She brought the area down to one hundred meters, then fifty then forty. A car was parked on the side of the road just to the west of the driveway.
“Get the tag number, I’ll run it,” Otto said.
Louise tightened up the image so that only the front end of the car was showing. She adjusted the lo lux levels, adjusted the focus, and the license plate number became clear.
“Virginia,” Louise said, and she read off the numbers for her husband.
“Half a mo,” Otto said.
“Anybody in the car or nearby?” McGarvey asked.
Louise pulled the image back a little so they were looking at the entire car, and adjusted the light values again. “No,” she said. She touched another tab and the hood of the car came up a soft red. “Hasn’t been there long. Engine’s still warm.”
“Calvin Boberg,” Otto said. “And take a wild-ass guess who he works for.”
“Administrative Solutions,” McGarvey said.
Louise made another adjustment to the satellite’s infrared capabilities. “Here we go,” she said excitedly. “See the faint red smudges leading way from the car and into the woods.”
“Footprints?” McGarvey asked.
“Heat signatures,” Louise said, absently, and she moved the icon to follow the trail, finally coming to the edge of the woods just before the clearing up to the house, and Boberg’s heat output stood out brightly against the cooler trees and ground.
“Waiting for you?” Otto asked.
“Be my guess,” McGarvey said. “Pan out wider.”
Louise did, and started the icon toward the house, but something at the edge of the screen caught her eye. “Hold on,” she said, and she moved to the right, to the helicopter pad.
“That’s one of our choppers,” Otto said.
“Whittaker?”
“Yeah. But what’s he doing? He’s gotta know you’re on the way.”
McGarvey stared at the machine on the pad for a moment. Its rotors were not moving. “Tighten up, I want to see if the pilot is still aboard.”
She did; the pilot was in the left seat and the door was open. He was smoking a cigarette.
“He’s waiting for Whittaker to come back,” Louise said.
“Check the status of our VIP jets at Andrews,” McGarvey said.
“I’m on it,” Otto said. “But if he runs, especially with you still on the loose, it’ll look damned suspicious.”
“Not him,” McGarvey said. “He’s come to convince Foster to get out of town.”
“St. Croix,” Otto said after a few seconds. “One of our Gulfstreams manned and standing by in the ready hangar. Two passengers on the manifest. Robert Foster and David Whittaker.”
“Take a look at the house.”
Louise panned left, brought the area out to forty meters and toned down the light input because of the outside floods. “Looks like they’re expecting company.”
“They have Admin’s guy out front, and Schilling inside.” He said, “Foster’s probably not a shooter, but David is.”
“He started out as a field officer. Expert marksman on the pistol range,” McGarvey said. He remembered telling his staff, when Whittaker was promoted to deputy director of operations, that David was one of the few men in that position to really know what it was like to pull out a pistol and actually fire it with some expectation of hitting the target. “I’m going out there.”
“I have to switch the bird back out to the ship,” Louise said, “in case some supervisor notices it’s off target.”
“Can you get back to Foster’s from time to time?”
“Every five minutes or so,” Louise said.
“Good enough, but keep in touch if anything changes.”
“I’ll go with you—” Louise said, but McGarvey cut her off.
“I need you here to keep tabs on the house and grounds.”
A nightlight plugged into a socket across the room suddenly started to blink. “Someone’s at the door,” Otto said and he doused the room lights, and pulled up the camera concealed in the eaves.
Pete looked up, grinned at the camera and waved.
“She was wounded,” Louise said.
“That she was,” McGarvey said, putting his gun back in its holster. “Let her in.”
Otto buzzed the lock. “We’re upstairs,” he told her on the intercom. He flipped on the room lights.
Pete came up, in fresh jeans and a dark pullover and dark jacket, CIA stenciled on the back. She’d cleaned up and brushed her hair, and she was still grinning.
“How did you get past Franklin?” McGarvey demanded.
“I have a gun and he didn’t,” Pete said. “No bone chips, no major arteries. Just a heavy graze. He sewed me up and pumped a pint of O-positive into me, nothing but a local anesthetic and a butterfly bandage.”
“What are you doing here?” McGarvey demanded.
“I expect that you’re going after whoever’s name came up on Remington’s flash drive. Probably Foster, and I’m coming with you.”
“Not a chance in hell.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“You’re wounded.”
“It stings, nothing more.”
“No,” McGarvey said.
“Sorry, Mr. Director, but if you rightly remember you
Louise shook her head. “You’re nuts, do you know that? All of you are certifiable.”
SIXTY-SIX
They took Louise’s Toyota SUV, Pete behind the wheel after assuring McGarvey three times that she was okay to drive. “Like I said, Mac, it just stings a little, and I’ll have a major bruise on my ass by morning. But Franklin’s a good doc.”
“He’s patched me up more than once,” McGarvey said, his thoughts back to Katy and Liz and Todd. He’d never be able to think of All Saints without seeing the look of devastation on his daughter’s face when he and Katy had shown up the morning after Todd had been shot to death. It was an image that, along with the one of the limo, bearing Katy and Liz exploding, would stay with him for the rest of his life.
They took the Key Bridge across the river and headed east, where they picked up U.S. 1 that led south, eventually to Fort Hill Road and the town of Fort Hunt.
“Where do you think this is heading?” Pete asked.
“I’m not sure, but it started in Mexico City a little over a year ago, and then Pyongyang was a part of it somehow,” McGarvey told her. He briefly went over his actions in both operations. “The only connection other than the Friday Club is China.”
“Okay, so whatever they’re up to involves the Chinese. And they’re not done, which is why you have to be eliminated at all costs. So it’s big. But what?”
“That’s what I want to ask him and Whittaker tonight.”
Pete shot him a double take. “The DCI?”
“His name was on Remington’s flash drive,” McGarvey said and he gave her some of the other names.
“Jesus,” she said softly. “You’re on the hit list of a bunch of important people.”
“Yeah. And by tagging along with me tonight you just painted a big target on your back.”
“Then we’d best do it right,” she said.
