The Cabal (23 page)

Robert Foster’s sprawling eighteenth-century home on a sloping hill above the Potomac River between Fort Hunt and Mount Vernon, about fifteen miles south of the White House, was aglow the next evening as S. Gordon Remington and his wife, Colleen, arrived in their Bentley.

Remington had preferred to drive himself, rather than be chauffeured. Some outings were better left away from prying eyes, even sympathetic ones. And he had remained sober all day, a fact Colleen had noted and appreciated, because she, too, was aware of just how much actual power Foster and his Friday Club wielded in Washington. This was no group to be trifled with. And the fact that she and her husband had been invited for cocktails and dinner topped even the A list, the only invitation better was to the White House.

They were admitted by a large, stern-looking man in a broadly cut suit, which Remington figured concealed a pistol in a shoulder holster, and were directed to the pool area in the backyard. Soft jazz was piped from several speakers as a dozen well-dressed couples circulated between a self-service bar and a table laden with hors d’oeuvres
centered by an elaborate ice sculpture. Notably missing were the musicians, a bartender, and servers.

“He likes his parties lean and mean,” Colleen said as they headed to the bar.

“I would have been disappointed if his house staff had been on hand tonight.”

Colleen gave her husband a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

And he smiled at her. “This is the inner circle, sweetheart. All of us can discuss anything we want without fear of being overheard and misunderstood. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut.”

Colleen started to bridle when a stern man who could have passed for a minister, a plain, almost mousy woman at his side, came over and stuck out his hand.

“David Whittaker, acting DCI,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you finally. Bob has told me about you and your work for the club. We appreciate your efforts.”

They shook hands and introduced their wives.

“I wasn’t aware you were a member,” Remington said. Sandberger had warned him about sticking to a fine line between familiarity and awe. These were Washington’s true power brokers, but Admin, in Roland’s words, was “covering their asses.”

Whittaker smiled faintly. “Charter member, actually. Bob’s an old friend; he and I go way back together.”

“He’s not here yet?”

“He’ll be down in a bit,” Whittaker said. “Likes to make his entrances. His only fault, I suspect, but he’s a bit of a showman, if you know what I mean.” He spotted someone just coming in. “Please, enjoy yourselves,” he said. He nodded to Colleen and he and his wife went to greet the new arrivals, Dennis Tressel, the assistant adviser to the president on national security affairs, and his wife.

“You never told me about this,” Colleen said, reprovingly yet with a bit of admiration.

Remington got two glasses of champagne and they stepped aside.
“Actually, the Club is a new client. Roland knows more about them than I do. We’re just stand-ins tonight.”

“I approve, Gordo,” Colleen said. “These people need to be our group, if you know what I mean.”

“Perfectly—” Remington said, but his wife had spotted someone she evidently knew, and she waved and walked off, just as the armed man from the front hall who’d directed them back here approached.

“Mr. Foster would like to have a word, sir,” the bodyguard said. His accent was Cockney and it grated in Remington’s ears.

“My wife?”

“You won’t be long, sir.”

Remington noticed Whittaker and a couple of other men, including Tressel, disappearing through the pool doors back inside the house. “Of course.”

“Just this way, then, sir,” the bodyguard said, and Remington followed the man back into the house behind the others, who’d obviously been here before and knew the way.

Upstairs and down a short hall, the bodyguard stopped at double doors and stepped aside. “Mr. Foster is expecting you, sir.”

“Royal Marines?” Remington asked.

“No, sir,” the bodyguard said. “United States Marines, Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Schilling.” He turned lightly on his heel and walked back past the stairs and went through a door at the end of the hall.

Remington hesitated for just a moment. This was his initiation, something Roland had mentioned. “Tell it like you see it. Don’t be an asshole, but remember Foster hired Admin because of our track record. They need us more than we need them.”

Remington knocked once, and went in.

Robert Foster, seated on a couch in the middle of the tastefully furnished, book-lined room, was a man in his mid-sixties, short, somewhat stocky with the build of a midwestern farmer, who touted himself as nothing more than a “servant of the common man.”

Seated on the couch with him and in chairs across a coffee table, were Whittaker and Tressel, plus Air Force general Albert Burnside, who was the chief political adviser to the Joint Chiefs.

Foster was as far right a conservative as was possible, with exceedingly strong views on everything from the role of religion in government, to abortion, states’ rights, the Constitution and the makeup of the Supreme Court, and the powers of the executive branch versus a meddling, ineffective Congress. And he was a multi-millionaire with a law degree from Florida’s Stetson University and an MBA from Harvard.

To this point in his career he’d made his money as an economic adviser to several foreign governments, including South Korea, Japan, Australia, and the Czech Republic, but most notably Mainland China in the mid-nineties. The last had taken his supporters somewhat by surprise, until they realized that an emerging China would be needed to shore up the U.S. government, which would, in Foster’s estimation, be faced with a financial meltdown. It was because of his advice that China had become a major bondholder for the U.S. In some circles he had come out the hero—America’s savior, or so the conservative think tank Arnault Group had labeled him. But Democrats, except for the ones he had bought and paid for, were dead set against him, calling him “America’s Judas Iscariot, the man who sold his country for silver.”

Foster looked up and smiled. “Gordon, welcome to my home. I assume you know most of the others here tonight?”

“Good evening, sir,” Remington said. “Some only by reputation, I’m afraid.”

“Well you know David and Dennis but perhaps not General Burnside.”

“I’ve read his position memos you were kind enough to share with Admin,” Remington said. “I assume these gentlemen have been briefed on our contract with you.”

“Roland is a regular,” Foster said. “Normally he would be here this evening, but since he’s out of the country I invited you.”

“May I ask the reason?”

Whittaker got up and poured a glass of champagne for Remington. “This is a council of war, Gordon. And since Admin is on the front line we thought it best that you were briefed.”

“Are we talking about Kirk McGarvey?” Remington asked. The champagne was first-rate. Cristal or Krug, he guessed.

“Indeed we are,” Foster said. “And by the way, David is the CIA’s new director.”

“I heard,” Remington said. “Dick Adkins’s resignation came as a surprise.”

“Langdon fired the fool for standing face-to-face in the Oval Office and defending McGarvey.”

“Actually did us a service,” Foster said. “With Adkins gone Mr. McGarvey doesn’t have many friends. And witnessing the deaths of his family at Arlington has unhinged the man.”

“He’s dangerous,” Remington said.

“Yes,” Foster said.

“But he knows nothing,” Whittaker said. “He suspects there may be a connection between the incidents in Mexico City and Pyongyang, but he can’t prove a thing.”

Remington had a fair guess what they were talking about, something of the smuggling of radioactive material across the border from Mexico and less than one year later the assassination of a high-ranking Chinese intelligence officer in North Korea’s capital had been in the news. But Sandberger had not briefed him on what role, if any, the Friday Club had played in the incidents, and he held his tongue.

“The man is a bulldog,” Foster said. “He’ll never give up. Especially now.”

“We’ve anticipated just that,” Remington said. And all eyes were turned toward him. “Roland is remaining in Baghdad for more than contract negotiations. He’s there because we think McGarvey will come after him. And Baghdad is Admin’s city, where accidents can and do happen.”

“None of you still know the measure of this man,” Whittaker said.

“He’s just that,” Remington disagreed. “Just one man, while we have in excess of one hundred highly motivated, highly trained shooters on the ground, along with a sophisticated infrastructure of weapons, surveillance, and communications. When he shows up in Baghdad he will die. At this moment he is Admin’s number one priority.”

“There you are, gentlemen,” Foster said. “Thank you, Gordon. We have the utmost confidence in your company. Now, please, rejoin your wife and the others outside. We’ll finish up in here in a couple of minutes and have something to eat.”

When Remington was gone, Foster turned back to the others. “McGarvey may be Administrative Solutions’ top priority, but I’m afraid we’ll have to turn to even more drastic measures.”

“What do you have in mind, Bob?” General Burnside asked.

“Neither the Mexican nor the North Korean missions had the desired effect.”

“Because of McGarvey,” Whittaker suggested.

“In part,” Foster agreed. “Once he’s out of the way, we’ll need to look to Taipei to meet our objective. Hong Kong is too small, only Taiwan will do. And it may be up to our navy to trigger the spark. The pressure will fall on the Pentagon’s shoulders.”

“I’ve already begun to put some pieces into play,” General Burnside said.

“Tell us,” Foster said. “And leave nothing out.”

On the beach in front of the Park Central Hotel, McGarvey stopped a moment and looked back at the balcony of his fifth-floor room. He thought he’d spotted a movement, but then it came again, a random breeze fluttering the drapes on the partially open patio window and he relaxed a little.

He’d checked in late, and if anyone at the desk remembered him, but under a different work name from last year, they didn’t show it. The Park was one of the older, refurbished hotels in the heart of Miami’s art deco district, the last place anyone, especially the FBI or someone from Admin, would look for him.

For the moment he was reasonably safe here, but he was chafing at the bit to get started. And it was next to impossible for him to erase the vision of Katy’s limousine exploding in front of him. He couldn’t put out of his head the last touch, the last kiss, the last words, and it was driving him nearly insane; his rage was a barely controlled thing just beneath the surface.

He’d gotten up before dawn, and waited until the gift shops along Ocean Drive opened. He bought a pair of swim trunks and a beach jacket, and went across to the ocean where an attendant brought him a beach chair. He’d left the jacket behind and went into the water, warm at this time of the year, and began swimming straight out to sea. His stroke was strong, even, measured and he let a slight rip current help carry him farther.

At one point he thought he’d heard a lifeguard’s whistle, but then it faded and he put more effort into his stroke until looking over his shoulder he could see the buildings, but not the beach itself, and he rolled over on his back and floated on the long, gentle swells.

Otto would get him to Baghdad in such a way that Sandberger and his people wouldn’t know about it until it was too late. There was a connection between Admin and the Friday Club and he was going to find out about it, whatever it took. Afterward he would take whatever leads he could extract and go after them until he reached the end.

It didn’t matter, now, who he brought down. But someone was going to pay for Katy and Liz and for Todd, and pay dearly.

Forty minutes later he was back on the beach, where he dried off, got his beach jacket, gave the attendant a twenty-dollar bill, and walked back across to his hotel and up to his room.

He’d left a couple of obvious fail safes, including a hair across the door seam, and the carpet scuffed in a certain way just inside the door, that would have easily caught even an amateur’s notice, but the smudge on the inside door handle was hidden, and might have been missed. But nothing had been disturbed. So far he’d attracted no notice.