The Fourth Horseman (8 page)

“Yeah,” he said. He gave her a smile. “The right time at the right place, but what are you doing here?”

“Walt Page sent me down to talk to you. But who were those guys?”

McGarvey always expected that someone out of his past—someone who’d either been partners with or the control officer of one of the people he’d taken down—would come looking for him to settle the score. It had happened a couple of times, but this one was about the closest he’d come to being taken out.

“I don’t know. Might have been Middle Easterners.”

“Pakistanis?”

McGarvey shrugged. “It’s a possibility. But with the trouble going on over there I think I’d be low on their list.” But then he had another thought and he glanced at the furiously burning wreckage of the boat. In the distance they could hear sirens.

“You wouldn’t know more unless you’d talked to Otto overnight,” Pete said. “Miller sent in our NEST people, and it was a disaster. We managed to shut down less than ninety of their nukes before all hell broke loose.”

“Casualties?”

“Out of ninety-four operators, thirteen are either KIA or wounded, but our SEALS got everybody out. The Pakis knew we were coming.”

“Miller waited too long,” McGarvey said. The woman had been a competent president to this point, dealing decisively, for the most part, with immigration, health care and employment issues. But ordering the U.S. military into harm’s way was completely different.

Pete nodded. “She did.” The look on her oval face was a combination of resignation, that what was done was done; of shame, that perhaps the CIA could have provided better, even more timely intelligence; and of something else, maybe fear.

McGarvey had learned to read her emotions, which were almost always clear in her eyes and in her body language—unless she was conducting a debriefing or an interrogation, during which times she was nothing short of efficient and even ruthless. He knew that she was in love with him, and had been for at least a year, probably longer, and he had held her off as best he could.

He’d never had any luck with the women in his life. In the beginning of his CIA career, after he had returned from an assignment in Chile, where he’d assassinated a powerful general and the man’s wife, Katy had given him an ultimatum: it was either her or the CIA.

She was sick to death of his frequent absences, not knowing where he’d gotten himself to or if he’d ever come back. She knew about the stars on the granite wall in the lobby of the Original Headquarters Building at Langley. They represented fallen field officers whose names and assignments could never be made public. They’d died in the line of duty; it was the only thing that their wives or husbands and families could ever be told. Katy didn’t want to end up as one of those widows.

That day, confused, angry and hurt, McGarvey had run away to Switzerland, where he’d hid himself in plain sight for a few years until the FBI came calling for his particular talents.

In the meantime the Swiss Federal Police had sent a woman to get close to McGarvey, which she did. But she’d also fallen in love with him.

He’d walked away from her too, but she’d followed him to Paris, where she’d been killed.

Something similar had happened not long after that, when another woman had fallen in love with him and she had been killed in a bomb blast that destroyed a restaurant in Georgetown.

Then Katy and their daughter and son-in-law had lost their lives because of him.

He couldn’t allow something like that to happen again—which in his heart of hearts he knew would. So he kept his distance. It hurt Pete, because she could sense that he had feelings for her. But it was better than identifying her body on a slab in a morgue somewhere.

“I haven’t turned on my computer, or watched much television in the past ten days.”

“And you’ve shut off your landline and cell phone. It’s why I’m here. We need your help.”

The sirens were closer now. McGarvey led Pete across the road to his house. Here the island was less than a hundred yards wide, and they were inside by the time the fire trucks and rescue squad had arrived.

They sat at a table on the lanai overlooking the pool, beyond which was the gazebo where Katy had loved to sit at dawn with her first cup of tea to watch the birds. The Island Packet was tied to the dock, behind which a small runabout sat out of the water on its lift.

“It’s pretty,” Pete said.

McGarvey felt a little odd having her here but not terribly guilty. He brought them Coronas with pieces of lime. She’d once told him that she wasn’t always a lady; sometimes she liked to drink a cold beer straight out of the bottle.

“Yes, it is,” McGarvey said. “Help with what?”

“It’s complicated,” Pete said. She quickly sketched everything that had gone on over the past twenty-four hours, including Haaris’s trip to Islamabad, his kidnapping and his escape a few hours later. “Barazani is dead—beheaded by this guy who the crowd in front of the presidential palace called ‘Messiah.’ He told them that the Taliban were no longer the enemy. That they needed to work together for a new Pakistan.”

“How about Sharif?”

“No one can reach him, and the ISI is keeping off of the radar for now. Their headquarters along with the Army’s General Headquarters have been surrounded, as have most of the government buildings in Islamabad and Rawalpindi.”

“What about the air force and navy bases?”

“No troop or ship movements,” Pete said. “For all practical purposes Pakistan’s government, military and intel services have been shut down. And for now India is biding its time. But if Pakistan so much as twitches, they promise to protect the sanctity of their borders using any and all means at their disposal.”

“That sounds like a quote.”

“A spokesman for India’s prime minister,” Pete said. “But there’s more. We’re pretty sure that at least one nuclear weapon was stolen from the air force base at Quetta last night. It was detonated about fifty miles south in an unpopulated area close to the Afghani border. Page thinks it was a demonstration by the Taliban that they not only have nukes, but that they know how to use them.”

“What else?” McGarvey asked, though he had a good idea where this was leading and why she had been sent to ask for his help.

“The hell of it is that life is going on as usual. Kids are in school, the shops are open and, from Ross’s accounts, doing a brisk business. There’ve been no further incidents of rioting or explosions or gunfire.”

“What about the Messiah?”

“The television stations keep rebroadcasting his speech and promising that he will be talking to the people again very soon, and that he has the reins of government firmly in control.”

“It was a coup, and less than twenty-four hours later the country has calmed down,” McGarvey said. “So other than the nuclear demonstration the only real problem is the Taliban and what they’ll do next.”

“Directed by the Messiah, and no one thinks it’ll develop into a ‘let’s all lie down with the lambs.’ At least not for long.”

“What about our embassy?”

“Ready for business, soon as the ambassador and his staff return.”

“Ross and his shop?”

“Hunkered down in place. He sent a field officer to Quetta to confirm the bomb, but he hasn’t been heard from so far. Other than him and Dave Haaris’s kidnapping there’ve been no aggressive acts toward Americans other than the NEST casualties.”

“So what does Page want from me this time?”

“It’s the White House. The president wants to see you right now. None of us know for sure what she’s going to ask you to do, but we think it’s a safe bet she’s going to ask you to assassinate this Messiah.”

“Otto thinks that too?”

Pete nodded. “He’s already working on something. The voice the Messiah used to speak to the people was artificial. Altered electronically. Otto’s trying to clean it up. But the question up in the air is, why would he need to change his voice? To fool whom?”

“Us,” McGarvey said. “Because we know who he is. And the guys in the boat were no coincidence.”

FOURTEEN

Haaris sat reclined in a dentist’s chair at All Saints in Georgetown. The hospital was the place where wounded intelligence agents were brought when their identities needed to remain secret. The facility, discreetly located in a three-story brownstone, was equipped with the latest medical technology and the best doctors, surgeons, dentists and nurses in the business.

Dr. Rupert Marks straightened up and lifted his clear goggles to his forehead. “Nothing terrible in there,” he said, patting Haaris on the shoulder. “Two teeth damaged, which I’ve temporarily capped for you, but that’s the worst of it, except for the bruising. You’re not going to be so terribly handsome for the next few weeks, but as soon as the procaine wears off your speech will get back to more or less normal.”

“Nothing permanent?” Haaris asked. He’d come back to DC, his CIA mission definitely not accomplished; but he had come back, nevertheless, and as a wounded hero—even better.

“No. We’ll have the permanent caps back from the lab tomorrow. Any time after that stop by and we’ll finish up. Won’t take more than twenty minutes.”

“Thank you, appreciate your expertise.”

Rupert smiled. “I’ll send you my bill in the morning.”

Rupert’s assistant took off Haaris’s bib and raised the chair. “You’ll sound a little lispy for a half hour or so.”

Haaris grinned. “That a real word, luv?”

“It’s my word,” she said. “Before you go, Dr. Franklin would like to see you, he’s just around the corner in his office. It’s next to the lab.”

“I’ll find my way, thanks.”

Dr. Allan Franklin, the chief surgeon and administrator of All Saints, was seated behind his desk in his tiny, book-lined office on the ground floor, just across from the security station in the lobby. The door was open.

Haaris knocked on the door frame. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“Come in and have a seat,” Franklin said. “And close the door.” He was a slender man, his hairline receding, his fingers long and delicate.

“Bad news about my ribs?” Haaris asked, sitting down.

“How are you feeling?”

Haaris started to shrug, but then thought better of it. “What is it?”

“We took some pictures, routine for chest injuries. We found something else. A tumor on your pericardial sac that has probably been there for some time—maybe a year or longer. Operable in itself, but the cancer appears to have spread to your spine and three of your ribs. One of the reasons they didn’t fracture. They’re too soft.”

Haaris crossed his legs and shrugged. “Prognosis?”

“We can remove the tumor, but as for the bone cancer you’ll need chemotherapy, and it won’t be pleasant.”

“I meant the overall prognosis, Doctor. Am I going to beat this and live a long-enough life to have a dozen grandchildren?”

Franklin was used to dealing with intelligence officers, most of whom were tough-minded, pragmatic people; nevertheless, his simple and direct reply gave even Haaris pause.

“No.”

“I see. Assuming I choose not to go the route of chemotherapy, how long do I have to live?”

“There’s no way to say with any degree of certainty. A year, maybe longer, maybe less.”

“Let me put it another way. I’m in the middle of something quite important. It has to do with the situation in Pakistan. And I can’t walk away from it. How much viable time do I have? Mental acuity as well as physical? I must be able to think straight.”

“Frankly, that’ll depend on your tolerance for pain.”

“I’ve been there before.”

“Six months tops, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” Haaris paused. “Thank you for telling me straight out,” he said. “Now, I don’t suppose I could convince you to withhold your diagnosis from my employer?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Maybe a delay for a week or so?”

“Marty Bambridge is here with your wife,” Franklin said. “I phoned him to come over.” Bambridge was the deputy director of the Clandestine Service, also known as the Directorate of Operations.

A moment of intense rage threatened Haaris’s sanity. For just that moment he was on the verge of coming around the desk and killing Franklin. But it vanished as quickly as it arose. “I will take care of letting my wife know. Are we perfectly clear on this, Doctor?”

“Your call, Mr. Haaris.”

“Yes, my call, as you say.”

*   *   *

Haaris stopped for a second just before the frosted glass door to the visitors’ lounge to gather his wits. The deputy director was a complete idiot, who’d had the solid reputation of caring more for the mission than the man, so getting past him would present no obstacle. He would be perfectly willing to keep the news to himself, so long as the job was being handled. He’d make some noise, of course, and possibly bounce it up to the seventh floor. But six months was more than enough time for Messiah to set things in motion. Payback.

The biggest problem would be Deborah. She and Haaris had been married five years, after a whirlwind romance. She’d been a student at the Farm, where he’d given a brief series of lectures on developing and using psychological profiles of the opposition’s field agents. That included the Chinese, who thought differently than Westerners, and spies sent by America’s “friends” in Canada, England, France and Germany.

She’d been an indifferent student at best, completely in awe of the CIA in general and Haaris specifically, whom she thought was the most sophisticated, kind and gentle man she’d ever met since she’d graduated from Stetson University law school in Florida.

And for his part, he was in need of a bullet-proof cover if he was ever going to be promoted to a high enough level within the Company where his opinions mattered. Single men might make for good field officers, but working at headquarters, they made a lot of people nervous. Where did their loyalties lie and all that?

The woman had been incredibly boring to him from the start. Their sex unimaginative and mechanical. Her cooking, Midwestern meat and potatoes—she was from some small town in Iowa. She lacked any practical education vis-à-vis intelligence work. And most of all, her professed unconditional love and absolute devotion and loyalty were nothing short of stifling. But anyone from the Company who’d ever met her fell totally in love at first sight. She was the quintessential American wife. From the beginning he’d thought of her as a lap dog. The CIA needed people like her for background noise.