“We were given a code phrase to use if we needed help. The travel agent made the call or sent the e-mail.”
“So the call could have gone to a private cell phone at Langley. Or more likely to a blind number somewhere in the vicinity. The killer still could be George. He could have hired the hit man here in Paris, and since that failed, he’s made arrangements for you to be taken out in Tel Aviv.”
“We’ll see when we get there,” Alex said.
She seemed to Pete to be resigned. Too resigned? “Do you think you’ll recognize him?”
“It’s always the eyes,” Alex said. “You can wear contacts and change the color, and you can even have plastic surgery. But you can’t hide what’s in them.” She nodded. “If we come face-to-face, I’ll recognize him.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll ask him why he did it. We kept our mouths shut; there was no reason to kill everyone. And especially not the way he did it.”
“The same as you and he did in Iraq.”
“For different reasons. I keep telling you the same thing. Anyway, we’ve grown up since then—or at least, I have.”
Pete’s cell phone vibrated. It was Mac. “We’re on the way up. Are you ready to leave?”
“Anytime you are. I’m in her room with our things.”
“You’re taking a cab to the airport. Do you have her passport?”
“The pictures don’t match.”
“They never do,” McGarvey said.
Pete hung up. “One last thing I don’t get,” she told Alex. “When Walt Wager was murdered, why didn’t you contact the others and set up a defensive position together? You’d worked as a team before.”
“When Joseph bought it in Athens, I thought it was just an accident. But when Walt was killed, I knew what was going on. The only trouble was, I didn’t know where the rest of them were.”
“Okay, I can buy the likelihood that you guys didn’t know where the others were hiding. But after Wager went down, you didn’t even try to look for the others. You were out just for yourself, just to save your own skin.”
“You’re damned right,” Alex said. “Survival is the name of the game—the only game worth being good at.”
She got up and went to her bag, grabbing a billed cap. She gave it to Pete. “Wear this—it’ll at least cover your hair. You’re flying business class, but don’t get off at the front of the crowd. Stick around till most of the tourist-class passengers get off. Might buy you a little time.”
Someone knocked.
Pete drew her weapon and went to the door. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Me,” Mac said.
Pete let him in. Bete hadn’t come with him.
“We’re going first,” he said. “Give us five minutes, then check out and take a cab to the airport. But listen: anything goes wrong, even if you have the slightest suspicion something is about to happen, push the panic button. Otto’s programs are watching for it.”
Star 111 on Pete’s sat phone would set off an alarm that Otto would pick up immediately. It would give her precise GPS position anywhere on Earth and at any altitude.
“Nothing’s going to happen in the air, and you’ll be in Tel Aviv at the international terminal when I get there,” she said, though she had a little flutter in her stomach.
She was primarily an interrogator—and a damned good one. It was a job she’d always liked. The only reason she’d become a field agent was because of Mac. She supposed she had fallen in love with him almost from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. But she had given him room because of the death of his wife.
“Give me your weapon,” he said.
Pete handed over her pistol, and Mac stuffed it into his bag. Then, at the door with Alex and her attaché case, he turned back and went to her.
“When this is over, we’re going to New York to dinner in the Village. I know an Italian restaurant, homemade pasta, a great Bolognese sauce, and Valpolicella. It’ll be a Saturday, and we’ll make it late and wander around until the Sunday Times comes out. We’ll find a bakery just opening and have coffee and something sweet for dessert. Date?”
“Absolutely,” Pete said.
He kissed her on the cheek, and he and Alex left.
She stood for a long moment or two before she went back to the window and looked down at the pretty courtyard. She hadn’t known for sure if she had a chance with him. But now she knew, and she also knew she would move heaven and earth for him.
* * *
Traffic was heavy out to Charles de Gaulle, as it always was on just about any highway in or around Paris. The cabby dropped Pete off at the Turkish Airlines counter, where she showed her Lois Wheeler identification and picked up her boarding pass.
At the international terminal, she showed her passport and boarding pass. The male security officer looked at the photo, then at Pete. “Doesn’t look like you, Madame,” he said.
“It was taken a few years ago. I’m a little older now.”
“Your hair is not the same.”
Pete smiled. “What woman’s is?” she asked. “It’s our prerogative.”
The officer looked again at the passport photo. “What is your birth date?”
Pete gave him the date from the passport. It was a few years older than she was.
The officer initialed her boarding pass and handed it and her passport back. “The photo does you no justice, Madame.”
Her shoulder bag and the one carry-on bag were sent through the X-ray machine, and she passed through the security arch.
The man ahead of her was taken aside for a pat-down, but she was allowed to collect her things and head down the broad corridor to the gates, the first and easiest of her hurdles behind her.
Tel Aviv wouldn’t be so easy, because it was possible someone would be gunning for Lois Wheeler.
FIFTY-FOUR
Colonel Bete had three Citroën C5 black sedans waiting in front of the hotel. McGarvey and Alex rode in the back of the middle car, Bete riding shotgun in the front seat. Two men sat in the front of the lead and follow cars, in the backseats of which were a man and a woman.
“There have already been two deaths in Paris over this business,” Bete said as they pulled away. “Lucien, for all the problems he faces now, was correct in his concern over your presence here. I personally want to make sure you are gone as quickly as possible.”
“Thanks for your help,” McGarvey said.
Bete turned around in his seat. “You are a good and capable man, Monsieur le Directeur, and in many ways France owes you and the CIA a debt of gratitude. But you are like a lightning apparatus. You attract trouble. I’m not the only one who will breathe a sigh of relief when you are gone.”
“Maybe I’ll come back on vacation someday.”
Bete laughed. “I sincerely hope not. You have not been officially designated as a persona non grata, but I think the next time you would not be allowed entry.”
“Too bad for France, Colonel,” Alex said. “One of these days you might need his help. But then if France asks, he’ll probably come running. It’s what he does, didn’t you know?”
Bete didn’t answer.
They took the feeder road that ran alongside the Seine to the ring road that connected to the A3 out to Charles de Gaulle, sweeping past traffic, their speeds sometimes topping 150 kilometers per hour.
At the airport they were passed through the security gates to the commercial hangar, where the Gulfstream had been trundled out to the tarmac, its engines idling, its hatch open, its stairs down.
Bete got out with them. “I understand your sentiment, Mademoiselle Unroth. Despite who you are, Monsieur McGarvey has stepped into the fray to help save your life, though it’s beyond me why, except that, as you intimate, he is a good man. But he is no longer welcome in France.” He glanced at McGarvey and nodded. “At least not in the near term.”
He and McGarvey shook hands, and Alex went first aboard the Gulfstream, McGarvey right behind her.
“Anytime you’re ready, Captain,” McGarvey said.
He and Alex went aft and strapped in.
Maggie came back. “We’re eighth for takeoff. May I get either of you something to drink? I’ll be serving steaks with baked potatoes and salads once we’re at ten thousand feet.”
“May I have a glass of champagne?” Alex asked.
“Of course. For you, Mr. Director?”
“A cognac, and then I’m going to get some sleep. It’s been a hell of a long day.”
“No dinner?”
“Not for me.”
The attendant went forward.
“She’s a pretty girl, but then so is Pete,” Alex said. “She’s in love with you.”
“Stay out of it,” McGarvey growled.
They started away from the hangar and onto the taxi way, toward the active runway, and joined a lineup of six much larger jets and a Boeing 777 just turning into place for takeoff.
“Once they find out Pete’s an imposter, they’ll figure out I came in the back door with you, and George will send someone to try to kill me.”
“Then why are you doing this? Why go to him?”
“To see if someone actually tries.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll find him, providing you let me keep Pete’s papers and CIA identification booklet. And her gun.”
“The Israelis won’t appreciate the CIA bringing in a ringer right under their noses. Armed.”
“Only to defend myself.”
“That’s what the Hezbollah terrorists claim.”
Alex looked away. “I’ll do it on my own if I have to,” she said. “But once Pete is outed, the Mossad is going to take a real interest in you. They might even bring you to someone who will claim to have been the control officer for the op in Iraq. But you won’t have any possible way of knowing if he himself isn’t a ringer.”
“Not with you there.”
Alex looked at him and nodded. “You’re probably right,” she said.
* * *
It was early evening, Tel Aviv time when the pilot called McGarvey and said they were one hour from landing at Ben Gurion, which would put them nearly one hour ahead of the Turkish Airlines flight.
“Who will be meeting us?”
“They didn’t say, but from the tone of the guy I just got off the radio with, it’ll be Mossad. They’ve already checked Langley to find out who we were. Your name and Ms. Boylan’s were mentioned, and they wanted to know the nature of your flight. I played dumb.”
“Good job, Captain, thanks. I’m going to make a sat phone call now.”
“You may use the aircraft’s equipment.”
“Thanks, but from this point, they’ll be monitoring every transmission that comes from us.”
“But not your sat phone?”
“Mr. Rencke designed it,” McGarvey said.
“I see.”
Otto was at his desk when Mac’s call came in. “The Mossad has taken an interest in you guys,” he said. “But Walt’s still backing you up, over Marty’s objections.”
“Is anyone on the Hill or the White House asking questions?”
“Nada, except they want updates on our serial killer. But everyone’s damned glad the problem seems to have gone away. I let it slip that the killer was definitely off campus, and probably out of the country. Marty sent our station chiefs the heads-up.”
“No mention of Alex?”
“None. Unless someone takes a look at the Sûreté’s day sheets over the past twenty-four hours. But the DGSE has promised to temporarily delay making positive IDs on you or Alex.”
“I’m sure no one in France is happy about it.”
“A firestorm would be more accurate. Wouldn’t have been half so bad except the guy who took the hit at the café was a stockbroker. He was there meeting his mistress, who is the wife of the minister of finance. Figaro is speculating he was assassinated on the minister’s behalf, and that his recent string of successes on the Paris Bourse were because of insider information he was getting from the wife.”
“That story won’t hold for long,” McGarvey said.
“How much time do you need?”
“Seventy-two hours ideally, but at least forty-eight. I think we’re getting close.”
“Somebody else does too; otherwise, they wouldn’t have taken the risk of trying to take her out in Paris,” Otto said. “One other thing: the DGSE thinks it has a positive ID on the shooter they fished out of the river. The Barrett was registered to a fictitious name at an accommodations box in London, which led them to an SIS investigation of a Brit by the name of Hamid Cabbage—mom was an Israeli, dad was a Scotland Yard counterterrorist officer who sometimes did contract work for the Mossad. Thing is, the son took off on his own and did some freelance assassinations.”
“Trained in Israel, but then left after a short period?” McGarvey asked.
“The French sent over blood and mouth swab samples for a DNA match. But that’s going to take a few days.”
“He could have been working for the Mossad, or for someone else,” McGarvey said.
FIFTY-FIVE
Otto turned his battered old Mercedes diesel over to the valet parker at the Hotel George, just down the block from Union Station, and went inside to the bistro and bar. He gave the name Tony Samson to the maître d’, who had a server take him to a table upstairs, where an older woman with gray hair, sagging eyelids, and drooping jowls was just finishing a martini.
“Mrs. Fegan,” Otto said.
The woman looked up and then smiled uncertainly. “Actually, it’s been Ms. for the past five years. You’re Mr. Samson?”
Otto nodded and sat down. The waiter came, and Otto ordered a house red. She ordered another Tanqueray martini straight up.
“I don’t know how much help I can be. I don’t have any proof. Only things I heard.”
The woman had been on Robert Benning’s staff when he was the assistant ambassador to the UN. Her job had been to expedite the briefing papers and books he used. She’d made it clear during their two Skype conversations before she agreed to meet that she had never created any positions, or even interpreted the raw data that came into the office. Her job was just a small step above a secretary’s.
Louise had dressed Otto for the occasion, with new boat shoes, crisply ironed jeans, a spotless button-up white shirt, and a dark blue blazer from Brooks Brothers. His long frizzy red hair was tied in a ponytail. She assured him he looked fashionable.
“I’ll work on finding the proof. I’d just like to hear your story.”
“I looked up your name. You don’t work for the Post.”
“Samson’s not my real name. Not at this stage of this story.”
“I’ll deny everything if you use my name,” she said. “I just want you to know that from the beginning. You won’t use a recorder or take written notes, anything like that.”
Otto nodded. Last year Pete had coached him on the primary principle of being a good interrogator. “Keep your mouth shut,” she had told him. “Know the answers to the questions you ask, and then let the subject do all the talking. And especially don’t say a thing when it seems like they’re done. Let them fret. They’ll fill in the silences, because they’ll either be afraid of you, or more often than not, they’ll try to impress you.”
The woman stared at him but then looked away as their drinks came.
“Would you like to order?” the waiter asked them.
“Not yet,” she said. She took a deep draught of her martini, and Otto nearly winced, seeing her lack of reaction to the raw alcohol.
“You must have already guessed what was going on; otherwise, you wouldn’t have sought me out.”
Otto sipped his merlot. It wasn’t
bad, though when he’d lived in France, even the table wines—the vins ordinaires—were better.
“Everyone was so frantic to find Saddam’s WMDs, they jumped on the yellow cake story. And even when it looked as if that wouldn’t pan out, they couldn’t just walk away. They started looking for nerve gas and biological weapons mobile factories.”
Otto wanted to talk for her, lead her to cutting to the chase, but he just nodded.
She finished her second martini and held the glass up to the waiter for another. The alcohol was like water to her.
“They needed the justification so badly, they were willing to lie to make it true. But you can’t imagine the pressure all of us were feeling. It even filtered down to the janitors, who weren’t allowed into the offices until someone signed off that any scrap of paper with the least bit of sensitive material had been accounted for—either locked up or shredded.
“Finally people started whispering about the it. ‘It was in place. It would convert the critics. Make believers out of them all. It showed we had been right from day one. Saddam had sold out his own people. Something Israel had been warning about from the start. After all, bin Laden was only one problem; we had much bigger fish to fry.’”
She fiddled impatiently with her empty glass. “It was about then that my husband and I began having our troubles. I was spending too much time at work, and he was traveling all the time. And not alone.”
Pete did caution that if they seemed to be wandering off course, to jog them. “But lightly,” she’d said.
“Any idea what the it might have been?” he asked.
She laughed, the sound ragged. She was a big drinker, but Otto figured she was also a heavy smoker. “No one wanted to come out and actually say something specific. Everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Otto sipped his wine.
“Someone was going to have to find the damned thing before it was too late, for Christ’s sake. Don’t be dense.”
Otto waited for nearly a full minute, until the waiter had brought Ms. Fegan’s third drink, before he pulled out folded sheet of paper and laid it on the table.
“I won’t talk to you if you try to take notes,” the woman said.
End Game Page 24