Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  “But they’re there,” Otto said.

  “I told him that we had an eyewitness on the scene. He promised to look into it personally.”

  “Pete’s on her way to our consulate; the OD just confirmed it. Which means Mac has been taken.”

  “Alive?” Gibson asked.

  “Presumably. He was disarmed when he gave his phone to the man who we think is—or was—a midlevel Saudi intel officer by the name of Karim Najjir. The phone went dead moments later.”

  “And McGarvey thinks they mean to take him to Russia and hand him over to the SVR?”

  “As crazy as it sounds, that’s apparently what he and the woman plan to do.”

  “I’ll give Subotin a call.” Vladimir Subotin was the new director general of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, which had been the First Chief Directorate of the old KGB. Nothing much had changed in the past twenty years—not the methods, not the officers, not the training at School 1 or at Moscow State University—only the name of the mammoth intelligence service.

  “He’ll deny knowing anything about it,” Otto said.

  “At least until they’re ready to send McGarvey home,” Patterson broke in.

  “He’s likely to suffer an unfortunate accident at some point,” Gibson said.

  “Unless we send help first,” Otto said.

  “Who?”

  “A contact of Marty’s in the White House.”

  They all turned their attention to Bambridge, who pursed his lips. “Bill Rodak, the president’s special adviser on Russian affairs,” he said.

  Otto glanced at Gibson, who gave him the nod.

  “A friend of yours?” Otto asked.

  “As a matter of fact, yes he is. We go back a number of years, long before Weaver decided to run for president. I was the one who suggested Bill would be just the man in the White House.”

  “You met with him earlier today at Turkey Run Park. Why there and not in your office? Or at the White House?”

  “Both of us wanted privacy. You bug my office and Weaver’s people do the same to all of his staff. Common knowledge.”

  “What was so important you had to meet in private?”

  “McGarvey, of course, who got himself and Ms. Boylan into the middle of an operation that had been in the works for some time.”

  “The terrorist attack on the Eiffel Tower?” Patterson asked.

  “We knew about it, or at least we had some glimmerings. My chief of Paris station gave the DGSE the heads-up months ago. In fact we all thought that it was going to be a Russian-directed operation—which we’re now almost certain it was. But of course Mr. McGarvey got himself involved, and the Russians we thought we were going to bag—with their trousers down around their ankles—walked away. But McGarvey and Ms. Boylan gave chase, of course, and the bodies started to mount as they usually do when he gets involved.”

  Gibson was angry. “This operation of yours, of which I was told nothing, was Rodak’s idea?” he demanded.

  “No, sir. It was mine from the start. But as I said, Bill and I go back a long ways together, and I asked for and received his input.”

  “Then besides your fear of being overheard in your office or his, why the secret meeting off campus?”

  “Plausible deniability, Mr. Director,” Bambridge said with a straight face. “For both of us. We thought that there was a better than even chance that this thing would go south—only not as far south as has happened because of McGarvey—and we wanted the White House, in the person of the president, as well as the Company, in the person of you, sir, to be off the hook.”

  “What was to have been the end result?” Patterson asked. It was clear that he wasn’t buying Bambridge’s story. “What did you hope to accomplish?”

  “It was supposed to be a three-bagger. Nail the cyber spies, back off the SVR, and show Putin’s ambitions for what they are.”

  “Which are?” Patterson asked.

  “The creation of a new Soviet Union, of course.”

  “Jesus, Marty, do you even hear yourself talk sometimes?” Otto said, unable to contain himself any longer.

  Bambridge turned to him. “Why don’t you take a good look at yourself in a mirror, you long-haired fucking freak. McGarvey rescued you from your self-imposed exile in France after you fucked some nun—or was it an altar boy?—and the diocese fired your ass. So you figure you owe him, right? He lets you play with your fucking toys scot-free—because just about everyone on the planet is afraid you’ll go even more berserk than you already are. In turn you feed him classified information that he’s no longer cleared to receive, and the body bags get filled. Everyone is happy, right? You play, he kills.”

  Patterson sat with his mouth open.

  Bambridge looked from Otto to him and then to Gibson. “Then we have the two femme fatales. Pete Boylan, who apparently will do just about anything—let me amend that—who will do everything for a good fuck. If that’s what McGarvey is, though just about everyone woman he’s ever been close to, including his wife and daughter, were murdered because of him. And then there’s Louise, a super geek in her own right, who must like to get down in the mud and fuck with the hogs.”

  Otto was off his seat in a shot and, before Patterson or Gibson could say a word, slammed his fist in the side of Bambridge’s face, knocking the deputy director off his chair and onto the floor.

  Shoving the chair aside, he began kicking Bambridge in the ribs and the leg and the shoulder. Spittle flew from his mouth, and every fiber in his being wanted to destroy the smug bastard. Wanted to knock him down. Break all his bones. Cause him so much pain that he would beg to die, just so that he would no longer be in misery.

  Gibson was there at his side, pulling him away, and Patterson was there a moment or two later.

  “Easy, my boy, easy,” Patterson was saying over and over.

  Gibson’s secretary was at the door, and the general looked up. “Get the medics up here,” he told her.

  Marty sat up, and he rubbed the side of his face. “No need, but call security and have this fucking freak arrested. And if he tries to escape, you have my authorization to shoot the bastard.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  The American-made SUV was a Dodge Durango with three rows of seats. McGarvey was placed in the center row, while a shooter sat in the rear seat and Najjir, armed with a pistol, rode shotgun, turned in the seat so that he could keep an eye on McGarvey while another of the shooters drove.

  They were on the European side of the Bosphorus, heading north well within the speed limit. It wasn’t the way to the airport.

  “It’s a long drive to Russia,” McGarvey said. “I thought that you’d want to get rid of me as soon as possible.”

  “Believe me, nothing would give me greater pleasure. But Atatürk is out, for obvious reasons, so we’re going to take a little boat ride. The Black Sea isn’t quite so pleasant as the Med, but it’s less public for our purposes, and the yacht is comfortable.”

  A couple of years ago McGarvey had Pete had been involved in an undercover operation where they mingled with the superrich aboard their mega yachts off Monaco.

  “The terrorism, kidnapping, and assassination business must be more lucrative than I ever expected.”

  Najjir smiled. “The yacht is a lease, not mine.”

  “Russian?”

  “No. They know that we’re coming, but I’ve kept your identity a secret for now. Less complicated.”

  McGarvey had to smile. “You’re taking a big chance, springing me on them out of the blue.”

  “On the contrary. I assured them that I was bringing a valuable asset. One that they couldn’t refuse.”

  “I have friends there.”

  “So I’m told. But enemies also.”

  * * *

  The yacht was tied up at the istmarin about halfway up the Bosphorus, less than ten miles from where the waterway opened onto the Black Sea. A lot of big cargo ships steamed by in both directions, many of them Russian but a fair amo
unt Chinese, most with registrations from places of convenience, such as Liberia and Cyprus.

  She was a Dutch-built boat, just under one hundred feet, with the Arabic name Farashatan, or Butterfly. It was one of the lesser yachts owned by a Saudi prince, which had been moored at Monaco for the Grand Prix race.

  “The poor man must be down on his luck,” Pete had commented when they’d first seen it there. “Looks like a real yacht’s dinghy.”

  McGarvey recognized it now, but said nothing.

  It was past midnight and the marina was deserted, except for a night watchman in uniform.

  The driver pulled up a few feet from the gate, and Najjir got out and walked over to the guardhouse, where he had a few words with the man.

  The gate swung open and the watchman walked off, along the line of boats up out of the water and secured to cradles for storage or maintenance. As soon as he was out of sight, Najjir motioned for the driver to come through, and then he closed the gate behind the Dodge.

  For just that brief interval, when it was only the distracted driver and the man in the rear seat, McGarvey thought that it would be fairly easy to take out the shooter and order the driver to do a 180.

  But what was still puzzling was what the entire operation had been about in the first place. Taking down the Eiffel Tower would have been spectacular, but the ringmaster being right there on-site made no sense. Nor did the woman. Nor did taking him to Russia to trade with the SVR. Trade for what?

  He wasn’t going to make it easy for them; the Russians would be suspicious. But he was almost looking forward to meeting with whomever would be assigned to conduct his debriefing.

  Najjir got back in and they drove over to the yacht and parked beside the gangway lowered from the aft deck. Najjir and the driver got out first, then Mac, and finally the shooter from the backseat. Again he thought that he had another chance to make an escape and get back to Pete at the consulate, but he stood there, his hands loose at his sides. She was safe now.

  The diesels were idling, but only a dim light shone from the pilothouse. The night air smelled of diesel fumes, burned oil from the passing freighters, and something else. Something odd, foreign, like a combination of jasmine and sandalwood and a dozen other scents. Turkey was a place from another time. It smelled ancient.

  Miriam, wearing jeans and a light sweater against the cool evening air, came out from the salon. “I didn’t think that you’d actually make it,” she said. She was holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a flute in the other.

  “Are we good to go?” Najjir asked.

  “Of course. But what about his woman?”

  “It became a trade after all.”

  “Maybe not such a good idea.”

  “He had a couple of chances to make a try for it, but here he is.”

  “It’s a long way to Novorossiysk. Thirty hours, according to Levin.” Viktor Levin was a contract skipper for the SVR. He, along with an executive officer, an engineer, a cook, and a steward—all of them, other than the skipper and the exec, trained intel officers—knew that they were carrying an asset that was not only of high value but also dangerous. Everyone was on their toes.

  “Then we best get under way,” Najjir said.

  * * *

  It was well after midnight and they had been under way at nearly top speed of twenty knots for a little more than an hour. Mac had been worrying about Pete nonstop, sorry now that his vanity had pushed him into not fighting back. He’d wanted to see how the Russians reacted to him.

  He, Najjir, and Miriam were drinking champagne in the salon and having a light supper/early breakfast.

  “I’m curious as to how you and Ms. Boylan just happened to be at the Jules Verne at that exact moment,” Najjir said.

  “Coincidence,” McGarvey said. They were having smoked salmon with cream cheese, chopped onion, lemon wedges and, instead of capers, a good Iranian beluga caviar. It was all fine, but a poached egg and an english muffin would have been better. It seemed like forever since he and Pete had a decent meal.

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “You were the operational commander. What the hell were you doing there?”

  “Taking care of business. The kids were dedicated, but they were amateurs.”

  “And you?” McGarvey said, turning to Miriam. “Where do you fit?”

  “I was the diversion.”

  “Bullshit.”

  She smiled, but shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter if you work it out in the end, which you’re bound to, but it’ll be too late.”

  “For what?”

  It was Najjir’s turn to smile. “Ask your Russian pals, if they show up.”

  * * *

  It was seven in the evening in Washington and Otto was sitting at the kitchen counter drinking from a carton of half-and-half and eating the third package of Twinkies since he’d gotten home.

  His tablet was powered up in front of him and he was connected with his darlings back on campus. Something wasn’t adding up, and he was bothered.

  Louise came from upstairs. “You’ll be useless if you don’t get some sleep,” she said, giving him a hug. “You’ve been going nonstop for the past twenty hours.” She took a drink from the half-and-half and ate one of his Twinkies.

  “I’m missing something.”

  “Marty trash talking isn’t worth the bother, though I would have liked to have been there when you beat the shit out of him. My hero.”

  Otto suddenly had it. “Pete,” he said.

  “She’s at our consulate. Stable.”

  Otto looked up at his wife. “Mark Rowe; he’s Marty’s boy!”

  FORTY-FIVE

  Dr. Eduardo Iglesias and his team had flown down from Ankara to take care of Pete. They were still in the consulate’s infirmary, which had been turned into a makeshift operating theater.

  It was nearly three in the morning and Rowe had been waiting for two hours. He’d wanted to get it over with and disappear. Any operation that even remotely involved Kirk McGarvey was fraught with the possibility of some serious blowback, and he was becoming increasingly nervous.

  But Marty’s instructions had been crystal clear. “Boylan must never be in condition to answer questions. Finish that and you’ll have a free ride, I can guarantee it.”

  “I’m going deep.”

  “No need. And in any event, that takes a lot of money, unless you want to live in some skid row shack.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You won’t get rich as a chief of station somewhere, but after a few years, if you want to retire early, you would be in a perfect position to take on some private contracting. Maybe as a security consultant.”

  “A COS where?” Rowe pressed.

  “Don’t push your luck, Mark. I won’t put you in some shithole, I can promise you that. Maybe Athens, or Warsaw, something like that.”

  “London?”

  Bambridge had laughed. “First things first.”

  * * *

  Dr. Iglesias came out of the dispensary. He was a small, dark man who’d been born and educated in Cuba and had worked for the CIA since he’d entered medical school. Besides being a good operative, he’d been a damned fine surgeon and had been the doctor of choice for a lot of the Cuban government’s elite.

  Rowe jumped up from the chair he’d pulled out of one of the offices. “How is she?”

  “She’ll come out of everything with nothing more than lots of war wounds,” the doctor said, his accent still Cuban. “The bullet wound in her side—which missed her liver by only a couple of millimeters—was the least of her problems. Someone used her damned hard. I hope McGarvey catches up with the son of a bitch who hurt her, and I’ll sincerely pray for the man’s soul.”

  “It’ll happen,” Rowe said, glad that his role would only seem to have been from the sidelines. And more than relieved that he had given Mac a working pistol. Insurance, he’d thought of it at the time, and the policy was marked “Payment due�
�� if he could pull off the last task Marty had given him.

  “She’s still sleeping, and I’m going to keep her that way until she stabilizes. Another twelve hours and then we’ll get her up to Ramstein, for at least twenty-four hours, then take her back to All Saints.”

  The state-of-the-art hospital that treated only badly wounded intel officers—most of them CIA operatives—was located in Georgetown. Pete had been there before, and McGarvey had been there so often, someone joked, that the hospital ought to be equipped with a revolving door.

  “I thought you said that she’d be okay.”

  Iglesias gave him a sharp look. “She will be.”

  “That’s good to hear, Doc,” Rowe said. “Can I take a peek?”

  Iglesias nodded. “Just for a minute, but don’t disturb her.”

  * * *

  It was a couple of minutes past eight in Washington, and Otto and Louise were sitting at the kitchen counter, working on a bottle of Beaujolais while staring at his laptop screen for word from Istanbul.

  Erick Kraus, the overnight duty officer, had confirmed that Rowe had showed up at the consulate a couple of hours ago and that the medicos had finished tending to Pete’s wounds.

  According to the primary care doc who’d come down from Ankara, she would recover just fine. They were going to bypass Ramstein and fly her directly to Andrews no later than noon local.

  * * *

  Rowe stepped just inside the infirmary, which was not much larger than a couple of the average offices in the consulate. The portable operating lights had been switched off, leaving the room in semidarkness, the only light coming from the bathroom’s partially open door.

  For just a moment he had the feeling that this was somehow a setup, but Pete was hooked up to a number of IVs and monitors and she appeared to be unconscious, only a white blanket covering her from the neck down, her head turned slightly away.

  It came to him that Bambridge was full of bullshit. There’d be no job as chief of any station. If he pulled the IVs, someone would come in and reconnect them. If he put a pillow over her face and smothered her, the heart monitor she was connected to would sound an alarm.