“Sometimes not very well,” McGarvey replied, thinking back to the day Katy had given him her ultimatum — me or the CIA — and he had run away.
She looked away for just a moment, finally, maybe seeing some of the anguish and devastation on his face. “Do you know what’s keeping me on track? The only thing?”
“Audie?”
She looked up at her father and a brief smile passed her mouth. “Her too. But it’s you, Daddy. And Mother.” She shook her head. “Christ, there never was such a couple, or ever will be.”
McGarvey had no idea what to say. But he leaned over and brushed a kiss on her cheek.
“The gray Chevy van, government plates, out front. No one will notice. Keys are in it.”
McGarvey nodded. “Keep your head down, sweetheart, this is bound to get ugly.”
Her eyes tightened. “Oh, I hope so.”
And McGarvey left.
THIRTEEN
The airport shuttle dropped Remington off under the sweeping portico of the five-star Frankfurt Steigenberger Hotel around two in the afternoon. Although he had slept reasonably well in first class on the Lufthansa flight over, he’d been restive, worried about what was coming next.
With Kirk McGarvey now in the mix, the assassinations of Van Buren and Givens would have to be explained to the satisfaction of the FBI, and of course the CIA, which was one of the objects of the exercise in addition to silencing the nosy reporter. And he needed to impress on Roland what was at stake for both of them, for Admin’s continued existence, even for their personal freedom. He had no desire to end up in a federal prison somewhere because Roland refused to keep his eye on the ball.
He carried only a small overnight bag with a clean shirt and underwear and his toiletries — because he was only staying the night, taking the morning flight back — plus his laptop with all the material from Givens’s computer and a BlackBerry, encrypted. He figured there would be little danger crossing borders with the material; he was just an ordinary businessman who’d popped across the pond for a meeting. No one bothered with commerce.
He spotted Sandberger seated across the lobby, reading a newspaper, but went directly over to the front desk where he checked in and sent his overnight bag up to his suite with a bellman, whom he tipped well, but not so well that the man would remember him.
The hotel wasn’t terribly busy at this hour, though more guests were checking in than out, and heading across the expansive lobby he spotted Roland’s bodyguards, sitting fifteen feet away from their boss; Alphonse with his back to the elevators, and Hanson with his back to the lobby doors. Their attention constantly shifted, though not so noticeably unless you were looking for it. Nor did they stand out physically. Both men were of average build, with pleasant faces, neatly trimmed hair, expensive if casual European-cut clothing — open-necked shirts, khakis, and double-vented sport coats — but they were well-trained killers. They were among Admin’s best and highest paid operators, and therefore the most loyal.
Sandberger, too, was a deceptive man, with narrow shoulders, slight build, sparkling blue eyes, ash blond hair, and a pleasant small-town smile and demeanor. But he was a steely-eyed businessman with an astute understanding not only of the American political scene but of international affairs. And like his bodyguards he was a killer.
Remington had been with him two years ago in Kabul to interview three local recruits, all of whom had served as President Hamid Karzai’s personal bodyguards, but were looking for fatter paychecks — or so they’d claimed.
They were supposed to meet in a tea shop in the area known as the Wazir Akbar Kahn a few blocks from the National Bank of Pakistan, across the street from an alley with rug, silver, and copper merchants, but Sandberger was spooked and he told the three that the shop was not acceptable, that they would have to meet tomorrow in another place, to be specified.
Almost immediately Remington sensed something was wrong, not only from Sandberger’s body language but from the sudden rise in tension in the three men, and he stepped back, his hand automatically going under his jacket for his Beretta 92F.
“If this all works out for us, you’ll have a nice future right here in Kabul, if that’s what you want,” Sandberger said, pleasantly, his voice betraying nothing of what Remington damned well knew was about to go down.
They hadn’t taken their seats yet and were standing around the small wrought-iron table under the striped awning, traffic busy on the anonymous street. The three were flustered, and one of them — Remington couldn’t remember his name except that he was a tough-looking bastard who wasn’t to be trusted for all the tea in China — glanced to the left toward the merchant’s alley, and it was at that moment Sandberger moved, lightning fast, decisive, and final.
Before Remington or the three Afghans could move, Sandberger had whipped out his razor sharp KA-BAR, slit the nearest man’s throat ear-to-ear with an almost casual backhand swipe, pivoted lightly on his heel to plunge the broad combat blade into the second man’s right eye socket, burying the weapon to the hilt, and even before the first man had crumpled to the dusty floor stuck the knife into the heart of the third man.
Remington, who was fully combat trained, had never seen anything like it in his life, not even in the Sandhurst training films, or from visualizing the field ops his sergeant had told him about. And he’d always considered his reflexes reasonably good, but at that moment he knew that neither his reflexes nor his killer instinct were up to Sandberger’s.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sandberger had said, calmly as if he were suggesting they go catch a bus.
He wiped the blood from his knife on a paper napkin, sheathed it, and, smiling pleasantly at the horrified tea shop patrons, sauntered up the street to where they had parked their Range Rover.
Remington at his side — then as now.
Sandberger looked up from the
“We needed to talk,” Remington said, taking the chair across the broad coffee table from his boss. Very often, when they met away from the office like this, Sandberger chose hotel lobbies for their anonymity, or if he were stateside they would meet at Admin’s training camp in the low mountains of northern New Mexico.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” Sandberger, always the gentleman, asked.
“No.” Remington booted up his laptop and when he’d opened the FC files, turned the computer around and pushed it across the table. “Take a look at this first. This is how far Givens managed to get.”
Sandberger gazed at Remington, almost paternally. “I know now why I chose you as my partner. You’re the detail man, something I’ve never been, as you well know. I like field action, and you like keeping all the balls up in the air. Never a misstep, right?”
“You need to keep your eye on this ball, Roland, before it jumps up and bites us on the arse.”
Sandberger chuckled. “Mixed metaphor, old man,” he said, but then he drew the laptop closer and started going through the files.
Remington glanced over at Alphonse who was staring directly at him. The bodyguard was Sandberger’s, not Admin’s, personal pit bull, as was Hanson, and he had no doubt that if he made any sort of an untoward move they would be all over him in an instant. Alphonse smiled pleasantly, and Remington got the impression that he was looking into the eyes of a cobra, swaying, distracting its enemy before pouncing.
Good men Roland had recruited and continued to recruit. Classy, like their boss.
Sandberger had gone through several of Givens’s FC files and he looked up. “Is the rest of this stuff more of the same?”
“For the most part, yes.”
“You haven’t shared this with Robert or any of the others, have you?” Sandberger asked, referring to Robert Foster and members of the Friday Club.
“I wanted to talk to you first, give you the heads up. But they will have to be warned. No telling what’ll happen next with McGarvey on the loose.”
