they failed.
His opinion had been to sidestep the issue. McGarvey was already under suspicion of treason; it was a charge the White House wanted to press. And his actions at Arlington and his disappearance afterward were not those of an innocent man.
With Foster’s connections McGarvey wouldn’t have a chance in hell to prove his innocence, especially if he took down more U.S. Marshals or perhaps a couple of Bureau agents. It was even likely that he would be shot to death attempting to escape.
But Sandberger had been adamant. “I want the son of a bitch taken down, Gordo. And I don’t give a damn what it costs. Everything else is secondary.”
McGarvey’s arrogant appearance at the Steigenberger had so infuriated Roland that, in Remington’s estimation, he wasn’t thinking straight.
He telephoned Kangas, who answered on the first ring. “You and Ronni are leaving this afternoon. Meet me in front of the Lincoln Memorial in forty-five minutes.”
“Free the slaves, is it?” Kangas replied.
Remington bit back a sharp retort. They were expendable. No matter what happened in Baghdad, it would be their last assignment. They were getting out of control. It was the same reason why they’d been fired by the CIA. Free the slaves, indeed.
Remington finished his coffee, got dressed, and left his house, cabbing over to the Mall, getting there a full twenty minutes early. His tradecraft was a little rusty; it had been years since he’d taken part in a field operation, but old habits died hard, and there were some survival skills you never forgot.
The day was bright and warm, and a lot of tourists were in town, which was why he had picked this place. Depending on what happened in Baghdad, Kangas and Mustapha might attract the wrong sort of attention. Meeting anonymously like this the same day they left the country would provide some deniability later if questions were to be raised.
He walked down from the foot of 23rd Street where the cab had dropped him, and around the circle toward the Reflecting Pool, intending to wait there to see what developed when Kangas and Mustapha arrived, but they were already there.
Vexed, he walked down to them. “I said forty-five minutes.”
“Insurance,” Kangas said insolently. “You can never tell what’ll happen, so you cover your bases.” He glanced down toward the Vietnam Memorial, the black wall filled with the fifty thousand plus names of war dead. “Don’t want to end up like those poor bastards.”
“We all die sooner or later.”
“I meant wasted,” Kangas said. “What’s our assignment?”
Gina had texted him with the flight information on the way over. “McGarvey’s in Baghdad. I want him taken down.”
“There’ll have to be a bonus,” Mustapha said.
“Another one million dollars.”
“Another two million dollars,” Kangas said. “Each.”
Remington was momentarily taken aback, but he managed to smile. “Of course. The first half will be in your accounts by the time you touch down.” It wouldn’t matter, because recovery of Admin’s funds from dead men’s accounts was SOP. There were no next of kin benefits in this business, and everyone understood it. The idea tended to sharpen up the average contractor.
“Baghdad’s a dangerous place, we’ll need some gear, and some intel. How long has he been in country?”
“Our intel says he’s not there yet. We think he’s going through Kuwait and then presumably by ground transportation the rest of the way. We’re sending you through Frankfurt and from there direct, so you’ll be in place at least six, maybe twelve hours before him.”
“Equipment?”
“You’ll be met at Dulles with your instructions, including the name of your contact in country, and any updates we have on Mr. McGarvey’s itinerary. You’re flying United 8826, leaves at quarter to six.”
“What about ground support?”
“You’re on your own after you’ve met your quartermaster,” Remington said. “Which means you are to have no contact whatsoever with anyone working for us or any other contractor service. If you do, the deal is off, you’ll forfeit your bonuses and you will be terminated. Can you handle it, or should I send someone else?”
“We can handle it,” Kangas said, his eyes narrowed.
“Don’t miss this time.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
A couple of hours out of Kuwait, McGarvey ordered a bloody Mary from one of the business-class attendants and settled down to familiarize himself with the material Otto had sent to him via Martinez.
Besides the name Tony Watkins, a freelance journalist who had published articles in the
Everything was going to happen very fast once he was on the ground, so even if someone started poking around it would already be too late. He would be gone, headed back to the States under a different work name.
Watkins was an expert on weapons including all types of handguns and personal defense weapons such as the Heckler & Koch MP5 room broom, and on IEDs. According to the legend Otto had built for the character, Watkins had apparently witnessed several IED incidents, in one of which he’d lost someone close.
When he came to that part, McGarvey looked up and stared out the window for a long moment, seeing the explosion at Arlington, seeing and knowing that his wife and daughter were dead, completely beyond saving. He closed his eyes, the cruelty of what Otto had done beyond belief. But it was just for a moment, until he understood that if for whatever reason someone on the ground questioned him about his background, he wouldn’t have to lie about his loss. He would be convincing. And a part of him, the professional part, had to admire the touch, and he suspected that it could not have been easy for Otto to include it.
It was around four in the afternoon in al Kuwait, but only seven in the morning back in Miami. He’d actually gotten a couple hours of sleep, and for once since Arlington he’d not had the dream. He’d become super-focused on the job ahead. Confronting Sandberger was only the first part of what he wanted to do, because he was certain that threads had to go back to Foster and the Friday Club. But untangling that mess wouldn’t be easy, or clean, in part because he suspected that the incident in Mexico City and the one in Pyongyang were connected.
Foster had some goal in mind, some reason for the operations and for the killing of Todd and Liz and Katy. And there was no power on earth that was going to stop him from finding out what that was.
But the threads went to the CIA itself, and even the White House, as if Givens had been correct in fearing there might be some sort of a shadow government in Washington.
The question always in McGarvey’s mind throughout his career was who to trust. There weren’t many people left for him.
The Crowne Plaza with its soaring atrium lobby and glass elevators was just a few minutes drive from the airport, and could have been in just about any country. Airport hotels everywhere had the same general look and feel to them.
In the cab on the way to the hotel Otto called him on the sat phone. “Any trouble with customs?”
“No, everything went smoothly,” McGarvey said. “Has anything new developed in Washington?”
“If you mean with the Friday Club, no. And, man, I’m telling you they’re tight. Getting intel on them beyond
