“Do you know who she’s talking about?” Mary asked.
“Only vaguely,” McGarvey said. “But neither of them would want me dead, and I doubt that either of them have the kind of money Slatkin was talking about.”
“Maybe he was wrong,” Mary suggested.
“I don’t think so. He was dying and he knew it, so he had nothing else to lose.”
“Any of those women ever fall in love with you?”
“Not that I know of,” McGarvey said. And he caught the humor of it. “But I suppose I could ask.”
“That’s not the point,” Otto said. “Access their personnel records, especially their security clearances, and crossmatch with all of Mac’s operations going back to his tenure as DCI.”
This time, it took Lou almost forty seconds before she responded, “I have three hundred twenty-five matches. How would you like me to sort them?”
“Ranked by the level of adversarial contacts.”
“Three. Ms. Cass, whose profile suggests that she is in love with the president and could hold a grudge against Mac for his less-than-cordial relationship with POTUS. Admiral Metal because she’d openly considered it a gross misallocation of naval resources on the fruitless search for Mac in the Black Sea two years ago. And army colonel Dorothy Burroughs, whose assignment three years ago was with INSCOM. Her boss was Brigadier General Morton Hollis.” INSCOM was the army’s Intelligence and Security Command.
McGarvey knew the man’s name. “He was one of the generals who said they would never follow Weaver’s command if he were elected president.”
“The same group of mid-level intel people who came up against you,” Pete said.
“Her boss, not her.”
“What’s Colonel Burroughs’s present billet?” Otto asked.
“She’s a procurement officer for special aerospace projects.”
“Practically unlimited money if she knows her business,” Mary said.
“Any hint of impropriety in her file?” Otto asked. “Any inquiries?”
“Several,” Lou replied. “Shall I sort them by date?”
“No,” McGarvey broke in. “Are there any current inquiries into the files of other Pentagon procurement officers?”
“Yes. The issue is very common.”
“Comes with the territory?” Pete asked.
“Indeed,” Lou replied.
Otto spread his hands. “Doesn’t mean she or any one of the others isn’t guilty. But there’s no smoking gun here.”
No one said anything for a moment or two, until Pete broke the silence. “What’s our next step?”
“On the assumption that Slatkin wasn’t just a one-off, and that whoever wanted me gone will try again, let’s make whoever his expediter was think that we have him alive. And he might talk.”
“There’s been no mention in the media about the shoot-out,” Otto said. “The building was empty at the time, and Housekeeping did a good job sanitizing the place.”
“And whoever hired him has good connections. They knew that Pete and I would be coming to D.C.”
“Okay?”
“How?” McGarvey asked.
“They were probably watching us in Florida and spotted our move,” Pete said.
“Why not kill me there?”
“Unknown.”
“Let it leak that a so-far unidentified male was found seriously wounded in the vicinity of your apartment,” said Otto.
“How?” Pete asked.
“An FBI site,” Otto said. “He’s being treated at GW University Hospital.”
“Make it All Saints,” Mac said. “That’s where he was taken and where his body is still on ice. We’ll give the staff the heads-up, and I’ll be waiting.”
TWELVE
Hammond’s twin-engine Bombardier Global 7000 touched down at Washington’s Reagan National Airport just before nine, and as soon as they’d reached the private aviation terminal, the hatch opened, and the stairs lowered, he left the plane.
The crew had been instructed to refuel and stand by for a departure sometime tomorrow. His bags would be sent over to the Hay-Adams immediately, arriving even before he did.
A Mercedes Maybach had been sent for him, and the uniformed driver held the door open for him. “Good morning, Mr. Hammond.”
Hammond nodded and slipped inside.
Mikhail Tarasov, who until recently had been the major player in the Russian energy giant Gazprom, was seated on the opposite side. “Good morning, Thomas. I trust you had a good flight as usual.” He was a slender man in his late forties, with light brown hair, and a nearly constant serious mien. He looked more like an American than a Russian.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Hammond said, and yet he really wasn’t. Russians, especially the new oligarchs, did not take failure lightly. Hammond was wealthy, but Tarasov was wealthier and more connected with some internationally powerful people.
“Your call for a replacement has disturbed some mutual friends, who would like to know what game you’re playing at.”
The glass partition separating the front from the back was up, ensuring that whatever they said would not be heard by the driver.
“You know exactly what’s going on.”
“Nyet. It was not a part of the original deal. You wanted a favor, and we agreed if you would provide us with an untraceable favor. You have failed, and we want to know why.”
“Our operator is dead.”
“We have learned that may not be the case. In fact, he is apparently recovering at the small private hospital that the CIA uses to treat its wounded agents in Georgetown.”
Hammond was stunned. “How do you know this?”
“We have resources. But the fact is the man you selected was not up to the job. You thought he was dead, and you asked for another man not much better than your South African. The question stands, Thomas, what are you and your movie star playing at?”
Hammond was angry. “Don’t try to manage me, because if our arrangement were to go public, you would have more to lose than I would.”
Tarasov laughed. “You underestimate us and overestimate yourself.”
“I don’t need you.”
“Yes, you do, because we have a mutual goal. You help us and we help you. We just want to know what game you are playing. A very simple question for which a very simple answer would suffice.”
They had left the airport and were on the Williams Memorial Bridge leading across the river into
