Authors: David Hagberg
Soldier of God (26 page)
McGarvey walked into the director’s conference room at 10 A.M., and took his place at the head of the long mahogany table. All seven of his senior staff had already gathered, and Dick Adkins had started the Special National Intelligence Estimate briefing that would be ready to transmit to the White House by four this afternoon. The nation was in crisis. The CIA was on emergency footing and would stay that way 24/7 until the threat level dropped from red. For the duration, SNIEs would be generated every eight hours to keep the president and his advisers up to speed on the situation.
After his unsettling talk with Liese Fuelm, McGarvey had written his letter of resignation, printed it, and sealed it in an envelope. It would go by courier to the White House this afternoon sometime after lunch. But he’d not been able to get Liese out of his mind. It was obvious that she was still in love with him after all these years. And it was equally obvious that someone was using her feelings to get to him. The only reason he could think of was that the Swiss also suspected Prince Salman of doing something wrong, probably breaking Swiss banking laws, and they wanted the CIA’s input. They could have simply asked through normal channels. The CIA often worked with the Swiss Bureau of Federal Police and their department of external affairs, which operated as an intelligence service.
But they had sent Liese to make contact because of the connection between the prince and the CIA director’s wife. It was through the back alley, so very typically Swiss.
He felt a sense of urgency. The countdown to disaster had started, and they had very little time to stop the madness from occurring again.
Adkins handed McGarvey a buff file folder with a pair of diagonal orange stripes indicating that the material it contained was top secret. “This is the latest from Fort Meade on the bin Laden tape. I thought we’d start there.”
McGarvey, sitting with his staff around him, could see that all of them were ready to point their directorates, on his orders, in whatever direction was necessary to counter the bin Laden threat. But less than two hours ago the president of the United States had all but called him a traitor. No one person, no matter how dedicated, could be placed above the interests of the nation. Yet in this case McGarvey was convinced that we were selling our safety for the sake of Saudi oil. If that made him a traitor, then so be it. But it was a burden that only he would carry. It was the reason he’d resigned so abruptly, with no notice to give the president time to appoint his successor.
This was a working meeting. Everyone had open file folders or bound reports in front of them. Photographs and maps were spread out over the long table, along with current satellite and other technical schedules and positions, and the location and battle readiness of every asset in the armed forces, along with the current status of the military units of all our allies. Everyone was concentrating on the materials in front of them, except for Rencke, who was staring at McGarvey.
“It’s bin Laden’s voice all right, but NSA’s analysts are just as convinced as ours are that he’s wearing a disguise,” Adkins said. He was in shirtsleeves, his collar open, his tie loose. “His beard is fake, and he’s wearing stage makeup.” Like the others, Adkins hadn’t been getting much sleep the last few days, and although he was animated, he looked and sounded tired.
“Osama’s probably gotten tired of hiding out in the mountains, with the Pakistanis after him,” McGarvey said. “Do we have anything on the whereabouts of his wives and children?” He wanted to get them headed in the right direction before he sprung his news.
“We think they might be in Khartoum,” Adkins said. He turned to the CIA’s general counsel. “Carleton has something on that.”
“I got a call this morning from Raul Himanez, an old friend of mine from the Third Judicial Circuit who’s teaching law at Harvard now,” Carleton Patterson said. “He got a request from a lawyer in the Sudan who
has handled bin Laden family matters in the past, about a point of international law concerning repatriation of the families of criminals convicted in absentia.” Patterson, who never took off his suit coat or loosened his tie, smiled. “Raul thought I would be interested since the point the lawyer was most interested in concerned Saudi Arabian law.”
has handled bin Laden family matters in the past, about a point of international law concerning repatriation of the families of criminals convicted in absentia.” Patterson, who never took off his suit coat or loosened his tie, smiled. “Raul thought I would be interested since the point the lawyer was most interested in concerned Saudi Arabian law.”
“Could be that bin Laden is trying to get his family back into the good graces of the Saudi royal family,” Adkins said.
“I’ve asked Jeff Cook to beat the bushes in Riyadh to see if he can pick up anything at all,” David Whittaker said. He was the deputy director of operations, a stern, upright man who could have played the part of a Presbyterian minister on any pulpit and be convincing. “But that might take a day or two.”
“Keep on it,” Adkins said. “In the meantime, we’ll have to beef up our liaison staff with the FBI and INS. We can pull them from Security, but they should be Ops people. Any odd bods you can spare, Dave?”
“We’re stretched to the limit as it is,” Whittaker said. “Except for trainees.”
“We could put the Farm on hold, and use the instructors,” Adkins suggested, looking to McGarvey for approval since the move would involve the DCI’s daughter and son-in-law.
McGarvey nodded. They were good people, and they deserved the truth from him every bit as much as he demanded it from them. Yet he could not involve his people in what the White House might consider a personal vendetta. An operation strictly forbidden by the president himself. “Pair a couple of trainees with each instructor, and if you need more, pull them from Management and Security. But I’ll be assigning my daughter and her husband to a special operation.”
Rencke, who had not said a word, suddenly sat up straight as if something had just occurred to him. “Oh wow, Mac, you quit,” he blurted.
McGarvey was almost glad that Rencke had guessed the truth and had brought it up first. It would save time. “Yes, I have,” he said. “I told the president this morning, and I’m telling all of you now. My resignation is effective immediately. This morning.”
There was a stunned silence around the table. No one knew what to say. What McGarvey had sprung on them was unthinkable under the circumstances.
“There’ll be no media releases from here. That’ll be up to the White House. In the interim, Dick will take over as DCI, and Dave can double up as his number two.”
“Bullshit,” Adkins said. “You’re not just walking out, not now of all times. What’s going on?”
“You don’t want to know—”
“You’re going hunting,” Rencke interrupted. “Bang-bang, shot in the head. Bang-bang, you’re dead. Look out Mr. Khalil.”
Everyone started talking at once, and McGarvey let their voices roll around him. Their reactions were the same as the president’s. It was as if the general decided to quit in the middle of a crucial battle. He was letting his people down. It was something they would never forget, or forgive him for.
Adkins held up a hand for silence, and the clamor died down. “Is Otto right? Are you going after Khalil?”
McGarvey tried to think of a way out for his people. He owed them that much. But he also could not lie. It was a fine line. “I don’t want the Company involved. What I’m going to do will be as a private citizen. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t,” Adkins replied angrily. “None of us do. But if you’ve identified Khalil and you mean to grab your pistol and go back out in the field after him, one-on-one, mano a mano, I’m telling you that you’re wasting your time and talents. You’re needed right here. If we know who the bastard is, we have any number of teams we can send after him. If you don’t want him arrested because of what he did to your wife in Alaska, we’ll understand—” Adkins looked to the others for approval. “We won’t even try to arrest him. We’ll find him and kill him on the spot.” Adkins spread his hands. “Whatever you want, Mac. You call the shots, and we’re here for you.” Again he looked to the others for approval, and they all were nodding. They were behind their director no matter what. “But you can’t walk out the door on a personal vendetta. You can’t.”
McGarvey took a good look around the table. It seemed as if he’d spent half his life turning his back on the people who most needed him, but this time was different, he told himself. This time his departure was necessary. He closed the bin Laden folder, shoved it across the table to Adkins, and got up.
“I’m sorry, but there’s no way around it for me. I’m assigning my daughter and son-in-law to help take care of my wife for the next few days. I don’t think the situation will last much longer. I’ll keep in contact as much as possible through Rencke’s office, but I don’t want anyone trying to track my movements. I’ve had my GPS tracker removed.”
Adkins was beside himself with anger. “For Christ’s sake, Mac, don’t do this to us.”
“The president will want to see you this afternoon. Try to stall him until morning if you can; I’ll be clear by then. But don’t put your neck on the block. He’ll want to know where I’ve gone, and you won’t have to lie to him about not knowing. He may ask you to find me, and that decision will be up to you. But the Company has its hands full. Your top priority still is to find bin Laden.”
McGarvey reflected for a moment on what else he could say to his people to ease their burden before he walked out the door. But there was nothing that he could tell them, except that he had changed his mind and would stay on as DCI. That was no longer a possibility. He was going after Khalil, and nothing on this earth could stop him.
He turned to Rencke. “Have you come up with anything new?”
Rencke shook his head. “Not since last night.”
“I’ll keep in touch then,” he told them. “Work the problem, people. It’s what you do.”
He left the conference room and went back to his office to break the news to his secretary.
McGarvey could sense the change within himself as he rode home in the back of the DCI’s limousine. His staff’s reaction had been troublesome—they felt he was deserting them—but his secretary had not seemed surprised that he was quitting as DCI so he could have the freedom of
movement to return to the field. He’d told his staff to work the problem because that’s what they did. His secretary understood his decision because, in her words,
It was what he did.
movement to return to the field. He’d told his staff to work the problem because that’s what they did. His secretary understood his decision because, in her words,
It was what he did.
National Guard troops were stationed at the Beltway’s entrance and exit ramps. A national hysteria was tightening its hold on Americans. Nobody wanted another 9/11, and they were willing to accept whatever it took to stop the terrorists once and for all.
Already he was transforming from a deskbound administrator/politician to a field officer. A greatly heightened sense of perceptions. Accepting the possibility that every situation he found himself in had the potential to be deadly. Trusting no one. Carrying no excess baggage. Accepting that in the end it would be only his finger on the trigger.
The limo pulled into McGarvey’s driveway a couple minutes before noon. Julien came around and opened the back door. “We’re home, Mr. Director.”
McGarvey looked up at his bodyguard, and he had a fleeting thought about Jim Grassinger, whose funeral he would miss, and about Dick Yemm before him, who was killed out on the street just a few yards from here.
His heart slowly emptied of nearly every emotion except the almost overwhelming drive to kill the terrorist Kahlil.
It had been the same when he’d been hunting VC officers in the jungles of South Vietnam.
Outside Santiago when he killed the Butcher of Chile and his wife.
Again in the flooding tunnels beneath a castle in Portugal.
In Japan.
In Moscow.
In San Francisco.
Even here in Washington.
“Are you going back to the office this afternoon, sir?” Julien asked.
“Should I stick around?”
“No, I won’t be needing you today,” McGarvey said, getting out. “In fact, you’re being reassigned. I expect Dick Adkins will be needing you. As of now he’s the new DCI.”
Julien nodded tightly; his round face and serious eyes displayed no surprise. “It’s true then; you’ve resigned?”
McGarvey wasn’t surprised either. “It’s a hell of a note if even the CIA can’t keep a secret.”
“Yes, sir,” Julien said. He cracked a slight smile. “Good hunting, Mr. Director.”
“Thanks,” McGarvey told him. They shook hands, and he looked his bodyguard in the eye. “Be careful over the next few days about who you mention that to. Some serious shit is probably going to come down around our heads.”
Julien nodded again. “Like I said, Mr. Director, good hunting. We’ll take care of the shop for you while you’re gone.”
The chief of security had notified the house detail of McGarvey’s new status, so no one was surprised when he showed up at home early, least of all Kathleen. She came to the head of the stairs when he walked in and reset the alarm. He looked up at her. She seemed brittle.
“I’ve started to pack for you, but I need to know where you’re jetting off to before I can finish,” she said, sharply. “Switzerland, for starters, I’m assuming.”
McGarvey hadn’t expected this coolness from her. She’d been moody during her pregnancy, but never sharp-tongued like in the old days. But suddenly it connected in his mind. His leaving all of a sudden and possibly going to Switzerland. She had admitted that she’d had an affair with Prince Salman, the man her husband suspected of being a terrorist. And now he was rushing off to Switzerland to be with a woman from the old days who had been in love with him. Rekindling an old flame? He’d even asked himself that same question last night. How far would he go to track down Khalil?
All the way, he’d decided. And Katy had evidently sensed something of that resolution in him. This morning she was jealous.
“I suppose it’s only fair,” Katy said. “Or is it just a part of the business that husbands don’t discuss with their wives?”
The Company shrink, Dr. Norman Stenzel, once told McGarvey that the divorce rate among CIA field officers was the highest of any profession. What spouse could hope to compete with a mate who kept odd hours, had questionable friends, and lied every day as a matter of course. It was hard on everybody, especially the wives who sooner or later developed inferiority complexes; low self-esteem made normally reasonable people sometimes say and do horrific things. The suicide rate among
agents and their spouses was nineteen times the national average. Much higher even than among cops. “Don’t do this now, Katy …”
agents and their spouses was nineteen times the national average. Much higher even than among cops. “Don’t do this now, Katy …”
“Your tradecraft was a trifle weak,” Katy said. “Her name is Liese Fuelm. She called you when we were on the cruise, but Otto picked it up and talked to her. Of course, you know all that. The problem is Otto wasn’t quick enough, because the entire conversation was recorded on the machine in your study. It was actually quite sweet, her calling you at home instead of your office. She’s obviously concerned about you.”
McGarvey had listened to Otto’s recording of the brief conversation, and he too had heard the concern in her voice. But like Otto he’d also heard Liese’s anger and frustration. Her people were using her friendship, and possibly even love, for the CIA director to get information they thought they wouldn’t otherwise get because the prince had been a good and useful friend to the last three administrations. But in the aftermath of the kidnapping attempt and then the bin Laden tape, McGarvey had forgotten to check his answering machine.
Katy’s voice was rising. “She said to say hello. Give you a hug. How sweet is that? But she mentioned Darby and the old days.”
McGarvey started up the stairs to her.
“Goodness gracious, I’m beginning to wonder how many people don’t know about Darby and the prince and … me.” She stepped back, as if she wanted to distance herself from her husband. She looked frightened and angry and ashamed all at once.
McGarvey reached the head of the stairs and gathered her in his arms. For just a moment she resisted, but then she melted into him. “It’s not like that, Katy,” he said, stroking her hair. “It never was.”
“She sounded young.”
“She is. And she was in love with me, or thought she was. And she might still be in love with me, which the Swiss police are using to make her come to me for help.”
Katy looked up into his eyes. It was clear that she wanted to believe him, but she was frightened. She was pregnant, and she did not want to be alone again.
“Otto picked up on it, from how she sounded. You must have heard it too.”
“I sent you out of my life once; I won’t allow it to happen again.”
McGarvey wanted to turn his back on everything and simply run away with her. He’d lived for a short while on the Greek island of Serifos; he could easily live there again. He and Katy could have a simple life, happy together, in peace.
“I’m afraid, Kirk. Alaska was nothing compared to this.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how it can turn out for us … for everybody.”
“I’m not going to Switzerland. At least not now.”
“But you are leaving?”
“I’m going to Monaco.”
Katy studied his face. “He’ll be there, and you’re going to confront him. Is that it?” Her mouth twisted into a grimace. “You’re going to find him and kill him. Is that what you’re going to do?” She glanced down the hall toward the front bedroom where their security detail had set up its operational center. “You resigned and they weren’t surprised. And they’re not going away.” She turned back. “How did you find out he’d be in Monaco?”
“The Swiss are investigating him. I talked to Liese this morning. She told me where he’d be.”
Katy flared again. “Two spies exchanging secrets, or was it chums catching up on the good old days?”
There was nothing McGarvey could say.
Katy started to cry. “Well, get your story straight, because your daughter called a half hour ago all upset, wanting to know what the hell was going on. You’ll have to tell her something. She and Todd are coming for dinner again. Unless you’re leaving this afternoon.”
“Not until morning.”
“That’s something, at least.”
“I’m reassigning them to watch you,” McGarvey said. “If I miss the prince, there’s a good chance he’ll come after you again.”
Her mood suddenly swung the other way, and she almost laughed out loud. “There’s not much chance of you missing him, is there? I saw you in action on the boat.” She shook her head. “Oh no, darling, you’ll get him.”
He brushed a kiss on her cheek. “Let me help you pack. I’ll need my tux—”
“I’ll finish it,” Katy said. “Go get yourself a drink, and then gather up whatever else you’re going to need.”
“You won’t be able to reach me, so don’t try,” McGarvey told her. “If something comes up that Liz orTodd can’t handle, go to Otto; he’ll know how to get to me.”
She suddenly looked like a deer caught in some headlights. “You’re getting a second chance, Kirk. And I think this might be the most important thing you’ve ever had to do. So go … do it, and when it’s over come back to me in one piece.”
It was after midnight and the house was quiet, though lying in bed McGarvey could sense the presence of the four-man security team, awake, watchful, ready for whatever trouble might happen. Liz and Todd had agreed to move out of their carriage house and bunk here for the duration, though Liz wanted to go to Monaco with her father.
“You’re awake,” Kathleen said softly beside him. “Can’t you sleep?”
McGarvey turned his head to look at her. “I was just about to drop off.”
She smiled. “Liar.” She reached over and brushed her fingertips lightly across his eyes, his nose, and his lips. “Make love to me, Kirk.”
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