Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel

by David Hagberg

  A news conference was scheduled in a half hour, and the press secretary’s staff was busy putting finishing touches on the hot-button topics that were likely to come up.

  “I’ll take the lead,” Gibson had told them on the way over from Langley. “But the fact is we’re nearly certain that the Russians have McGarvey?”

  “My darlings have the confidence level above ninety percent,” Otto said, more than happy that the DCI was taking the situation seriously enough to bring it to the president’s attention.

  Marty had started to object, but Gibson held him off.

  “We’re here to see the president, who’s expecting me, but first we’ll get a few answers from Mr. Rodak.”

  “He’ll verify what I’ve already told you,” Bambridge said. He’d been in a conciliatory mood since the incident in the DCI’s office. He’d even gone down to Otto’s lair to apologize. He’d been under a lot of pressure over what he was calling Operation French Sting.

  Rodak’s office was next to the chief of staff’s, and he got to his feet as they were shown in. Three chairs had been set up for them.

  “Would you gentlemen care for coffee?” he asked.

  “No,” Gibson said. He sat down, Otto to his left, Bambridge to his right.

  Rodak nodded for his secretary to leave, and he sat down. “How may I be of help, Mr. Director?”

  “Marty has filled in some of the details on the French operation, which apparently he cooked up with advice from you. I’d like more details.”

  “I’m sure that Marty has covered all the bases for you in his usual thorough manner.”

  “I’d like your take before we see the president.”

  Rodak was surprised. “I didn’t know that he was expecting you. He has a news conference in less than thirty minutes.”

  “We’ll be finished by then,” Gibson said.

  Rodak shrugged. “Where should I begin?”

  “Otto?” Gibson prompted. They had rehearsed the scenario before Marty joined them.

  “The Eiffel Tower. The DGSE has a few questions they’d like answers to.”

  “The attack was only meant to seem real. Had Mr. McGarvey and Ms. Boylan—she’s one of your people, I believe—not interfered, the contractor and the woman he was using as cover would have stepped in and made citizen’s arrests of the would-be bombers.”

  “Who in reality were working for whom?”

  “The Russians, of course. Who else?”

  “And what were you guys trying to accomplish?”

  Marty started to break in, but Gibson held him off, and Otto repeated the question.

  “I’m sure that Marty has told you about the plausible deniability we thought was necessary to pull this off,” Rodak said, directing his explanation to the DCI. “The situation between the president and Mr. Putin and our media shows no signs of letting up. We wanted this to be an arm’s-length operation.”

  “Arm’s length from whom?” Gibson asked.

  “Why, the president and the agency, of course. I advised Marty to keep it totally independent. An operation that could be traced back to just us and no one else.”

  Otto wanted to call the man on the obviously stupid remarks, but he held off, and Gibson had warned him not to object to anything that seemed an outright lie. Of course, if the op had gone south and the tower had actually come down, the entire thing would have fallen on the agency’s deputy director, and on the president’s Russian adviser.

  “The point of the operation?” Otto asked again.

  “We believe—and wanted to prove—that the latest round of attacks against not only our internet but against a number of our communications satellites had been moved from Moscow to Paris. The Syrian bombers were working for the Russian cell right there.”

  “Why take down the tower?” Gibson asked. “It makes no sense.”

  “Because the French were oblivious to the Russian hacking operation,” Bambridge said. “We wanted to hand the bombers over to them on a silver platter, with a street map direct to the four locations where the hackers were set up. An attempt on the Eiffel Tower would have woken them up.”

  “Did you try to explain what you believed was happening?” Gibson asked.

  “Yes, sir. On numerous times.”

  “Did you keep an encounter log?” Otto asked.

  “Of course not. This entire project was to be arm’s length, as I’ve said all along.”

  “Until you handed over the bad guys to French intel.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why such an elaborate ruse?” Gibson asked. “The entire thing could have blown up in your faces. Literally.”

  “I don’t mean to be argumentative, Mr. Director, but when was the last time in memory that the fucking Frogs ever listened to us about anything?”

  “You were sending them a wake-up call? Is that it?” Otto asked.

  “Yes.”

  Rodak’s secretary knocked once and opened the door. “The president will see you now, gentlemen.”

  * * *

  President Thomas Weaver was just putting on his jacket when Martha Draper, his chief of staff, showed Gibson and the others into the Oval Office.

  “You have ten minutes, Mr. President,” she said.

  “This’ll be short, but have Dan ready to stall them if need be.” Daniel Isherwood was the president’s press secretary. “And no calls in the meantime.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president was a bulky man, with a square jaw and animated eyes, especially when he was angry. “The ball’s in your court, Ed. You said that this has something to do with the Paris near miss?”

  “It concerns Kirk McGarvey. I believe that you’re familiar with him.”

  Weaver nodded, his expression tight. “Was he involved?”

  “He and one of our employees who was with him happened to be at the Eiffel Tower when the situation began to unravel. They saw it for what it was and stopped the attack from happening.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Less than one-tenth of one percent of what they could have been, had the tower come down.”

  “Then he’s a hero again, just like New York,” Weaver said, eyeing his Russian adviser. “But you told me that there was another issue, possibly involving one of my staff.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Otto said.

  “And you are?”

  “Otto Rencke, our computer expert,” Gibson said.

  Weaver didn’t smile, but he nodded again. “I’ve also heard of you.”

  “We’re still investigating, but at this point it looks as if our deputy director and Mr. Rodak cooked up some sort of a scheme to bring down the Eiffel Tower, but in exchange for what, we don’t know yet.”

  “I explained myself,” Marty blustered. “We both did.”

  “Both of you are lying. And I will find out what you were really up to. Guaranteed,” Otto said.

  “And?” Weaver demanded.

  “The Russians have taken McGarvey into custody and are bringing him to their Spetsnaz base at Novorossiysk, where they mean to debrief him before killing him and disposing of his body.”

  “That can’t happen,” Weaver said.

  “No, Mr. President,” Gibson said. “But they’ll never admit they had him.”

  “Are you one hundred percent on this?”

  “Yes, sir,” Otto said.

  Weaver picked up his phone. “I want to speak with Mr. Putin. Now.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Najjir telephoned Rowe’s private number as he and Miriam rode back to Istanbul in the rear seat of a chauffeured Cadillac SUV the Ritz had sent for them.

  The number was answered by a recording of a man whose voice was unfamiliar. “You have reached the office of Mark Rowe, who is away from his desk at this moment. If you would like to leave a message, press star. If you wish to speak with a representative of the consulate, stay on the line.”

  Najjir pressed the red Disconnect bar, but the connection remained intact.


  The man who’d recorded the message came on. “Good morning, I’m Mr. Rowe’s assistant. He said he was expecting a call. May I be of service?”

  “Where is he at the moment?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say. But if you would care to leave a message.”

  Najjir took the back off the throwaway phone, removed the battery and SIM card and, lowering the window, tossed all the pieces, one at a time, outside.

  Miriam had been super nervous all the way back from where McGarvey had gone overboard. She’d expected that they would be met at the marina by the police. The deal with the Turkish army officer and his people was for a lot of money, and one time only. It had all the earmarks of a deal going south on them, and she had expressed her fears more than once.

  When they had been met only by the hotel car and driver, she had relaxed, but only slightly.

  “What was that all about?” she asked, when Najjir powered the window back up.

  “I phoned a friend but he wasn’t in.”

  “Mark?”

  “Yes,” Najjir said. He glanced at the rearview mirror in front, but the driver wasn’t paying any attention to them. At least not outwardly.

  “Shit,” Miriam said softly. Worry was written all over her oval face.

  “Nothing to be concerned about,” Najjir said. He patted her hand, and she gave him an odd look, almost wistful, as if she’d rather be anywhere else but here.

  At this point he almost felt sorry for her. She was a little girl who figured that she was in over her head. Either that or she was playacting, like she had been doing all along. Only, this role was a new one.

  “Our flight to Paris isn’t until first thing in the morning, so we’ll just hang around the hotel and spend a pleasant day together doing absolutely nothing. Sounds good?”

  She glanced at the back of the driver’s head, then nodded. “We’ve had a couple of hectic days. Maybe I’ll do a little shopping.”

  “Perfect.”

  * * *

  Kenneth Endicott, the uniformed driver, opened the rear passenger side door for the lady and handed her out beneath the portico of the Ritz. The gentleman followed, and pressed a hundred-euro note into the driver’s hand.

  “Thanks for the lift,” Najjir said, taking the woman’s arm.

  “Part of our service, sir,” Endicott said.

  When the couple disappeared into the lobby, Endicott drove around to the parking garage, where he shut off the engine and tossed his cap onto the passenger seat but remained behind the wheel.

  In actuality he’d worked as a Ritz driver for the past two years and was nearing the end of his assignment. In reality he also worked for the CIA as an NOC—a deep cover agent who operated with no official cover. If he was outed, the CIA would deny knowing him.

  His specialty was working up contacts among the well-heeled guests of the hotel—primarily those from the Middle East, mostly Iran but occasionally Saudi Arabia. In his first month he’d befriended a minor Saudi prince, for whom he supplied whores, especially the German girls who worked the Turkish bathhouses. His product for six months, until the prince was recalled home, had been close to gold seam. The prince had worked for Saudi intelligence, sent to Istanbul to spy on German spies—the girls who worked the Turkish baths.

  The assignment this morning was a one-off and had been handed to him by Otto Rencke. And considering who Rencke was, the call had not come as a surprise, though only a very few people at Langley knew who Endicott was.

  He phoned Otto’s rollover number. It was only a little past four in the morning in Washington, but Rencke answered on the first ring. He’d been expecting the call.

  “I just dropped them off at the hotel,” Endicott said.

  “How’d they seem to you?”

  “He had it together but the woman looked and sounded as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff with no way back.”

  “Did they talk?”

  “He told her they weren’t flying out to Paris until first thing in the morning, so they were going to hang out here today and take it easy.”

  “His phone went off-line. What’d he do with it?”

  “He took it apart and tossed the bits out the window. He called Mark Rowe, like you expected he might. I heard only his half of the conversation.”

  “I listened in,” Otto said. “Stand by.”

  Of course Rencke had listened in. When he’d first heard of the guy, during advanced training, his handler told him that he’d probably never have contact, but if he did, not to be surprised at whatever went down.

  “Don’t ever cross the man, or try to blow smoke up his ass. If he gives you an assignment, no matter what it is, take care of it. If he asks you a question, or wants your opinion, answer him. But if you don’t know, tell him so.”

  “Do I report it as an encounter?”

  “As far as you’re concerned he’s even farther off the grid than you’ll be. But treat the man with care. His closest friend is Kirk McGarvey, and you don’t want to piss off either of them.”

  “Jesus,” was all he’d been able to say. Rencke’s rep was huge, but McGarvey’s was interstellar.

  Otto was back a minute later. “They’re not booked under the Worley ID on any flight out of Istanbul, at least not for the next five days.”

  “How about by train, or perhaps a rental car?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Another ID for both of them?”

  “Anything’s possible. But they used a leased yacht under the Worley name to take them into the Black Sea, so I think they’ll probably use a charter air service to get them out of Turkey.”

  “To where?”

  “I have a number of guesses, but none of them include Paris, London, or Moscow. Nor can I be one hundred percent they’ll continue using the ID they came into the country with.”

  “What can I do?” Endicott asked. It was a no-brainer for him. If he did good for Rencke, and especially McGarvey, he would make some serious chops. Could lead to the one thing he’d wanted most from the beginning: to be in charge of the entire NOC program.

  “If they leave the hotel and need a driver, can you make sure that it’s you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then do it, but be careful. They’re among the best I’ve seen. And right now they’ll be suspicious of everyone. Say the wrong thing and they’ll nail you.”

  “I have a couple of ideas.”

  “They’ve been using throwaway phones. Means I can’t listen in unless they call someone I know.”

  “I’ll be your eyes and ears here, sir.”

  “Good hunting,” Otto said.

  Endicott hung up his phone, grabbed his cap, and went into the hotel, taking the service elevator up to the fourteenth floor, where the Worleys had the east suite.

  NOCs, by definition, thought of themselves as invisible in plain sight.

  Worley and his broad might be as good as Rencke said they were, but almost no one ever really looked beyond the end of their nose.

  FIFTY

  McGarvey was in his cabin, staring out the porthole at the approaching Russian naval helicopter that was flaring just off the starboard side of the patrol ship, when two ratings, neither of them armed, came in. They’d brought an inflatable life jacket and a standard aviation crash helmet.

  “My ride?” Mac asked.

  “Captain’s orders, please to put on life belt and helmet,” one of the men said. He was very young and still had pimples on his chin.

  McGarvey did as he was told, and they escorted him up to the foredeck, just forward of the AK-30 machine gun in its dome. The captain stood at the windows of the wheelhouse.

  The ship came to dead idle speed as the helicopter took up position one hundred feet above the bow. The side hatch just behind the rear wheels was open, and a sailor in a flight suit and crash helmet held on to the winch cable, attached to which was a rescue sling, as it was lowered.

  The rotor wash was very strong, knocking the sea flat but kicki
ng up a lot of spray, which reached halfway up to the top of the wheelhouse so that McGarvey had to turn his head away.

  One of the ratings grabbed the sling, and McGarvey held his arms out at his side as the sailor secured it across his chest and under his armpits, then stepped away.

  The winch drew the cable up and McGarvey’s body twisted around so that he was facing the wheelhouse as the helicopter pulled away to port, and he got a momentary glimpse of the troubled expression on the captain’s face. He was the first man in the past twenty-four hours who seemed to realize the can of worms his country had opened by taking into custody a former director of the CIA.

  * * *

  Louise looked away from her computer screen and telephoned Otto. “They have him,” she said.

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “A Helix met the patrol ship and hoisted a man off the forward deck. I’m watching in real time, but I’ve already overstayed my welcome.”

  “Where are they headed?”

  Louise gave him the coordinates, and the flight path the helicopter turned to once it was clear of the ship and even before Mac was aboard. “Bet you a month of Twinkies they’re heading to Novorossiysk,” she said, getting out of the satellite program and returning it to its previous routine.

  “Just a mo,” Otto said. He came back a second or two later. “Zero three eight degrees on the button. Novorossiysk. Good job, Lou.”

  * * *

  Even before the hatch had been secured, the helicopter climbed at full power, the noise inside the cabin, as he was being strapped in, deafening.

  An attractive woman, in her early thirties at the most, sleek black hair cropped fashionably short, the style framing her oval face, came aft and sat down next to him. She took a set of headphones from the bulkhead and gave them to McGarvey, then donned another pair for herself. She was dressed in Spetsnaz camos with bloused boots and the field insignia of a major, but no name tag.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. McGarvey,” she said, her British-accented English cultured. “I did my doctoral thesis on your exploits.” She held out her hand. “My name is Raya Kuzin.”