The Fourth Horseman (36 page)

A man of his education, intelligence and charm could well have eventually become the CIA’s director or even the director of National Intelligence. Except for his illness.

What was so important to him that he was willing to spend his last few months doing it?

McGarvey went back to his seat, strapped in and went to sleep again.

*   *   *

Pete woke him. “We’re about forty minutes out of Andrews; how are you feeling?”

“Glad to be getting home,” McGarvey said, gathering himself. “But still no answers.”

“I talked to Otto. He and Louise are coming out to pick us up; they’re bringing fresh clothes and a razor for you. Nothing much I can do about my hair, though.”

“You look good to me.”

Pete grinned. “Thanks.”

“Actually, when it comes to your hair—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Pete said.

McGarvey went to the head and splashed some water on his face. His eyes were a little bloodshot and it was obvious he’d been under some sort of duress recently. But except for his uncertainty about Haaris’s plans he felt in good shape.

Pete had a cup of the chief’s coffee for him.

Fishbine came back to them. “I talked to Bill, and he’s taking what you said over to the White House.” William Spencer was the secretary of defense. “I don’t mind admitting that he was just as concerned as I am that the Taliban might have the nukes. We thought it was a possibility, but you seem to think it’s a fact.”

*   *   *

Otto and Louise came aboard as soon as the pilot taxied over to a hangar, shut down the engines and the chief opened the hatch and lowered the stairs. They brought clothes, even underwear, and something for Pete to use in her hair that didn’t require a shower.

Mac let Pete use the head first.

“Haaris showed up in London,” Otto said. He was perched on the armrest of the seat across from McGarvey. “Denied he was the Messiah, claimed he was in Paris and Istanbul recovering from his wife’s murder, and told Boyle that he was ready to get back to work.”

Nothing surprised McGarvey any longer. “Where is he now?”

“About one hour out. Boyle put him under arrest, at Marty’s insistence, and sent a couple of embassy types with him. Page and just about everyone else is on Campus, not only because of the situation in Pakistan but because both you and Haaris are back. The president wants to meet with both of you ASAP.”

“Keep Dave away from her. No telling what he’s capable of doing.”

“What about you?” Otto asked.

“I assume we’re going to Langley to answer some questions, but afterwards I’ll have a few things to tell the president. Stuff she’s not likely going to like.”

“I want to be on the team interviewing Haaris,” Pete said.

“And I want to listen in,” Mac said.

SIXTY-SIX

The two minders Boyle had sent with Haaris handed him over to a pair of Langley muscle who’d shown up at Andrews with a Cadillac Escalade. Actually, it felt good to be back, not because this was home—he’d never felt that—but because this was the end game that had been in the planning stages for more than five years.

By now the three packages had arrived at their points of entry. Two had been sent to the joint base at Dover and the third to Farnborough, outside London. They would be isolated with other hazardous materials.

Messy, full of potential troubles just waiting to happen. But the outcome was inevitable. The firing circuits had been connected to cell phones. Any incoming call would immediately start the detonation cycles. All three of the phones had the same number.

He’d given his word not to be difficult, so he’d not been handcuffed by Boyle’s people. And the pair from Langley saw no need for restraints either. Haaris was one of theirs.

“Gentleman, thanks for the ride across the pond,” he told the two from London. “Must you turn around and get back immediately?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” the one named Masters said. They were both kids, barely in their late twenties.

“Too bad, I would like to have taken you to dinner this evening,” Haaris said. They shook hands. “My compliments to Mr. Boyle.”

All very civilized, Haaris thought, getting into the backseat of the Caddy. But it was happening the way he’d expected. There’d been accusations that he was the Messiah, but there could be no proof of it yet. On top of that he was cooperating, and he had the sympathy vote on two counts—his wife’s murder and his own terminal cancer. And sympathy almost always blinded the observer.

They were passed through the gate, and once they were on the ring road, the security officer riding shotgun turned in his seat. “I was told to ask if you needed to stop first at All Saints, sir.”

“Thanks, but no. Nothing Franklin can do for me at this point. I’d like to get my debriefing over with. The situation is spinning out of control and my people need to be on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

*   *   *

Marty Bambridge, his tie correctly knotted, his suit coat buttoned, met them at the elevator in the underground VIP parking garage beneath the Original Headquarters Building.

“Glad to have you back, David,” the DDO said, shaking hands. He dismissed the two minders, who drove off.

“It’s good to be back even though I walked away from a developing mess,” Haaris said. He left ambiguous what developing mess he was talking about, the one in Pakistan or the one here on his desk because of Pakistan. He wanted to get Bambridge’s reaction. But the DDO missed it.

“Under the circumstances—we’re all terribly sorry about Deborah—no one could blame you. Though you did leave us in something of a lurch.”

They rode directly up to the seventh floor, which surprised Haaris. “I thought that the director would have waited until after my debriefing to see me.”

“He has a few questions first, we both have. Since your trip and your disappearance, you have become operational, under my purview.”

“Has my desk been taken out of the DI?” Haaris asked. The DI, or Directorate of Intelligence, was where the analysis of most incoming information was performed. The DO, or Directorate of Operations—most often called the National Clandestine Service these days—did the work in the field. It was tasked with all kinds of spying, including the administration of the NOC program—the spies in the field who worked without official cover. It was their deaths the stars on the granite wall downstairs in the lobby represented.

“At least until what we’re facing has been resolved.”

The DCI’s secretary told them to go directly in.

Walt Page was leaning against his desk, saying something to Carlton Patterson and an attractive woman in jeans, a white blouse, the sleeves rolled up above her shoulders, and a pink baseball cap.

It took just a moment for Haaris to realize who she was because he’d not expected to see her here. He managed to cover the lapse by walking directly to Page and shaking his hand. “Quite a mess, Mr. Director. But not completely unexpected.”

“Welcome back,” Page said.

“Thank you,” Haaris replied. He turned to the others. “Carleton. And Miss Boylan, I’m surprised to see you here this morning.”

“Why’s that, Dave?” Pete asked.

“Just surprised, nothing more.”

“Would you like a cup of coffee or anything before we start?” Page asked. His body attitude was of a man wanting to have a little chat and nothing more. He was saying that this was not to be an inquisition.

It was more than Haaris had expected. “No. I’d like to get this over with so I can resume work. My people have a lot to catch up with.”

“They’ve been holding the fort,” Bambridge put in, and Page shot him a look.

“Where’ve you been all this time?” Page asked. “Boyle says you told him Paris and Istanbul, but we haven’t been able to find any traces.”

“You wouldn’t have. I’m good at my job.”

“What were you doing all this time?”

“Grieving, in part, and coming to accept my condition,” Haaris said. “But before you ask, I am not the Messiah. I’ve not been anywhere near Pakistan since I got free from the Taliban. And I only hope that you put a contract on his life. He is directly responsible for the mess we’re facing. If we can take him out, we can start to repair the damage he’s caused.”

“You warned us,” Pete said.

“Yes.”

“I’m just wondering why.”

“It was relatively easy to predict a unifying voice such as his to show up.”

“I meant, why were you so adamant about warning the president that she would have to act? She ordered McGarvey to go over in disguise and kill him. You didn’t mention the unintended consequences, whether or not Mac was successful.”

“Was he? The Messiah has evidently disappeared.”

Marty started to say something but Pete held him off. “We lost touch with him.”

“He was there in Islamabad?”

“Yes,” Pete said. “And I think you were there too.”

Haaris sat back, suppressing a smile. He had them. “You still think that I played the role of the Messiah.”

“Yes.”

“Your proof? Or is it just wishful thinking? Blame this on me, perhaps because of a less than lovely childhood? British public schools do have a reputation. Well deserved, I can assure you, from direct knowledge, though the education they offer is first rate.” He looked at the others. “But why, Miss Boylan? Why would I have put everything at risk to pull off such a fantastic scheme?”

“You were dying. One last hurrah, thumb your nose at us and our cousins.”

“Something like this would have to have been planned for years. I only just found out about my cancer last week.”

Pete didn’t respond, and he thought that she looked confused, her lone argument shot down so easily.

“If you want to find out his real identity, where he’s disappeared—unless Mr. McGarvey’s mission was a success—and the way out of the mess that we ourselves made, then let me get back to work.”

No one said a thing.

Haaris got to his feet. “I’ll get my people headed in the right direction, and then I’d like to go home for a shower, something to eat and a change of clothes. At some point I’ll need to brief the president.”

“First we’ll need to debrief you, David,” Pete said, her voice soft, almost silky, somehow bothersome.

“Then let’s get it over with.”

Pete got up. “Good.”

“Mr. Haaris, a question first, if you please,” Patterson said, his voice also soft. “Of course we’re all off-base here, about your being the Messiah, but we’re just trying to do our jobs.”

“I understand.”

“When the dust has settled, so to speak, do you contemplate bringing suit against the Company? Taking us to court and all that? Perhaps a memoir you’d refuse to allow us to vet? It’s been done before.”

“Heavens, no,” Haaris said. “I’ve been an American from the beginning and always will be.” He smiled. “Truth, justice and the American way. Is that how it goes?”

No one returned his smile.

SIXTY-SEVEN

Otto went with McGarvey over to Saul Landesberg’s studio in Technical Services, at the same moment Pete was walking out of the DCI’s office with Haaris. They’d heard everything over an in-house audio feed that Otto had set up. No one else except Pete knew about it, especially not Page, and certainly not Haaris.

“He held his own,” Otto said.

“No one accused the man of being stupid,” McGarvey said.

“Gentlemen?” Landesberg asked, looking up.

“We were talking about someone else, not you,” McGarvey said. “Especially not you.” He paused. “The ISI had me for a few hours, during which I was waterboarded.”

“What’s it like?”

“Sporty. The point is, your makeup job survived.”

“Of course it did,” Landesberg said. He sat McGarvey down and took the earbud out and handed it to Otto. “Won’t work in here. We’re shielded against everything except actual human presence. What happens in this room—how it happens—stays in this room.”

“Interesting problem,” Otto said, grinning.

It had taken Landesberg a little more than two hours to complete McGarvey’s disguise but less than twenty minutes to restore his hair color, uncover his natural features and bring back his complexion.

“Nothing else I can do about your hair, but it’ll grow back in a few weeks. Nobody recognized you, not even close up?”

“Just Pete Boylan.”

“No shit?”

“I’d give you a tip if I knew what you charged,” McGarvey said.

“On the house, Mr. Director. And if you ever need me again, I’ll be here.”

Outside, the section secretary had a phone call for McGarvey from Page.

“The president wants to see you,” the DCI said.

“How’d it go with Haaris?”

“About how you expected it would. If he’s guilty of anything it’s being overly smooth. Miss Boylan just left with him to do the debriefing.”

“I want to listen in before I head over to the White House, because I already know what the president is likely to say to me.”

“I talked to her personally just now. She said you were to come immediately.”

McGarvey hesitated.

“Just get it over with, and try to be polite for a change. There’s never been a president who could do without you, but not one of them ever ended up liking you. Maybe this one will be different.”

“I doubt it. Have a car brought round for me.”

“Do you want a driver?”

“No.”

*   *   *

On the way down to Otto’s office, McGarvey explained where he was going. Otto gave him a cell phone.

“It should give me decent reception even from the Oval Office.”

“Good thing you’re on our side. I’m going to make it short and to the point.”

“She’ll have a witness, probably Susan Kalley.”

“Good.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“The truth,” McGarvey said.

“I don’t think this president will like it very much.”

*   *   *

McGarvey was expected at the East Gate and was passed through without a credentials check. He turned the plain Chevy Impala with government plates around so that it was facing down the gentle hill, just past the door into the White House.

The president’s adviser on national security affairs had been alerted to his arrival and she met him. “Thank you for being so prompt, Mr. McGarvey.” She was dressed in a feminine business suit, medium heels, a scarf around her throat. A serious outfit for a serious moment.