The Cabal (36 page)

“We’re on our way down to Kuwait City. What’s the word on the ground in Washington?”

“All hell is breaking loose on just about every site on the Internet. We’re in lockdown mode here, and the entire country is in an uproar about the president’s lack of a strong response over the IED in Arlington.”

McGarvey’s hand tightened on the phone. “Any leads on who did it?”

“None,” Otto said. “But the Bureau is taking big heat from the
White House because they haven’t bagged you yet. It’s the only thing Langdon can do, except wring his hands. His advisers have convinced him that you’re a traitor over the Pyongyang thing last year, and nothing any of us can say to him makes any difference. It’s spooky, Mac, honest injun.”

“Anything about the situation in Baghdad?”

“The Bureau had it eight or nine hours ago, which makes me think someone in Sandberger’s outfit has a friend in the building. They even knew about your Tony Watkins ID, and they’re waiting for you right now at Dulles.”

“I’ve already switched IDs to Hopkins.”

“How does Hadid think you look?”

“Good enough,” McGarvey said.

“I can book you into LaGuardia if you want to avoid a possible hassle,” Otto suggested.

“Make it Dulles. I think I can get past the Bureau guys, but I’m pretty sure that Admin will have someone posted out there as well, and I want a shot at spotting them.”

“Give me a minute or two and I’ll see what I can do,” Otto said, and he was gone.

Traffic was picking up now the closer they got to al Kuwait, but almost all of it was convoys headed north. It was a never-ending stream 24/7.

Hadid glanced over at him. “Was that Mr. Otto?”

“Yes.”

A big grin crossed Hadid’s face. “I met him last year in Washington. He is a strange and wondrous creature. Very brilliant. Very . . .” He searched for the word. “Exotic.”

“Eccentric,” McGarvey said.

Otto was back. “Can you make it to the airport by ten-thirty?”

McGarvey relayed the question to Hadid who nodded vigorously and sped up. “Just.”

“We’ll make it.”

“I’m booking you first class on United 981. Leaves at eleven forty-five your time, and touches down here at six forty-seven tomorrow morning.”

“Good enough,” McGarvey said. “They’ll be watching for Tony Watkins, and someone’s bound to sit up and take notice if he doesn’t show.”

“Get me a minute, I’m looking at the passenger manifest and pulling up passports. My darlings are looking for a reasonable match with Tony Watkins.” Rencke’s darlings were his custom-designed computer programs.

The lights of al Kuwait lit up the night sky and the tops of some of the taller skyscrapers were beginning to dot the horizon.

“Okay, I have a match, but I won’t put it into place until you guys are aboard and airborne. Real name’s Fred Irwin, works for State as a deputy assistant secretary for communications. When he gets off in Washington he’ll be pegged as Tony Watkins. Should tie everybody up long enough for you to get clear. But it won’t take long for the Bureau guys to realize who he really is, so you’ll have to hustle.”

“Have a rental car waiting for me,” McGarvey said.

“Too slow. I’ll pick you up myself.”

“Bring me a weapon, and a silencer.”

“Will do,” Otto said. “And you better get some sleep on the flight over. I think you’re gonna need it.”

Hadid pulled up at United’s departures area five minutes after ten-thirty. The long sweep of the driveway was busy with cars, taxis, and buses. A lot of flights heading west across the top of the African continent left around this time, for arrival in New York, Washington, Atlanta, and Miami first thing in the morning. The fourteen-hour nonstop flight was grueling for coach, but actually pleasant in business class and especially in first class.

McGarvey gathered his overnight bag. “Thanks for your help,” he said.

Hadid shrugged and smiled shyly. “It was for a good cause. My family’s cause. I am getting paid very well.”

McGarvey nodded. “I’m sorry about your wife and son.”

“But you don’t understand, Mr. Kirk, a Muslim’s grief is short-lived because it is tempered by joy. Go in peace.”

“
Insh’ah Allah
,” McGarvey replied.

Kangas and Mustapha touched down a few minutes before six a.m. at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington, in a State Department Gulfstream IV arranged by Stuart Marston in Baghdad. Remington had called just before they boarded and warned them to stay sober and get some sleep. They would need their wits about them in the morning. And it was exactly what they’d done.

The aircraft taxied immediately over to a VIP hangar where they were met by a bird colonel who didn’t bother introducing himself. A new Ford Taurus was parked nearby.

“The car’s a rental, not expected back for five days,” the Air Force officer said. He was of medium height and build, probably around forty or forty-five years old, and he had a thousand-yard stare. At one time in his career he’d been there and then some. “When you’re finished wipe it down and leave it on some side street.”

“Yes, sir,” Kangas said, and he was about to ask about their equipment, but the officer turned away, got into a staff car, and drove off. No one else was around.

“Typical,” Mustapha said.

They tossed their overnight bags in the backseat. Mustapha got behind the wheel and started the engine as Kangas slipped in on the passenger side.

The sat phone rang. It was Remington. “I assume you’re on the ground and have the car.”

“Just got it,” Kangas said. “What do you have for us?”

“You need to get over to Dulles on the double march. McGarvey’s coming in on United 981, scheduled to land in less than an hour.”

Kangas put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Dulles and hustle,” he said, and Mustapha drove out of the hangar and headed toward the main gate. “That was quick. What about our equipment?”

“Standard-issue Berettas, a couple of spare magazines and silencers for each of you under the seats. But don’t take them into the terminal. If McGarvey somehow manages to get past the Bureau agents, you’ll have to get on his trail and run him down. I want no gunplay anywhere in or near the terminal. Make damn sure of it.”

“Will someone backstop us?” Kangas asked. “Because we can’t leave the car in short-term parking, wait to see where McGarvey is off to, and then get back to it before he’s out of sight.”

“Cal Boberg is already in place. If need be he’ll tail McGarvey while you get your car, and give you the details by phone.”

“Why don’t we just wait in the garage?”

“Because I want two extra sets of eyes to watch what happens,” Remington said, and he sounded vexed.

Limey bastard, Kangas thought. “Once we’ve finished this business and get paid, we’re retiring.”

“That will be for the best,” Remington said. “Just see that you finish the job this time. It was because of you that Roland was gunned down.”

Maybe there would be just one more job after McGarvey, Kangas thought, breaking the connection. Remington had been asking for it for a long time now.

They were waved through the gate by an air policeman, and just off base got on I-495, the Beltway, and headed west, early-morning traffic still light but beginning to build.

“What’s the situation?” Mustapha asked, and Kangas told him.

“Boberg is already out there to act as a spotter once McGarvey shows up.”

“Then we take him down if he makes it past the Bureau guys?”

“Just like his son-in-law,” Kangas said. “Nothing fancy.”

“What about equipment?”

“Berettas under the seats.”

Mustapha glanced at his partner. “No screwups this time.”

“No,” Kangas agreed. “Not this time. We can’t afford to have the bastard come gunning for us.”

“And we have two million each on the line.”

“There’s that, too,” Kangas said, but mostly he was thinking about McGarvey and Baghdad. The son of a bitch could have shot them both dead and thought nothing of it. And he would have, had he known who’d put the IED at Arlington. “First things first,” he said.

“I hear you.”

Traffic began to pick up the closer they got to Dulles, most of it cabs, buses, and the occasional hotel van all coming to meet the dozen or more incoming international flights. Kangas and Mustapha reached the short-term car park just as United 981 was touching down, and they hustled into the main terminal where they took up positions across from the corridor leading out of the Customs and Border Protection Center. They were near one of the gift shops not yet open for the day, so they could look at the reflections in the glass as if they were window shopping.

The main hall was fairly busy now, because in addition to the incoming international traffic, domestic flights were beginning to accept passengers. But it was easy to spot the pair of FBI agents by their uniforms: dark blue suits, the jackets cut a little large to accommodate the bulge of their pistols, white shirts, ties correctly knotted, and earpieces. They stood on either side of the customs exit.

“If they recognize him he won’t make it out of here,” Kangas said.

“Unless he takes them down,” Mustapha said.

“Won’t happen. That treason shit is just some sort of cover.”

“For what?”

“Beats me. But there’s not a chance in hell of McGarvey taking out Bureau guys or cops.”

“We’re different,” Mustapha said. “If he makes us he’ll know why we’re here.”

It was something Kangas hadn’t understood, because Remington wanting two extra pair of eyes here made no sense. Not unless he
wanted
McGarvey to spot them, which made even less sense.

Five minutes later a man leaning against a wall next to a men’s room, not twenty feet from the Customs exit, lowered the newspaper he was reading, and Mustapha spotted him.

“There’s Calvin.”

Kangas looked over and Boberg raised his paper.

Twenty minutes later, when the first of the international passengers began straggling out from Customs, the main hall was busy enough that Kangas and Mustapha could afford to turn around and watch with little likelihood they would be made.

Most of the people coming out were businessmen, carrying laptops and hauling roll-about luggage, a few couples, one woman with three young children, an older woman toting a dog carrier while hauling a very large roll-about on which she had stacked two small bags.

A gray-haired man, fairly husky, a hanging bag over his shoulder, emerged from customs, glanced up at the overhead signs pointing toward ground transportation, and started to talk away when the pair of FBI agents fell in step beside him, and grabbed his arms. The man struggled at first, trying to pull away, and said something, obviously angrily.

“That’s not him,” Kangas said. “What the hell are they doing?”

One of the agents flashed his badge, and, suddenly subdued, the man allowed himself to be led away back into the Customs area.

Boberg lowered his newspaper, shrugged, and started to walk away, but Kangas shook his head. Urgently. And Boberg stopped.