Flash Points: A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  “The situation is at an end,” McGarvey said. He made a deliberate show of holstering his pistol at the small of his back. “The perp we’re looking for has already left the hotel.”

  Pete had already holstered hers.

  One of them raised his pistol and pointed it at McGarvey. “Both of you need to place your weapons on the floor.”

  “I assume that the police have been notified.”

  “Now,” the security officer said. He was stern but not nervous.

  “Navy SEALS, Army Special Forces?” McGarvey asked.

  “I will fire.”

  “The guy we’re after took down the pencil tower in New York last year.”

  “Goddamnit.”

  McGarvey’s phone chirped. “Phone,” he said and keeping his movements slow and easy took the phone from his shirt pocket. It was Otto.

  “What’s your situation?”

  “Hotel security has stopped us on the fifth floor. Weapons drawn.”

  “Cops are less than a minute away. And I’ve notified the Bureau. Help is incoming. Can you defuse the situation?”

  “We’re trying.”

  The second officer raised his weapon directly at Pete. “Your guns on the floor, or I will open fire,” he said. He was younger than the other one, and seemed nervous.

  “Do as he says,” McGarvey said.

  He and Pete both drew their weapons from their holsters and very carefully bent over and laid them on the floor.

  “Now the phone.”

  The first officer said something into his lapel mic, and a moment later the expression on his face changed, and he lowered his weapon.

  FIFTY-THREE

  “I’m sorry, sir, we weren’t sure who you were except that you threatened the night manager with a gun,” the security officer with the lapel mic said.

  “You guys were just doing your jobs and no one got hurt,” McGarvey said, he and Pete picking up their pistols and holstering them.

  “Yes, sir.”

  McGarvey got back on the phone with Otto. “The situation here has been defused. You can have the district cops stand down, but get a Bureau forensics team over here. I want O’Neal’s room tossed. They might come up with something we can use.”

  “What made him bail out?” Otto asked.

  “He might have realized he’d used his O’Neal identity once too often. He sent a drone to your house, so he knows who you are and what you’re capable of. And I’m pretty sure that he has to know that Louise used to work for the NRO and might still have some connections over there.”

  “You’re talking about the Mexican training camp.”

  “Yes. He used the O’Neal identity in Mexico and Texas, and he may have realized I had figured it all out by now.”

  “That’s a pretty big stretch.”

  “We’ve underestimated the man all along. He’s damned good, but his own connections are feeding him real-time intel.”

  “Particularly the GIP?”

  “The Saudis have their UN office in New York. Maybe someone should pay their head of security an unofficial visit.”

  “It’ll have to go through Marty, but I think I can convince him that we need his help. He’ll love that.”

  “If you have to, go to Page,” McGarvey said.

  “What about you and Pete?”

  “We’re going to pay another visit to General Echo and then his brother-in-law, Colonel Chambeau.”

  “You won’t get anything from either of them.”

  “I think I will,” McGarvey said.

  * * *

  McGarvey and Pete drove back to Fairfax to General Echo’s nice home on a block with a lot of trees. It was nearing midnight, but many of the houses, including Echo’s, were still lit up.

  “How are you feeling?” McGarvey asked.

  “A lot better than you look,” Pete said. “What do you expect to get out of him that you didn’t get at the McDonald’s?”

  “He knows al-Daran.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was watching from inside when he walked out. He nodded to someone across the parking lot before he got in his car and drove off. Could be the only reason I survived.”

  “Jesus. You can’t kill him.”

  “I guess not,” McGarvey said. His stump hurt and he was feeling irascible. “But this will end soon. I’m getting tired of chasing al-Daran and always watching over my shoulder to see if he’s taken a bead on me.”

  “It’s become personal,” Pete said.

  “You’re damned right.”

  Pete touched his arm. “Whatever you do, make sure that it’s for the right reasons. Not just revenge for what he’s done to you.”

  “And you.”

  She managed a slight smile. “We’re going on a long vacation when this is over and done with.”

  “It won’t be easy,” McGarvey said, half to himself. He was still missing something. They all were and it bothered the hell out of him.

  “Nothing is,” Pete said, picking up on his mood.

  * * *

  McGarvey got out in front of the Echos’ house, and with the headlights off, Pete drove halfway down the block, made a U-turn and parked, the Glock beside her on the seat.

  Echo opened the door before McGarvey had a chance to ring the bell. He was wearing an olive drab army T-shirt, sweats and no shoes. He was angry.

  “If need be I’ll call my security people and let them deal with you,” he said.

  “We’ll wait for them together, either inside or out here.”

  The general started to close the door, but McGarvey stopped him. “We’re pretty sure that al-Daran has worked as a freelance for Saudi intelligence.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “You’ve had contact recently with at least one mid-level officer in the GIP.”

  “Part of my job, as I’ve already explained to you.”

  “I watched when you left McDonald’s. He was out there behind a Camaro, waiting for me.”

  “So?”

  “You nodded to him.”

  “I nod to a lot of people I see in public. It’s a matter of old-fashioned respect, like tipping your hat.”

  “You were warning him about me.”

  “No.”

  “He shot a friend of mine and he killed a woman at the gas station just down the street.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s no concern of mine.” Echo started to back up.

  McGarvey pulled out his pistol and jammed it into the bridge of the general’s nose. “I’m getting real tired of being lied to.”

  “You’re fucking certifiable. No wonder they kicked your ass off the seventh floor at Langley. You and Weaver make the perfect couple.”

  “We think that al-Daran paid a visit to what is most likely an ISIS training camp in Mexico about a hundred miles south of El Paso. If we’re right it means that he’s planning another terrorist attack somewhere here in the States. And whatever it is will be big.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If it happens you and your contacts will be complicit. Accessories after the fact. It’d be tough to get to your contacts in Saudi Arabia, or Russia or Pakistan, but you’d be easy.”

  “Who is it, Walt?” a woman called from inside.

  “A messenger from my office,” Echo said. “He’s just leaving.”

  “A lot of people could die because of you trying to discredit Weaver. That’s called treason. Hell of a way to end your career,” McGarvey said. He looked past Echo into the vestibule. He stepped back and lowered his gun. “And lose all this. For what? Because you were pissed off that Weaver was elected?”

  “The man is dangerous.”

  “Has he killed anyone?”

  “Not yet. But neither did Hitler kill anyone at first.”

  “Jesus, do you actually hear what’s coming out of your mouth?”

  “I don’t know Mr. al-Daran. He doesn’t work for me, nor do I think he’s wor
king for the GIP. But what I’m telling my counterparts is not illegal. Nor am I or anyone else I know, for that matter, planning a military coup d’état or any other act of violence inside this country.” Echo shook his head. “Weaver will be impeached and it will be of his own doing, not mine.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Kamal drove directly back to Reagan International, where he left the Camry along with his roll-about in long-term parking. He kept Tepping’s shoulder bag, which contained a laptop.

  Downstairs he caught a cab back into the city, ordering the driver to take him to the Hyatt Regency, which was within walking distance of Union Station.

  For the moment he thought that it would be a good idea to have a back door. Someplace like the cavernous, almost always busy train depot, where he could get lost in a hurry.

  It had been McGarvey in the BMW parked in front of the Hay-Adams, and passing him Kamal had almost stopped, powered down his window and shot the man at nearly point-blank range. Instead, he’d turned his head slightly away and continued driving.

  The time had not been right. It was possible that he would have missed, and McGarvey could have returned fire.

  In any event he’d been right to get out of the hotel. Somehow the bastard’s geek friend had traced his O’Neal identity here. It was even possible that they knew about the training base in Mexico.

  On the way into the city, he dug out his Rupert Hollman papers, which he hadn’t used since Atlanta, and when they reached the Hyatt he tipped the driver well, but not extravagantly, and checked into an ordinary-size room.

  He unpacked Tepping’s laptop and looked at it for a long time. Once he went online it would be as if he had shined a spotlight on himself. Especially after the man’s body was found in the trunk of his car. But that could be days from now, or hours if his friend from the photographs reported him missing.

  Yet he thought the laptop could serve a purpose later. Depending on who the man was.

  Kamal got out of the man’s clothes and took a shower. The wound in his leg was still oozing a small amount of blood, which he stanched with some wadded-up toilet paper.

  Dressed in his own clothes, a decent pair of gray slacks, a white shirt and a blue blazer, he went down to the restaurant and took a seat with his back to the kitchen and from where he had a decent sight line on the entrance. He didn’t think they could have traced him this far this fast, but he had learned not to underestimate McGarvey. It was a mistake he’d made too many times.

  He had a light salad and a decent planked trout, along with seasoned french fries and a reasonable bottle of cold Pinot Grigio. Not the French cuisine he’d gotten used to, but certainly much better in his mind than British food and certainly better than most Saudi meals he could remember as a kid.

  The dining room was half-filled, mostly with families probably here on vacation, and only a few men and women dressed in business attire. He was the only person seated alone, but no one paid him any attention and his waiter was distant but reasonably efficient.

  After coffee, Kamal signed for the bill, then went across the lobby to the business center, where a half-dozen computers were lined up on a long counter. A young man was using a computer at the far end, but no one else was around, nor was anyone looking his way.

  For the moment he was anonymous.

  Using the password he’d been given when he checked in, he got online and brought up a couple local news channels, searching for any articles on the shooting in Fairfax, and especially anything about a man missing from Dulles.

  Too soon for the media to have picked up on the stories, he wondered, or were McGarvey’s friends at the CIA or someone from the FBI suppressing the stories for now because of an ongoing investigation, and a manhunt for the shooter?

  Next he opened Google and searched for Richard S. Tepping. Almost immediately more than ten thousand hits came up, chief among them the Richard Tepping, born in Indianapolis and educated at Notre Dame with a bachelor’s and master’s in political science and a minor in media communications.

  Several photographs of him came up, and it was the same man from Dulles.

  Most astounding, though, was that Tepping worked in the White House as an assistant press secretary. His father owned a big construction company in New Jersey that had been involved with three of Weaver’s projects a number of years ago. The son’s position on the White House staff was most certainly a thank-you.

  Kamal scrolled through more than a dozen media releases that were at least in part credited to Tepping, but two that stuck out involved position statements that Weaver had briefly used during the campaign outlining his plan for dealing with Muslim extremist lone wolves and terrorist cells in the U.S.

  “Guantánamo is waiting for those who survive U.S. law enforcement,” had been one of Weaver’s talking points.

  * * *

  Kamal walked over to Union Station to a kiosk inside the main terminal and bought three throwaway cell phones, each loaded with thirty minutes of airtime.

  He went to the Pret a Manger fast-food place on the west side of the concourse, where he got a coffee and took a stool at the long counter. Not many people were in the station at this hour.

  It was four in the morning in Riyadh when Abboud finally answered on the sixth ring. “Who is this?” he demanded in Arabic.

  “Al Nassr,” Kamal replied. “I need information.”

  “Just a minute,” Abboud said.

  A woman in the background said something, but a few moments later Abboud was back. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know about a man named Richard Tepping. He’s an assistant press secretary at the White House.”

  “What the hell are you into? Your target is McGarvey. Is he dead?”

  “I need to know if Tepping was in Beijing in the past several months.”

  “Are you going to explain this to me?”

  “Not yet. Just get me the information.”

  “What else?” Abboud demanded.

  “Was he alone?” Kamal asked, but he hung up before Abboud could answer.

  * * *

  On the way out Kamal took the SIM card and battery out of the phone, and tossed everything into a trash can.

  He got across Columbus Circle, traffic light but steady, and walked a couple of blocks to a small park on D Street and Louisiana Avenue, where he sat down on a bench. He was alone here.

  Using the second throwaway phone he called the CIA’s main working number—the 703, not the 800, area code.

  “You have reached the United States Central Intelligence Agency.”

  Kamal pressed zero.

  A woman came on. “May I help you?”

  “I am called al Nassr. I wish to talk to Mr. Kirk McGarvey about his granddaughter, Audrey. I will call this number again at one A.M. local. Have him standing by, please.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know the name.”

  “Thank you, darling. Just pass the message along.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Pete unlocked the door of her third-floor apartment in Georgetown, and then stepped back. She and McGarvey both had their pistols out, hers in an awkward left-hand grip because of the wound to her right arm.

  They waited a full ten seconds, before McGarvey eased the door open.

  Soft classical music came from inside, and a light was on down the short corridor to the bedroom and bathroom.

  It was an old trick. An intruder might turn off the music so that he could hear someone coming to the door, and then the light so that he would have the advantage of darkness.

  Nevertheless, McGarvey darted inside, swinging his pistol left to right.

  Pete was right behind him, and in less than ten seconds they had completely cleared the apartment, and she had locked up.

  McGarvey went to the window and parted the curtain slightly so that he could look down on N Street NW. A cab passed and a few seconds later a red SUV went to the end of the block and turned right.

  “How do you want to play thi
s?” Pete asked.

  “He knows my place, and it’s a safe bet he knows this place as well so we’ll stay together for the night and get some rest. We can take turns keeping watch.”

  McGarvey didn’t miss her little smile.

  “Want something to eat?”

  “Sure.”

  “A grilled ham and cheese and a beer?”

  “Sounds good. I’ll take the first watch.”

  McGarvey took off his jacket, sat down on the chair facing the door and laid the pistol within easy reach on the end table as Pete went into the tiny kitchen.

  He was weary but not sleepy. It wasn’t what Echo had said to him—he thought that the man had been telling the truth—but it was his attitude. He’d made no bones about hating Weaver and wanting the man impeached. Nor had he denied communicating on a regular basis with the same mid-level intelligence officers that Otto’s search program had identified.

  But the general had not ordered McGarvey’s assassination. Nor had he admitted to knowing about the training camp in the Mexican desert or al-Daran’s connection to it, or anything else about the contract killer.

  His nodding at al-Daran could have meant nothing more than Echo had explained it meant, as lame as that seemed, but McGarvey did not believe it.

  Which left him at the beginning. Al-Daran was gunning for him, and the man did not work without a stiff price tag. Echo would have a hard time coming up with that kind of cash and then hiding it. Unless someone else in the Consortium had been the money man. Maybe someone in the Saudi GIP.

  Al-Daran had almost certainly visited the training base in Mexico.

  But the attack at the Farm wasn’t al-Daran’s style, which meant a second party wanted him dead for whatever reason.

  The only common thread was President Weaver. But McGarvey could not bring himself to believe that the president of the United States had hired al-Daran to make the hit.

  Or someone on his staff? Ron Hatchett, the President’s deputy adviser on national security affairs, had gone to Beijing for a secret meeting of some sort. But a meeting with whom?

  Weaver had lost his temper when McGarvey had brought it up, which could have meant nothing other than he’d acted presidential. Many of his predecessors had gone ballistic when they were questioned.