The Cabal

by David Hagberg

“Any witnesses?”

  Louise opened her mouth to say something, but then she shook her head. “If there were, Otto couldn’t find any mention.”

  “I took Sandberger and three of his people down. Any witnesses who can place me at the Ritz?”

  She shook her head again. “But State knows that you were there and the shootings couldn’t have been coincidental.”

  “The Bureau had two agents waiting for me.”

  “Otto told me about switching identities. A State Department FSO. They’re not going to be very happy.”

  “No, but the other guy waiting for me also knew what flight I was coming in on,” McGarvey said.

  “A leak?” Louise asked. “Otto was worried about it.”

  “Was he expecting it?”

  She nodded glumly. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Who the hell are these guys and what do they want? They have to be more than lobbyists.”

  “Sixty-four-dollar question,” McGarvey said, watching the mirror. A dark blue Taurus had pulled up from way behind as if the driver had been in a big hurry, but then had slowed down, keeping up a position three cars back. “Switch lanes right now and speed up,” he told Louise.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror and suddenly pulled into the next lane left and hit the gas. The big Toyota surged forward, and a hundred yards later she had to move left again to pass a cab.

  The driver of the Taurus managed to keep up, while maintaining his position three cars back. McGarvey could make out two figures in the front seat, but they were too far away for him to make any sort of identification. But he knew damned well they were Admin muscle.

  “They’re back there, in the dark blue Ford,” he said. “You can drive normal now.”

  “You’re going to kill them,” Louise said, glancing nervously at him again.

  “Not unless I have to,” McGarvey said. “I need answers not bodies.” He’d seen enough bodies lately to last three lifetimes. And yet it wasn’t over, and possibly would never be over. Plato had said that only the dead had seen the end of war. Maybe his turn was coming.

  Traffic on the Airport Access Road all the way down to where it crossed beneath the Beltway and finally the off ramp to I-66 was busy as usual, but the blue Taurus managed to keep up even though Louise drove erratically, always searching for the fastest lane.

  At one point she glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. “They’re still back there.”

  “Otto was right, you drive too fast.”

  “Makes him crazy,” she said smiling. “Should I slow down?”

  “No, you’re doing just fine. Those guys probably think you’re trying to shake them, which is what I want them to think.”

  She took the ramp to the Key Bridge, and as they crossed the river directly into Georgetown, McGarvey pocketed the three spare magazines of ammunition and screwed the silencer on the end of the Wilson’s barrel.

  Louise was glancing at him, clearly frightened now. “I don’t know if I can lose them long enough for you to get out.”

  “I want them to see you dropping me off,” McGarvey said. “That’s the whole point.”

  “They’d be stupid to try to come after you. Why not grab me?”

  “They’re Admin shooters and they want to take me out,” McGarvey said. It was the next step after Baghdad. He’d definitely got their attention, and now they were going to make the next series of mistakes that would lead him directly to the Friday Club. He just had to stay alive and out of custody until he could find out what was going on. What had been going on since the operations involving Chinese intelligence in Mexico City and Pyongyang. Those had been difficult and very expensive operations, neither of which had produced any visible results, other than having him branded as a traitor.

  It made no sense. And situations that made no sense bothered McGarvey to no end.

  Across the river, Louise turned east on M Street NW until the off ramp into Rock Creek Park, just at the beginning of Pennsylvania Avenue. Suddenly they were on the winding road that led north nearly two miles all the way up to Connecticut Avenue, crossing and recrossing the creek twice as it meandered through the sometimes densely forested park.

  This morning traffic on the road was light, and only a few joggers and bicyclists were out and about, and none of the benches or picnic areas was occupied. On the weekends the park was always busy, but on weekdays most people were either at work by now or on the way.

  Which was perfect as far as McGarvey was concerned, because he definitely did not want any collateral damage if shots were fired.

  “Where do you want this to happen?” Louise demanded, her voice shrill now.

  They had already reached the first bridge across the creek and for the next stretch the park area was very narrow, not enough room to maneuver.

  “We’re going to cross under Massachusetts Avenue. A little past that there’s another bridge. I’ll get out there.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Louise said, her hands tight on the steering wheel.

  Two minutes later they crossed under Massachusetts Avenue and almost immediately the second bridge was just ahead.

  “Now,” McGarvey said.

  Louise jammed on the brakes and McGarvey popped open the door and jumped out even before the Toyota came to a full stop.

  “Go,” he shouted over his shoulder, and darted off the road about ten yards into the woods, where he stopped and looked back.

  Louise was gone, and the blue Taurus had pulled over to the side of the road and two men were getting out. The same two from outside his hotel at Baghdad. It was perfect.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Kangas and Mustapha stood at the edge of the road looking down the hill into the denser woods. The rising sun was in their eyes, but they knew that McGarvey had to be somewhere close, they’d seen him jumping out of the Toyota.

  “There,” Mustapha said suddenly, and Kangas looked where his partner was pointing in time to see McGarvey disappearing farther down the hill.

  “That’s the bastard,” Kangas said.

  “Whoever the broad was probably brought him a weapon,” Mustapha said. “Could be a trap. He jumps out, and like complete idiots we run after him.”

  “That’s exactly what this is. But we’d be bigger idiots to turn down three mil each.”

  “Won’t do us any good if we’re dead. I say we turn around and get the fuck out of here right now. You know what this guy is capable of.”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t know us, now, does he,” Kangas said. “And I’m not ready to walk away from a pile of money.”

  “You’d do it even if there was no money at stake,” Mustapha said, and Kangas grinned.

  “Payback time for Baghdad.”

  “Sandberger . . .”

  “Fuck Sandberger, this is for us,” Kangas said. “Go left, I’ll go right. We’ll catch him in our cross fire.”

  Mustapha nodded. “Careful what you shoot at.”

  Kangas took the silencer out of his pocket and screwed it onto the end of his Beretta, and headed down the hill into the woods, slightly to the right of where they’d last seen McGarvey, at the same time Mustapha headed at an angle the other way.

  Back at the airport they had just reached their car when Boberg called and described the Toyota SUV that had come for McGarvey. “Some woman driving, but she’s not on any of our lists. I checked.”

  “Anyone else with her?” Kangas had asked as Mustapha headed down the spiral ramp to one of the cashier gates at the bottom.

  “Not unless they were hiding in the backseat.”

  “Did he spot you tailing him?”

  “I don’t know,” Boberg said. “But I think it’s a good possibility. He was looking at something in the passenger-door window. Maybe at the woman, but he could have been looking at the reflection in the glass.”

  “If he spotted you he’ll be expecting someone from Admin to be on his ass,” Kangas said. It had been a stupid mistake on Boberg’s part that just made their jobs a lot tougher. “
Thanks.”

  “Take the bastard down anyway you can. That’s priority one after what he did to us in Baghdad. We’ll pick up any loose ends afterward.”

  “Could be collateral damage.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” Boberg had said. “Get the job done this time.”

  Ninety seconds from the moment they’d come within tailing distance, the Toyota had suddenly sped up and the woman had driven like crazy into Georgetown and the park.

  The bastard had definitely set a trap for them, and when he saw it was them he would shoot first and ask questions later. Only this time Kangas had a bargaining chip. One that McGarvey wouldn’t be able to resist.

  FIFTY-SIX

  From where he stood behind the bole of a large tree McGarvey heard the two men coming down the hill and knew they had separated, as he expected they would. Once out of sight from the road he’d headed off to the right, well away from the line the first of them had taken, putting him on their right flank, not between them.

  Theirs was a good tactical move, but they hadn’t counted on the unexpected, and they were walking into a trap. It was something that happened when the operator underestimated his opponent.

  A couple of minutes later he spotted a figure moving through the trees about forty yards beyond where he figured the first guy was coming down the hill. But the first one had stopped. He was smart, possibly suspecting something.

  “Mr. McGarvey,” a man called out, off to the right, perhaps ten yards away. “We know you’re down here somewhere. It was very smart of you to take our fight away from the road where innocent bystanders might get hurt. Very smart.”

  McGarvey moved halfway around the tree to where he had a better sight line up the hill and to the right, and he caught just a flash of something dark, perhaps the sleeve of a jacket or shirt.

  “But there’s no need for gunplay this morning. Because we have something that you want. And we’re willing to trade.”

  The bastards hadn’t flown commercial back from Baghdad. Probably hitched a ride on a military transport, or perhaps a private jet one of the oil or reconstruction firms operated.

  “Mr. Kangas, I told you that I would kill you if I saw you again,” McGarvey said. “And that goes for your partner out to your left.”

  “We know about you. What you’re capable of, and I’m not ashamed to admit that we made our mistakes in Baghdad, but now everything has changed. Mr. Sandberger and a couple of his personal bodyguards, plus Harry Weiss, are all dead, and Admin is in pretty tough shape.”

  “I’m listening,” McGarvey said. He stuffed his pistol in his belt, and got down on his hands and knees, below the level of most of the brush and tall grasses, and careful to make absolutely no noise began edging his way back up the hill.

  “We lied to you in Baghdad. Admin was responsible for your son-in-law’s death and the IED at Arlington. It was meant for you. Mr. Sandberger wanted you dead to protect one of his clients.”

  McGarvey stopped. He was less than five feet from Kangas, who was looking in the general direction of the big tree. It took everything within his power not to shoot the contractor in the back of the head, right now.

  “Listen, we want to make a deal with you. We’re getting out of Admin, too much shit is going to hell. It’s no longer healthy for us.”

  McGarvey took out his pistol, suddenly stood up and in two steps was on Kangas, jamming the muzzle of his silencer into the side of the man’s head. “Drop your pistol now.”

  Kangas hesitated for just a second, but then did as he’d been told.

  “Tell your partner to drop his weapon and come closer so I can see him.”

  “Ronni stay where you are, he has me,” Kangas shouted. “Sorry, Mr. McGarvey, but you’ll have to be satisfied with just me.”

  A black rage threatened to block McGarvey’s sanity, but he forced himself to calm down. This was business, nothing more. These guys were only a means to an end. “Who were the shooters who took out my son-in-law and the newspaper reporter and his family?”

  “Just one gun. Ex Green Beret, works out of our Washington office. He’s Mr. Remington’s right-hand man. He was our spotter at the airport when you came in. Short, dark.”

  “Name?”

  “Calvin Boberg. Lives down in Arlington.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” McGarvey asked.

  “Because if it was my family that got wiped out I’d go after the bastard who did it, and nothing could stop me.”

  “How do I know it wasn’t you?”

  “We’re contractors, which means we don’t kill women and children. But that’s what Admin’s come to, and now that Mr. Sandberger’s dead it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse, because Remington is a crazy son of a bitch.”

  “But you were sent to Baghdad to kill me, and now you’re here,” McGarvey said. “Why specifically?”

  “Because of what your son-in-law probably told you on the phone after meeting with the reporter.”

  “The Friday Club?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Foster, he’s one of our biggest clients, and he wants you dead.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, and I swear to Christ it’s the truth. But Remington and Sandberger were both worried that you would probably get too close for comfort. You were the company’s top priority.”

  What Kangas was saying had the ring of truth to it, but there was more, just out of reach. McGarvey could feel it.

  Something moved a little higher up the hill toward the road, but still to the left, but then stopped. Kangas had heard it and he stiffened.

  “Tell him to walk away or I’ll shoot you right now and it’ll be just him and me,” McGarvey said.

  “You’re going to shoot me anyway.”

  “No need, I got what I wanted.”

  Kangas shifted his weight to his left leg and started to swivel away from the gun pointed at the side of his head. The man was good, his movement sudden and swift, but he’d tensed the instant before he started to turn and McGarvey had felt it, and followed to the left, the pistol never leaving the contractor’s jawline.

  “Your choice,” McGarvey said, jamming the pistol even harder.

  “What do you want me to do?” Kangas asked, resignation finally in his voice.

  “Tell your partner to toss his gun out where I can see it and walk back up to the car and wait for you.”

  “Ronni,” Kangas shouted.

  “I heard him,” Mustapha said from maybe only a few yards farther up the hill. “I can take him out from here.”

  “Don’t miss,” McGarvey said, and he pulled the pistol’s hammer back. It was not necessary but the sound was distinctive.

  “Do what he says, goddamnit, and we get to walk out of here alive!”

  “I heard what you told him,” Mustapha said. “If Remington goes down, what about the money?”

  “Screw the money.”

  Mustapha was silent for several seconds.

  “Come on, man,” Kangas said. “Just do it.”

  Mustapha stepped into view, his hands in plain sight out to the sides. He let his gun drop to the ground. “If you’re going to shoot me it’ll have to be in the back,” he said. “But it wasn’t us who wiped out your family, you have my word on it.” He turned and started back up the hill.

  When he was gone, McGarvey stepped back. “Go.”

  Kangas didn’t bother turning around, just headed up the hill after Mustapha.

  When they were both gone, McGarvey followed them, coming within sight of the road just as they were getting into the Taurus. A minute later they drove away, and McGarvey called Louise’s cell.

  “Can I bum a ride?” he asked when she answered.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Remington was fifty years old, the same age his father had been when he’d hung himself from a ceiling light fixture, the only decisive thing the man had ever accomplished in his miserable life. And at this moment Remington figured that he had come to his own crossroad. Either the McGa
rvey situation would be resolved and Admin would continue its work in Baghdad for the State Department and here in Washington for the Friday Club, or everything would fall apart.

  The cab had taken Colleen over to Reagan National Airport an hour ago, and before she’d walked out the door she’d kissed him, something she had not done in private for a very long time.

  “It’s the shootings in Baghdad, isn’t it,” she’d said. “Roland was assassinated and you think you might be next?”

  She was a bright woman, and never missed much, but he’d just smiled. “Anything’s possible, my dear. Might even get run over by a bus.”

  “But you’re sending me up to New York just in case. How terribly romantic.”

  “Just for a day or two.”

  She gave him a double take. “You’re actually worried something like that could happen here. I mean just now that you’ve been handed the company practically on a silver platter. Doesn’t seem fair somehow.”

  Remington had wanted to tell her to shut her mouth, but he’d held his smile. “Have a good time in New York.”

  She’d given him a last, searching look. “Always do,” she said and she left.

  It was quiet on Wednesdays, when the house staff had the day off. The only one left was Sergeant Randall, his driver and personal bodyguard, who had his own apartment in the carriage house above the garage at the rear of the property.

  Remington stood by the French doors in his study looking at the rose garden. At this moment the bushes were bare, and looked dead. But in two months the garden—his personal project—would be magnificent. If everything held together that long, and he was here to see it.

  It was coming up on nine-thirty, time to leave for the office, and yet the only word he’d received had been from Boberg who’d confirmed that McGarvey had shown up in disguise.

  “A woman picked him up at the curb in a Toyota SUV,” Boberg reported. “But the plates matched some French doctor supposedly out of the country right now.”

  “What about Kangas and Mustapha?”

  “Last I heard they were following the Toyota into the city. Haven’t you heard from them yet?”