enough, and then it’ll become a little rough for you to stick around.”
“I want to get out of here this afternoon.”
“You’ll just make it if we work fast,” Martinez said, and he opened the attache case and started pulling stuff out. “United leaves MIA at ten after five, gives you about three hours.”
He took out an eight-by-ten photograph of a McGarvey with short, gray hair, glasses, and a ruddy complexion, and laid it on the bed. “Tony Watkins, a freelance journalist accredited with the U.S. Army.” He handed McGarvey a pair of barber shears, and a bottle of hair dye and a couple of brushes, one of them small, and nodded toward the bathroom. “Better get started. We’ll talk while you work.”
McGarvey pulled off his shirt, tossed it aside, and went into the bathroom, where he propped the photo on the counter, and started to work on his hair.
“The small brush is for your eyebrows,” Martinez said from the bedroom. “I have lotion for your face and the backs of your hands that will age you a few years. We don’t want to overdo it.”
McGarvey had gone through these kinds of routines before, it was all standard tradecraft that even the kids at the Farm were taught from the get-go.
“I’m laying out all your paperwork for you, including your passport, D.C. driver’s license, health insurance cards, Army credentials, credit cards, even photos of your wife and kiddies, plus a portfolio of your work and a small digital video camera.”
“When do I get to Kuwait City?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, quarter after five. It’s the best we could do on such short notice. Miami to Orlando, then Washington’s Dulles and finally across the Atlantic. But your layovers are short.”
McGarvey had been on those kinds of interminable trips before. He’d catch up on his sleep, because he was sure he’d need it once he was boots on the ground. “What’s the drill in Kuwait City?” he asked, matching his appearance in the mirror with that in the photograph. He was close.
“You’re booked at the Airport Crowne Plaza. A little rich for a freelancer, but you’re a successful journalist,” Martinez said. He came to the bathroom door. “That’s close enough. Use the dye.”
McGarvey put down the shears. “Don’t check me out of this hotel until the last minute. I’d like at least a twelve-hour head start.”
“That’s what Otto figured. Once you’re gone I’ll clean up the mess, and get rid of your old work name credentials. And your weapon. You’ll have to travel bare this time. Lots of suspicious people in Kuwait.”
McGarvey didn’t like it, but he understood the necessity. “What comes after the Crowne Plaza?”
“Khalid Hadid will pick you up in front sometime before midnight for the run to Baghdad. He’ll have some new clothes and field gear for you, including a helmet and Kevlar vest, which you might need, along with a weapon or weapons. We’re leaving it up to his judgment what’s best up there, but it’ll probably include a Kalashnikov.”
“Who is this guy?” McGarvey asked, brushing in the hair dye, and it began to work almost immediately, lightening his brown hair, and blending the gray at the sides.
“He’s one of ours. A NOC from the old days. Just before the end he was one of Uncle Saddam’s Republican Guards. Had a couple of really good chances to whack the bastard, but he was told to back off.”
McGarvey looked at Martinez’s reflection in the mirror. “It was a war we wanted.”
“Something like that. Anyway, he knows what he’s doing, so he’ll be an asset.”
McGarvey concentrated on the hair dye for a minute or two, making sure he’d covered everything, including his eyebrows. The chemical stung his scalp but it was fast-acting.
“I’ll put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and lock the safety bar before we clear out. I’ll drive you to the airport, but we’ll leave by a service exit in back. My car’s parked just around the corner.”
When he was done with the hair dye, McGarvey stripped and showered off the excess chemical. When he was finished, he applied the lotion to his face and the backs of his hands, which gave his skin a slightly red and mottled cast, as if he’d spent too many years outdoors in harsh conditions.
Martinez had packed everything except McGarvey’s khaki slacks, a white pullover, blue blazer, shoes, and a change of underwear, plus the portfolio and digital camera.
“Look, Mr. McGarvey, for what it’s worth, I think it’s a bunch of bullshit what they’re trying to do to you,” Martinez said as McGarvey was getting dressed. “The word’s gotten around headquarters what’s going on and everyone’s behind you. Especially after your wife and daughter, and son-in-law.”
“They’re charging me with treason,” McGarvey said, putting on his blazer and pocketing his new IDs, passport, and airline tickets. “If the media picks it up there’ll be a firestorm. Those guys are a hell of a lot more tenacious than the Bureau. So if it happens, keep your ass down.”
“Do you have a timetable?” Martinez asked.
“No. But I suspect the shit will begin to hit the fan a lot sooner than we want.”
THIRTY-SIX
At that moment Remington, still in his pajamas and robe with his family’s monogram on the right breast, put down the encrypted telephone in his study and sat back for a moment to admire the view of his backyard.
Sandberger was in Baghdad settling the details for Admin’s new, lucrative contract with State, and nothing other than the McGarvey issue was pressing at the moment in the office, so he’d opted to stay home for the day, all his important calls rolled over to his home phone.
Roland had once told him that the Brits, especially the gentry, were not exactly lazy, but they did know how to relax. It was something Americans had never learned. Another reason they’d made such a good pair, opposites were complementary.
McGarvey had apparently shown up in Miami for whatever reason and he was flying to Kuwait this afternoon. Presumably he would make his way to Baghdad from there, though Remington’s contact didn’t know all the details yet, nor did he know if McGarvey would be traveling under a work name. But he was on his way, as they expected he would be, to confront Roland. And it was exactly what they wanted.
He telephoned the office and was connected with Gina Ballinger, Admin’s housekeeper who provided cover identities for Admin’s contractors who needed anonymity, as well as their travel arrangements and whatever other equipment or services they would require at both ends of the assignment.
“Two for Baghdad,” Remington told her. “Tim and Ronni this time.”
“Certainly, sir,” Gina said. She’d been an accountant and had the rare ability to keep her eye on the details — all the details, all the time.
“We’ll need speed, luv.”
“Do you want them staged through Kuwait, or will this be direct from Frankfurt to Baghdad?”
“Keep them away from Kuwait. Frankfurt would be best. And send them first class this time.”
“Equipment?”
“The usual in Baghdad. This will be a surgical strike. We have word on the whereabouts of Muzammil Suhaib.”
“He’s not coming up on my database,” Gina said after a moment’s hesitation.
“This is something new.”
“Shall I add his name?”
“That won’t be necessary for the moment,” Remington said. The Suhaib name was a code word that would eventually be used for records and payroll after McGarvey had been taken down and Kangas and Mustapha were back in the States. It would give them time to sanitize the operation. It was something that Gina had done before. Often.
“I understand,” she said. “Will they be coming into the office, or should I arrange for a drop at the airport?”
“A drop would be best,” Remington said. “I’m going out in a few minutes. As soon as you’ve made the arrangements, text me. All I need are the flight number and time.”
“Dulles?”
“I don’t see any reason why not,” Remington said, and he broke the connection and sat again for a minute or so contemplating not only the chances for their success against a man such as McGarvey, but the consequences if
