The Cabal

in, offered them citations, and generous severance packages.

Kangas had left the Agency two years ago, and within five days he’d been offered a position with Washington-based Administrative Solutions — Admin — a private contracting firm second only to Xe, formerly Blackwater USA, in revenues, prestige, and the occasional missteps. S. Gordon Remington, an Admin vice president, had known just about everything in Kangas’s CIA file, which had been nearly as impressive as the six-figure salary he’d offered.

The job had been boring most of the time, guarding high-ranking businessmen in Iraq and Afghanistan, making the occasional hit when it was needed, and usually as part of a firefight, which was ridiculously easy to engineer in countries where almost every male between the ages of twelve or thirteen and forty was armed and carrying a serious grudge — usually religion-based.

Mustapha had been recruited last year, and had joined Kangas in Afghanistan where they’d become partners. Their tradecraft was similar, their ambitions were about the same — hurt people and make a lot of money doing it — and they knew how to cover each other’s back.

Van Buren was getting up, as Kangas took out his encrypted cell phone and speed-dialed a number that was answered on the first ring.

“Hello,” Remington answered, his British accent cultured.

“The meeting has taken place.”

“We’re you able to record their conversation?”

“Yes.”

“Is there damage?”

“Yes, sir. Just as you suspected, our subject handed over a disk.”

Remington was silent for several beats, and although Kangas had never had much respect for anyone, especially anyone in authority, he did now have a grudging respect for Admin’s VP. The man knew what had been coming, and he’d been prepared.

“The situation must be contained,” Remington said. “Are you clear on your mission?”

“Both of them?”

“Yes. And they must be sanitized as thoroughly and as expeditiously as possible. This afternoon, no later than this evening.”

“Give us twenty-four hours and we can cut the risk by fifty percent,” Kangas said. Running blindly into any sort of a wet operation was inherently dicey, even more so in this instance because of who Van Buren was; his background was impressive.

“This is top priority,” Remington said. “All other considerations secondary. Are we clear on that as well?”

Van Buren was coming down the stairs.

“Standby,” Kangas said, and he avoided eye contact as the CIA officer passed by and left the restaurant through the hotel lobby to the valet stand.

Kangas got up, and left by the front door, which opened on the street, just as Mustapha pulled up in a dark blue Toyota SUV with tinted windows.

“We’re in pursuit now,” he told Remington. “But with the weapons we’re carrying this won’t look like a simple robbery.”

Remington chuckled, which was rare so far as Kangas knew. “You’ve been out of the country too long to understand what the average bad guy carries.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call when you’re finished.”

Van Buren was waiting at the curb, and as Kangas broke the connection, pocketed his phone, and got into the Toyota, a valet parker brought a soft green BMW convertible around and got out. Van Buren handed the man some money, got behind the wheel, and took off.

“Don’t lose him,” Kangas said.

Mustapha waited for a cab to pass, then he pulled out and, keeping the cab between them and Van Buren, started his tail. “Is it a go?”

“Yes, but right now this afternoon. Both of them.”

Mustapha gave him a sharp look. “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“That’s what the man said. ASAP.”

THREE

Lunchtime traffic west on Constitution was even heavier than normal because of a huge art show on the Mall. Todd had to pay attention to his driving until he passed the National Museum of American History and turned south toward I-395, which would take him across the river to I-95 and the two-and-a-half-hour drive to the Farm. Because of the sunny weather, tourists seemed to be everywhere, most of them without a clue where they were going.

Across the river, the Pentagon off to the right, traffic thinned out enough for him to phone his father-in-law in Florida, but after the fourth ring he got his mother-in-law’s soft West Virginia voice on the answering machine.

“Hello. We can’t take your call now, but after the beep please leave a message and number and we’ll get back to you. Have a nice day.”

“Hi, Mom, it’s Todd. Have Dad give me a call on my cell. I came up to Washington to meet an old friend for lunch and I’m on my way back to the Farm now. It’s quarter to one.”

Ten miles later, through Alexandria, traffic thinned out even more as the highway branched off to I-95. Todd took the disk out of his jacket pocket and looked at both sides, but Givens hadn’t written anything on the disk itself or on the jewel case. Whatever was really going on had no business being in the Post, especially not any sort of a connection to McCann’s death. That was one can of worms that would probably never see the light of day. Some things were much too dark even for the Freedom of Information Act.

In any event, McCann’s death was still a part of the ongoing investigation that his father-in-law had gotten involved with last year. Already plenty of people had died because of it, and before it was over more would probably go down. If anything of what Givens had told him was true, which Todd was having a hard time believing, then shit would truly hit the fan big time.

They had never figured out what McCann had been up to or who had been directing him, and now this. Todd tossed the disk on the passenger seat and concentrated on his driving.

Forty minutes later his cell phone rang. It was his father-in-law.

“Hi, Todd, what’s up?” Kirk McGarvey asked. “Is Liz with you?”

“Nope, she was busy when I left, and I didn’t have time to mention I was coming up to Washington. This has something to do with McCann.”

McGarvey hesitated for a beat, and Todd could see him standing, probably in the kitchen of the Casey Key house on Florida’s Gulf Coast south of Sarasota, looking down at the IntraCoastal Waterway.

“Okay, you have my interest.”

“Does the name Josh Givens ring any bells?”

“Vaguely. He’s a reporter with the Post?”

“An investigative reporter, and not too bad,” Todd said. “He and I went to Maryland together, and were pals for a while. He called this morning and asked me to have lunch, he had something important for me.”

“He mentioned Howard by name?”

“He did. Said Howard had been involved with a lobbyist group called the Friday Club.”

“Robert Foster.”

“The same,” Todd said. “Josh was talking all sorts of shit about a shadow government, and a lot of disconnected stuff that was all over the place. Sounded crazy.”

“Did you believe him?”

“I don’t know. But I’m sure that he believed what he was telling me, and that he was afraid. He gave me a disk, which he said had everything on it.”