“You have him for as long as you want,” Ansel said. “That was the interagency understanding.”
Only a part of McGarvey had listened to the exchange, but it had registered with him; he understood the bureaucratic bullshit-speak that was a separate language not only in the District of Columbia and most of the Beltway, but for the isolated center here and there, like the CIA, or Quantico, or Fort A. P. Hill and the Farm, of course. But he’d been a part of the establishment, or sometimes on the fringes, for so long that he understood not only what was being said, but what was meant between the lines. Unofficially the CIA and just about every other intelligence or law enforcement agency had been at odds for years, not sharing intel, not really cooperating, and now a pair of federal marshals had most likely been ordered to give the Company enough rope to hang itself — or at least cause an embarrassment.
“Fine,” Pete said, and they all got into the SUV, with her behind the wheel, and headed down the hill and along the long sweeping curve past the OHB, the front parking lot nearly full.
They passed through the front gate and headed down to Washington. Traffic was light, nevertheless the pair of deputy marshals in the back with McGarvey had their heads on swivels. No one wanted an incident, but Mac did have a reputation; wherever he went trouble seemed to materialize.
Pete glanced in the rearview mirror. “It’s not being made public that Mr. McGarvey has been charged with anything, or is under arrest.”
Neither marshal commented, and McGarvey got the impression that they couldn’t care less. A pair of LE officers simply doing their duty, doing what they’d been tasked to do.
“In any event it’s our call,” Pete said. “If this became public there’d be a firestorm. The media would come down on us like a ton of bricks. Nobody wants that. The fact a former DCI is in custody for treason is spectacular. It’s not every day something like that happens.”
It came to McGarvey that Pete was up to something, and he could see that Dan Green was wondering the same thing, because he was giving her an odd look. But Ansel and Mellinger weren’t getting it, or didn’t give a damn.
“Do you think there’ll be a trial?” McGarvey asked, and Pete glanced at his image in the rearview mirror and their eyes met.
“That depends on what you give to us over the next few days or weeks,” she said, and her partner gave her a double take. “We’ll have to keep you in isolation to run down all the facts here. But no one wants to rush into anything blindly, right?”
Ansel glanced at McGarvey and then at the back of Pete’s head. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, it’s classified for now, I’m afraid,” Pete said. “Need to know, and all that. You understand. And trust me we appreciate your help. Taking responsibility for Mr. McGarvey’s security as well as his safety. It takes the burden off us.”
Ansel was getting angry. “What the hell are you going on about?”
Pete glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, listen, we’re just following orders like you guys. Doesn’t mean we have to like it. Right?”
Mellinger said something like
“Actually it’s about Administrative Solutions,” McGarvey said. “The contracting company that took over from Task Force One in Iraq. They’re probably working for someone right here in D.C., and I’ve probably gotten a little too close.”
McGarvey was a well-built man in obviously good shape, but Ansel and Mellinger were like fullbacks while he was like an aging, former college quarterback. They weren’t taking him seriously, and were making no bones about it.
“We don’t need your bullshit, Mr. McGarvey,” Ansel said. “As soon as we can get you back to the Farm, we’ll be out of your hair. And I don’t give a shit what happens after that.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do.”
“What was that?” the deputy federal marshal asked, angrily.
“You’re just doing your job.”
Ansel hesitated a second. “Right. But I’m warning you not to try anything stupid. If you do I’ll personally come down on you hard. I don’t like traitors.”
“Accused traitor,” McGarvey corrected him. “No trial yet.”
He glanced up at the rearview mirror and Pete was watching him, a quizzical expression in her eyes. She’d given him an opening, but she had no idea what he had just done with it.
Ansel was rising to the bait, and it was clear he wanted to say something else, but Mellinger gave him a knowing shrug — this shit doesn’t matter — and Ansel settled down. But the exchange would end up in the reports they would file later this afternoon, and would become a part of the official McGarvey File, just as the encounter he’d had with Sandberger and Remington in Frankfurt was.
They came down the GWM Parkway passing Theodore Roosevelt Island on their left, the afternoon now even brighter than it had been up at the CIA, and got off at Arlington Memorial Drive, and it struck McGarvey again why he was coming to this place, his mood deepening.
Todd had once told him in confidence that in some ways he was intimidated by his wife. “Sometimes she’s more macho than I am. So what the hell am I supposed to do? I don’t know what to say, how to react when she gets like that.”
“It’s a defense mechanism,” he’d advised his son-in-law. “I wasn’t around when she was growing up, and she built up this heavy-duty fantasy in her head about me as a superman. Something she figured she had to live up to as best she could. There were a few years there in grade school and junior high that she was getting into fights just about every day. She wanted to be just like her father. Katy told me that the worst thing any of the kids at school could call her was feminine, or girly girl. And she’s probably still fighting that chip on her shoulder.”
“She’s in competition with me now?”
“Yeah,” McGarvey’d said smiling. “You just inherited the problem.”
“What the hell do I say to her?”
McGarvey remembered laughing out loud, even though his son-in-law had seemed so forlorn. “Tell her that you love her, and make sure you mean it. It’ll take the wind out of her sails.”
Apparently that tactic had worked, because McGarvey had never heard another complaint from Todd. And now his son-in-law was gone, and Liz had no one to compete with on her level.
TWENTY-THREE
Kangas pulled into the parking area at the Tomb of the Unknowns from where they would be able to watch Todd Van Buren’s funeral procession arrive and depart. “You okay?” he asked Mustapha.
“I’m steady, I just don’t have to like it. But if we can take McGarvey down it’ll make my day. Give me the phone.”
Kangas considered for a moment, but then handed his partner the cell phone they would use to trigger the IED. Mustapha was more of an explosives expert than he was anyway, and the logical choice as point man, and for now, at least, he seemed to have all of his shit in one sock.
Scuttlebutt during their old CIA days was that McGarvey had started his career as a serious kick-ass black ops officer, who’d probably been responsible for more field actions that had resulted in eliminations than any other officer back to, and including, the OSS during the big war. And even though he was an old man now, in his early fifties, he was still a formidable force. Someone to be seriously reckoned with.
If you take a shot at the bastard, whatever you do, don’t miss. He’d heard that before, too.
The funeral was due to begin at two, and the front-end loader the gravediggers had used to open up the plot on the other side of Porter Drive headed away around one, a pair of groundsmen covering the mound of dirt with a tarp and setting up the electric device that would lower the coffin. A few minutes later a small flatbed truck showed up and four workmen set up several rows of chairs on the opposite side of the grave from where an Army chaplain would conduct the service.
