The Cabal

by David Hagberg

  Ten minutes later he had the boat cover removed, had lowered the boat into the water, had gassed it up and started the engine, which kicked into life on the third try. Since it was an I/O, its exhaust and engine noises were quieter than those of an outboard motor hanging on the transom. It was a small bit of luck.

  Easing away from the lift, he gingerly made his way across the shallow water of Little Sarasota Bay to the green 57 ICW marker and turned south in the middle of the channel before he turned on the boat’s navigation lights and increased the throttle. It was just coming up on three-thirty in the morning, the air perfectly still, the overcast sky pitch black except for the glow of Sarasota.

  His house, about four miles south, was just north of the smaller swing bridge at Blackburn Point. These were waters he knew well. Besides their sailboat, which they kept in downtown Sarasota at Marina Jack, they had a small Boston Whaler runabout that he and Katy often took up the ICW as far as Anna Maria or sometimes down to the Crow’s Nest in Venice for leisurely Sunday brunches.

  Just now the two houses north of his on Casey Key and several to the south were empty for the summer. All of them maintained private markers leading to small backyard docks.

  Twenty minutes later he throttled back to idle, switched off the boat’s nav lights, and angled west to the island just after marker 37, no need to raise the engine because water depths here in the channel were three feet at lower low tide right up to the docks, less than five hundred yards outside the channel.

  From here he could see the red and green lights on the Blackburn Point bridge and make out the silhouette of his house, and the spindly outline of the gazebo in the backyard where Katy had loved to have a morning cup of tea or an early-evening glass of wine.

  At the last moment he cut the boat’s engine and drifted to the dock two houses up from his, and tied bow and stern lines to the cleats. He speed-dialed Rencke’s number, and Otto answered on the first ring.

  “I’m tied up just north of my place. Can you cut the house alarm system?”

  “Stand by,” Rencke said.

  Now that the boat’s engine was off, the night had become silent, except for the frogs and other animals and the sounds of what was probably a night hunting bird in the distance.

  “Done,” Rencke said.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m out of there,” McGarvey said, and he broke the connection.

  Pocketing the duct tape, he jumped up on the dock, and headed through the sea oats and tall grasses at the water’s edge to the edge of his property. Only a few people had put up fences or security walls down here, which was just as well because McGarvey had a clear sight line, and he spotted the Bureau agent sitting in the gazebo almost at the same moment he smelled the man’s smoke and saw for just a brief moment the glow from the tip of the cigarette.

  It was damn sloppy, but it told McGarvey that at least this man wasn’t expecting trouble, which in a slight way was troublesome. If the Bureau didn’t expect McGarvey to show up here, why had they posted guards, at least one of whom was lax?

  He waited in the darkness a full five minutes to make sure the second man wasn’t on this side of the house, and that no communications passed between them, then he angled away from the water, his path between the house and the gazebo.

  The agent, stood up, took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt out into the water, and McGarvey silently raced the last five yards, leaped over the gazebo’s low rail and hit the man low in the back with enough force to knock him down, but not enough to break his back.

  McGarvey put pressure on the man’s carotid arteries and within seconds the agent was out. Working quickly McGarvey slapped a piece of tape over the agent’s mouth, then taped his wrists and elbows behind his back, his ankles and knees together and finally his torso and his legs to the gazebo’s rail.

  The agent was beginning to come around when McGarvey disappeared up to the house, opened the rear door, and slipped inside, into the kitchen where he was brought up short.

  He could smell Katy’s scent, and he stepped back, the same dark rage from Arlington threatening to blot out his sanity. It had only been a few days since they had left for Washington to see about Todd, yet it was a lifetime, ten lifetimes ago. But she was here.

  He stayed at the kitchen door for a full minute, before he was able to rouse himself enough to go upstairs to the master suite, which was even worse for him than the kitchen. Katy was everywhere here. Her clothes, the bed, the bathroom, photographs of her on the walls, on the bureau were almost overwhelming even in the dark. He could almost expect to hear her voice telling him to stop brooding and come to bed.

  Taking a small, red-lensed pen light from the dresser drawer on his side of the bed, he was about to turn and get his things from the secret floor safe in the walk-in closet when the small, framed photograph of him and Katy on the top deck of the Eiffel Tower, taken when they were very young, before Liz was born, caught his eye. Another tourist had agreed to take it, and looking at the image now McGarvey was brought back to that simpler, happier time. Nothing had ever been the same again.

  He pocketed the photograph and went into his closet where he switched on the pen light. The floor safe was open and empty.

  Rearing back he switched off the light, and went to the windows that looked down on the pool, the gazebo, and the dock. They had expected him to come here to retrieve his things; money in different currencies, passports and ID sets under four different work names.

  But they’d gotten sloppy, waiting.

  He hurried downstairs, mindful of the corners, expecting an armed man to materialize out of the darkness, yet he didn’t pull his gun. These were Bureau agents. He wasn’t going to be placed under arrest, nor was he going to hurt anyone beyond what was necessary.

  Outside, he hurried across the yard to the next-door neighbor’, keeping in the deeper shadows as much as possible and well away from the gazebo.

  A few minutes later he was aboard the boat, had untied the dock lines, and using the emergency oar poled himself on an angle to the north out to the ICW before he switched on the engine, and idled a half-mile farther, before he switched on the nav lights and increased his speed.

  No one else was out here on the water this early in the morning, and most of the houses along the shore were in darkness, but it wasn’t until he reached the dock on Siesta Key, had replaced the boat on to lift and had re-covered it, and was in his car heading off the island did he take a deep breath.

  When he reached I-75 on the mainland he turned south and merged with the very light traffic before he called Rencke.

  “I’m away,” he said.

  “Nobody got hurt?”

  “No. But they knew I was coming. They searched the house and cleaned out my safe. I don’t have anything now except for what you got for me.”

  “You’re heading south,” Rencke said. “Good. I want you to go to Miami. I’ll book you a room in the Park Central under your Taylor work name; it’s still safe and so’s the car.”

  “I didn’t want this.”

  “None of us did, Mac. But it landed in our laps and now we’ll deal with it,” Rencke said. “Do you remember Raul Martinez?”

  “Your contact in Little Havana. He arranged for me to see General Marti last year.”

  “Right. He’ll be showing up at your hotel within the next thirty-six hours. Just sit tight until then.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Robert Foster’s sprawling eighteenth-century home on a sloping hill above the Potomac River between Fort Hunt and Mount Vernon, about fifteen miles south of the White House, was aglow the next evening as S. Gordon Remington and his wife, Colleen, arrived in their Bentley.

  Remington had preferred to drive himself, rather than be chauffeured. Some outings were better left away from prying eyes, even sympathetic ones. And he had remained sober all day, a fact Colleen had noted and appreciated, because she, too, was aware of just how much actual power Foster and his Friday Club wielded in Washingt
on. This was no group to be trifled with. And the fact that she and her husband had been invited for cocktails and dinner topped even the A list, the only invitation better was to the White House.

  They were admitted by a large, stern-looking man in a broadly cut suit, which Remington figured concealed a pistol in a shoulder holster, and were directed to the pool area in the backyard. Soft jazz was piped from several speakers as a dozen well-dressed couples circulated between a self-service bar and a table laden with hors d’oeuvres centered by an elaborate ice sculpture. Notably missing were the musicians, a bartender, and servers.

  “He likes his parties lean and mean,” Colleen said as they headed to the bar.

  “I would have been disappointed if his house staff had been on hand tonight.”

  Colleen gave her husband a sharp look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  And he smiled at her. “This is the inner circle, sweetheart. All of us can discuss anything we want without fear of being overheard and misunderstood. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut.”

  Colleen started to bridle when a stern man who could have passed for a minister, a plain, almost mousy woman at his side, came over and stuck out his hand.

  “David Whittaker, acting DCI,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you finally. Bob has told me about you and your work for the club. We appreciate your efforts.”

  They shook hands and introduced their wives.

  “I wasn’t aware you were a member,” Remington said. Sandberger had warned him about sticking to a fine line between familiarity and awe. These were Washington’s true power brokers, but Admin, in Roland’s words, was “covering their asses.”

  Whittaker smiled faintly. “Charter member, actually. Bob’s an old friend; he and I go way back together.”

  “He’s not here yet?”

  “He’ll be down in a bit,” Whittaker said. “Likes to make his entrances. His only fault, I suspect, but he’s a bit of a showman, if you know what I mean.” He spotted someone just coming in. “Please, enjoy yourselves,” he said. He nodded to Colleen and he and his wife went to greet the new arrivals, Dennis Tressel, the assistant adviser to the president on national security affairs, and his wife.

  “You never told me about this,” Colleen said, reprovingly yet with a bit of admiration.

  Remington got two glasses of champagne and they stepped aside. “Actually, the Club is a new client. Roland knows more about them than I do. We’re just stand-ins tonight.”

  “I approve, Gordo,” Colleen said. “These people need to be our group, if you know what I mean.”

  “Perfectly—” Remington said, but his wife had spotted someone she evidently knew, and she waved and walked off, just as the armed man from the front hall who’d directed them back here approached.

  “Mr. Foster would like to have a word, sir,” the bodyguard said. His accent was Cockney and it grated in Remington’s ears.

  “My wife?”

  “You won’t be long, sir.”

  Remington noticed Whittaker and a couple of other men, including Tressel, disappearing through the pool doors back inside the house. “Of course.”

  “Just this way, then, sir,” the bodyguard said, and Remington followed the man back into the house behind the others, who’d obviously been here before and knew the way.

  Upstairs and down a short hall, the bodyguard stopped at double doors and stepped aside. “Mr. Foster is expecting you, sir.”

  “Royal Marines?” Remington asked.

  “No, sir,” the bodyguard said. “United States Marines, Gunnery Sergeant Thomas Schilling.” He turned lightly on his heel and walked back past the stairs and went through a door at the end of the hall.

  Remington hesitated for just a moment. This was his initiation, something Roland had mentioned. “Tell it like you see it. Don’t be an asshole, but remember Foster hired Admin because of our track record. They need us more than we need them.”

  Remington knocked once, and went in.

  Robert Foster, seated on a couch in the middle of the tastefully furnished, book-lined room, was a man in his mid-sixties, short, somewhat stocky with the build of a midwestern farmer, who touted himself as nothing more than a “servant of the common man.”

  Seated on the couch with him and in chairs across a coffee table, were Whittaker and Tressel, plus Air Force general Albert Burnside, who was the chief political adviser to the Joint Chiefs.

  Foster was as far right a conservative as was possible, with exceedingly strong views on everything from the role of religion in government, to abortion, states’ rights, the Constitution and the makeup of the Supreme Court, and the powers of the executive branch versus a meddling, ineffective Congress. And he was a multi-millionaire with a law degree from Florida’s Stetson University and an MBA from Harvard.

  To this point in his career he’d made his money as an economic adviser to several foreign governments, including South Korea, Japan, Australia, and the Czech Republic, but most notably Mainland China in the mid-nineties. The last had taken his supporters somewhat by surprise, until they realized that an emerging China would be needed to shore up the U.S. government, which would, in Foster’s estimation, be faced with a financial meltdown. It was because of his advice that China had become a major bondholder for the U.S. In some circles he had come out the hero—America’s savior, or so the conservative think tank Arnault Group had labeled him. But Democrats, except for the ones he had bought and paid for, were dead set against him, calling him “America’s Judas Iscariot, the man who sold his country for silver.”

  Foster looked up and smiled. “Gordon, welcome to my home. I assume you know most of the others here tonight?”

  “Good evening, sir,” Remington said. “Some only by reputation, I’m afraid.”

  “Well you know David and Dennis but perhaps not General Burnside.”

  “I’ve read his position memos you were kind enough to share with Admin,” Remington said. “I assume these gentlemen have been briefed on our contract with you.”

  “Roland is a regular,” Foster said. “Normally he would be here this evening, but since he’s out of the country I invited you.”

  “May I ask the reason?”

  Whittaker got up and poured a glass of champagne for Remington. “This is a council of war, Gordon. And since Admin is on the front line we thought it best that you were briefed.”

  “Are we talking about Kirk McGarvey?” Remington asked. The champagne was first-rate. Cristal or Krug, he guessed.

  “Indeed we are,” Foster said. “And by the way, David is the CIA’s new director.”

  “I heard,” Remington said. “Dick Adkins’s resignation came as a surprise.”

  “Langdon fired the fool for standing face-to-face in the Oval Office and defending McGarvey.”

  “Actually did us a service,” Foster said. “With Adkins gone Mr. McGarvey doesn’t have many friends. And witnessing the deaths of his family at Arlington has unhinged the man.”

  “He’s dangerous,” Remington said.

  “Yes,” Foster said.

  “But he knows nothing,” Whittaker said. “He suspects there may be a connection between the incidents in Mexico City and Pyongyang, but he can’t prove a thing.”

  Remington had a fair guess what they were talking about, something of the smuggling of radioactive material across the border from Mexico and less than one year later the assassination of a high-ranking Chinese intelligence officer in North Korea’s capital had been in the news. But Sandberger had not briefed him on what role, if any, the Friday Club had played in the incidents, and he held his tongue.

  “The man is a bulldog,” Foster said. “He’ll never give up. Especially now.”

  “We’ve anticipated just that,” Remington said. And all eyes were turned toward him. “Roland is remaining in Baghdad for more than contract negotiations. He’s there because we think McGarvey will come after him. And Baghdad is Admin’s city, where accidents can and do happen.”


  “None of you still know the measure of this man,” Whittaker said.

  “He’s just that,” Remington disagreed. “Just one man, while we have in excess of one hundred highly motivated, highly trained shooters on the ground, along with a sophisticated infrastructure of weapons, surveillance, and communications. When he shows up in Baghdad he will die. At this moment he is Admin’s number one priority.”

  “There you are, gentlemen,” Foster said. “Thank you, Gordon. We have the utmost confidence in your company. Now, please, rejoin your wife and the others outside. We’ll finish up in here in a couple of minutes and have something to eat.”

  When Remington was gone, Foster turned back to the others. “McGarvey may be Administrative Solutions’ top priority, but I’m afraid we’ll have to turn to even more drastic measures.”

  “What do you have in mind, Bob?” General Burnside asked.

  “Neither the Mexican nor the North Korean missions had the desired effect.”

  “Because of McGarvey,” Whittaker suggested.

  “In part,” Foster agreed. “Once he’s out of the way, we’ll need to look to Taipei to meet our objective. Hong Kong is too small, only Taiwan will do. And it may be up to our navy to trigger the spark. The pressure will fall on the Pentagon’s shoulders.”

  “I’ve already begun to put some pieces into play,” General Burnside said.

  “Tell us,” Foster said. “And leave nothing out.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  On the beach in front of the Park Central Hotel, McGarvey stopped a moment and looked back at the balcony of his fifth-floor room. He thought he’d spotted a movement, but then it came again, a random breeze fluttering the drapes on the partially open patio window and he relaxed a little.

  He’d checked in late, and if anyone at the desk remembered him, but under a different work name from last year, they didn’t show it. The Park was one of the older, refurbished hotels in the heart of Miami’s art deco district, the last place anyone, especially the FBI or someone from Admin, would look for him.