The Cabal (26 page)

He walked down from the foot of 23rd Street where the cab had dropped him, and around the circle toward the Reflecting Pool, intending to wait there to see what developed when Kangas and Mustapha arrived, but they were already there.

Vexed, he walked down to them. “I said forty-five minutes.”

“Insurance,” Kangas said insolently. “You can never tell what’ll happen, so you cover your bases.” He glanced down toward the Vietnam Memorial, the black wall filled with the fifty thousand plus names of war dead. “Don’t want to end up like those poor bastards.”

“We all die sooner or later.”

“I meant wasted,” Kangas said. “What’s our assignment?”

Gina had texted him with the flight information on the way over. “McGarvey’s in Baghdad. I want him taken down.”

“There’ll have to be a bonus,” Mustapha said.

“Another one million dollars.”

“Another two million dollars,” Kangas said. “Each.”

Remington was momentarily taken aback, but he managed to smile. “Of course. The first half will be in your accounts by the time you touch down.” It wouldn’t matter, because recovery of Admin’s funds from dead men’s accounts was SOP. There were no next of kin benefits in this business, and everyone understood it. The idea tended to sharpen up the average contractor.

“Baghdad’s a dangerous place, we’ll need some gear, and some intel. How long has he been in country?”

“Our intel says he’s not there yet. We think he’s going through Kuwait and then presumably by ground transportation the rest of the way. We’re sending you through Frankfurt and from there direct, so you’ll be in place at least six, maybe twelve hours before him.”

“Equipment?”

“You’ll be met at Dulles with your instructions, including the
name of your contact in country, and any updates we have on Mr. McGarvey’s itinerary. You’re flying United 8826, leaves at quarter to six.”

“What about ground support?”

“You’re on your own after you’ve met your quartermaster,” Remington said. “Which means you are to have no contact whatsoever with anyone working for us or any other contractor service. If you do, the deal is off, you’ll forfeit your bonuses and you will be terminated. Can you handle it, or should I send someone else?”

“We can handle it,” Kangas said, his eyes narrowed.

“Don’t miss this time.”

A couple of hours out of Kuwait, McGarvey ordered a bloody Mary from one of the business-class attendants and settled down to familiarize himself with the material Otto had sent to him via Martinez.

Besides the name Tony Watkins, a freelance journalist who had published articles in the
Washington Post
and
New York Times
as well as journals such as
Jane’s Defense Weekly,
which Otto had included for McGarvey to read, he’d memorized the man’s background—place of birth, education, family. All of it was manufactured, of course, but convincing enough even if someone curious were to search out the published stories under his name.

Everything was going to happen very fast once he was on the ground, so even if someone started poking around it would already be too late. He would be gone, headed back to the States under a different work name.

Watkins was an expert on weapons including all types of handguns and personal defense weapons such as the Heckler & Koch MP5 room broom, and on IEDs. According to the legend Otto had built for the character, Watkins had apparently witnessed several IED incidents, in one of which he’d lost someone close.

When he came to that part, McGarvey looked up and stared out the window for a long moment, seeing the explosion at Arlington, seeing and knowing that his wife and daughter were dead, completely beyond saving. He closed his eyes, the cruelty of what Otto had done beyond belief. But it was just for a moment, until he understood that if for whatever reason someone on the ground questioned him about his background, he wouldn’t have to lie about his loss. He would be convincing. And a part of him, the professional part, had to admire the touch, and he suspected that it could not have been easy for Otto to include it.

It was around four in the afternoon in al Kuwait, but only seven in the morning back in Miami. He’d actually gotten a couple hours of sleep, and for once since Arlington he’d not had the dream. He’d become super-focused on the job ahead. Confronting Sandberger was only the first part of what he wanted to do, because he was certain that threads had to go back to Foster and the Friday Club. But untangling that mess wouldn’t be easy, or clean, in part because he suspected that the incident in Mexico City and the one in Pyongyang were connected.

Foster had some goal in mind, some reason for the operations and for the killing of Todd and Liz and Katy. And there was no power on earth that was going to stop him from finding out what that was.

But the threads went to the CIA itself, and even the White House, as if Givens had been correct in fearing there might be some sort of a shadow government in Washington.

The question always in McGarvey’s mind throughout his career was who to trust. There weren’t many people left for him.

.   .   .

The Crowne Plaza with its soaring atrium lobby and glass elevators was just a few minutes drive from the airport, and could have been in just about any country. Airport hotels everywhere had the same general look and feel to them.

In the cab on the way to the hotel Otto called him on the sat phone. “Any trouble with customs?”

“No, everything went smoothly,” McGarvey said. “Has anything new developed in Washington?”

“If you mean with the Friday Club, no. And, man, I’m telling you they’re tight. Getting intel on them beyond their public persona is impossible. I mean, I get their social security numbers and tax returns, I even get the position papers Foster and some of the others have written, but everything else is a blank. I can’t even come up with a members list.”

“No connections between them and Mexico City or Pyongyang?”

“Not so far, but I’m working on it, trust me.”

“Anything else on Sandberger and his people on the ground in Baghdad?”

“Aside from the fact that he’s surrounded himself with more muscle than usual, nothing. Except that his contract negotiations with the State Department finished two days ago, but he’s stayed there.”

“He knows I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” Otto said, and he sounded glum. “Go ahead and unpack, then get something good to eat, but you’re leaving everything behind, except for your IDs and Army passes and accreditation cards. Hadid will be picking you up around nine.”

“What about the background files Martinez gave me?”

“They’re all printed on smart paper,” Otto said. “Soon as you leave the hotel, I’ll send a signal and erase the imbedded memory. And once you’re done in Baghdad and on the way back out I’ll erase the rest of your documents.”

“That’ll put me in Hadid’s hands.”

“He’s been risking his life for us for a long time. He’s a good man who’s willing to go back into Iraq even though the Sunnis have a contract on him.”

“What about in Baghdad?”

“That’ll be up to you, Mac,” Otto said. “He’s willing to do anything you want him to do. But he’s putting himself in a tough position.”

“I’ll need him to stay put, out of my way. I’m handling Sandberger myself.”

Check-in went without a hitch; upstairs McGarvey unpacked his things and distributed them around the room and in the bathroom as if he were planning on staying for the four days the room had been booked. He laid the files in plain sight on the desk, and went downstairs to the Fauchon’s of Paris restaurant in the lobby, getting a table near the back but from where he could watch the front entrance.

He was served a good rib eye steak, no beer or wine of course, and when he was finished it was a couple of minutes before nine. As he signed the check a slightly built man, dark eyes and hair and thin mustache, handsome as many Iraqis were, sat down across the table from him.

“Tony, good to see you again,” he said jovially, his English good. “Did you have a pleasant flight over?”

The waiter collected McGarvey’s check. “Would the gentleman care for something?” he asked Hadid.

“A dry martini, straight up, very cold.”

The waiter turned and stalked off.

“He’ll remember you,” McGarvey said.

Hadid smiled. “But not you.” He stuck his hand out. “Khalid Hadid. Are you ready to rumble?”

“Any time,” McGarvey said, and he started to rise but Hadid motioned him back.

“Wait for one hour, then come out. We’ll be in a dark blue Range Rover, soft top.”

“We?”

“Yes, my son Saddam is making the trip with us,” Hadid said,
grinning broadly. “His name is a joke, but Hussein thought it was kind of me to name my only boy after him.”

“It was a dangerous game.”

“All life is a danger, Mr. Tony, you of all people should know this. Anyway, my Saddam is sixteen today and this is his first trip. Someone might be expecting you. But not an entire family.”

Before McGarvey could ask another question Hadid turned and headed across the busy grand lobby.

The moment Sandberger found out that McGarvey had landed in Kuwait under the name Tony Watkins, he telephoned Stuart Marston, the U.S. envoy from the State Department he’d worked with on the new contracts. Marston was a player, his father a family friend of Foster’s.

“There’s been a new development. The one we talked about a few days ago. I’ll have to remain here in the city for a day or two, possibly longer.”

“I heard the rumors,” Marston said.

“It’s true, the son of a bitch is coming here gunning for me. But he’s in for a nasty surprise.”

“I don’t know what you’re planning, but you’d better be damned careful if you’re contemplating any sort of gunplay. Right now the situation is relatively calm. Better than it’s been since the beginning. Shooting an American will be dicey.”

“The man’s been accused of treason.”

“But not indicted,” Marston said. “And he was the director of the CIA. Not every president hated him.”

“You tell me, Stu, am I supposed to simply sit on my ass and let the man kill me? It won’t happen. I have people who’ll take care of the situation.”

“I’m not telling you what to do, that’s not my job. All I’m saying is that if you get yourself involved with McGarvey, and the situation goes south—if civilians get in the way and are hurt—Admin’s contracts would be in serious jeopardy.”

The man was an ass licker in Sandberger’s opinion. The only reason he was given a seat, and only on the sidelines, with Foster was because his old man had been a powerful senator from Montana, and his uncle had been one of the biggest cattle ranchers in that state plus Wyoming and Colorado. Money had always been the real raison d’être in Washington.

But Sandberger forced himself to calm down, putting aside for the moment the incident with McGarvey in Frankfurt. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

“I think we can kill two birds with one stone, if we’re smart about it,” Marston said.

“I’m listening.”

“Do you know Mustafa Kabbani?”

“He’s chief of Baghdad police, but I’ve not had any direct dealings with him. Admin’s contracts have always been with the State Department.”