Retribution (9781429922593)

by Hagberg, David

  It was exactly the reaction McGarvey had expected.

  “The name?” Patterson prompted.

  “Ali Naisir. He’s a major in the ISI’s directorate of Joint Intelligence Miscellaneous.”

  “Rencke,” Bambridge said. He was beside himself.

  “I would tread with care, Marty,” McGarvey said.

  “No one is above the law. Not you, not Martinez, and certainly not Otto Rencke.”

  Everyone was silent for what seemed like a long time. McGarvey bided his own, letting all of them, especially Page, work out the ramifications.

  It was finally the DCI who spoke. “You believe this information is reliable?” he asked.

  “It all fits. Pam Schlueter, who had an unsuccessful marriage to one of our naval officers, apparently hatched a plan to strike back at him. But she wanted to do it in a very big way, and for that she needed some serious muscle, which these days costs serious money. I think she approached the ISI with her scheme to kill the SEAL Team Six guys who violated Pakistan’s airspace to take out bin Laden. Nothing the government in Islamabad could do about it, except swallow its pride. Which had to hurt like hell. Schlueter gave them salvation. She would organize a team to take out the SEALs—all of them—but as an operation totally independent of Pakistan. And they bought it because she had the motive and they had the money.”

  “Has Otto found any traces of the money trail—any link no matter how small back to the ISI?” Page asked.

  “Not yet. But he’s working on it.”

  “The man needs to be reined in, Mr. Director,” Bambridge said.

  Page ignored him. “You want to go to Islamabad to talk to him, nothing more?”

  “If the connection exists—and I’ll ask him in such a way that he’ll tell the truth—it means that Pakistan is killing our people. Not just the SEAL operators who took out bin Laden but their families as well.”

  “The proof?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Pakistan is the Wild West,” Patterson said. “Have you ever considered that you’ll get yourself killed one of these days?”

  “All the time,” McGarvey said.

  “Marty, Carleton, leave us, would you please?” Page said.

  Bambridge was startled, but he and Patterson got up and left.

  Page went to his desk and dialed a number. “It’s me,” he said when someone answered. “It’s the McGarvey situation. It’s come to a head as we thought it might. I’m bringing him over to brief you.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  McGarvey had never met John Fay, the president’s new adviser for national security affairs. When he and Page were shown into the NSA’s West Wing office, the man got to his feet and shook hands.

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. McGarvey, and I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”

  He was a very lanky man, over six eight, but unlike many tall men he did not slouch. On the way over in the DCI’s limousine Page had explained that Fay had been a center for the Rutgers basketball team—long before the coaching scandal, of course, but he still took the mess personally. He was a proud man.

  “The man is a fixer,” Page said. “It’s why the president picked him. He knows the international situation like the back of his hand, and for three years he acted as a special adviser to Congress on all the major intelligence-gathering agencies in the world, including ours. He told me not so long ago that he loved to read spy novels.”

  “I hope he doesn’t believe what he reads,” McGarvey had said. “Anyone who gets their intel from novels gets the intel they deserve.”

  “He’s anything but that sort of a fool,” Page said. “In fact he’s one of the smartest men to ever hold that position, and he’s liable to ask you some penetrating questions. I suggest that you give him your honest assessments.”

  “I always do,” McGarvey had said.

  “Would either of you like some coffee, or perhaps a soft drink?” Fay asked, motioning them to take a seat.

  “Not for me,” McGarvey said.

  Page waved it off. “The situation with the SEAL Team Six continues to develop, and in fact Mac came to me with a couple of disturbing events and a recommendation that, frankly, I find problematic.”

  Fay was instantly troubled. “My God, don’t tell me there was another shooting?”

  “A near miss,” McGarvey said. And he explained in detail the events in Norfolk, only leaving out Pete’s and Wolf’s names.

  “You actually spoke with this woman on the phone?”

  “I told her it was over.”

  “How’d she sound?” Fay asked. “Mad, surprised, confused?”

  “Determined. She said that it was only over for now.”

  “You’re suggesting that despite what happened in Norfolk, and the fact that you and the agency know what she’s trying to accomplish, she won’t give up?”

  “Yes,” McGarvey said. “Because there’s most likely a great deal of money at stake and she’s carrying out her own personal vendetta.”

  “She was briefly married to a still-serving SEAL officer,” Page explained. “It was about as bad as it can get, and apparently she’s been nursing her hatred ever since the divorce.”

  “Is this officer aware of what she’s trying to do?”

  “I told him, but he didn’t believe she was capable of something like that,” McGarvey said.

  “Did he tell you why he was skeptical?”

  “No.”

  “There is still some passion there, you think?”

  McGarvey had thought about it. “He might think that he’s somehow responsible.”

  “What does he suggest?”

  “He’s buried his head in the sand. It’s easier for him.”

  Fay nodded thoughtfully. “What do you suggest? How do we stop her?”

  “Cut off her source of money,” McGarvey said.

  “Who is her paymaster?”

  “The ISI.”

  “Oh,” Fay said. “I see. In retaliation for Neptune Spear.” But then he had another thought. “Do you have proof that the Pakistanis are financing her? Do you have a direct link, a name, anything?”

  “Major Ali Naisir.”

  “And you got this name how, exactly?”

  Page had warned that the NSA would ask penetrating questions. “We took the man I captured down to a facility in the Florida Keys, where we waterboarded him until he gave up the name. We’ve done some research since and came up with Naisir’s position within the ISI, which is consistent with this sort of an operation.”

  “Where is he at the moment?”

  “Gitmo.”

  “I meant Major Naisir.”

  “Islamabad.”

  McGarvey’s reply hung on the air.

  President Langdon, in shirtsleeves, his tie loose, appeared at the door. “Gentlemen,” he said mildly. “Is this something I need to be in on?”

  Fay looked up. “No, sir. Not at this moment. We’re still in the preliminary stages of a what-if exercise.”

  “We’re not committing any assets or considering committing any?”

  “Nothing important, Mr. President.”

  The between-the-lines was huge. The president glanced at McGarvey, whom he’d never really gotten along with, then back to his NSA. “Keep me in the loop if and when the time comes.”

  “Of course,” Fay said, and the president left.

  “How deeply has he been briefed?” McGarvey asked after a long beat.

  Fay almost laughed. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t another Neptune Spear. If you go over there looking for this major, you’re strictly on your own. Deniability, Mr. McGarvey. Especially if something goes wrong. Do you understand?”

  “No,” McGarvey said. He’d faced this kind of crap nearly his entire career. We lamented the Pearl Harbors and the 9/11s, but beforehand, when we could have done something to stop the attacks, we sat on our hands. We looked the other way. It was the fair thing to do. It just wasn’t right. Not the American way.
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  “Bullshit,” Fay said. “You occupied Walt’s office, you know how delicate and necessary our relationship with Pakistan is. Without its cooperation we have absolutely no chance of defeating the Taliban over there.”

  “So we allow them to finance the assassination of all the guys and their families?”

  “Of course not, nor will the navy sequester them on some base somewhere, even if they’d go for it. There’d be no telling how long they’d have to stay cooped up.”

  And McGarvey did understand. He stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Fay. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Do.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  They sat drinking beer at the kitchen counter in the Renckes’ McClean safe house. Mac and Pete seated, Otto and Louise standing across from them, and Wolf, bag in hand, at the door. He had been ordered back to Germany.

  “I don’t know how much help we can give you,” Mac said.

  “I’ll get a letter of reprimand in my personnel file, but it won’t be the first or last. Anyway I think it’s for the best that I keep an eye on Schlueter. It’s a sure bet she’s not done.”

  “It’s too bad you can’t take her into custody,” Louise said.

  “She’s done nothing wrong on German soil. But if the CIA or FBI were to make an official request, we could do something.”

  “Won’t happen,” McGarvey said. “Fay made it perfectly clear that I was on my own, and if something went wrong I would be cut loose. And Walt told me the same thing.”

  “Wouldn’t be the only time politics got in the way,” Otto said.

  “No. So that issue isn’t on the table. But I’m going to need some help from you guys. Wolf will keep an eye on Schlueter, and if she makes a move back here, or if she simply disappears, I’ll want to know immediately.”

  “I don’t know how much manpower I’ll have at my disposal, but I’ll do my best.”

  “In the meantime I want to make Naisir sit up and look over his shoulder.”

  “Is that such a good idea?” Pete asked. “If he knows that you’re coming he’ll just order your arrest and they’ll stick you in a jail cell somewhere and you’ll disappear. That is, if you’re not shot trying to escape.”

  “I don’t think so,” McGarvey said. “He’ll probably have someplace to go to ground. But he’ll be just as constrained as we are. His government will deny that there ever was a deal between one of its ISI officers and a German terrorist group.”

  “That won’t matter. They’ll treat you as nothing more than a rogue spy—maybe an independent contractor on your own vendetta but with absolutely no connection to Schlueter.”

  “I hope that’ll be the case,” McGarvey said. “I’ve been thinking about it. Besides giving notice to Naisir that I’m coming after him, Otto’s going to build a legend for an American wheeler-dealer living in Karachi. Some guy selling arms to the Taliban, maybe bomb-making equipment that they use to attack not only American targets but Pakistani ones as well.”

  Otto saw it immediately. “We’ll call him Poorvaj Chopra, born in Calcutta but emigrated to the States with his parents when he was five. Served in the Army Rangers but got kicked out for some shit I’ll figure out. Maybe smuggling, gambling, whores—whatever. Anyway, his father went back to Calcutta a few years ago and got mixed up in a Hindu-Muslim riot in the slums and got himself killed. Ever since then Poorvaj has had a hard-on for Pakistanis. Figures he can stick it to them by selling arms to the Taliban while at the same time making some money. Now we want to put a stop to him.”

  “Not for any love of Pakistan but because the Taliban have been attacking our people as well,” Louise said. “But Naisir’s not likely to believe it.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Mac said. “If the legend is strong enough and my assignment is to come to Pakistan to take the guy out, he won’t be able to pass me off as an enemy of the state. Someone who needs to be picked up or shot. If he wants me dead he’ll have to do it himself.”

  “He might have friends,” Wolf said.

  “We’ll deal with those issues as they come up. In the meantime, I have all the credentials I’ll need. But it’s become next to impossible to carry a weapon aboard an international flight, especially one going into a country under siege like Pakistan.”

  “Weapons,” Pete said, but McGarvey didn’t catch it.

  “Best if I fly commercial, probably from someplace neutral like Poland or the Czech Republic. Soon as I get back to my apartment I’ll call you with my passport number.”

  “Give me a name, I have all your documents in a database,” Otto said, and McGarvey nodded.

  “Leonard Sampson.”

  “Got it.”

  Louise was staring at Pete. “Did you mean what I thought you meant when you said ‘weapons’?”

  “I’m going to Islamabad too,” Pete said. “I’ll need a weapon, and papers under the name Doris Sampson.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” McGarvey said.

  “She has a point,” Louise said.

  “No.”

  “You’re just the sort of figure Naisir and whoever he’ll have helping him will expect to show up,” Pete said, her tone of voice reasonable. “But if you show up with wifey in arm—wifey with a scarf to cover her hair like a dutiful Muslim woman—you might fit in. At any rate, if Naisir is likely to have friends, you might as well have a second gun hand.”

  “He’s already seen my face in Berlin.”

  Pete turned to Otto. “I need the passport and a flight over. Doesn’t have to be the same flight as Mac’s. Might even be better if you can get me there first so I can be waiting for him. It’ll be harder for him to ditch me.”

  “Goddamnit,” McGarvey said. All of his professional life he had lived in mortal fear that what he did would boil over into his personal life, affect the people he loved. And it had. Two women he’d been involved with after his divorce from Kathy had been killed because of him. And then once he got back together with his ex she had been assassinated along with his daughter and son-in-law.

  The same bullshit fear came roaring in at him again. He didn’t want to be responsible. And he said as much.

  “Bullshit, as you’re fond of saying,” Pete said. “I’m a grown woman, capable of taking care of herself. I think I proved that a couple of years ago right here in D.C., you macho bastard.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?” Pete demanded. “Tell me.”

  McGarvey turned to Otto and Louise for support.

  “Your creds will be waiting for you at Dulles first thing in the morning,” Otto said. “I’ll have the flight number before you leave here tonight. I think Atlanta first, then Warsaw and finally Rawalpindi. I’ll have the name of a guy who’ll meet you with weapons and anything else you might need.”

  “We’ll need to know where Naisir lives, and his family situation. I really don’t want to barge into this guy’s house while he’s having dinner with his wife and kids.”

  “I’ll have that for you as well.”

  It was a nightmare to McGarvey. “Don’t I have anything to say about this?”

  “No,” Louise and Pete said simultaneously.

  He took a pull of his beer, looking at both of them. Otto’s expression was neutral.

  “I won’t cut you any breaks,” Mac said.

  “When did you ever?” Pete shot back.

  “Shit,” he said. “Naisir works for Joint Intel Miscellaneous.”

  “Yes,” Otto said.

  “Means he meets with field officers from time to time. Like our NOCs who never show up at headquarters.”

  “Right, right, right,” Otto said. “He’s got a safe house somewhere. Could be when you show up he’ll run to ground.”

  “If for nothing more than to insulate his family.” McGarvey said.

  Pete gave him an odd look, but she nodded. “If we know where it is, we might get there first and wait for him. It would keep the whole op clean. Keep the collateral damage to a minimum.” />
  “Eliminate it completely if possible,” Louise said. She’d always been the conscience of the group. She kept Otto centered, and sometimes reminded McGarvey that what he was doing—what he’d always done—was the right thing.

  “You guys are right, of course,” McGarvey said. “But I can’t help thinking about the families of the two SEALs they killed.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Naisir was made to wait for nearly an hour in the ISI director’s outer office before the secretary motioned him to the door.

  “You may see General Bhutani now, Major,” he said.

  Naisir had taken the call in his office fifteen minutes ago, thankful that he had worn a decent uniform this morning. Ayesha had insisted, telling him she had a hunch, and once again she was right. Over the years he had learned to trust her feminine intuition, and at this moment he was especially glad of it.

  General Butani was seated behind his mammoth desk in front of the broad windows that looked down on a pretty courtyard and fountain. A short, slender man dressed in civilian clothes, one leg crossed over the other, was seated in an easy chair in a corner across the room.

  Naisir stopped directly in front of the general, clicked his heels, and saluted. “Major Ali Naisir reporting, as ordered, sir.”

  The general, who was reminiscent of Musharraf, with a round smiling face, neatly trimmed mustache, and graying sideburns, returned the salute but did not offer a chair.

  “I am a busy man, so allow me to come straight to the point. Trouble is heading your way, which is exactly what Pakistan cannot afford to have happen.”

  Naisir’s gut tied in a knot. “Sir?”

  “You are currently involved with a delicate project in the United States, if I’ve been informed correctly.”

  “It was thought to keep the project at arm’s length from the service.”

  Bhutani let it hang for a moment. “Are we speaking of the same project?”

  “SEAL Team Six, sir? A proposal was made to us some months ago that it could be possible to eliminate the Americans who took part in the operation they called Neptune Spear.”

  “Why?”

  “Retribution.”