It was noon by the time the cabby dropped McGarvey off at the corner of Thirty-second and Q streets in Georgetown and he made the rest of his way on foot to the Boynton Towers apartments. The place had been modern ten years ago, but though it had aged, the eight-story building was still an elegant address and the apartment rents had skyrocketed.
He took the elevator to the top floor, and using the lock pick set he’d taken after all, he spent a half minute opening the door to 8B, and let himself in.
The small, neatly furnished apartment smelled slightly musty. The CIA had owned it for ten years, using it first in a surveillance operation against DarbyYarnell, and since then as a safe house for the occasional clandestine meeting.
So far as Otto Rencke had been able to find out, the place hadn’t been used for nearly thirteen months. Nobody had been here to clean or to check on the place. The rent was paid on time every month by housekeeping at Langley, and so far as the neighbors were concerned the renter was likely a government employee of some sort, off on another long foreign posting.
McGarvey moved slowly across the living room and down the corridor to the back bedroom. The window blinds were partially drawn allowing sunlight to cast stripes on the pale gray carpeted floor. Keeping to one side, he eased one of the slats upward and peered across at Yarnell’s old house. An instant rush of memories came back at him.
Lorraine, the field officer with the
Sommersprosse
who’d been on the team that had come for him in Lausanne, had been up here. So had a couple of Trotter’s people, a man whose name might have been Sheets, or something like that, and another named Gonzales. They thought that Yarnell was a spy for the Soviet government, and they were watching the comings and goings at his house.
The apartment had been filled with surveillance equipment, including a big Starlight scope on a sturdy tripod.
Tell them I came, and no one answered, that I kept my word.
It was the same bit of de la Mare that had come to him then. The listeners, waiting for the lone rider to bang on the door, find that no one was home and then leave again.
Gonzales had been on the Starlight. “Maybe you want to take a look; maybe you don’t.” He nodded toward the scope. “But it’s something.”
A man and a woman stood locked in an embrace next to a four-poster bed in an upstairs bedroom. The man’s back was toward the window. When they parted, McGarvey was looking into Kathleen’s face. She was flushed. Then the man half turned, giving McGarvey a clear view of him. Yarnell.
Oh, Kathleen!
he’d thought then and now. She’d always played dangerous games, but she hadn’t known just how precarious her position really was. And here she was again.
The street below was quiet, and there were no sounds in the apartment. It was as if this part of the capital city was holding its collective breath, which in a way it was.
The waiting had always been the hardest part. And now it was made infinitely more difficult because it was Katy over there again.
McGarvey slowly lowered the slat back into place, and then adjusted the blinds so that he could see outside. Taking off his jacket, he laid it on the bed, then took the small lamp off the nightstand and pulled the little table over to the window. He pulled the easy chair from the corner and positioned it next to the table so that when he was seated he could look out the window and see the street and front entrance to Yarnell’s old house.
Katy would be frightened but defiant. By now Khalil would be figuring out how to let McGarvey know where he had her. That would take time, during which Katy would be relatively safe.
Hold on, darling,
he thought.
He used his cell phone to call Liese in Switzerland. She answered out of breath on the first ring.
“Oui.”
“Are you ready?”
“Very nearly,” she answered. “Within the hour.”
“Be careful,” McGarvey said. He broke the connection and called Rencke, who also answered on the first ring as if he too had been expecting the call.
“There’s a storm sewer that opens at the rear of the embassy. You can get into the tunnel on G Street just off Juarez Circle.”
“Have you faxed that on an open line to my house yet?” McGarvey asked.
“It’s set to go by fax and by unencrypted e-mail to the house,” Rencke said. “I want to make it real easy for them.”
“Do it,” McGarvey said. “Then keep your head down; there’ll be a lot of heat.”
Rencke laughed, but it sounded vicious. “They don’t know what heat is if they hurt Mrs. M.”
“Nobody knows where I am.”
“Right,” Rencke said.
A Mercedes pulled up in front of Yarnell’s old house. A slightly built man in a shirt and tie but no jacket, carrying what looked to be a small briefcase, came out of the Arab Center, passed through the gate, and got into the car, which immediately departed.
McGarvey got the impression that the briefcase might have been a doctor’s bag, but he didn’t want to take that thought any further. For the moment he was doing everything he could.
He telephoned his daughter, and she answered immediately.
“Daddy, are you ready?” she asked. There were traffic sounds in the background.
“I’m in position,” McGarvey told her. “Where are you?”
“In front of the embassy, and there are a lot of nervous-looking people over there. Soon as I pulled up and started taking pictures, three guards came out. They’re there right now, taking pictures of me.”
It was what McGarvey had expected would happen. Now he wanted to ratchet up the pressure. “How many people have you got over there?”
“Just me for now,” Elizabeth said. “But Todd is on the way with three surveillance teams and vans. They should be here any minute, and we’ll hit them with everything we’ve got.”
“No gunplay,” McGarvey warned. “If it seems to be heading that way, call DC Metro and get the hell out of there.”
“Soon as Mom’s free.”
“What about their utilities?”
“Their water goes off in about five minutes, and Otto gave me a computer program to cut electricity. Soon as you give me the word, it’s a done deal.”
Down on the street another black Mercedes passed in front of the Arab Center, but did not stop.
“Thirty minutes, sweetheart,” McGarvey told his daughter. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“No,” she promised. “We’re just going to make the bastards real nervous.”
McGarvey broke the connection, laid the telephone on the small table, then unholstered his pistol, placed it next to the phone, and sat back to wait.
Inside the embassy an extremely nervous Nuaimi finished his difficult phone call to Riyadh. Neither the ambassador nor Crown Prince Abdullah had offered to help with what was escalating into an impossible situation. They were leaving the problem to him.
No matter what happened he would take the blame. In the end he would be recalled home in disgrace.
His telephone rang, but it was Ali bin Besharati, chief of embassy security. “In addition to the car there are now four vans across the street. They are bombarding us with electronic and laser pulses.”
“Get rid of them,” Nuaimi shouted.
“I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. They are on a public street and are breaking no American laws. I can direct one of my people to walk over and ask them to leave.”
Nuaimi tried to get himself together. He lowered his voice. “No, that’s
not advisable. Just have your people hold their posts. No one is to be allowed in or out of the building for the time being.”
“I understand,” bin Besharati said.
You don’t understand anything, you fool. “See to it.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. But there is another problem, and it may be somehow related.”
“What is it?” Nuaimi demanded, impatiently.
“Our water has stopped flowing.”
“What are you talking about?” Nuaimi practically shouted. What was happening? His entire career was blowing away like a bit of cloth in a wind.
“All the water faucets and toilets in the building have ceased to function. Our engineer believes that there may be a problem with the water main out on the street.”
“Get it fixed—” Nuaimi said, but then stopped. His eyes went to the lamp on his desk. He flipped the switch and it came on. Whatever U.S. agency was outside spying on them—probably the FBI—had not shut off the utilities to isolate the embassy. The water was just an annoying problem. “Call the city or whatever agency supplies our water service, and report the problem.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” bin Besharati said.
Nuaimi buzzed his secretary. “Where is al-Kaseem?”
“I don’t know, Your Excellency. Shall I find him for you?”
“Yes, immediately.”
“Prince Salman has returned, sir. He would like just a moment of your time.”
For a fleeting moment Nuaimi wondered if the prince’s trouble in Monaco with the former director of the CIA was connected to what was happening across the street. But then he dismissed the notion as melodramatic. Americans were cowboys, but the government did not operate in such a fashion.
“Send him in, but as soon as you locate al-Kaseem I want to speak with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nuaimi had risen to the post of deputy ambassador to the most important nation on earth not because of his family name, but because he was a
skilled diplomat. He had worked in various capacities at embassies around the world, from Moscow to London and from Damascus to Tokyo, where he’d learned the business. In this situation, with another bin Laden attack against the U.S. on the verge of happening, he was in the most precarious position of his career. If he did nothing he would be finished. Which, he begin to realize, actually gave him the power to do whatever he wanted. Within reason.
One small step at a time. That was the diplomat’s credo,
Nuaimi thought, as prince Salman came in
. And perhaps the prince could be the first step.
“I’ve reconsidered,” Salman said. “I don’t think Washington is the place for me to be at this moment. So I’m going home.”
Nuaimi’s spirits sank. He’d had the vague thought of using the prince as an emissary to the White House. At the very least he might be able to learn why the embassy had become the target of a surveillance operation. “Perhaps I was being too hasty, suggesting you leave.”
Salman was amused. “Not at all,” he said. “Is your telephone secure?”
Nuaimi was confused by the question. “Normally I would say yes, but considering what is happening across the street, I could not guarantee it.”
“Good,” Salman said. “In that case I would like to use it to let my staff in Lucerne know that I am returning. I want to make sure that when I walk out the front door I will be expected. Considering the climate in Washington, it would not do to make a sudden, unexpected move.” He gave Nuaimi a sly look. “I don’t think my presence here is wanted. Calling from your desk might be worth something for you.”
“Of course,” Nuaimi said, and he sat back as Salman came around the desk and direct-dialed his compound on the Swiss lake.
He spoke for only a half minute, informing his people that he would be returning no later than sometime the next day, his work here nearly finished.
“Thank you,” he told Nuaimi after he’d hung up. “When I return, I’ll speak to my uncle about you.”
“That is very kind, Your Excellency,” Nuaimi said, and Salman walked out.
What work had he come here to do that was nearly finished?
Nuaimi wondered.
His secretary called. “Mr. al-Kaseem does not answer his page, sir. No one has seen him since earlier this morning.”
Nuaimi felt a sense of fatalism. He was the deputy ambassador. He was
a diplomat. It was time to live up to his position, because he no longer had anything to lose. “Get me the White House. I wish to speak to President Haynes about why we are being surveilled contrary to international conventions.”
Khalil and the cameraman had left the cell to give Kathleen time to think over the threat to abort the baby, but in the fifteen minutes since they left she was no closer to making a decision. She was frightened, and she didn’t know what to do.
She sat on the cot, her back against the wall, tightly hugging herself for warmth and to stop from shaking. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come, and her mouth was still dry. It was as if her entire body was drying out. Even the bleeding seemed to have diminished. Nor was she in much pain now that the injection the doctor had given her had kicked in.
She didn’t want to die. Not here, not like this, without ever having a chance to see Kirk again. Just one more time she wanted to look into his face, feel his arms around her.
It had been a stupid act of vanity driving down here and showing herself in front of Yarnell’s old house. Elizabeth would have told her father by now, and God only knew what Kirk was in the act of doing. People were probably going to die because of her stupid pride. She was the wife of the former director of the CIA, one of the Company’s top agents ever. News of her kidnapping had probably reached the White House by now. It was another bit of trouble in an already deeply troubling time.
It had been her plan to find out if Khalil was staying at the Arab Center by driving up and parking across the street. If he was inside and he spotted her sitting there, he might worry that Kirk would be coming after him and Khalil would do something foolish, like bolt. But she realized now that she’d never had the real measure of the man. After his failure in Alaska, he’d become like a cornered animal, fighting for its life.
Kathleen looked up, another thought coming to the forefront. She was alive. They hadn’t killed her yet. And just like in Alaska, on the fantail of the cruise ship, in the cold and dark when she didn’t think she would survive, something happened. Kirk happened. Lovely, strong, impossible man.
She owed him now. For Kirk and the baby and Elizabeth and Todd, she had to remain alive, had to keep the baby safe.
She got shakily to her feet and staggered to the door. She pounded on it. “Hey,” she shouted, her voice weak. “Hey. I’ll make the tape. Come back.”
Someone was outside the door. She stepped well back, and then straightened her pajama top and fluffed her hair as best she could without a mirror.
The door opened, and the cameraman, short, thick-necked, was there. “What is it?” he demanded. His accent was harsh.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Kathleen said, careful to keep her voice steady. “I’ll read the statement.”
“I’ll tell him,” the cameraman said, and he started to close the door.
“Wait!”
Kathleen shouted. “May I have a glass of water, please?”
The man laughed and closed the door.
Kathleen closed her eyes for a moment.
I will be strong. I will survive
. She went back to the cot and picked up the script Khalil had given her. She didn’t know for sure where she was, but she thought it was possible they’d brought her to the Saudi Embassy. As she read the message she was supposed to read for the camera, she tried to figure out a way to indicate where she was. She didn’t know Morse code, so she couldn’t blink out a message, but there had to be a way, and she was determined to figure it out.
The door opened again and Khalil came in. “You have decided to cooperate?”
She looked into his cobra eyes, and the words stuck in her throat. She nodded.