The Cabal (40 page)

“They’re just shooters, not planners. They heard stuff, but they probably had no direct contact with Foster and his group,” McGarvey said. “It’s why I went to Baghdad, to see what Sandberger had to say. But he was willing to take a bullet rather than tell me anything. Which leaves us Remington.”

Otto was clearly worried. “What do you have in mind?”

“Find out where he lives, find out what security measures he has in place, and if he has bodyguards, and then I’ll go over to see him.”

“And if he’s willing to take a bullet the same as Sandberger, that’ll leave us with squat,” Otto said. “Admin killed Todd and Katy and Liz.
We already had that pretty well figured out. But as bad as it is you gotta calm down and think it through. Honest injun.”

“Goddamnit, I’m not going to walk away,” McGarvey said, his entire body numb. Killing Sandberger had been satisfying. Too satisfying, and yet Otto was right, killing Remington would do nothing for them.

“Okay, so if you get nothing out of Remington, what next? Foster?”

“Yes.”

“And after him you’d be gunning for some top people in this town,” Otto said. “Think it out. Where does it end? And more important than that, where’s the connection between Mexico City, Pyongyang, and now? Because I don’t see it.”

“You still need material witnesses,” Pete broke in. “One material witness who would be willing to testify against Foster to save his butt. S. Gordon Remington.”

“That’s right,” McGarvey said.

“To save his butt from you,” she said quietly. “There’s no way you can run around Washington on your own—especially not during the day—no matter how good your disguise is.”

Louise was at the door. “She’s right. I recognized you because we’re friends. Could happen again if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Otto can check out Remington’s house and security measures and I’ll go over there myself later, around dinnertime, and ring the doorbell,” Pete said. “I’m not very threatening-looking, and he wouldn’t be expecting someone like me to show up.”

“He’s ex-SAS,” McGarvey said. “Sandhurst.”

“No offense, Mac, but he’s an old guy who probably hasn’t been on a field assignment in years. And I’m pretty good. I think I can take him down, and bring him back here, and we’ll have our foot in the Friday Club’s front door.”

It made sense but McGarvey didn’t like it. “That puts you on the firing line.”

“I didn’t lose a child or a spouse, but I did lose a partner who was my friend. And I’ve been on the firing line before.”

“You can’t go on a field ops with an empty stomach,” Louise said. “Breakfast is ready.”

Pete Boylan had wanted to be a tomboy all her life, but her good looks had made that nearly impossible, and at thirty-three she was just as frustrated as she’d ever been. Men tended to fall into two groups: those who were intimidated by her and those who trivialized her. Neither type of man had ever interested her, so she was still single, and hating that, too, which sometimes, like this evening, lent her a mean streak. She wanted to hit someone.

She cruised slowly along Whitehaven Street in her personal car, a red Mustang convertible, top up, past the Danish embassy and then the Italian embassy, Remington’s upscale house with the tall iron gate at the front entrance sat between them.

Otto had set her up with a one-piece voice-operated wire that looked like an in-the-ear-canal hearing aide. “Just drove past his house,” she said softly.

“Any visible activity?” McGarvey’s voice was soft but understandable in her ear.

“Lights on upstairs and downstairs, and a Bentley parked in the driveway, trunk lid open, no trunk light.” It was past eight and dark already.

“He’s going someplace.”

“Looks like it,” Pete said. “I’m at Massachusetts Avenue now. Soon as the light changes I’ll drive up to Thirtieth and make a U-turn.”

“How’s traffic?”

“Not bad,” Pete said. The light changed and she made a left then almost immediately a right, and made a sharp U-turn in somebody’s driveway. Two minutes later she was across Massachusetts Avenue and heading back to Remington’s house.

She missed Dan, and wished he were here with her right now. He was bright, kind, and above all understanding, just like her father had been in Palo Alto when she was growing up, especially when she’d gone through her teen years. But he’d had a heart attack when she was in her first year of pre-law at USC, and by the time she’d made it home he was gone. There wasn’t a day when she didn’t think of him, and it would be the same with Dan for the rest of her life.

She pulled up to the curb and parked, blocking Remington’s driveway. “Okay, I’m here, still no activity.”

“If he’s heading out, it means he’s probably desperate,” McGarvey said. “So watch your back.”

“And don’t forget about his driver, Sergeant Randall,” Otto’s voice came through the earpiece. “Ex-Sandhurst and SAS along with Remington. Probably tough as nails.”

“As far as they’re concerned I’m coming from the CIA to conduct an unofficial briefing on the Baghdad situation for Mr. Remington.”

“He’ll ask you on whose orders,” McGarvey said.

“I’m not allowed to give you that information, sir.”

“If something goes bad it might take me ten or fifteen minutes to get to you, so keep on top of it. Give us a clue.”

“Will do,” Pete said.

She took out her CIA identification wallet, got out of her car, and went to the front gate where she pushed the button for the bell, aware that a closed-circuit television camera was pointed at her. A few seconds later an overhead light came on.

“What is it?” a man’s voice came from the speaker grille. He sounded English.

Pete held her ID up to the camera. “Pete Boylan. CIA. I’ve been sent to brief Mr. Remington on the situation in Baghdad.”

“We’re aware of the situation.”

“Some new facts have just come to light, and it was thought that you should have this information immediately. It’ll only take a couple of minutes, sir.”

“Who sent you?”

“I’m not at liberty to give you that name. But he said you would know who it was.”

“Just a moment.”

If Remington called someone over at Langley the game would be over before it began. But the gate lock buzzed and she went through and up the walk to the red front door with a brass knocker, which opened as she approached.

A short man, craggy face, definitely not Remington, wide brown eyes, narrowed now with suspicion, looked at her. “Let me see your identification.”

She held it out for him, but when he reached for it she pulled back. “You may look, Sergeant Randall, but you will not touch.”

“Are you armed?”

Pete almost smiled. “Of course.”

“I’ll have your weapon, then.”

“Not a chance, Sarge,” Pete said. “Inform Mr. Remington that I’ve returned to the Campus.” She turned and started away, but Remington came to the door.

“It’s all right. Come back, please, I need to know what you brought for me.”

Pete turned back. Remington was dressed in a European-cut dark blazer with the family crest on the breast pocket, a white shirt, and club tie. “Are you going out this evening, sir?”

“To the office. We’re in crisis mode.”

“It’s why I was sent, sir,” Pete said.

He stepped aside for her to enter the stair hall, long crystal chandelier, ornate side tables, a pristine white marble floor, and a large painting of a man in formal dress on one wall opposite a mirror in an ornate gold frame. Sergeant Randall had stepped back a few feet, but he was super-alert.

“This is for your ears only, sir,” Pete said.

Remington was looking at her breasts. “Give us a minute, Sarge.”

Randall hesitated for just a moment, but then turned and disappeared down the corridor to the rear of the house.

“I have to tell you that I’ve never seen a prettier CIA officer,” Remington said. “But were you in an accident recently?”

Pete reached inside her jacket and withdrew her 9×19 mm compact Glock 19 pistol, fitted with a short barrel silencer and pointed it at Remington, who reared back, and stumbled away a couple of steps. But Pete followed him, keeping just out of his reach. If he lunged she meant to switch aim and shoot him in the kneecap. The whole idea was to get him back to Georgetown alive.

“I’m not here to assassinate you, Mr. Remington, but if you cry out or in any way try to alert Sergeant Randall, I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

It took Remington several beats to understand something of what he was facing. “You’re not really from the CIA.”

“Yes, I am. Housekeeping actually.”

“Then why are you here pointing a pistol at my head?”

“Somebody wants to have a chat with you before you leave town.”

The rest of it came to Remington. “McGarvey,” he said. “I’ll take my chances here.” He started to turn around.

“One step and I
will
shoot you,” Pete warned.

Remington stopped, his back to her. “If I go with you, McGarvey will kill me anyway, so I’m a dead man.”

“You have one option.”

“Which is?”

“Help us prove what Foster and his Friday Club are up to; what Joshua Givens evidently found out about and passed to Todd Van Buren that resulted in their deaths.”

Remington’s shoulders sagged, and he turned around. “It’s bigger than you can imagine,” he said. “There’d be no place safe for me.”

“If you don’t cooperate do you think McGarvey will back off? He knows your company was involved in the deaths of his son-in-law and the
Post
reporter. And he knows your people killed his wife and daughter.”

“And he killed Roland without hesitation because of it.”

“Only because your boss chose to take a bullet rather than cooperate,” Pete said.

Remington’s lips parted slightly at the same moment Pete became aware of the distant sounds of traffic as the front door opened. Sliding to the left and swiveling on one heel she was in time to see Sergeant Randall coming through the door, his gun hand rising. With no time to assume the proper two-handed grip and solid firing stance, she pulled off two snap shots, one smacking into the wall, but the other hitting the sergeant in center mass and he fell back, bouncing off the door frame and crumpling to the floor.

Before she could recover her balance Remington was on her, his superior weight bulling her to her knees. Instead of resisting, she went with his forward momentum, ducking down so that he came over the top of her back, and she grabbed the material of his jacket with her left hand and helped him the rest of the way over.

She scrambled away on her butt and heels, and got to her feet as Remington turned over and tried to reach Randall’s pistol. But he was too old, and too slow, and Pete was on him before he got two feet, and jammed her pistol in the back of his neck at the base of his skull.

“Now that the situation is stabilized and your sergeant is dead, give me one good reason not to pull the trigger,” she said. McGarvey and Otto were listening, and she’d just told them that she was okay.

“We want him alive,” McGarvey said.

“We have a safe house for you,” Pete said.

“What about afterward?” Remington asked, looking over his shoulder from where he was sprawled on the marble floor.

“If you mean your house in France and your secret bank accounts in Switzerland, Guernsey, and the Caymans, that will depend on how well you cooperate. We can take the house and drain your accounts easier than you think.”

“Flash drive,” Remington said.

“What about a flash drive?”

“The Friday Club. All of Admin’s records. Names, financial dealings. Everything. You can’t imagine.”

“Everything on the Friday Club?” Pete asked, for McGarvey’s benefit.

“Anyone else in the house?” McGarvey asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Make sure you have the flash drive and then get him out of there, right now. His sergeant might have called for backup,” McGarvey said. “I cheated. I’m five minutes away.”