The Cabal

by David Hagberg

  “Mr. Sandberger is well protected.”

  “Yeah, so was the pope.”

  Mustapha was wearing a Kevlar vest and he pulled on a dark blue Windbreaker, which he zipped up. It was obvious he was carrying, but then so were a lot of others in the city.

  “He’s staying at the Ritz-Carlton in the Green Zone.”

  “Good. Tell him to stay there until we’re finished,” Kangas said. “We’re on our way.”

  “Not until tonight.”

  “We’ll handle this now,” Kangas said and hung up.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Well rested after sleeping all afternoon, McGarvey took a shower and dressed in blue jeans, a dark pullover, and dark blazer. The Glock 17 Hadid had supplied him with went in a holster on his hip, beneath the jacket, and the silencer and spare magazines in a pocket.

  He went to the window and looked at the lights in the Green Zone across the river. Many sections of the city were dark or nearly dark, like his mood he thought. Otto was a friend, but he didn’t understand loss and rage. Nor should he need to understand.

  Rencke called on the sat phone, just as McGarvey was about to walk out the door. “You may have more trouble coming your way.”

  “What is it?”

  “A pair of Admin’s tough guys showed up in Baghdad yesterday evening. Timothy Kangas and Ronni Mustapha. Ex-CIA NOCs. They were fired a few years ago for using excessive force, operating outside their charters, and more or less telling the establishment to screw itself. One of my programs monitoring Sandberger and his people tripped, but I didn’t catch it until a few minutes ago.”

  “Are they staying with Sandberger, or Admin’s people?”

  “No, and that’s what triggered the search engine. They’re staying at the Baghdad Airport Hotel, and they have open-ended first-class tickets on United, which was another trigger.”

  “They know I’m here and they were sent over to take me out,” McGarvey said. “It makes getting a message to Sandberger that much easier.”

  “I looked at these guys’ jackets, Mac. They’re good. And I suspect they’ve been ordered to stay away from Admin’s operations in the city. You’re a separate contract. But it doesn’t mean they won’t call for help if they think they need it.”

  “It’ll hinge on what they know. My work name and this hotel.”

  Rencke hesitated a second or two. “If they have that info it means we have a leak here. And it’d have to be someone fairly high up in Ops. Maybe even the seventh floor.”

  “Work out a sting.”

  “Shit, shit. I hope to hell I’m wrong, kemo sabe. Honest injun.”

  “Contact Hadid and tell him I’ll need a ride out of Dodge in about two hours,” McGarvey said.

  “Where do you want him to pick you up?”

  “Have him circle the block around the Ritz-Carlton. I’ll find him.”

  “Watch your ass, Mac,” Rencke said.

  McGarvey broke the connection, pocketed the phone, and looked around the suite. He wasn’t coming back, and there was nothing else he needed to take with him except Watkins’s passport. It didn’t matter about his fingerprints; even if some Iraqi investigator did lift them, the FBI wouldn’t cooperate with an identification, nor would the CIA.

  Downstairs, the lobby was deserted except for the same bald clerk as before. When McGarvey approached the desk, he looked up, his eyes watery. “Sir?” he asked.

  “Two friends of mine may be looking for me. If they show up tell them that I’ve gone next door to the Hamara Hotel to have a drink.”

  “Of course, sir. Your name?”

  “Tony Watkins,” McGarvey said and he walked out and started down the path over to the much larger hotel, when something out of place caught the fringes of his attention, and he turned suddenly to go back as if he had forgotten something. The same westerner who’d been sitting in the lobby at noon was now sitting behind the wheel of a fairly new C class Mercedes sedan, parked to one side of the concrete blast barrier. It was a different pair of armed guards on duty this evening. They were sitting on lawn chairs in front of a pile of rubble ignoring the man in the Mercedes, nor did they bother to look up when McGarvey, apparently changing his mind again, turned back and headed to the Hamara.

  Portions of the long walkway between the hotels were in darkness, and McGarvey picked a spot where he could wait in the shadows from where he could see anyone coming from the Baghdad Hotel, yet they would not be able to see him.

  He’d thought at the time that it was odd that a man was seated alone in the lobby of the hotel, but since there’d been no contact, he’d all but put it out of his mind. Now he knew that the man was a spotter, sent by Admin to keep tabs on him. As soon as the muscle that had been sent over to deal with him showed up, the spotter would direct them to the Hamara.

  And he only had to wait five minutes before two men came up the path. They looked like NOCs, anonymous, not particularly large or beefy, and they moved easily on the balls of their feet, their attention in all directions, like rotating radar beams. They were expecting trouble.

  McGarvey eased a little farther back into the shadows so that he was partially hidden behind the bole of a palm tree.

  The two were dressed nearly alike, baggy khakis and dark Windbreakers with more bulk than was likely. They were wearing vests under the jackets, and by the look of it even in the dim light McGarvey could tell they were carrying some heavy hardware strapped to their chests. The Windbreakers were zippered, which was a mistake on their part. It would be awkward for them to draw their weapons.

  McGarvey waited until they were just past then drew his pistol and stepped out on the path. “I expect that you’re looking for me.”

  They both reached for their weapons.

  “I have no intention of killing you this evening, unless I’m forced into it,” McGarvey told them, and they stopped. “Please turn around.”

  They did as they were told, their jackets half unzipped, and he saw their weapons.

  “Knight PDWs. Nice. Which one of you is Tim Kangas?”

  The one on the left pursed his lips.

  McGarvey nodded pleasantly toward the smaller man on the right. “That means you must be Ronni Mustapha. Former NOCs, and I’m told quite good, though you had a little trouble with discipline and following orders.”

  “We’re here,” Kangas said. “What do you want?” He showed no fear, only a wariness; he was looking for an opening.

  “You were sent here by your boss at Admin to kill me. Fair enough. But I’m here just to gather some facts. Maybe we can work something out.”

  “What’s in it for us?” Muataspha asked.

  “Your lives, of course,” McGarvey said.

  “What do you want?”

  “Someone placed an IED at Arlington Cemetery. Was it on Admin’s orders? Roland Sandberger or Gordon Remington?”

  “We don’t know,” Kangas said.

  McGarvey suddenly raised his pistol to point directly at Kangas’s head and took several steps closer. “I asked you a question. The people killed in that explosion were my wife and daughter. I’m motivated.”

  “We know about you, Mr. McGarvey, but it wasn’t us at Arlington. And if it was Admin we were not told.” No fear showed in his eyes, just the same wariness.

  “Why were you sent here to assassinate me? Who ordered it?”

  “Our boss, Mr. Remington.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve been declared a threat to our operations,” Mustapha said. “I’m sure the order originated from Mr. Sandberger because of an incident between the two of you in Germany.”

  “Toss your weapons in the bushes,” McGarvey said, and he watched their eyes as they very slowly did as they had been told. They were professionals. They knew how to back away when the odds were not in their favor so that they could live to fight another day.

  “Now what?” Kangas asked.

  “Go back to the airport hotel, and in the morning get on your United flight back to the Sta
tes,” McGarvey said. “My issue is with Sandberger, not with his foot soldiers. But if I see you again I’ll kill you. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes,” Kangas said, and McGarvey stepped back off the path to let them pass. “What do you want us to tell Mr. Sandberger?”

  “Whatever you want,” McGarvey said, and he watched as they walked back the way they had come, his body bathed in sweat. It had taken everything in his power not to kill them. But they were just foot soldiers, and he wanted word to get to Sandberger.

  FORTY-SIX

  Sandberger was in a booth at the bar in the Ritz-Carlton when Weiss phoned to tell him what had happened on the path between the two hotels, and for several long seconds he could not answer. His throat was constricted and the muscles in his face were rigid.

  The American call girl he was seated with turned pale.

  “Mr. Sandberger?” Weiss said.

  “Just a moment,” Sandberger said, coming down. He laid the phone on the table, pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to the girl with a smile. “Next time I’m in town,” he said.

  The girl took the money, grabbed her purse, and slid out of the booth, her short skirt riding up. She had great legs and a tight ass. “Sure thing,” she said, and she left.

  Sandberger picked up the phone. “Tell me everything,” he said, his voice even. He was back in control.

  “McGarvey came out of the hotel and headed over to the Hamara about five minutes before our guys showed up. I told them where he’d gone, and they went after him. A couple of minutes later they came back in a big hurry, without their weapons. I told them to go back to their hotel and fly out first thing in the morning. We don’t need them here now that McGarvey’s made them.”

  “How do you know they had no weapons?”

  “Their jackets were open, the Velcro pads were empty, and no shots had been fired,” Weiss said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “They didn’t say anything else to you?”

  “They didn’t even want to look at me.”

  McGarvey was a sharp bastard, easily still as good as his reputation, and he didn’t know that Kangas and Mustapha had been the triggermen on his son-in-law and for the IED at Arlington, otherwise he would have killed them.

  “Stay where you are,” Sandberger ordered. “He’s probably coming over here next. I want to know when he leaves.”

  “Yes, sir,” Weiss said. “I’d still like to take the bastard out myself, if the opportunity is there.”

  Sandberger was about to tell him no, but he realized all of a sudden that he was being stupid. “If you get the chance, do it,” he said, and he broke the connection.

  His bodyguards, drinking Cokes, were seated together at a table near the door. He waved them over.

  “Kangas and Mustapha screwed up,” Sandberger told them. “McGarvey will be coming here tonight.”

  “When?” Alphonse asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But I have a spotter watching him.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Station two of our people on each side of the driveway. He’ll probably be showing up in a cab, and I’ll have the tag number for our guys. I want him taken down, priority one.”

  “What about us?” Hanson asked. He looked as if he were itching for a fight.

  “You’re sticking with me, because I think we might have underestimated the son of a bitch. And if he actually makes it this far, I wouldn’t put it past him to know my room number.”

  “There are two stairwells plus the elevators. We’ll need an extra hand if we’re to cover all three,” Alphonse said.

  “I want one of the stairwells wired. One pound of Semtex should be enough.”

  “Could be collateral damage.”

  “We’ll blame it on McGarvey. He’s a ruthless son of a bitch who’s practically under indictment for treason, and who’s unhinged by the deaths of his wife, daughter, and son-in-law.”

  “When do you want it done, sir?”

  “Wait until we find out if he’s gotten past our people and is actually inside the hotel,” Sandberger said.

  “Where will you be?” Hanson asked. “In case we have to fall back for some reason.”

  “In the suite with a surprise, because if he gets that far it’ll mean at least one of you is down.”

  Hanson smiled. “Not a chance in hell of that happening, Mr. Sandberger,” he said.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  McGarvey had walked the rest of the way up the path to the Hamara, but instead of going inside he handed the doorman a hundred-dollar bill and had him call for a taxi, which had just come through the blast-barrier entry that served both hotels.

  “Where would you like to be taken, sir?” the doorman asked.

  “The American embassy,” McGarvey said, and got in the cab.

  Before the driver had got the cab turned around, McGarvey held another hundred-dollar bill over the seat. “Do you understand English?”

  “Yes, sir,” the cabbie said. “Very much.”

  “This is yours if you do exactly as I say with no questions.”

  The driver looked uncertain for just a second but then he nodded and snatched the hundred. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Not far. And when I tell you to stop, do it immediately. I’ll get out and you will drive away. Do you understand? There’ll be no shooting.”

  “Yes, sir. Perfectly.”

  McGarvey slid over to the driver’s side of the rear seat and unlatched the door but did not open it. “Now, head to the exit, slowly.”

  The driver did as he was told, and at the end of the Hamara’s driveway McGarvey sat back so that his face and shoulders were in deeper shadow. “See the Mercedes parked by the blast barrier?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Drive close to it, slow down so I can get out, and then leave.”

  The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror for just a moment, and once they were out in the Baghdad Hotel’s driveway, still moving slowly, he swung close to the Mercedes and pulled up short.

  McGarvey slipped out of the cab and drew his pistol as the driver immediately made for the exit through the concrete barriers.

  Keeping low McGarvey used the retreating cab as a shield until at the last second he ducked around the trunk of the Mercedes and yanked open the passenger-side rear door, and slipped inside, laying the muzzle of the big pistol in the side of the spotter’s face.

  Weiss was reaching for something on the console beside him, but McGarvey jammed the pistol harder.

  “Do exactly as I say or you die now.”

  Weiss stopped short.

  “If you were reaching for a pistol, pick it up by the barrel and hand it back to me.”

  For just a beat Weiss hesitated, but then he slowly handed a standard U.S. military-issue Beretta 92F 9mm autoloader over the seat.

  McGarvey pocketed the weapon. “I assume that you work for Admin, and it was you who brought Kangas and Mustapha over to take me down on Sandberger’s orders.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Weiss said.

  “If you know who I am, you’ll know what I’ve gone through, and you’ll have to guess that I don’t give a shit who I take out,” McGarvey said, his voice reasonable.

  “Okay.”

  “Was the IED at Arlington planted on Admin’s orders?”

  “I don’t know,” Weiss said, but McGarvey slammed the muzzle of his Glock hard against the man’s cheek, opening a two-inch gash, which immediately began to bleed. “Christ!”

  “Tell me what you do know,” McGarvey said.

  “You can beat on me all you want, you bastard, but I don’t know,” Weiss said. “If it was a Admin operation it could only have been authorized by Mr. Sandberger or Mr. Remington. No one else in the company has the power to make that kind of a decision.”

  McGarvey glanced over at the armed guards sitting just inside the blast barriers, but they hadn’t moved from their folding chairs. “Why
were Kangas and Mustapha brought over here?”

  “To kill you.”

  “On Sandberger’s orders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” McGarvey asked.

  “Mr. Sandberger thought that it was likely you were coming here to assassinate him.”

  “And why do you suppose I’d want to do something like that? What do you think I have against your boss?”

  “Because you think he ordered the assassination of your son-in-law. And maybe had something to do with the Arlington thing.”

  “You’re learning,” McGarvey said. “And you know goddamned well that your boss ordered the hits on my son-in-law and the newspaper reporter because they were getting too close to the Friday Club. And the IED at Arlington was meant for me, but a mistake was made.”

  Weiss said nothing.

  “Call Sandberger and tell him that you spotted me leaving in a cab, but that you have no idea where I was going.”

  Sandberger was still in the booth when Weiss called the second time. Since then the bar had filled up, and he’d switched from martinis to Bud Lite. Four of his people were outside watching the driveway, and Alphonse and Hanson were nursing their Cokes across the barroom near the door.

  “He just left in a cab.”

  “Which way is he headed?”

  “I didn’t see.”

  “Aren’t you following him, for Christ’s sake?” Sandberger demanded, his voice rising.

  “It happened too fast. By the time I realized it was McGarvey in the back of the cab, it was out on the street and for some reason the stupid bastards at the barrier wanted to check my ID.”

  Suddenly nothing was making sense to Sandberger, and he had a strong premonition that wherever Weiss actually was at this moment, McGarvey was there with a pistol to his head. Weiss was too good to have been taken like that, but he was also smart enough to give some sort of a clue if he got any opening. “Who was the lead man on the barrier? Was it Johnny Karp?”

  Weiss had no reason to know the names of the contractors guarding the hotel entrance. They operated out of a small and not very well known company headquartered in Los Angeles.