The Cabal (25 page)

McGarvey’s sat phone rang. It was Otto. “He just pulled up in front of your hotel.”

“Did he come in clean?” McGarvey asked. He’d been here, in one place far too long to trust anything.

“I haven’t picked up traces of anyone interested. But you might want to take a look down his track.”

McGarvey broke the connection, slipped out of his room, and as one of the elevators started up from the lobby, he ducked into the alcove containing the ice and vending machines, pressing back into the corner.

At this hour of the early afternoon the hotel was not very busy, and the car came directly to the eighth floor. Moments later a slender man, with a narrow, clean-shaven, olive-complected face, dressed in a European-cut suit, carrying an attaché case in his left hand walked by. McGarvey didn’t think he’d ever met the man, and he pulled out his pistol and chanced a quick look out into the corridor.

The man stopped at the door to McGarvey’s room, and knocked. In the meantime the elevator continued up.

McGarvey stepped out of the alcove and keeping the pistol at his side moved toward the man, who suddenly stopped knocking, but did not turn away from the door.

“It’s me,” the man said as McGarvey reached him, and his voice was vaguely familiar.

“Who are you?” McGarvey said, as he patted the man down for a weapon.

“Raul Martinez. We met a couple of years ago, here in Miami. You were here to see General Marti about his daughter.”

“You look different.”

“Everyone needs a little change every now and then,” Martinez said. “Otto asked me to tell you that Audie is just fine. She’s safe at the Farm.” He turned finally to look McGarvey in the eye.

The last time McGarvey had seen Martinez, the CIA operative could have been out of central casting for a
Miami Vice
episode; peg-legged slacks, embroidered Guayabara shirt, pencil-thin mustache, and slicked-down shining black hair. He looked like a lawyer or businessman now. But the eyes were the same: cool, assured, haughty, on guard. McGarvey relaxed.

“You ought to think about becoming a spy.”

“Too dangerous,” Martinez said.

“I’ve heard,” McGarvey said, holstering his pistol. He let them into his room, relocking the safety bar.

“With all the heat out there, I made sure I came in clean,” Martinez said, laying the attaché case on the bed.

“Have I been traced here to Miami?”

“No, but the federales are beating the bushes across the entire Southeast, but mostly here in south Florida. The U.S. Marshal and Bureau guys are practically tripping over one another. But they’ll get their shit together soon enough, and then it’ll become a little rough for you to stick around.”

“I want to get out of here this afternoon.”

“You’ll just make it if we work fast,” Martinez said, and he opened the attaché case and started pulling stuff out. “United leaves MIA at ten after five, gives you about three hours.”

He took out an eight-by-ten photograph of a McGarvey with short, gray hair, glasses, and a ruddy complexion, and laid it on the bed. “Tony Watkins, a freelance journalist accredited with the U.S. Army.” He handed McGarvey a pair of barber shears, and a bottle of hair dye and a couple of brushes, one of them small, and nodded toward the bathroom. “Better get started. We’ll talk while you work.”

McGarvey pulled off his shirt, tossed it aside, and went into the
bathroom, where he propped the photo on the counter, and started to work on his hair.

“The small brush is for your eyebrows,” Martinez said from the bedroom. “I have lotion for your face and the backs of your hands that will age you a few years. We don’t want to overdo it.”

McGarvey had gone through these kinds of routines before, it was all standard tradecraft that even the kids at the Farm were taught from the get-go.

“I’m laying out all your paperwork for you, including your passport, D.C. driver’s license, health insurance cards, Army credentials, credit cards, even photos of your wife and kiddies, plus a portfolio of your work and a small digital video camera.”

“When do I get to Kuwait City?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, quarter after five. It’s the best we could do on such short notice. Miami to Orlando, then Washington’s Dulles and finally across the Atlantic. But your layovers are short.”

McGarvey had been on those kinds of interminable trips before. He’d catch up on his sleep, because he was sure he’d need it once he was boots on the ground. “What’s the drill in Kuwait City?” he asked, matching his appearance in the mirror with that in the photograph. He was close.

“You’re booked at the Airport Crowne Plaza. A little rich for a freelancer, but you’re a successful journalist,” Martinez said. He came to the bathroom door. “That’s close enough. Use the dye.”

McGarvey put down the shears. “Don’t check me out of this hotel until the last minute. I’d like at least a twelve-hour head start.”

“That’s what Otto figured. Once you’re gone I’ll clean up the mess, and get rid of your old work name credentials. And your weapon. You’ll have to travel bare this time. Lots of suspicious people in Kuwait.”

McGarvey didn’t like it, but he understood the necessity. “What comes after the Crowne Plaza?”

“Khalid Hadid will pick you up in front sometime before midnight for the run to Baghdad. He’ll have some new clothes and field
gear for you, including a helmet and Kevlar vest, which you might need, along with a weapon or weapons. We’re leaving it up to his judgment what’s best up there, but it’ll probably include a Kalashnikov.”

“Who is this guy?” McGarvey asked, brushing in the hair dye, and it began to work almost immediately, lightening his brown hair, and blending the gray at the sides.

“He’s one of ours. A NOC from the old days. Just before the end he was one of Uncle Saddam’s Republican Guards. Had a couple of really good chances to whack the bastard, but he was told to back off.”

McGarvey looked at Martinez’s reflection in the mirror. “It was a war we wanted.”

“Something like that. Anyway, he knows what he’s doing, so he’ll be an asset.”

McGarvey concentrated on the hair dye for a minute or two, making sure he’d covered everything, including his eyebrows. The chemical stung his scalp but it was fast-acting.

“I’ll put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and lock the safety bar before we clear out. I’ll drive you to the airport, but we’ll leave by a service exit in back. My car’s parked just around the corner.”

When he was done with the hair dye, McGarvey stripped and showered off the excess chemical. When he was finished, he applied the lotion to his face and the backs of his hands, which gave his skin a slightly red and mottled cast, as if he’d spent too many years outdoors in harsh conditions.

Martinez had packed everything except McGarvey’s khaki slacks, a white pullover, blue blazer, shoes, and a change of underwear, plus the portfolio and digital camera.

“Look, Mr. McGarvey, for what it’s worth, I think it’s a bunch of bullshit what they’re trying to do to you,” Martinez said as McGarvey was getting dressed. “The word’s gotten around headquarters what’s going on and everyone’s behind you. Especially after your wife and daughter, and son-in-law.”

“They’re charging me with treason,” McGarvey said, putting on his blazer and pocketing his new IDs, passport, and airline tickets. “If
the media picks it up there’ll be a firestorm. Those guys are a hell of a lot more tenacious than the Bureau. So if it happens, keep your ass down.”

“Do you have a timetable?” Martinez asked.

“No. But I suspect the shit will begin to hit the fan a lot sooner than we want.”

At that moment Remington, still in his pajamas and robe with his family’s monogram on the right breast, put down the encrypted telephone in his study and sat back for a moment to admire the view of his backyard.

Sandberger was in Baghdad settling the details for Admin’s new, lucrative contract with State, and nothing other than the McGarvey issue was pressing at the moment in the office, so he’d opted to stay home for the day, all his important calls rolled over to his home phone.

Roland had once told him that the Brits, especially the gentry, were not exactly lazy, but they did know how to relax. It was something Americans had never learned. Another reason they’d made such a good pair, opposites were complementary.

McGarvey had apparently shown up in Miami for whatever reason and he was flying to Kuwait this afternoon. Presumably he would make his way to Baghdad from there, though Remington’s contact didn’t know all the details yet, nor did he know if McGarvey would be traveling under a work name. But he was on his way, as they expected he would be, to confront Roland. And it was exactly what they wanted.

He telephoned the office and was connected with Gina Ballinger, Admin’s housekeeper who provided cover identities for Admin’s contractors who needed anonymity, as well as their travel arrangements and whatever other equipment or services they would require at both ends of the assignment.

“Two for Baghdad,” Remington told her. “Tim and Ronni this time.”

“Certainly, sir,” Gina said. She’d been an accountant and had the rare ability to keep her eye on the details—all the details, all the time.

“We’ll need speed, luv.”

“Do you want them staged through Kuwait, or will this be direct from Frankfurt to Baghdad?”

“Keep them away from Kuwait. Frankfurt would be best. And send them first class this time.”

“Equipment?”

“The usual in Baghdad. This will be a surgical strike. We have word on the whereabouts of Muzammil Suhaib.”

“He’s not coming up on my database,” Gina said after a moment’s hesitation.

“This is something new.”

“Shall I add his name?”

“That won’t be necessary for the moment,” Remington said. The Suhaib name was a code word that would eventually be used for records and payroll after McGarvey had been taken down and Kangas and Mustapha were back in the States. It would give them time to sanitize the operation. It was something that Gina had done before. Often.

“I understand,” she said. “Will they be coming into the office, or should I arrange for a drop at the airport?”

“A drop would be best,” Remington said. “I’m going out in a few minutes. As soon as you’ve made the arrangements, text me. All I need are the flight number and time.”

“Dulles?”

“I don’t see any reason why not,” Remington said, and he broke
the connection and sat again for a minute or so contemplating not only the chances for their success against a man such as McGarvey, but the consequences if they failed.

His opinion had been to sidestep the issue. McGarvey was already under suspicion of treason; it was a charge the White House wanted to press. And his actions at Arlington and his disappearance afterward were not those of an innocent man.

With Foster’s connections McGarvey wouldn’t have a chance in hell to prove his innocence, especially if he took down more U.S. Marshals or perhaps a couple of Bureau agents. It was even likely that he would be shot to death attempting to escape.

But Sandberger had been adamant. “I want the son of a bitch taken down, Gordo. And I don’t give a damn what it costs. Everything else is secondary.”

McGarvey’s arrogant appearance at the Steigenberger had so infuriated Roland that, in Remington’s estimation, he wasn’t thinking straight.

He telephoned Kangas, who answered on the first ring. “You and Ronni are leaving this afternoon. Meet me in front of the Lincoln Memorial in forty-five minutes.”

“Free the slaves, is it?” Kangas replied.

Remington bit back a sharp retort. They were expendable. No matter what happened in Baghdad, it would be their last assignment. They were getting out of control. It was the same reason why they’d been fired by the CIA. Free the slaves, indeed.

Remington finished his coffee, got dressed, and left his house, cabbing over to the Mall, getting there a full twenty minutes early. His tradecraft was a little rusty; it had been years since he’d taken part in a field operation, but old habits died hard, and there were some survival skills you never forgot.

The day was bright and warm, and a lot of tourists were in town, which was why he had picked this place. Depending on what happened
in Baghdad, Kangas and Mustapha might attract the wrong sort of attention. Meeting anonymously like this the same day they left the country would provide some deniability later if questions were to be raised.