“Who?” Pete asked. “Who wants to hang you?”
“And why?” Green added in his quiet manner, all traces of his previous hostility gone, replaced by an oddly out of place neutrality. Studied. Scripted.
“The disk found in Todd’s car was not the one Givens handed over to him in town.”
“You’ve already said that.”
“Nor was his murder a random act. Nor were Givens and his family murdered in a home invasion gone bad.”
“You’ve also said that,” Green continued. “Assuming you’re correct, who murdered them and why?”
“Very likely by someone working for Administrative Solutions, under the orders of the Friday Club, probably through an intermediary. It’s why I went to Frankfurt to confront Roland Sandberger, tell him what I knew and get German intelligence involved, officially.”
“I don’t get that part,” Pete said, genuinely puzzled. “Come to us with your suspicions, why the Germans? Specifically. What’s the BND’s involvement?”
“In your opinion,” Green added.
McGarvey thought that he could dislike the little man, but it was just a job. “It has nothing to do with the Germans.”
“Now I’m confused,” Pete said.
“If he’d been in the UK I would have involved the SIS, if it had been in Pakistan, the ISI. Didn’t matter where I confronted him, I just wanted the local intelligence apparatus to sit up and take notice.”
“Good heavens, whatever for?” Pete asked, still puzzled.
“Don’t you trust your own government?” Green asked.
McGarvey shook his head. “No.”
NINETEEN
Remington sank down on the bench in Rock Creek Park, weary from his trip to Frankfurt. He’d expected the German authorities to ask them about McGarvey, but Sandberger had seemed indifferent, talking instead about the Baghdad contracts, which in the end would be worth millions — tens of millions, now that Task Force One was out.
That evening they’d had a good dinner at the hotel, and Sandberger had left around midnight to return to Iraq, leaving Remington to stew in his own juices until his afternoon flight back to Washington.
Last night at home hadn’t been much better for him. He and Colleen had a social engagement at the British embassy, that she insisted they keep, but he had begged off and she’d left angry. He’d slept in the guest bedroom last night, and she’d been gone before he’d gotten up this morning.
Sandberger called on the encrypted number shortly before noon, and he was abrupt.
“He’s back in the States, under house arrest, but he hasn’t been indicted yet. Do you understand?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” Remington had replied, trying to work out what Sandberger wanted him to understand, while full well knowing what the next step would be. They had discussed his last, extreme measure at some length.
“The funeral is tomorrow. Make it happen.”
“Is it necessary?” Remington had asked. He wasn’t exactly squeamish, but McGarvey had tracked them down to Frankfurt, armed, and if they missed he would come after them.
“Yes,” Sandberger said. “For Christ’s sake he actually came after us in Frankfurt.”
Remington had looked out the window at the river. “Let’s not underestimate this man.”
The line had been silent for a long moment, and when he came back Sandberger was cool at best. “Don’t underestimate me, Gordon.”
“Of course not,” Remington had assured his boss, and the connection had been broken, leaving him to seriously wonder what the hell they’d gotten into with the Friday Club.
He had stewed about Roland’s call the rest of the day, and even now he had to wonder where the hell they were headed, and if they were going in a direction that made the same sense that Admin had made to him when he had joined.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” his father had told him when the last of the family’s fortune had been gambled and drank away. The pater had been a fatalist; whatever happened was supposed to happen. It was life. A man’s future was determined at birth. Before birth. But Gordon had not believed in it; look what that sort of belief had done to the old man.
Remington glanced at his watch, which showed a minute before four, as Kangas and Mustapha in jogging outfits came around the curve in the Parkway just south of the Massachusetts Bridge.
They stopped a few feet away and did their stretching exercises. Other people were using the park, and the air smelled of charcoal grilles and was filled with the sounds of laughter and children’s cries. Normalcy in a world Remington figured had been going mad for as long as he could remember. It’s how he made his living.
“You handled the situation with the CIA officer and Givens very well and Mr. Sandberger is pleased, especially with how you covered your tracks. He’s approved a healthy bonus for you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mustapha said. “Did you want us here this afternoon to tell us that? Or is there more?”
Remington held his temper in check. He and Sandberger had discussed what would eventually have to happen to them, and he felt the sooner the better.
“It’s become necessary to go to the next stage,” he said. “The funeral is tomorrow at Arlington. Can you be ready by then?”
“Of course,” Mustapha said. “But this will be even more dangerous than the other day. Much more dangerous.”
“I agree,” Remington said. “But this project has the personal interest of Mr. Sandberger, and he’s the guy who signs your checks.”
Mustapha straightened up and looked directly at him. “We appreciate that, but we’d like to make a suggestion.”
“Are you getting cold feet?”
“Not at all,” Mustapha said. “But taking him out will be tough.”
“Your point being?”
“We’d like to use an IED. In the road. After the funeral. Easier to blame on the ragheads.”
Remington had considered it, and had even discussed the issue with Roland. McGarvey was truly dangerous, taking him out with long guns would be preferable to taking a chance that he would survive an explosive device. And Sandberger had agreed.
He took out an electronic security detector, about the size of a flip phone, pointed it first at Kangas then at Mustapha. If they’d been wearing a wire or any sort of recording device the ESD would have picked it up. But they were clean and he pocketed the device.
“If you have the chance, take it,” he said. “But only if you can get out clean. Absolutely clean. Because if you don’t, Mr. Sandberger’s next order will be to have you eliminated.”
Both men nodded.
“Are we absolutely clear on this point?”
“Yes, sir,” Mustapha said.
“And on the further point that we never had this discussion?”
“Right,” Mustapha said.
Remington got up and headed to where he’d parked his car without looking back. It either ended tomorrow, or it would just be getting started.
TWENTY
