Retribution (9781429922593) (40 page)

“He's on the east side with the woman,” Volker responded. It sounded as if he was running.

“Is he down?”

“Negative, but we hit two of the blacks with him.”

“What's your situation?”

“We're across the parking area.”

More suppressed gunfire came from that direction, followed immediately by several unsilenced pistol shots.

“He and the broad just went inside the building. We're taking fire.”

“Klaus, Friedrich,
kommt!
” Pam called.

“We're twenty-five meters behind the building,” Bruns responded. “We'll try to get in from the rear.”

“Good. Felix, copy?”

“Ja.”

“What about Ayesha?”

“She's down. The woman with McGarvey shot her.”

Just as well, Pam thought. She would worry about the money later. “I want this op over with now. McGarvey's making too much noise.”

“That's his intention,” Volker radioed back.

*   *   *

McGarvey and Pete huddled just inside the doorway of the apartment building across the parking lot from where Ayesha's body and the bodies of the two black kids who had agreed to help out were lying.

Pete was on the phone with Otto. She handed it to McGarvey.

“There's been a fair amount of phone traffic, but they're using a military-grade encryption algorithm, which is going to take my darlings a minute or so to figure out. But I'd guess that they're going to try to flank you. They can't be happy with all the noise you're making.”

“Have the cops taken any notice?”

“Not yet. Do you want me to give them the heads-up?”

“No.”

“Goddamnit, Mac—”

“If some patrol officer shows up he's going to get himself killed. And by the time a SWAT team is organized this'll be a done deal. One way or the other.”

A half-dozen incoming rounds blazed through the open doorway, ricocheting around inside the entry vestibule. McGarvey reached around the corner and emptied his magazine in the general direction of the two shooters.

“Go upstairs and try to find a balcony on the first or second floor, if someone will let you in,” he said as he changed out magazines. “If not, cover me from the landing.”

“I'm not going to leave you alone.”

McGarvey grinned. “You know this isn't going to work for us if you're all the time arguing with me.”

“Chauvinist.”

“Just keep your ass down. I want to end this crap tonight.”

She pecked him on the cheek. “For luck,” she said. She hurried past the elevator door, which had an out-of-order sign on it, and bounded up the stairs two at a time.

The cell phone burred. It was Otto again, and he was excited.

“You've got two guys in front of you, and I think two more are coming up on your six.”

McGarvey looked over his shoulder at the same time someone out front opened fire, but with what he was sure was a Heckler & Koch 416 with a suppressor, one of the weapons of choice for SEAL team operators.

Rautanen.

*   *   *

Volker took a hit high on his right arm before he knew someone was coming up from the east; he managed to roll left out of the line of fire. Automatic weapons fire from a silenced light submachine gun kicked up dirt and bits of pavement all around him, while at the same time McGarvey or the broad fired a half-dozen pistol shots from just inside the building across the parking lot, two rounds whizzing past his head so close he could feel the shock waves.

“Bastard,” Heiser said, crouching beside him. He fired a sustained burst from his MAC 10, walking the rounds out and up, at least three finally catching the ex-SEAL in the leg, lower torso, and upper chest.

Rautanen went down heavily and lay still. It was impossible for Volker to tell from this distance if the guy was dead or not, but he was down, which for the moment was all that mattered.

“You okay?” Heiser asked.

“Nothing serious,” Volker said. Awkwardly he keyed his cell phone.
“Klaus, wo ist?”

“Ready to go in. Give us distracting fire.”

“On three,” Volker said. “They're going in,” he told Heiser. He waited two counts, then got up on a knee and began firing measured bursts at the open doorway. Heiser followed suit.

Pam was on the phone, but he ignored her call—the time for bullshit orders was over.

*   *   *

McGarvey hunched around the corner, his back against the wall, as the incoming rounds bounced all over the place. It was covering fire for whoever was coming down the hallway from the rear door.

A figure loomed large in the darkness and McGarvey emptied his magazine down the narrow corridor. He changed out the magazine, recharged his weapon, and was about to fire, when a round slammed into his side just above his hip. He felt an incredible burst of pain.

Pete suddenly appeared, firing her pistol around the corner from the elevator door. One of the Germans grunted, but kept firing.

McGarvey's phone vibrated again at the same moment the firing from the front of the building intensified a half-dozen times over. There were more than four of them, he thought, his head buzzing.

He emptied his last magazine down the corridor, as Pete changed out her last one.

Someone in dark night-fighter camos appeared in the doorway, an H & K at ready arms. For just an instant he thought it was Rautanen, but he was sure that the SEAL was down.

“Pete, get down,” he shouted, at the same time as he threw his pistol at the man's face. As he began to lose consciousness he got the strangest impression that the guy in the doorway was Dick Cole, with two other similarly dressed figures right behind him.

Pete was there over him as he slipped away, his only regret at that moment was the fact that he had only one kidney and he was sure that the round he'd taken was right there. And being on dialysis for the rest of his life was never what he had in mind.

 

SEVENTY-FOUR

The room was dim. As McGarvey began to wake up he was conscious of a familiar chemical smell. He thought that he might be at All Saints, which was the private hospital in Georgetown that took care of seriously injured intelligence officers.

Somewhere in the distance he heard voices speaking in very low tones. One of them was a woman's voice which he recognized as Otto's wife, Louise. She sounded insistent.

His mouth was gummy and it was hard for him to focus. Everything seemed blurred at first, until gradually he began to make out that he was in bed in a hospital room. The blinds to his left were drawn; even so, he knew it was night.

He tried to turn, but a huge pain slammed his side, and he remembered that he had been shot in the kidney. Two down, zero to go.

A host of other thoughts came tumbling into his head, chief among them Pete. She'd been right there in the middle of it in the apartment building's vestibule when he'd been hit, and he hadn't been able to do a damned thing for her. That hurt even more than his wound.

Dr. Alan Franklin, chief of surgery at All Saints, walked into the room, a smile on his hound dog face. “How're you feeling?” he asked.

“Like someone who's been shot in the side. How's Pete?”

“Ms. Boylan is one tough woman, she's already pushing to get out of bed, and she can't see why she shouldn't be in here with you,” Franklin said. He'd worked on McGarvey a couple of times before and he was damned good at what he did. Any hospital in the country would appoint him chief of surgery if he'd only ask. But he was comfortable here. His kind of people, he liked to say. Interesting injuries.

McGarvey was alarmed. He tried to sit up. “Was she hurt?”

“No. And if you don't take it easy you'll end up back in the operating room.”

McGarvey lay back, a little woozy. “What happened?”

“A long shot, actually, but you and Ms. Boylan are both O positive and your HL antigen profiles were within the ballpark. She stepped up to the plate for you and I did the operation this afternoon. About nine hours ago.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your remaining kidney was damaged beyond repair, so Ms. Bolan donated one of hers. Saved your life.”

“I want to see her.”

“In the morning. Right now you need to rest.”

“Come on, doc, I just woke up. I have to pee—”

“You're catheterized.”

“I'm hungry.”

“I'll order up some broth and maybe some Jell-O.”

“How about a beer, or better yet a Rémy?”

Franklin laughed, and it was the best sound Mac had heard in a while.

“Broth and Jell-O it is. In the meantime I heard Louise out in the hall, which means Otto's out there too. I want five minutes with them.”

“Five is all you'll get. The button on the controller by your hand is a morphine pump. Press it if you need some relief.”

Franklin left and before Otto and Louise were allowed in a nurse took Mac's blood pressure and checked his urine output. She gave him a smile. “You'll live.”

“Yes, he will,” Louise said, breezing in. She gave Mac a peck on the cheek.

“Close the door,” McGarvey said.

Otto did. He pulled a beer from his pocket, popped the tab, and handed it to McGarvey, who took a deep drink. It was great.

“What about the Germans?”

“All four of them are dead,” Otto said. “Dick Cole came with four ST Six guys and it was over before it started. BND doesn't want the bodies. They suggested we cremate them and dump the ashes. Happened earlier this morning.”

“Rautanen?”

“He was wearing his Kevlar. Took a hit in the leg and groin, but he'll survive. He's in the Naval Medical Center at Portsmouth. Says to say hi.”

“How about the kids from the complex?”

“Three of them are down—two KIA, the third in critical. Cole had him taken to Portsmouth with Rautanen. Least we could do.”

“What about Ayesha Naisir?”

“Her body is on the way to Pakistan as we speak. I think the ISI will stage a robbery attempt or something like that in Rawalpindi. She was shot to death along with her husband.”

“The White House?” McGarvey asked.

“The incident never happened,” Otto said. “But John Fay sends his regards, said thanks.”

“Pam Schlueter?”

“No trace.”

“She'll turn up sooner or later,” McGarvey said. “But Dick Cole. If he wasn't the leak, who the hell was?”

“We may never know.”

The door opened and Pete, came in in a wheelchair, Louise helping her. “I heard that you were awake,” she said, coming to McGarvey's side. “We have about five minutes before Franklin or one of his nurses catches us. So how do you feel?”

“Pretty good,” McGarvey said. “You?”

“Never better,” Pete said. She took the beer from him. “If this is going to work between us, you're going to have to learn how to share.”

 

SEVENTY-FIVE

Gloria, her feet propped up on the lower rungs of a stool, sat at her kitchen counter talking to Pam on her cell phone. With Dick upstairs it was too dangerous to use the house phone, but it was a call she couldn't avoid. She was furious.

“Where are you at this moment?” she demanded.

“Athens, but I'm not going to say here.”

“I can find out.”

“Don't.”

“You blew it, and then you didn't finish the most important part of the job. The one I was expecting from you. You need to come back immediately.”

“Don't be a fool. They know my name.”

“McGarvey is probably dead.”

“It doesn't matter,” Pam shouted. “It's not only the CIA who knows my name, it's the Pakistanis. Major Naisir got himself killed and so did his wife. Those ISI bastards will at least want their money back.”

“Give it to them.”

“They won't go away, and money is the only thing that'll keep me alive until the situation stabilizes.”

“Then what?” Gloria said. “I need this.” She was pleading.

“I won't forget you. I'll be back to finish it.”

“When?”

“I don't know,” Pam said. “In the meantime I'm getting rid of this phone and all my Internet connections, so you won't be able to reach me. But I'll be there, I promise.”

“You can't quit,” Gloria said. But Pam had hung up.

Her husband, Dick Cole, came in wearing a bathrobe. “Who can't quit?”

She turned and smiled. “Just a silly girlfriend of mine, who wants to quit her job just when it was getting interesting.” More than anything in the world she wanted him dead.

Cole shrugged indifferently. “Do you want to do some porn and fool around? I got a couple of new movies.”

“Sure, sweetie,” Gloria said, her heart aching. “I'd like nothing better.”

 

EPILOGUE

Island of Serifos
Three months later

McGarvey had been alone again long enough now on his island retreat that he no longer saw any value in it. Pete had stayed with him for the first few weeks, but he'd sent her back to her job at Langley to keep her ear to the ground.

He ran every day across the rugged hilly terrain, along cliffs that plunged into the Aegean, up steep stairs that the Greeks and then the Romans had carved to their temples, and back down to the town, where he sometimes had lunch and a half bottle of good retsina. He was up to five miles a day now, and sometimes he swam in the sea for an hour or so, pushing himself as he always had.

A couple of days each week he hiked up from where he stayed in the lighthouse that had been converted into a comfortable apartment. He shot his pistol at small targets, bottles, bits of newspapers or magazines, even a cigarette pack he'd picked up in town. His accuracy with the Walther became very good up to three hundred inches.