Blood Pact (McGarvey)

by Hagberg, David

  The men at the door turned, pistols in their hands, and al-Rashid fired five times, shoving both men backward against the front wall in sprays of blood.

  The silence afterward was gloomy.

  “I thought that you might try to rob me,” al-Rashid said. “But now that the odds have been evened, I still need the things I contracted for.”

  He figured that the arms dealer was upstairs on the balcony, shotgun in hand just like earlier today.

  “I have the remaining sixty-five thousand dollars, if we can come to an arrangement.”

  “Your things are on the table in the middle of the room,” Meolans said from directly above. “Leave the money, and take them.”

  Al-Rashid fired seven rounds up into the balcony floor, walking the rounds left and right.

  Meolans cried out twice and fell to the floor with a heavy thud.

  Al-Rashid waited for a full half minute until blood began dripping from the holes in the floor, and then went cautiously out to the stairs and took them slowly up to the landing.

  Meolans lay on his side, the shotgun a couple of feet away, blood streaming from an oblique wound in his chest, and from two in his groin. He was in a great deal of pain, yet he tried to reach for a pistol in his belt beneath his leather vest.

  “Actually it’s a bloody wonder that you lasted this long in the business,” al-Rashid said, and shot him in the forehead at nearly point-blank range.

  He went back downstairs, wiped the pistol clean, and laid it on one of the workbenches. The Beretta, silencer, spare magazines, and the Semtex and pencil fuses had been set out in a neat row, along with two clear plastic bags, each about the size of a small loaf of bread filled with a coarse gray powder. The bags were marked “Mg.” Magnesium dust that burned with an intense white light. The perfect nonliquid accelerant.

  But Meolans had laid out the things only for show, for bait, because he’d not provided anything to carry the things in.

  It only took al-Rashid a couple of minutes to find an old canvas haversack into which he loaded the things after first checking the pistol to make sure that its firing pin hadn’t been removed, the bullets to make sure they were not blanks, and the Semtex and fuses to make sure that they were genuine.

  He checked at the front door to make certain that no one was coming to find out about the gunshots, and then let himself out and went back to his car.

  He would be on the road before ten this evening, heading for the border with Portugal. By morning he would be in the air for Jeddah, a man finally wealthy enough to disappear.

  Before he drove off he made a call to a contact in the CNI.

  SIXTY-NINE

  McGarvey let Otto drive the rental Fiat 500L, but as he had expected the crowds radiating out from the Murillo gardens made it impossible to get any closer than a couple of blocks from the Archives. They pulled down a narrow side street and parked with two wheels up on the sidewalk.

  “I want you to get down to the Archives as quickly as you can,” McGarvey said. “But don’t take any chances, do you understand?”

  Otto nodded. He was a computer genius, not a field officer, and had never pretended to be one.

  “If you get into a situation that looks dicey, make a one eighty and get the hell out of there.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Around. But so will Montessier. I want you to try to talk Vergilio out of meeting with him. But no matter what goes down, I want her out of the Archives. Anywhere but there or the Cathedral.”

  “What if she refuses?”

  “Get the hell out of there and call me.”

  “How about María? She has her own agenda, which means she’ll do whatever it takes to get the diary and the key. She’s already got a deal with the doctor, but she might try to make another deal with Montessier. And you know damned well that she’s armed. Probably got a gun from her people at the Cuban consulate here.”

  “I’m counting on it. With any luck she’ll provide a diversion for me.”

  They were standing by the car, a few people passing by on foot, a couple of them holding signs protesting cuts in teachers’ salaries. They seemed determined, even angry.

  “Whatever you do don’t push her,” McGarvey warned emphatically. “You know what she’s capable of. Deliver your message, and then get the hell out of there with or most likely without Vergilio. Whatever happens call me.”

  They separated in the next block, Otto heading directly toward the Archives while McGarvey angled around to the Alcazar fortress, which was a massive Moorish castle that nowadays served as a part-time residence of the royal family. It, along with the Cathedral and the Archives, made up a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

  The gathering crowd flowed around the buildings, gathering on the narrow streets that were blocked by the police to motor traffic surrounding them. No one seemed to be in charge of the mob, and there was no sense of a front line. But many of the people chanted the same slogan—something to the effect of returning to the old days—thus the second night of gathering in the city’s historical district.

  Most of the sidewalk cafés were still open for business, though the antiques stores and souvenir shops were closed, their metal security shutters down. Young people were crowding around a fountain in one of the small plazas; some of them sat on painted tile benches and played guitars. Just like those in the cafés, the people not on the streets marching were observers not participants.

  McGarvey more or less went with the flow of the crowd until he found a spot at a café within sight of the Cathedral and the Archives, just in time to see Otto show up and go inside.

  He was one row of tables back and in a corner under an awning as much in the shadows as possible. It would be difficult for someone passing on the street, or even someone nearby in the Cathedral or at one of the windows in the Archives, to spot him. But he could almost feel the presence of Montessier, who planned on meeting Dr. Vergilio sometime this evening. The guy was a pro; he would show up early to make sure that the opposition hadn’t taken up positions to wait for him.

  But from what little McGarvey knew of the woman, and from what he knew about María he didn’t think that any force on earth would stop them from making the rendezvous. And it was almost certain that María would be the one hiding in the shadows to wait for him. If she did it, it was very likely that she would get herself and the doctor killed.

  Unless Otto could talk some sense into them.

  The waiter came and he ordered an espresso. Two minutes after he got his coffee his phone chirped.

  “Otto?”

  “No, Monsieur McGarvey, this is not your associate Monsieur Rencke, but my name is no importance, except I am on the board of directors of the Voltaire Society, and since you are in Seville I assume that you are on the track of the man who managed to acquire the diary. For that we wish you bon chance.”

  “The vice mayor was a member?”

  “The woman was. And as you have found out our office in the banking district was a sham, nor did Madame Petain and her son have any importance to the Society.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “We have contacts in the United States, but believe me when I assure you that we are not your enemy.”

  “Neither am I your friend,” McGarvey said. “The diary you claim is yours was stolen from the Catholic Church.”

  “Yes, the Order, who meant to plunder the fortune for itself.”

  “A fortune that doesn’t belong to them or to you.”

  “Who then?”

  “Native Americans and Caribs.”

  “Almost all of whom are an extinct people. To whom do you suggest the treasure belongs today? The Church who stole it from Spain? Spain who stole it from the natives?”

  “Or you?” McGarvey asked.

  “Yes, us. Because we have done good with it, and will continue to do good providing the Saudis do not get their hands on the diary and the cipher key and plunder it first.”

  “What does Saudi
Arabia have to do with this?”

  “The man you have identified as Bernard Montessier and who I presume you’ve traced to his travels to and from Jeddah, we think works for a member of the Saudi Royal family. He is a finance minister, who controls an immense amount of wealth, and not merely from oil revenues, but from other dealings in the international arena. He would like to get his hands on the treasure; it is why, we suspect, that he contracted Montessier to find the diary and the cipher key.”

  “Do you know Montessier’s real name?”

  “Unfortunately we have not been able to learn it, though by now you must realize that he is a professional, and a ruthless man. If he manages to get the diary and the key there will be little we could do to stop him. At that point it would be up to your government.”

  “It comes back to why should I help you?”

  “Because you are an honorable man—“

  McGarvey cut him off. “Bullshit. I want the real reason.”

  “You have found out that the Society made a substantial payment to your government through a bank in Richmond, Virginia, before the start of your country’s Civil War. Without its help for the Union it is possible that the war could have been lost, or at the very least have dragged on for years shattering an already precarious economy. We sent the money to help your democracy. As we have at other times of crises.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why? Because you no longer believe in altruism? Even though your stated motive in pursuing this matter was to avenge the needless deaths of those two students? Or because Monsieur Rencke could find the records of no other payments? Though I assure you more were made: During the First World War, and the second, and Korea—though not Vietnam because we believed you were wrong. You have not been able to find the traces because we have a banking system in place that screens such transfers.”

  McGarvey wasn’t accepting any of it, and he said so, and yet he could detect no artifice in the Frenchman’s voice, only an apparent sincerity.

  “You have become a cynic, and rightly so considering your past. But think about America’s role in the world—especially in the Western hemisphere in the last two centuries. People don’t immigrate to China, or Saudi Arabia, or Iran or Iraq. Poor Mexicans don’t usually head south to Guatemala, Belize, or Honduras—they cross the Rio Grande by the tens of thousands to find a better life for their children who when they are born in the United States automatically become citizens.”

  “I know the history of my country,” McGarvey shot back, when two men in plainclothes got out of a dark car and crossed the sidewalk directly toward him. He broke the connection, enabled the password protection, and laid the phone on the table, his hands in plain sight.

  “Señor McGarvey,” the taller of the two said politely. He held up his credentials wallet, while the other shorter, squatter man remained a step behind and to the left. “I am Captain Eduardo de la Rosa, of the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia. You are under arrest, charged with murder.”

  SEVENTY

  María went with Dr. Vergilio across the broad corridor through the stacks to a window on the opposite side of the building that looked across the street at the Cathedral, colored lights already illuminating its façade and bell tower. At just a few minutes before eight the crowds had grown dramatically, but so far it didn’t look as if any confrontations with the police had begun. A lot of people carried signs, and even up here they could hear some of the chanting.

  Vergilio stepped directly in front of the window to get a better look, and María pulled her back.

  “Bad idea,” María said. “If this guy wants to take you out you don’t have to make it easy for him.”

  “Our meeting isn’t until nine.”

  “He’s here already, believe me.”

  Vergilio gave her a sharp look. “He’s not going to do anything to me as long as he thinks I have the cipher key to trade with him.”

  “But you do, and so long as you hold out he’ll bargain.”

  “But I don’t have it. I’ve been telling you and McGarvey and anyone who wants to listen that I simply do not have the key. Never did.”

  “Then what use would the diary be to you?”

  “Not much beyond the historical record. The government will probably be interested, though. And they’ll make copies and bring in the encryption experts, all in secret of course.” She shook her head and looked María in the eye. “When I was younger I would have fought for the rights to make an expedition to New Mexico, fought my government, the U.S. government, anyone I could. But now?”

  “A lot of people have given their lives for this.”

  “A lot of people’s lives were taken.”

  They’d left the office doors open, and they heard the distant jangle of a ringing telephone. Dr. Vergilio turned away from the window and walked back across the corridor, María right behind her.

  The Archives was deserted now, only she and the doctor, plus three security people downstairs were in the building at this hour. But the three were old men, only here to keep the tourists in line. The real security tonight was the police presence outside, and mission one for them, so far as she understood it, was to protect the Archives, the Cathedral, and the Alcazar from harm by the mob.

  She reached the office right behind Vergilio as the doctor picked up the telephone.

  “Sí?”

  María tried to gauge Vergilio’s reaction, but the doctor only seemed a little perplexed.

  “I don’t know a priest named Ringers. If he wants to see me tell him to come back in the morning. We’re closed now. And when he’s gone make sure that all the doors are locked.”

  María held up a hand.

  “Just a minute,” Dr. Vergilio said, and she held her hand over the telephone’s mouthpiece.

  “Can you bring up an image on the security cameras downstairs?” María asked.

  Dr. Vergilio brought up the program on her desktop computer, and Otto Rencke stood at the security desk looking up in to the lens.

  María wasn’t much surprised. “Send him up,” she said.

  Dr.Vergilio relayed the order and hung up. “Do you know him?”

  “He’s a friend of McGarvey’s.”

  “I’ll send him away,” Dr. Vergilio said, and she reached for the phone.

  “No. I have a better idea.”

  Otto showed up at the door a minute later. “We thought you might still be here,” he said. He came in, and looked around. “Neat place.”

  “Is Mac with you?” María asked.

  “He’s watching the Cathedral, I suspect waiting for the guy you know as Paul Harris to show up.”

  “Won’t be there for another hour,” Vergilio blurted.

  “That’s what he told you, but it’s a good bet he’s already there, or somewhere very close.”

  “So it’s going to be a shoot-out between them?” María asked.

  “If it comes to it,” Otto said, and he blinked. “Because sure as hell if you go over there and try to get the jump on him with whatever weapon your embassy supplied you with you’ll get yourself and Dr. Vergilio killed.”

  “You don’t give me much credit.”

  “And you’re not giving this guy his due. He’s a professional gun, probably working for the Saudis. He’s already killed the vice mayor of Paris and his mistress, along with the wife and teenage son of the Voltaire who came to see Mac in Florida. The one the CNI took out.”

  “But he has the diary,” Dr. Vergilio said. She was angry.

  “He won’t give it to you,” Otto said. “Think about it. This guy was the one who killed your building manager. Broke her neck, according to the cops. If you bring him the cipher key, he’ll kill you.”

  “Puta, I don’t have it!”

  Otto grinned. “I’m not a whore, or even a son of a whore. If he believes you, he’ll kill you, and then break in over here and steal your laptop. The one he was looking for at your apartment.”

  Vergilio instinctively glan
ced at the computer where she’d laid it atop a pile of papers on the credenza behind her desk.

  “Yes, that one,” Otto said.

  “What do you suggest?” María asked.

  “Mac wants both of you to get out of here right now.”

  “To the Cathedral?”

  “Anywhere but there. Go down to the train station, or even a police precinct station, but just get the hell away from here. And take your laptop with you.”

  “It contains no cipher key!” Vergilio shouted. “And I’m not leaving the Archives, not with that mob outside, except to go across the street.”

  “They’re not here to harm this place or the Cathedral or the Alcazar. Anyway, there are enough cops out there to make sure nothing happens tonight.”

  “I want the diary.”

  “He won’t give it to you, and you’ll end up dead,” Otto said. “And so will you,” he told María.

  He turned away and took an iPhone from his pocket.

  María pulled the Glock from the waistband of her jeans, and pointed it at him. “I won’t allow you to call Mac.”

  “Shoot me and the guards downstairs will hear it.”

  “If need be I’ll shoot them as well.”

  Dr. Vergilio’s eyes widened in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

  “You and I are going to meet with Señor Harris. You’re going to give him your laptop, after we load a flash drive with the cipher key, just in case. But when he produces the diary I will kill him and we’ll come back here and make copies.”

  “If she gets her hands on the diary, she’ll kill you too,” Otto said.

  Dr. Vergilio stepped back. “You’re both so stupid. I’ll tell you for the last time, I do not have the cipher key.”

  “Close the office doors,” María said.

  Vergilio was confused.

  “Now,” María said.

  “Don’t you understand what’s going on?” Otto asked.

  But Vergilio went past him and closed the outer door into the corridor and then came back and closed the inner door to her office.