Blood Pact (McGarvey) (18 page)

Intriguing, but the conclusion that al-Rashid had come to was that the CNI had failed, and that they would have been better served by capturing Petain and forcing the man to tell them about the diary and who he thought might have taken it from the bank. But of course the Frenchman could not have known about the banker friendly to Prince Saleh because al-Rashid’s second task after retrieving the book was killing the banker.

And now Paris. Sophie and Edouard.

Al-Rashid finished his tea then laid down to sleep; the hours in the air over the past days through several times zones was tiring and he was exhausted. He did not dream. He never dreamed.

*   *   *

He got up around six in the afternoon, took another shower, then got dressed in the same blazer, but this time with a black Polo buttoned at the neck, dark slacks, and three-hole British-made black walkers, which were not only sturdy and comfortable, but reasonably fashionable, obviously expensive as was all his clothing.

He went down to the lobby a few minutes after seven. Baptiste, Mme. Frery, and the others who’d been on duty when he’d checked in were gone for the day and he passed all but unnoticed out the front doors where the doorman hailed him a taxi.

Madame Petain lived in a second-floor apartment facing the Rue Gaillon, as chance would have it, just a half a block from the Drouant restaurant and sidewalk café. He had the driver take him to the restaurant, passing the apartment, the windows of which were dark.

The restaurant was mostly full, but al-Rashid’s French was perfect and the one hundred euro note he handed to the maître’d got him a sidewalk table from where he could watch the apartment building, including its front entrance.

He ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water, and a demi of Pinot Grigio to go with an order of warm oysters served with caviar that was one of the restaurant’s inside specialties, but from time to time might be served outside.

The problem he faced was not one of squeamishness dealing with the widow and her son to find the name or names of other Society members—one of whom would hopefully have the key to the diary’s code—but of the possibility that she wouldn’t know.

Her husband’s body, or what remained of it, was being held for now in the United States during the murder investigation, but if Madame Petain were to die, the people who came to her funeral would likely provide a clue.

That possibility would take time, and could very well end up messy with him on the run from the French police. Neither outcome was particularly disturbing to him, except for the time it would waste.

His drinks came first, and shortly afterward his meal on the heels of which a taxi pulled up in front of the apartment building. A slender woman got out, followed by a gangly boy and they went inside. A minute later the windows of the second-floor apartment were illuminated one by one. Madame Petain and her son were home, and no one else was with them.

Al-Rashid took his time with his light meal, especially enjoying the saltiness of the caviar and the bite of the ice-cold wine. When he was finished he tipped well, got up, and strolled leisurely in the opposite direction of the Petain’s apartment.

The fifteen minutes or so it would take for him to circle the block and come in from the other end of the Rue would give the woman and her son time to settle down, and him the time to make certain that no bodyguard or guards had been assigned to her by the Society.

THIRTY-FOUR

María had been taken to All Saints Hospital on a quiet street not far from Georgetown University Hospital. It was the go-to place that the CIA and many of the other U.S intelligence agencies in the area used when discretion was important. She’d been stabilized overnight and since noon had been in one of the operating rooms under the care of Dr. Alan Franklin. It was three in the afternoon now. McGarvey and Otto sat drinking coffee in the third-floor waiting room. It had been a long night.

“Bambridge is going to raise all kinds of holy hell once he finds out she’s here,” Otto said. Marty Bambridge was the CIA’s deputy director of the National Clandestine Services, and was a by-the-book asshole, though he did run a tight ship.

“He’ll get over it. In the meantime we still don’t know if she came up here on her own, or even what her situation is in Havana. She could be on the run.”

“She’s here to redeem herself.”

“Probably,” McGarvey said. It was hard for him to focus. He’d been here twice to have Dr. Franklin repair wounds, and again when his son-in-law had been assassinated. Remembering the look on Katy’s face, and the overwhelming grief on their daughter’s was almost more than he could bear.

“It’s not the same,
kemo sabe,
” Otto said, reading almost all of that from McGarvey’s posture. “She’s not your responsibility. She’s an intelligence officer from a foreign nation that we don’t have diplomatic relations with. She’s killed people and she’ll do it again.”

McGarvey looked up, suddenly realizing what Otto was getting at. “I was thinking about Todd and about Katy and Liz, not Colonel León. Trust me. She came here and got herself shot up, not my problem. What I need to know is why the bastard from the Church didn’t take me out too.”

“They want you to lead them to the diary. The one that supposedly doesn’t exist that shows the way to Cibola that also doesn’t exist. But the one that people are willing to kill for. And are willing to herd you toward finding it.”

“But why me?”

“Because you came damned close a few months ago. And once you get the bit in your mouth you never let go.”

“Not interested.”

“Sure you are. When Kim Jong Il called, you went to help. Same as when Fidel Castro sent his daughter. Now you’ll do it if for no other reason than the two kids who got killed on campus, just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Otto looked up. “Anyway you better decide what you want to do because Marty’s here.”

Bambridge barged down the corridor from the elevator. He was short and thin with dark angry eyes and thick black hair, and he moved as if his feet hurt, and that fact, along with everything else, surprised him. He wore a dark blue old-fashioned three-piece suit

“We expected you on campus to be debriefed yesterday after the mess you created in Sarasota,” he said even before he reached the waiting room. “And now this.”

McGarvey almost laughed. “You’re going to have a heart attack one of these days.”

“You listen to me, we’ve had enough. Bringing an enemy intelligence agent here is nothing short of unconscionable. I want her gone.”

“Where to?”

A nurse scurried down the hall. “Please,” she said sternly. “This
is
a hospital.”

Bambridge turned on her. “You’ve admitted a woman with a gunshot wound. I want her moved immediately.”

“She’s in the operating room.”

“I don’t care—”

“You’re an idiot,” the nurse shot back. She turned to McGarvey. “Doctor Franklin is just finishing up. He says she’ll recover with nothing more than a scar.”

“When can she get out of here?” McGarvey asked.

“A couple of days. Maybe a week. Friend of yours?”

“In a manner of speaking,” McGarvey said, completely out of his funk.

The nurse gave Bambridge another sharp look and left.

Bambridge sat down across from McGarvey and Otto. “Look, I’m serious about this, and I have Walt’s backing. As soon as she’s able to move I want her out of here. This is a place for heroes—American heroes.”

“And in this case a wounded asset, Marty. She stays until she’s ready to move under her own power. If she’s transferred to another hospital or if you try to send her back to Cuba right now, the same guy who shot her will try again. And he was good enough to get past me.”

“All the more reason to dump her. If someone wants to take her down, it’d be fine with us.” Bambridge sat forward and appealed to Rencke. “She ordered the kidnapping of your wife during which a teacher was killed at the day school where your kid had just been dropped off. Do you think that she’d have any qualms about trying something just as nasty as that if she thought the need was there?”

“She released her unharmed after I went to Havana for the funeral and Mac showed up to answer her questions. It was a crazy stupid stunt she pulled, and people did get hurt, a lot of them.”

Bambridge turned back to McGarvey. “What did you mean, asset?”

“I’m going to take her to Seville with me as soon as she’s fit to travel.”

“Not a chance in hell. After what happened in Florida you’re not going anywhere near Spain. As it is the White House is all over us for an explanation because as it stands neither our government nor Madrid’s has any idea how to handle this mess you created.”

“I don’t expect they do. But I’ll make a deal with you. Send some babysitters over here to keep watch over her. There’s a possibility that the shooter will try to get to her as soon as I leave.”

“You’re not going to Spain—”

“First I’m going to talk to Bill Callahan about Cuba’s intel operations here in the Washington area. If Colonel León did show up to spearhead some operation I want to know about it before I provide her a cover. Could be the Bureau will arrest her as a spy and exchange her for one of ours in Havana.”

“We’re clean in Cuba for the moment,” Bambridge said.

“What else?”

“At the very least Walt wants you to come out to Langley for a chat and a debrief. We have to figure out some response for the Spanish situation. They’re accusing us of mounting a counter-intel ops that resulted in the deaths of four of their people. They mentioned your name.”

“They were spying on me, and when I found out about it I went over to talk to them. They opened fire first.”

“But you went over there armed.”

“It would have turned out differently had I not,” McGarvey said. “They were responsible for the car bombing at New College.”

“We’re interested in that event too. Like who the guy in the car was, and what was his connection to you?”

“Bring the babysitters and I’ll come out to Langley to tell you guys everything. But I’ll want Callahan in on my debriefing so I won’t have to go over the same material twice. I don’t have the time.”

Bambridge was frustrated even though he’d gotten just about everything he wanted, except for María’s immediate expulsion from the hospital. And McGarvey felt some pity for the poor bastard. He himself had worked briefly as the deputy director of the clandestine services, that in the old days had been called the directorate of operations, and understood the enormous pressures the man was under. Dealing with NOCs—who tended to be super-independent people—was like herding cats only with deadly consequences, not only physically but politically.

The Spanish mission to spy on a former DCI that had ended up in the deaths of four of their operatives was highly embarrassing to the Spaniards, who at the moment were depending not only on the EU for economic bailouts, but on the United States for serious financial help. It was one of the reasons, McGarvey supposed, that Madrid wanted a piece of the treasure. A few billions would help their bottom line.

“I’ll have Callahan on campus at five,” Bambridge said. “Walt’s office. I’ll expect you not only to show up but to cooperate.”

THIRTY-FIVE

The evening had turned chilly and standing at the corner from the Petain apartment al-Rashid turned up the collar of his jacket and put a Gauloises at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t have the habit, but he’d found that a man smoking a cigarette was a distraction. The cigarette itself became a focus.

He’d spotted the bodyguard behind the wheel of a white Citroën DS4 hatchback parked across the street. The driver’s window was open and the man was smoking a cigarette.

Crossing the Rue he meandered down the street where at the parked car he checked to make sure that no one was paying any attention to him and stepped around to the driver’s side. Music came from the restaurant and someone was singing some tune but terribly off-key.

The bodyguard looked up. “What do you want, then?” He was a very large man, possibly a Corsican hood, al-Rashid thought. They considered themselves bully boys.

“A light, monsieur, if you please.”

“Fuck off.”

Al-Rashid took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it away. “Mind your manners, mate,” he said.

The Frenchman, realizing that something might be wrong, reached inside his jacket, but al-Rashid clamped a powerful hand around the man’s throat, cutting off his breath and the blood flow from his carotid arteries.

It took less than a minute for the big man’s desperate struggles to subside, but he’d been constrained by the narrow confines of the small car and had not been able to fight back effectively.

Al-Rashid released the pressure. “Who has sent you to keep watch on Madame Petain?”

The Corsican began to regain his senses and he reached again for his pistol, but al-Rashid batted his hand away.

“Quickly, who has sent you here? Was it someone from the Voltaire Society? I need a name.”

The bodyguard lunged forward, but al-Rashid clamped one hand around the man’s neck again. Almost instantly the Corsican settled back, and al-Rashid released his hold.

This time the guard slammed a meaty fist through the window, but al-Rashid slipped the punch, shoved the man’s head back against the headrest, and clamped a powerful grip around his neck. This time he did not let go.

“You are an ignorant
salopard,
and mine is the last face you’ll ever see.”

It did not take long for the Corsican’s struggles to cease. A minute later his heart stopped, and thirty seconds after that he was beyond reviving.

Al-Rashid took the cigarette from the man’s lap where it had burned a hole in his trousers, and tossed it away.

He looked around, but still no one had noticed anything untoward.

He searched the body, coming up with a wallet and French National Identity Card in the name of Ghjuvan Petrus, which was the Corsican equivalent of John Peters, along with an American-made Wilson tactical conceal .45 caliber pistol. It was only a nine-shot semiauto, but it was one of the most accurate handguns in the world. The pistol of a confident man.