The Cabal (8 page)

“Which by now the CIA undoubtedly has, and has read, and pronounced utter nonsense. Exactly as planned.” Remington looked at them. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes, sir,” Kangas said. “Mr. McGarvey and his freak friend in the Company are likely to suspect the disk is a fake.”

“You’re referring to Otto Rencke, the Company’s resident odd-duck genius.”

“They have a formidable history together.”

“Look, Mr. Remington, if McGarvey gets involved we could be in some deep shit,” Mustapha said, but Kangas held him off.

“Won’t be easy, but it’s nothing we can’t handle, sir. It’ll just take time and finesse and maybe some force.”

Remington looked out the window at the creek for several moments, and when he turned back he smiled. “For the moment Mr. McGarvey is my problem, and no concern of yours. Tell me about Mr. Givens and his family.”

“They’ve been eliminated,” Kangas said. “We took his laptop and BlackBerry and left behind the trace evidence you suggested. There’ll be no repercussions except for the connection between Givens and Van Buren, which McGarvey will almost certainly look into.”

“As I said, Mr. McGarvey is not your problem, for the moment,” Remington repeated. “In fact, I’d hoped that Mr. Van Buren would get his father-in-law involved. It makes the next step that much easier.”

“Sir?” Kangas asked. He was sure that despite Remington’s high-profile American wife, the man had to be a faggot. All the signs were there; the soft, dreamy speech patterns, his dress, his manners.

“Mr. McGarvey will be taken care of, trust me, gentlemen. You’ve done a fine job, and you will be suitably rewarded. But stay close, there’ll most likely be more to do.”

“We’d rather be back in the field,” Kangas said. He was uncomfortable with these kinds of assignments. The ethics and especially the freedom of the battlefield, where skill and tactics counted more than finesse, more than screwing around with civilian targets, were more to his liking.

Remington pursed his lips. “Are we clear on this, gentlemen?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Yes, sir,” Kangas said. Bastard.

“Yes, sir,” Mustapha agreed.

When they had driven off in their SUV, Remington powered down the divider. “Let’s go to the office, Sarge.”

“Full day, sir?” Robert Randall replied, his accent Cockney. He’d been a top sergeant at Sandhurst and in fact had been one of Remington’s chief instructors in the old days with the SAS. They had their own history, and Remington had a great deal of respect for the sergeant.

“Nothing more than the usual,” Remington said, glancing down at the laptop and other things Kangas and Mustapha had collected. They were becoming a problem, just as Roland had predicted they would.

“Think of them as a disposable tool,” Sandberger had told Remington.
“Use them once or twice and then dispose of them.” He had smiled faintly, and now, sitting in the back of his car, Remington had remembered that conversation in full detail.

“They could give us considerable trouble.”

“Of course they could, and will,” Sandbergber had agreed. “So we put them where we wouldn’t put anyone else. In the shitholes where the air is bad and the odds are stacked against them. If they succeed, all well and good, we’ll give them a bonus. If they fail . . .” Sandberger had shrugged indifferently. “They’re history.”

Remington had seen the logic, and just now they were the perfect pair for not only what had already transpired, but for what would probably develop over the coming days.

The serious problem at hand, the one Roland had assigned to him, because in his words S. Gordon had the finesse to pull it off, was the issue with the Friday Club and Admin’s contract with Foster, vis-à-vis Kirk McGarvey.

And the ultimate solution was mostly Sandberger’s, but partly Remington’s, who understood true British virtue, that truth was far less important than perception, something they’d perfected in their colonial days.

Certainly not Foster himself, but Admin would suggest that certain members of the Friday Club begin a quiet campaign to accuse Kirk McGarvey of treason. The charge had been made in the past but had never managed to stick for reasons unknown, except that the man had the reputation of being physically dangerous. But that was exactly the quality in a man that Admin most understood, and admired, and that the firm knew how to manipulate.

President Langdon had been elected on a platform of trust—the revitalization of American values—and chief among his goals was the transformation of U.S. intelligence gathering methods. Places like Guantánamo and the old Abu Ghraib—now Baghdad Central Prison—were to be dismantled, and dinosaurs like McGarvey were to be finally retired for the good of the nation. Torture and interrogation under drugs were to be eliminated, and terrorists and religious fanatics were
to be given the civilian rights of private citizens under the aegis of a recognized national governments.

So much bullshit, Remington thought. In his estimation only a complete idiot would stick to methods of honor when his enemy was sending airliners into buildings or children into the streets with explosives strapped to their frail bodies. Washington did not have the stomach to fight the real war; it’s why companies such as Administrative Solutions were hired to do the tough bits, the morally ambiguous actions. And it was for that very reason that the Friday Club was not only necessary but owed its existence.

Kirk McGarvey had been marginally useful to the nation for a portion of his career, but he could no longer be trusted. He was a madman who had to be eliminated or at the very least be kept behind bars for the remainder of his life.

The death of his son-in-law had unhinged him. Made him mentally unstable. Made him extremely dangerous.

McGarvey was housed in the visiting VIP wing of the BOQ across the yard from the two-story brick-fronted headquarters building. It was assumed that his debriefing would run through the afternoon, perhaps longer, and he would stay at the Farm overnight at the very least to keep him out of harm’s way until the situation could be stabilized. No one knew what might be coming next.

Tomlinson and Bob Dingle, the other security officer who’d driven down here with him from Washington, had been assigned as his bodyguards. They waited at the Charge of Quarters station in the front hall
while Mac splashed some water on his face, and joined them. It was a few minutes before noon.

“They’re waiting for us, Mr. Director,” Tomlinson said. He was cool; everyone had a great deal of respect for McGarvey, but the Company was under siege. A CIA officer had been gunned down in broad daylight and his father-in-law knew something about it.

“How about my wife and daughter?” McGarvey asked.

“Mrs. McGarvey was given a sedative, and she’s resting now in the infirmary. Mrs. Van Buren is in the conference room. She won’t start without you.”

“I see,” McGarvey said, his heart torn between wanting to go to Katy to make sure she was okay, and being with Liz to get the debriefing over with as soon as possible, and with as little additional emotional damage to his daughter as was possible under the circumstances.

The Farm was in lockdown for the remainder of the day and all of tomorrow until a new sitrep was prepared; no one was in the Yard when McGarvey and his bodyguards walked across past the center circle, the flag at half-staff, over to headquarters and upstairs to the camp commandant’s briefing room on the third floor.

Double-paned windows, with electronic white noise continuously transmitted in the gap between the glass panels, looked down the hill through the woods toward the York River, the firing range, and the starting block of the confidence course, deserted now.

Elizabeth sat hunched in a chair on one side of the conference table that had places for fourteen people, her head down, her hands clasped between her knees. She was still dressed in the same jeans and plain sweatshirt she’d worn to the hospital and the mop of short blond hair on her head was a mess.

The debriefers, Dan Green, a little person shorter than four-six, with a broad head, hawklike nose, wide, soft brown understanding eyes, and oddly shaped hands and distorted fingers sat across from her, next to his partner Pete Boylan, who was a vivacious woman in her early thirties, short dark hair, vividly blue eyes, and a voluptuous figure that could have landed her a place in Hollywood. Everyone
back at Langley was afraid to approach her; the men because she was beautiful and they figured they wouldn’t have a chance, the women because they felt they would appear frumpy next to her, and the clients whom she debriefed because they instinctively felt she would know when they were lying. But she had a reputation of being friendly not aloof, and kind not harsh. She and her partner were people who understood things, and were sympathetic.

“Mr. Director,” she said, looking up when McGarvey came into the room.

Green simply smiled sadly, an expression of near absolute devastation on his face. Their method was simple: Pete was the interrogator and Dan was, in the end, the priest to whom you confessed.

Liz looked up at her father and managed a weak smile. She’d finished crying, and now she seemed determined, the beginning of anger and raw hate starting to show up in the set of her mouth and eyes.

McGarvey sat down next to her. “I don’t think my daughter knows anything that might be of use at this point.”

“Yes, sir,” Pete agreed. “But she asked if she could remain.”

“I want to know what’s going on,” Liz said. “No one’s told me why he went to Washington, except to see a friend who you told me had been killed. But why?”

“We don’t know yet, sweetheart,” McGarvey said.

“Have you had a chance to take a look at the material on the disk that was found in Mr. Van Buren’s car?” Pete asked.

“His name was Todd,” Liz said sharply. “Let’s just start there, okay?”

Pete nodded, her eyes not leaving McGarvey’s.

“I’ve not seen it, but Otto Rencke filled me in.”

“What do you think?”

“Nonsense, of course.”

“Of course,” Pete said. “Not worth killing a CIA officer for. But your son-in-law, Todd, telephoned you from his car apparently less than a minute before the incident. What did he say to you?”

“That he had a meeting with Josh Givens in Washington, a friend
of his from college, about some sort of conspiracy involving the Friday Club.”

“Did he say how he felt about the information he’d been given?”

“He thought it was unlikely, but he told me that Givens apparently believed it.”

“What was your advice to him?” Pete asked.

“I told him to discuss the situation with Mr. Rencke.”

“Was there any urgency in your instruction, Mr. Director,” Dan Green asked, gently, as if he was hesitant to interrupt. “I mean to say, was Todd to return to the Farm and, say, mail the disk to Langley, or perhaps send it by courier, or perhaps encrypted e-mail?”

“I told him to call Otto immediately.”

“Why was that, Mr. Director? Why the urgency?”

McGarvey had thought about that very thing after he’d hung up from Todd’s phone call. “I thought that Mr. Givens was a respected member of the press, with a good reputation, and I didn’t suspect that he would waste his time chasing after nonsense, nor would he have called on a friendship with someone inside the CIA with Todd’s . . .”

“Connections?” Pete asked.

“Yes, with my son-in-law’s connections unless he thought it was important. Todd said that Givens was deeply frightened.”

“By the Friday Club?”

“Yes.”

“But the disk was mostly nonsense, something a man of Mr. Givens’s experience would have understood,” Pete said. “How do you see that?”

McGarvey glanced at his daughter, who was hanging on his every word. The expression of feral anger in her eyes was something new, and disturbing to McGarvey. He’d seen the look before in the eyes of field officers who’d been caught out and were in a fight for their lives—kill or be killed—but such an emotion in his daughter’s eyes wasn’t right, and there was nothing he could say here and now to help her.

“The disk found in his car was a fake. His killers took the real one.”

Green nodded thoughtfully. “That would have to mean whoever
was behind this had been closely monitoring Mr. Givens’s activities for a period of time long enough to suspect what might be on the disk he passed to your son . . . to Todd.”