The Fourth Horseman (16 page)

“Good idea.”

“Were you told what happened at the Pakistani embassy last night?”

“John Fay filled me in. Said that you and Miss Boylan were there too. Are you going to tell me that the attack on her this morning had something to do with what went on there?”

“I think that the ISI wants to keep me out of the mix. It’s why they tried to kill me in Florida, and it’s why they went after Pete—to distract me. Have you seen Dave this morning?”

“I wanted to talk to you first. Susan Kalley called from the White House, wanting to know what the hell happened. The president is ready to discount just about everything Dave’s told her. And she’s pulling the records of every meeting he had with her, even during her campaign.”

“What’ll she find?”

“Nothing but solid advice, so far as I know. But his wife’s murder has hit him very hard. I’m thinking about putting him on administrative leave.”

“Might not be a bad idea, but give it a day or so. I’m going to talk to him this morning.”

“You don’t trust him.”

“No,” McGarvey said. Both he and Pete had got the strong impression that Haaris’s performance last night had been staged, and he said as much to Page.

“You and Otto think that he might be the Messiah,” the director said. “But it could be that you’re cherry-picking him. Focusing on every little bit that supports your notion while discounting everything else. Suppose it was an intruder, a burglar, who his wife surprised, and not a hitman sent by the ISI?”

“The ISI didn’t kill her, nor did a burglar.”

“Who then?”

“He did it.”

Page sat back. “Good Lord almighty. Do you have proof?”

“No, but their marriage could have been a front all along. Could be she walked in on something he was doing or saying that she wasn’t suppose to know about. He wouldn’t have had much of a choice.”

Page’s secretary buzzed him. He picked up the phone. “Not now.” But then he looked at McGarvey. “Dave Haaris would like to have a word with you as soon as possible.”

“Five minutes,” McGarvey said.

Page gave his secretary the message and hung up.

“As soon as Dave Haaris disappears I think the Messiah will show up. But it won’t happen until the staff at the Presidential Palace has been purged of everyone who supported Barazani, including just about everyone in the compound.”

“It’s not been in the news yet, but the purge has already started. Quietly, but it won’t be long before word of it gets out.”

“I’m going down to talk to him now.” McGarvey got up and went to the door. “When does our ambassador and his staff leave for Islamabad?”

“Two days.”

“You’re a friend of Fay’s. Have him include me in the delegation.”

“Not a chance they’d take you. And even if they did you’d be recognized the moment you got off the plane.”

“I’ll be an assistant to the military attaché. Different name, different appearance. No one will recognize me.”

“Once you’re there, then what?”

“I’m going to kill the Messiah.”

*   *   *

A haggard-looking Dave Haaris was alone in his office reading a summary report on the developing situation in Islamabad that had been sent down to him from the Watch, when McGarvey was buzzed through.

“Thanks for coming to see me,” Haaris said. “I want to apologize to you personally for my behavior last night. I wasn’t myself.”

“No need to apologize to me, but you might want to have a word with the Pakistani ambassador and with your old friend Rajput, who’s filed a formal complaint with the White House.”

“I’m rather afraid that I’ve lost the ear of the president.”

“What was the point of confronting Rajput so publicly?” McGarvey asked. “What sort of a reaction were you looking for?”

Haaris took a moment to answer. “The general has never been a friend of mine, old or new, but I have met with him a sufficient number of times to have made a measure of the man. And there’ve been the odd psych reports, which contained some nuggets. But I didn’t get what I was looking for. Either he’s a better liar than I thought he was or he truly knows nothing about my wife’s assassination.”

“So now what?”

“Deborah is being cremated this afternoon, and I’m taking her ashes to London. She thought it would be elegant if her remains were to be spread on the Thames. Actually, she’d always thought it would be both of us. Mine because she thought I wanted to go home, and hers because she wanted to be with me.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tonight. Since I’m no longer required to be at the White House, I thought I’d see some old friends at the SIS and get their take on the situation. Pass it along to my people here.”

“What about the Messiah?”

“What about him?” Haaris asked.

“The president has asked me to assassinate him.”

Haaris was taken aback. “How extraordinary.”

“The same order was given for bin Laden.”

“I meant how extraordinary that you would tell me such a thing, unless you firmly believe that I’m the Messiah.”

“Where did you hear that?”

Haaris smiled. “Good heavens, you were the director of Central Intelligence once upon a time. Didn’t you learn as DCI that there are more leaks here on Campus than there are in a peasant’s roof?”

“I could ask you who you heard it from.”

“I don’t recall, but perhaps it was from Miss Boylan. We had a chat a couple of days ago, she might have mentioned it. I understand that she was involved in an automobile accident this morning. How is she?”

“Dead,” McGarvey said.

TWENTY-NINE

McGarvey went back up to Page’s office, where he briefed the director on his conversation with Haaris.

“I’ll have Tommy Boyle put a tail on him,” Page said. Boyle was the CIA’s London chief of station and a friend of Haaris’s. “But I don’t understand the part about Miss Boylan.”

“As long as most everyone thinks she’s dead, she’ll stop being a target,” McGarvey said.

“If Marty’s in on it he’ll want to use her as an asset.”

“I don’t want to worry about her, so keep Marty out of it.”

“I understand how you feel,” Page said. “But she’s a capable field officer who’s proved her worth on more than one occasion. From what I understand she was of some assistance to you in Florida a few days ago.”

“Have our media people pass it along to the Virginia Highway Patrol. They can make the announcement that one of our officers was killed in a car crash on the parkway. It was an unfortunate accident.”

“I’ll do it, but you’re the only one who’ll be able to convince her to lie low.”

“Have you talked to Fay yet?”

“I was waiting until you spoke with Haaris. You still mean to go through with the president’s request?”

“Like I said, Walt, I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

“You understand that this won’t be like the bin Laden op. You’ll be totally on your own. If you’re captured or taken out, we’ll deny your orders. And I got that directly from Kalley. Not in so many words, of course, but her meaning was clear.”

“I’ll have Otto send up a passport name, photo and number later today or first thing in the morning. You can tell Fay to tell the ambassador that I’m a CIA officer, but I’ll be tagging along purely as an observer.”

“What about our station staff at the embassy?”

“I don’t want to interact with them unless it becomes necessary. If this thing goes south I want Austin to stay in the clear.”

“I suppose if I briefed Carlton he would say that you had finally gone completely out of your mind,” Page said. “And I’d have to agree with him.” Carlton Patterson was a longtime admirer of McGarvey’s.

“You’re right, so don’t bother him,” McGarvey said.

“One of these days when you walk out of this office you won’t come back.”

“You’re almost certainly right about that too. But it’s what I signed up for at the beginning.”

“Take care of yourself, Mac.”

*   *   *

Otto was in his office monitoring the same feeds from Pakistan that the Watch was receiving when McGarvey showed up.

“Louise has been bugging me about Pete. How’s she doing?” Louise and Pete had become fast friends over the past couple of years.

“She’ll be okay. I’m bringing her out here first thing in the morning as soon as Franklin releases her.”

Otto had to laugh. “Do you think she’s going to stand for it—putting her on ice so you don’t have to worry about the pretty little woman? I can just hear what she’ll say about that move. Even Louise will think you’re nuts.”

On the feed was the image of a stern-looking man in traditional Punjabi dress, seated behind a desk, the national flag behind him, the translation of what he was saying in a crawl across the bottom of the monitor.

“Shahidullah Shahid,” Otto said, “official spokesman for the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan. He’s been speaking for the past hour and a half about unity. But it’s not so important who he is but
where
he is.”

“Could be anywhere.”

“The Aiwan,” Otto said. “In fact he’s seated at the president’s desk.”

“The ISI has finished its purge.”

“Mostly a bloodless coup so far, except for Barazani.”

“Any sign of the Messiah?”

“Not yet, and Shahid hasn’t even mentioned him, at least not by name. But he admits that he’s not the only man in charge of the government. And if Haaris is the Messiah, all we have to do is keep a tight rein on him, which shouldn’t be so tough so long as he stays in Washington.”

“He’s taking his wife’s ashes to London tonight. Says that she wanted them to be spread on the Thames. Page will have Tommy Boyle put someone on him.”

“Okay, same difference. As long as we can see him anywhere but Islamabad he won’t be able to get into much mischief.”

“I need a new ID set—driver’s license, credit cards, passport, family photos, medical insurance card. I don’t want to use ones I’ve already fielded.”

“By when?”

“In the morning at the latest. Page is going to get me a slot on Power’s team when they return to Islamabad. Should be tomorrow or the day after.”

“Everybody knows your face, so we’ll need to change it. Saul Landesberg over in Technical Services is about the best around. I’ll give him the heads-up. When do you want to do it?”

“Now. I want to see how it plays here first, because if it doesn’t I’ll have to find another way.”

Otto gave him a long, odd look but picked up the phone and called Technical Services. “Saul, Otto. I have a job for an old friend. But this would have to be totally off the grid. And quick. Like right now.”

*   *   *

Landesberg was a short, slightly built man with thinning fair hair and wide, serious eyes, who seemed to have a perpetual broad smile plastered on his wide face. He’d cleared the two technicians from his small studio before McGarvey and Otto showed up.

“Judging from Otto’s call, I thought it might be you, Mr. Director, but I didn’t breathe a word to anyone. Where are we off to?”

McGarvey had never actually met the man, but he’d heard of him. He’d been named by a number of NOCs as the “Artist.”

“Pakistan, in a couple of days,” McGarvey said.

“Good Lord, not as a Paki? You’re too damned big.”

“No, I’m going in with our embassy staff as an observer.”

“So everyone will know that you work for the CIA but as a wonk, not a spook. An intellectual. An academic. Maybe Harvard or some such on contract to the Intelligence Directorate.”

He had McGarvey take off his jacket and shirt, and sat him down in a swiveling salon chair in front of a bank of mirrors, some of them reflecting close-up views of McGarvey’s face, neck and upper torso.

“Do we have a name?” he said, brushing his fingers though McGarvey’s hair. Feeling the structure of his forehead, cheeks, nose, chin. Peering into his eyes.

“Travis Parks.”

“Dr. Parks. Cultural anthropology, but only as the first layer of your cover. It’s a subject almost nobody knows anything about. Your real specialty, of course, is government studies. You’re on board to take a close look at what’s really happening in Islamabad. Friend or foe.”

Landesberg shut off the lights in the mirrors so that they went blank. “We’ll make you a little older, gray at the sides, shorter hair. Do you tolerate contacts?”

“I don’t want to fuzz out if I’m in the middle of a shooting situation,” McGarvey said.

“No contacts. Gray green it is. A little broader nose, thicker eyebrows, heavier cheeks, maybe a jutting chin. Sallow complexion. A little sagging of your jowls, a few wrinkles on your neck, same complexion on your chest and back, gray hair. Nothing over the top, but cumulatively the effect should be enough that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you, and yet you’ll have complete mobility.” Landesberg laughed. “Won’t run or fall off. You’ll even be able to take a cozy shower for two.”

THIRTY

Haaris never had trouble adjusting to time zone changes. His body clock was on U.S. eastern, where it was one in the morning, while it was six in the morning when he arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport. He’d only napped for an hour or so, but walking through the concourse to Immigration Control he was alert.

Several international flights had arrived at about the same time and the terminal was very busy; even so he spotted his tail within twenty-five feet of his gate.

He presented his U.S. passport to the agent at one of the windows.

“Good morning, Mr. Haaris. What is the purpose of your visit to Great Britain?”

“I’ve brought my wife’s ashes over, she wanted to be buried here.”

The uniformed agent looked up, startled. It was an answer she’d not often heard. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. Was she a British citizen?”

“No. But she loved everything here, especially the countryside in spring and summer.”

“You might need a permit, sir.”

“Actually, no, unless you want to scatter them on private property or in a public park.”

The woman stamped the passport and handed it over. “Do you have friends here?”

“Yes,” Haaris said, and he pocketed his passport as he moved down the hall to Baggage Claim and Customs.