there never was such a couple, or ever will be.”

McGarvey had no idea what to say. But he leaned over and brushed a kiss on her cheek.

“The gray Chevy van, government plates, out front. No one will notice. Keys are in it.”

McGarvey nodded. “Keep your head down, sweetheart, this is bound to get ugly.”

Her eyes tightened. “Oh, I hope so.”

And McGarvey left.

The airport shuttle dropped Remington off under the sweeping portico of the five-star Frankfurt Steigenberger Hotel around two in the afternoon. Although he had slept reasonably well in first class on the Lufthansa flight over, he’d been restive, worried about what was coming next.

With Kirk McGarvey now in the mix, the assassinations of Van Buren and Givens would have to be explained to the satisfaction of the FBI, and of course the CIA, which was one of the objects of the exercise in addition to silencing the nosy reporter. And he needed to impress on Roland what was at stake for both of them, for Admin’s continued existence, even for their personal freedom. He had no desire to end up in a federal prison somewhere because Roland refused to keep his eye on the ball.

He carried only a small overnight bag with a clean shirt and
underwear and his toiletries—because he was only staying the night, taking the morning flight back—plus his laptop with all the material from Givens’s computer and a BlackBerry, encrypted. He figured there would be little danger crossing borders with the material; he was just an ordinary businessman who’d popped across the pond for a meeting. No one bothered with commerce.

He spotted Sandberger seated across the lobby, reading a newspaper, but went directly over to the front desk where he checked in and sent his overnight bag up to his suite with a bellman, whom he tipped well, but not so well that the man would remember him.

The hotel wasn’t terribly busy at this hour, though more guests were checking in than out, and heading across the expansive lobby he spotted Roland’s bodyguards, sitting fifteen feet away from their boss; Alphonse with his back to the elevators, and Hanson with his back to the lobby doors. Their attention constantly shifted, though not so noticeably unless you were looking for it. Nor did they stand out physically. Both men were of average build, with pleasant faces, neatly trimmed hair, expensive if casual European-cut clothing—open-necked shirts, khakis, and double-vented sport coats—but they were well-trained killers. They were among Admin’s best and highest paid operators, and therefore the most loyal.

Sandberger, too, was a deceptive man, with narrow shoulders, slight build, sparkling blue eyes, ash blond hair, and a pleasant small-town smile and demeanor. But he was a steely-eyed businessman with an astute understanding not only of the American political scene but of international affairs. And like his bodyguards he was a killer.

Remington had been with him two years ago in Kabul to interview three local recruits, all of whom had served as President Hamid Karzai’s personal bodyguards, but were looking for fatter paychecks—or so they’d claimed.

They were supposed to meet in a tea shop in the area known as the Wazir Akbar Kahn a few blocks from the National Bank of Pakistan, across the street from an alley with rug, silver, and copper merchants, but Sandberger was spooked and he told the three that the shop was
not acceptable, that they would have to meet tomorrow in another place, to be specified.