“Who?” Pete asked. “Who wants to hang you?”
“And why?” Green added in his quiet manner, all traces of his previous hostility gone, replaced by an oddly out of place neutrality. Studied. Scripted.
“The disk found in Todd’s car was not the one Givens handed over to him in town.”
“You’ve already said that.”
“Nor was his murder a random act. Nor were Givens and his family murdered in a home invasion gone bad.”
“You’ve also said that,” Green continued. “Assuming you’re correct, who murdered them and why?”
“Very likely by someone working for Administrative Solutions, under the orders of the Friday Club, probably through an intermediary. It’s why I went to Frankfurt to confront Roland Sandberger, tell him what I knew and get German intelligence involved, officially.”
“I don’t get that part,” Pete said, genuinely puzzled. “Come to us with your suspicions, why the Germans? Specifically. What’s the BND’s involvement?”
“In your opinion,” Green added.
McGarvey thought that he could dislike the little man, but it was just a job. “It has nothing to do with the Germans.”
“Now I’m confused,” Pete said.
“If he’d been in the UK I would have involved the SIS, if it had been in Pakistan, the ISI. Didn’t matter where I confronted him, I just wanted the local intelligence apparatus to sit up and take notice.”
“Good heavens, whatever for?” Pete asked, still puzzled.
“Don’t you trust your own government?” Green asked.
McGarvey shook his head. “No.”
NINETEEN
Remington sank down on the bench in Rock Creek Park, weary from his trip to Frankfurt. He’d expected the German authorities to ask them about McGarvey, but Sandberger had seemed indifferent, talking instead about the Baghdad contracts, which in the end would be worth millions — tens of millions, now that Task Force One was out.
That evening they’d had a good dinner at the hotel, and Sandberger had left around midnight to return to Iraq, leaving Remington to stew in his own juices until his afternoon flight back to Washington.
Last night at home hadn’t been much better for him. He and Colleen had a social engagement at the British embassy, that she insisted they keep, but he had begged off and she’d left angry. He’d slept in the guest bedroom last night, and she’d been gone before he’d gotten up this morning.
Sandberger called on the encrypted number shortly before noon, and he was abrupt.
“He’s back in the States, under house arrest, but he hasn’t been indicted yet. Do you understand?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Remington had replied, trying to work out what Sandberger wanted him to understand, while full well knowing what the next step would be. They had discussed his last, extreme measure at some length.
“The funeral is tomorrow. Make it happen.”
“Is it necessary?” Remington had asked. He wasn’t exactly squeamish, but McGarvey had tracked them down to Frankfurt, armed, and if they missed he would come after them.
“Yes,” Sandberger said. “For Christ’s sake he actually came after us in Frankfurt.”
Remington had looked out the window at the river. “Let’s not underestimate this man.”
The line had been silent for a long moment, and when he came back Sandberger was cool at best. “Don’t underestimate me, Gordon.”
“Of course not,” Remington had assured his boss, and the connection had been broken, leaving him to seriously wonder what the hell they’d gotten into with the Friday Club.
He had stewed about Roland’s call the rest of the day, and even now he had to wonder where the hell they were headed, and if they were going in a direction that made the same sense that Admin had made to him when he had joined.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” his father had told him when the last of the family’s fortune had been gambled and drank away. The pater had been a fatalist; whatever happened was supposed to happen. It was life. A man’s future was determined at birth. Before birth. But Gordon had not believed in it; look what that sort of belief had done to the old man.
Remington glanced at his watch, which showed a minute before four, as Kangas and Mustapha in jogging outfits came around the curve in the Parkway just south of the Massachusetts Bridge.
They stopped a few feet away and did their stretching exercises. Other people were using the park, and the air smelled of charcoal grilles and was filled with the sounds of laughter and children’s cries. Normalcy in a world Remington figured had been going mad for as long as he could remember. It’s how he made his living.
“You handled the situation with the CIA officer and Givens very well and Mr. Sandberger is pleased, especially with how you covered your tracks. He’s approved a healthy bonus for you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mustapha said. “Did you want us here this afternoon to tell us that? Or is there more?”
Remington held his temper in check. He and Sandberger had discussed what would eventually have to happen to them, and he felt the sooner the better.
“It’s become necessary to go to the next stage,” he said. “The funeral is tomorrow at Arlington. Can you be ready by then?”
“Of course,” Mustapha said. “But this will be even more dangerous than the other day. Much more dangerous.”
“I agree,” Remington said. “But this project has the personal interest of Mr. Sandberger, and he’s the guy who signs your checks.”
Mustapha straightened up and looked directly at him. “We appreciate that, but we’d like to make a suggestion.”
“Are you getting cold feet?”
“Not at all,” Mustapha said. “But taking him out will be tough.”
“Your point being?”
“We’d like to use an IED. In the road. After the funeral. Easier to blame on the ragheads.”
Remington had considered it, and had even discussed the issue with Roland. McGarvey was truly dangerous, taking him out with long guns would be preferable to taking a chance that he would survive an explosive device. And Sandberger had agreed.
He took out an electronic security detector, about the size of a flip phone, pointed it first at Kangas then at Mustapha. If they’d been wearing a wire or any sort of recording device the ESD would have picked it up. But they were clean and he pocketed the device.
“If you have the chance, take it,” he said. “But only if you can get out clean. Absolutely clean. Because if you don’t, Mr. Sandberger’s next order will be to have you eliminated.”
Both men nodded.
“Are we absolutely clear on this point?”
“Yes, sir,” Mustapha said.
“And on the further point that we never had this discussion?”
“Right,” Mustapha said.
Remington got up and headed to where he’d parked his car without looking back. It either ended tomorrow, or it would just be getting started.
TWENTY
After an early dinner of pizza and beer, Dan Green and Pete wanted to continue with the debriefing, but McGarvey refused. They’d gotten to the part when a North Korean intelligence officer had shown up at McGarvey’s home in Casey Key, and Mac’s decision to help. The going was slow because they’d wanted every detail: the time of day, what everyone was wearing, what, if anything, Mac’s wife had overheard, or what he had told her, the make and model of the North Korean’s car — presumably a rental — and its tag numbers, even its general condition.
“No dents, or scuffs, or perhaps mud around the wheel wells?” Green had nitpicked. “We just want to get a sense of this colonel’s fastidiousness, his attention to details, if you will. Little lapses like those might translate into what sort of an officer he was: sloppy or neat, a dreamer or an itemizer.”
“Paranoid or assured,” Pete added.
“Later,” McGarvey told them. “I want to call the Farm.”
“We’ll be at it until late ton
ight,” Green said a little crossly. They were in their element doing this sort of thing, and they had just hit their stride and didn’t want to quit.
“Whatever. But first I’ll have a word with my wife and daughter. I want to find out how they’re doing.”
Pete shrugged. “We have a lot of ground still to cover,” she said. She took a cell phone out of her jeans, handed it to McGarvey and motioned for Green to leave the kitchen with her. “We’ll give Mr. McGarvey his privacy.”
“It’s on record in any event,” McGarvey said, and he dialed his daughter’s number in her private quarters as his debriefers left.
Liz answered after three rings, and she sounded all out of breath, as if she had been crying all afternoon, which she probably had been. “Yes.”
“Hi, sweetheart, it’s me. How are you and your mother doing?”
“I think it’s just starting to sink in,” she said. “But it’s so unreal. I even thought that maybe you were Todd finally calling, and I was all set to be pissed off at him for being late and not letting me know.” She hesitated. “I was worried.”
“I know. I feel almost the same thing.”
The kitchen was modern, with new appliances and bright wallpaper, homey, a place that was meant to seem comfortable. No threats here. Just friends in a pleasant situation talking about old times. No need for secrets. And it was true, he almost expected Todd to be coming through the front door to find out what the hell all the fuss was about.
“How are you doing, Daddy? Any progress?”
“Some, but it’s still early going,” McGarvey said. “I’m beginning to put a few things into place.”
“Anything you can talk about?”
“We’re being monitored.”
“Of course,” Liz said after a brief hesitation, and McGarvey could see the field officer in his daughter kicking in, checking all the angles, looking in all the corners, considering all the possibilities.
“How’s Audie?”
“She was a little fussy earlier, but she’s in bed—” Liz stopped short. “Mom’s right here. We’re outside having a cup of tea. I’ll put her on.”
A moment later Katy came on, her voice nearly unrecognizable. “Kirk?” she said. “Can you come get us?”
“Not tonight. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Katy hesitated. “Oh, at Arlington.”
“Yes. And afterward I’ll take you home.”
“I’ll stay here until you’re done. You’re not finished yet, are you?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll stay here,” Katy said. “I think I hear the baby crying. I’m putting Elizabeth back on.”
Liz came back. “Mother’s staying here for the time being, but I don’t know how much help I can be for you.”
“Stay with your mother, and tomorrow — I know it’ll be almost impossible — keep your eyes open. And whatever you do, don’t make a move without your minders.”
“I understand.”
“Try to get some sleep, sweetheart,” McGarvey said.
“I’ll try,” Liz said and she was gone, leaving McGarvey holding for a long time before he pushed the end button and laid the phone down on the dining room table.
A minute later his interrogators came in, Pete apologetic, Dan Green a little angry.
“We didn’t listen in, Mr. Director,” Pete said. “On that you have my word.”
“It doesn’t matter,” McGarvey said, suddenly more than tired; he was weary, mentally as well as physically. And tomorrow loomed large in his mind, because he would not be able to do anything until after his son-in-law had been buried. What made tomorrow even worse for him was the thought of leaving Katy and Liz again, just as he had done for more than twenty years.
“Can we get you anything else before we pick up where we left off. The North Korean intelligence officer come for a chat with you.”
“No,” McGarvey said, getting up. “We’re done for the night. I’m tired.”
“The hell we are,” Green said. “You have a lot to answer for.”
“Yes, I do,” McGarvey said and he turned to leave when Green started to step in front of him.
“Leave it, Dan,” Pete cautioned. “We’re all tired.”
Green stepped aside but said nothing.
“You’ll continue to cooperate this evening, Mr. Director?” she asked. “Can we have your word on it?”
“Yes, for tonight,” McGarvey said.
“What about tomorrow?”
“That’ll depend.”
“You’re charged with treason,” Green said angrily, and McGarvey got the impression that the man’s anger wasn’t real, it was a part of his and Pete’s dog and pony show.
“If that were the case, they would have put me someplace a hell of a lot more secure than here, don’t you think?” he said.
He walked out into the stair hall and Pete came to the door. “How did Sandberger react when you showed up?” she asked.
“He wasn’t happy,” McGarvey said.
“I would have given anything to have been a little bird in the corner,” Pete admitted. “We’ll be with you tomorrow.”
“Who else?”
“Federal marshals in the car with you and nearby. Just in case Todd’s assassination wasn’t a random act.”
TWENTY-ONE
First thing in the morning Kangas and Mustapha parked their untraceable Buick LeSabre near the Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington National Cemetery, and walked a quarter of a mile back down the hill in the general direction of the South Gate, crossing Porter, Miles, and then Grant drives. A few people were out and about, but not many; a hush seemed to hang over the place.
Neither man had ever wanted to be buried here, even though they’d been career government employees, because neither of them saw themselves dying in service of their country. It was an old line from Patton, something like: Let the other son of a bitch die for his country. They considered themselves to be too professional to be killed because of stupidity.
“Nice day for a funeral,” Mustapha said.
“For someone else,” Kangas replied, and he laughed.
They reached a spot from where they had a decent line of sight to the driveway that opened to Southgate Road, that in turn led to Columbia Pike or South Joyce Street away from the cemetery. After the funeral, which would start in a few hours, the procession would pass through the gate, according to Remington’s intel, which had never been wrong before. The guy might be a prick, but he knew what he was doing.
Right on time a blue-and-white panel van without windows, marked Fairfax County Highway Department, pulled up about twenty feet down the driveway from the gate and parked in the middle of the road, almost on top of a storm sewer lid. Two men, dressed in blue coveralls and wearing hardhats, got out of the truck and placed a few traffic cones blocking the lane that led out of the cemetery. No one from the gate came down to ask what was going on.
“Considering what’s been happening, and who’s going to be here soon, you’d think security would be tighter,” Kangas said.
“Makes you wonder about the Bureau,” Mustapha agreed. “And Homeland Security.”
“And the Company. The Van Buren kid was one of theirs.”
The men were Islamic jihadists from the Ramila Mosque, Abu al-Amush who’d been born and raised in Baghdad, and Richard Hamadi, who’d come over to Detroit with his parents when he was a child. Al-Amush had been radicalized during the tail end of the Saddam Hussein regime and then in the war with the Americans, learning to hate whatever side was in power. And he had brought his message first to Detroit where he’d recruited workers from the auto assembly lines, and finally here two years ago, bringing Hamadi with him, when he’d been lured by the Ramila’s imam, to carry the message of hatred to the young men raising money for the cause.
And carry out the occasional assignment.
Mustapha had been the lead contact man with the mosque, which had been moved in secret from its storefront months ago, leaving be
hind only the shell that had been destroyed in the explosion after the deaths of Van Buren and Givens. And convincing the imam and his followers had been relatively easy; they were all fanatics whose attention was totally focused on only two things: hatred and money. Kangas was the influential American businessman with deep pockets who’d been taken in by Mustapha, a true believer and a dedicated jihadist himself.
This assignment today, for a further contribution of ten thousand dollars to the cause, was right up al-Amush’s alley, who’d learned all there was to know about IEDs, especially cell phone controlled IEDs, in Baghdad so that he could have written an instruction manual on the subject, except that he was practically illiterate, as were many of the so-called freedom fighters.
Kangas and Mustapha moved to a grave site a little closer to the driveway, from where they could watch the maintenance workers without appearing to be paying any attention.
“Fucking rag heads,” Kangas muttered.
“At least they have a cause,” Mustapha said. “Something we don’t.”
Kangas looked over in surprise. “Give me a break.” He nodded down toward the two men who’d pried the storm sewer lip up and were rolling it back to the truck. “Tell me about them. What service do you suppose they’re providing?”
“At least they think they know who their enemies are. We’ve been over there, we know the drill on the streets. They get their heads so filled with shit in the mosques that they practically think they can walk on water. They look forward to dying.”
“Which leaves us, contracting to protect the good guys,” Kangas said.
“Up until now, Tim. ’Cause I’m telling you that this shit just ain’t right, and you know it as well as I do. Bagging bad guys in the field is one thing, this is something different, and I don’t know if this is why I signed on.”
“The money’s goddamned good.”
“Fuck the money.”
“I’ll take your share,” Kangas kidded, worried for the first time. He wasn’t about to walk away from Admin, not until shit began to happen, not until the center started to fail, which wasn’t quite happening yet. But he’d never had an inkling until now that Ronni might be developing a conscience.
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