The Cabal

by David Hagberg

  “It’s going to happen tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” McGarvey said. “But I have a feeling that I’ve forced their hand and ready or not they’re going to launch.”

  “Launch what?”

  “I’m going to ask Foster and David just that.”

  “Seriously, watch your back,” Adkins warned. “The Bureau and the U.S. Marshals are gunning for you. And I mean that literally. Comes from Justice through the White House. Langdon has developed a personal interest in you, and he wants you stopped no matter how they do it. The body count is just way too high.”

  “Yeah,” McGarvey said. “Todd, Katy, and Liz. Way too high.”

  “I’m sorry, Mac.”

  “If you get into Whittaker’s office forget his main computer, but if his laptop is there, and you can get online, send a message to Otto, and just walk away, but leave the computer on.” McGarvey gave him Otto’s untraceable e-mail address.

  “What if his laptop is password protected, which I’m sure it will be?”

  “Call Otto,” McGarvey said. And he gave the phone number.

  “I’ll try,” Adkins said.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Two cars had passed in the last hour. Boberg had seen the flash of the headlights through the woods below, and watched as they moved away. The night was still, except for the cry of a distant night bird, and at regular intervals he spotted the glow of a cigarette from inside the parked helicopter. Typical government service, he thought. Just like the military: hurry up and wait.

  He looked over his shoulder as another set of headlights approached, these from the east, but instead of passing, the lights slowed and suddenly went out. It had to be McGarvey. According to Foster’s sergeant, no one else was expected out here tonight.

  Taking care to make absolutely no noise, Boberg moved to a position from where he was still concealed and yet had a decent view of the driveway, the open field up to the house, and the edge of the woods leading around to the helicopter on the pad.

  He called the house and Sergeant Schilling answered on the first ring. “What is it?”

  “Someone pulled up and parked just below on the highway. It’s probably McGarvey.”

  “Do you have decent sight lines on the possible approaches?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. Take him out if you have a chance.”

  Boberg was about to say that was the idea, but the sergeant had already rung off. “Prick,” he said under his breath.

  It would be tough to keep Admin together with both Sandberger and Remington gone. There would be no problem organizationally, it had been his job from the beginning to attend to the day-to-day details of the firm. Nor was Admin so large that it couldn’t be handled by one man and a dedicated office staff. The trouble would come from the field commanders who might not be willing to put their loyalty on the line for a new headman. It was possible that Admin would fall apart because several of the field guys might feel that they were more qualified to run the company, and an internal fight might take place.

  If that were the case, Boberg decided, he would take what money he could grab and bail out. His loyalty was to himself, as it always had been and always would be.

  He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, at the edge of the woods at least one hundred yards to the east. He grabbed his binoculars and trained them on the field, picking up a pair of figures coming up behind the helicopter. Unless the pilot leaned out of the cockpit to look toward his six he wouldn’t have a clue someone was back there.

  One of them was much larger than the other, and he got the impression that the shorter, slighter of the two might be a woman, though he couldn’t be sure who either of them were.

  For a moment he debated calling the house, but decided against it until he had his shot. Keeping out of sight just within the woods he hurried over to the driveway and across and into the woods on the other side.

  If the chopper pilot could keep them engaged for just a few minutes, Boberg figured he could come up behind them and take the two easy shots. If one of them were McGarvey, and he manged to take the guy down, taking over Admin would be a pice of cake, because he would have Foster’s blessing.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  The twin-engine helicopter was modern and sleek. The helipad lights had been switched off but the strong floods spilling across the lawn from the house reflected off the bright paintwork.

  From twenty feet away they could smell cigarette smoke, and as they got closer McGarvey could see that the instrument panel lights were switched off. It would take several minutes for the machine to be started and readied for takeoff, which was the break he’d hoped for. If Boberg had spotted them they would need a diversion to get over to the house.

  “I think he’s coming through the woods behind us,” Pete whispered.

  “What’s Boberg doing?” McGarvey spoke softly.

  “Two seconds,” Louise’s voice came back. “I’m moving from the ship.”

  “He won’t try a shot now for fear of hitting the helicopter,” McGarvey told Pete.

  Louise was back. “Okay, if that’s you and Pete just behind the chopper, he’s about twenty yards almost directly behind you in the woods.”

  “Go back to the ship,” McGarvey said. “He’s twenty yards behind us,” he told Pete.

  He pulled out his pistol. Holding it in his left hand out of sight at his side, he moved forward, his right hand trailing on the fuselage.

  The pilot looked up, startled, and then he reared back, his eyes wide. “Son of a bitch, you scared the shit out of me, Mr. Director.” His plastic name tag was readable in the bright lights from the house.

  “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you, but what the hell are you doing out here, Cardillo?”

  The pilot shook his head. “Listen, I don’t want any trouble, Mr. McGarvey, but as far as I was told just about every LE officer in the area is looking for you.”

  “That’s what you were supposed to be told. It’s a cover. Now what the hell are you doing out here?”

  The pilot was skeptical. “I flew Mr. Whittaker down from the Campus.”

  McGarvey turned to Pete. “Another comms screwup,” he said, and she nodded.

  “You have to get out of here right now,” she told the pilot.

  “What about Mr. Whittaker?”

  “We’ll have to take care of him,” McGarvey said. “But you guys stumbled into the middle of a Bureau-Company ops we’re running on one of Robert Foster’s people. I’m surprised that Dave didn’t get the word. Damned sloppy, because this whole thing was his call from the beginning.”

  “I’d better call him,” Cardillo said, reaching for a phone.

  “And warn the house?” McGarvey demanded. “Hell no, I just want you out of here as quickly as you can get this thing running.”

  The pilot was confused. “That’s going to take a few minutes.”

  McGarvey motioned him to get on with it. “Our people are moving in right now, and we don’t have time to screw around.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take the cell phone.”

  The pilot hesitated for a moment, still extremely skeptical, but he handed over the phone.

  “Go,” McGarvey said.

  The pilot began flipping switches and the helicopter’s lights began coming on, first on the control panel and then the nav lights on the fuselage and tail section.

  “Stand clear,” he shouted, and he closed the door and the engines began to spool up.

  McGarvey and Pete hurried around to the front of the chopper, ducking low as the main rotor began turning. “Louise, we’re going to try for the house, and I want to keep the chopper between us and Boberg. Give me bearing.”

  “Stand by,” Louise said.

  The main rotor was building up speed, and McGarvey had to cup a hand over his earpiece.

  “You’re good to go on a straight line from the nose of the chopper to the east side of the house,” Louise’s voice was faint over the noise. “Is the chopper gett
ing set to take off?”

  “Any minute.”

  “Then get the hell out of there right now.”

  McGarvey glanced over his shoulder. The pilot was looking at them, and he was shaking his head. He made a slashing gesture at his throat and the engines began to spool down. McGarvey turned and pointed his pistol at the man’s face.

  For a second nothing happened, but then the engines roared back to life and the main blades began to spin up.

  “I think he got the message,” Pete shouted.

  “Stay low and move fast,” McGarvey told her. “Boberg’s right behind us.”

  He turned and sprinted toward the house, Pete right behind him.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Adkins had never wanted to be a spy, but he was a damned good administrator because he knew how to manage people while at the same time balancing the complex relationships between the Company, the White House, the director of National Intelligence, and, in some ways most important, Congress.

  Pulling up at the CIA’s main gate was the first test of how good a spy he actually was, because if he were stopped here the mission would be a bust, and McGarvey, a man for whom he had an immense amount of respect, would most likely end up dead or in jail.

  One of the guards came out of the building and over to Adkins’s car. “Good evening, Mr. Director, back again so soon?” He could have been a Dallas Cowboys’ linebacker; he had the size and the look.

  “I have a couple of things to take care of. Couldn’t wait.”

  The guard hesitated, but then nodded. “I’ll have to make note of your entry, sir.”

  “Of course,” Adkins said, and the guard stepped back.

  Driving up toward the OHB, Adkins kept glancing in his rearview mirror expecting to see flashing lights, but nobody was behind him and the guard had gone back inside the reception building.

  It was nothing short of amazing that Whittaker hadn’t yanked his credentials. It was a stupid lapse of security procedures that even the gate guard had recognized.

  The parking area in the front of the building was practically deserted, and so was the VIP parking garage where his entry pass worked, as it did in the elevator. He had debated arming himself, but decided against it, because there was no way he was going to get into a shoot-out with security. If he was busted he could make the argument that his clearances were still intact, and he’d merely come back one last time out of simple nostalgia. No one would believe him, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything different.

  Unless he was caught in Whittaker’s office.

  The seventh-floor corridor was deserted, all the doors closed, unlike when he had been the DCI, and McGarvey before him. Under Whittaker, morale at the Company had already dropped, and the word was that everybody was busier watching their own backs than actually doing any real or creative work.

  Halfway down the corridor he stopped at the DCI’s door, swiped his pass, and entered the old four-digit code he’d used before the president had fired him. The lock clicked softly and he was in. Whittaker was a fool. And if what McGarvey had told him was true, David was also so arrogant that he’d felt no need to take ordinary precautions.

  He passed through the outer office, the only illumination from the tiny green indicator on the emergency light in one corner up near the ceiling, and into the DCI’s office. The blinds were open and before Adkins turned on the desk lamp he closed them against the faint possibility that someone outside might know that Whittaker was not in the building and wonder why a light had just come on in his office.

  The main computer on the desk was in standby mode, but Whittaker’s Toshiba laptop on the credenza was closed. Adkins sat down, opened the laptop, and powered it up. As he’d suspected it was password protected. Whittaker wasn’t a complete idiot.

  Using his cell phone he called the number McGarvey had given him, and Otto answered after the second ring.

  “Oh, wow, I know where David is right now, so this has gotta be Dick Adkins calling from the DCI’s office.”

  The man was a genius, but he was spooky. “Mac told me to call if I ran into trouble getting into David’s laptop.”

  “Did it boot up?”

  “No. All that’s on the screen are two boxes: User ID and password.”

  “It’s a Toshiba, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look on the bottom and give me all the numbers you see.”

  Adkins turned the laptop over. “There’s a bunch of them.”

  “Find the Toshiba pin number. It’ll be printed right under a bar code.”

  “Got it,” Adkins said and he read it.

  Otto laughed. “I built that machine. Okay now find any label that says service.”

  “There’s only one. Two sets of numbers.”

  Otto laughed even harder. “Dumb,” he said, and he read off both set of numbers.

  “That’s it,” Adkins said.

  “My service numbers. He hasn’t changed a thing.”

  “Mac said he’s been distracted.”

  “He’s going to get even more distracted any minute now,” Otto said. “User ID, whittakercia. Password: tk%//7834ps.”

  Adkins entered both, and the computer booted up. “Okay, it worked.”

  “Of course,” Otto said. “If Mac gave you this number he must have given you my e-mail address. Get online, type in my address, and hit send, and then get out of there. But leave the machine turned on.”

  “First thing in the morning somebody—his secretary at least—will come in here and find out someone hacked his computer.”

  “It’ll be all over by then, Mr. Director, and you’ll have a bunch of work to do, ’cause the president is going to reinstate you. Honest injun.”

  “Jesus,” Adkins muttered, but he did as Otto had asked.

  “Good work. I’m in. Now beat feet.”

  By the time Adkins shut off the desk lamp and opened the curtains every file on Whittaker’s laptop was being downloaded at lightning speed.

  He let himself out into the still-deserted corridor, and hesitated for just a second before he headed down the hall to the Watch, which was housed in a long room, one end of it glassed in for added security. Manned 24/7 by a watch commander and five people, including a National Geospatial Analyst, anything that was happening anywhere in the world that had any effect or even the possibility of an effect on U.S. interests was monitored here. With direct links to the National Security Agency, the National Reconnaissance Office, and just about every other surveillance system, the people who worked here considered themselves to be information junkies. They had an almost compulsive need to know what was happening on a real-time basis everywhere.

  And like air traffic controllers who never saw the light of day during their long shifts, and who had the indoor palor and thousand-yard stare of people who’d worked too long and too hard at something that was nearly impossible to comprehend, analysts in the Watch always looked as if they were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and loving it.

  Adkins swiped his pass on the reader, entered his code, and the lock clicked softly. Everyone looked up from what they were doing, and all the wide-screen monitors on the walls above each position went blank, and a red light on the ceiling began flashing.

  Ron Loring, the watch commander had been leaning against his desk, his jacket off, his tie loose, and he immediately came over before Adkins could take more than two steps into the room. “What are you doing here, Mr. Director,” he said softly, but urgently. “You have to leave, immediately.”

  “McGarvey sent me to talk to you. It’s important.”

  Loring shook his head and stepped back. “I’ve got to call security. You know the drill, sir.”

  “Something big is about to go down. Maybe even tonight. And it has something to do with the Chinese.”

  A flicker of interest crossed Loring’s eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but Mac has made a connection between what happened last year in
Mexico City, and a few months ago in Pyongyang, with China. And with the Friday Club here in Washington.”

  Loring turned away for a second. All his analysts were looking at him and Adkins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Director. But I’ll give you a head start before I call security.”

  “You know damned well what I’m talking about. Goddamnit, I can see it all over your face. What is it? What’s happening over there?”

  Again Loring shook his head, trying to come to a decision. “You never heard this from me. But we’re getting set to send a courier over to the White House.”

  “Why?”

  “China has been warming up its short-range missiles since about sixteen hundred zulu.” Loring looked up at one of the wall clocks. “Almost two hours ago. Then, at about seventeen thirty, Taiwan started doing the same thing with their missiles, and placed their armed forces at Defcon two.”

  “They’re seriously expecting that China is going to attack them?”

  “It’s a possibility. We’re starting to get inputs from the Pentagon and State and we’re putting the package together for the president.”

  “What’s Dave Whittaker’s input?”

  “We haven’t reached him yet. Apparently he’s not at home, and his cell doesn’t pick up.”

  “Christ.”

  “Now get the hell out of here, please,” Loring said. “We need to get back to work.”

  “Right,” Adkins said, and he felt a little sick to his stomach.

  “Tell Mac good luck,” Loring said.

  “Security wants to know what’s going on up here,” one of the analysts called out across the room.

  “Use the VIP elevator, I’ll stall them for as long as I can,” Loring told Adkins.

  SEVENTY

  Sergant Schilling came to the living room door at the same moment Whittaker was trying to reach his pilot by cell phone. It had to have been McGarvey’s doing, sending the helicopter away. But Cardillo was one of them, ferrying members of the Friday Club with no questions asked.