McGarvey shook it. “I didn’t know women served in the Spetsnaz.”
“They don’t.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Actually I head a Kremlin special projects task force that answers directly to President Putin.”
McGarvey had to smile. “I imagine that I’ve come as something of a surprise to him.”
“You can’t imagine,” she said, returning his smile. “As a matter of fact I’m told that President Weaver called earlier today and asked about you.”
“My people want me back.”
“I wasn’t privy to their conversation, but I imagine that was the substance.”
“I’m sure that he denied knowing anything about it, but he promised to look into it personally and get back to Weaver.”
The woman nodded. She was studying his face as if she were looking at a very famous painting that she’d only ever read about but had never seen in person. She seemed happy, enthused, even impressed.
“You’re taking me to Novorossiysk, where you’ll go straight to drugs. No use trying waterboarding; it doesn’t work on everybody. But the psychotropic drugs you guys have been using for the past twenty-plus years sometimes fry the subject’s brain. You’ll never be able to send damaged goods back home. So you’ll deny you have me.”
“I imagine so.”
“Won’t work.”
“No?”
“I have a friend who is looking for me.”
The woman brightened. “Otto Rencke. I would like to meet him. The conversations would be fabulous.”
“His wife will have already found out where I’m being taken.”
“Louise, another fascinating character. Washington has always been filled with interesting people, but never so many as at this moment. I hope to go there soon. Perhaps after your debriefing is completed.”
“That may be sooner than you think,” McGarvey said. The woman was either a complete idiot or a damned fine actor. He thought the latter.
“Just to get the preliminary facts straight—we’re all a little confused, frankly—what were you doing at the Eiffel Tower?”
“Having lunch.”
“But why just at that moment? Did Langley know that an attack was imminent?”
“Najjir and the woman were working for you.”
“You know this for a fact, or it’s just what you believe? I mean to say that you and Ms. Boylan being there at that exact moment had to be much more than a simple coincidence. And from my studies I learned that you’ve always been a man who never believes in coincidences.”
“Was there a question in there?”
“Yes. The couple were not working for us. Trust me on that fact. But what made you believe they were?”
“He told me so at one point.”
She shook her head. “Misdirection. But I don’t know why.”
“Then why was he delivering me to you people?”
“You jumped overboard, Mr. McGarvey. We rescued you.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t have the answer. But I expect that Mr. Najjir is an accomplished freelance—he’s never spent a night in any jail cell I know of. But when you stumbled on his operation, he realized that he had picked up a valuable commodity, and he put you and Ms. Boylan up for auction. We won.”
“You’ll never be able to admit that you have me, so you’ll have to kill me.”
“Sadly true. But we’ll have you for long enough to learn many interesting and useful things.”
“You’ll be personally involved?”
“I wouldn’t miss the opportunity.”
“Then I’ll have to kill you before I escape.”
FIFTY-ONE
Miriam got off the phone with the hotel’s valet service desk and turned to Najjir, who was pouring another glass of champagne. “His name is Endicott and he’s worked as a driver and guide for the hotel for two years.”
“Was he vetted?”
“The chef d’valet assured me that he had been. The bloke sounded a little bit put out that I was questioning the bona fides of one of his staff. But he also told me that it wasn’t at all unusual for a driver to ask a guest if any other service would be required.”
Najjir shook his head. The situation didn’t smell right to him. “He’s more than just a driver. And I know damned well he listened to every word we said in the car.”
“Do you think he works for the American consulate?”
“I think he works for the CIA.”
“Christ, it would mean that he’s on to us.”
“It’s a possibility we need to check out before we fly away tonight. Give him a call and tell him that we’ll take him up on his offer. We’ll meet downstairs in ten minutes.”
As Miriam was making the call, Najjir used his last throwaway cell phone to contact the Skyjet service at the airport.
“Hello, this is Mark Morgan, just checking to confirm our flight to Berlin this evening.”
* * *
Endicott was pretty well sure that the Worley character and the broad suspected him of something. He’d seen the look in the man’s eyes at the door to the suite. Otto had warned that the guy was a pro, and it showed.
Stewart Blakely, the chief valet, was at his desk when Endicott came to the door. The man was ambitious. He’d worked his way up the Ritz chain, starting in a couple of Florida locations, before he was sent out here three years ago. He was bucking for the Ritz in London. And absolutely nothing would go wrong on his watch. He made no bones about it.
“The Worleys called. Want me to give them the grand tour, starting with lunch.”
“I’m surprised, after the call about you that I got from the missus just three minutes ago.”
“Checking to see if I was any good?” Endicott asked, his radar up.
“Something like that. Wanted to know if we’d done a thorough background check.”
Endicott smiled. “Thanks for vouching for me.”
“I do the same for any other employee here,” Blakely said. “But I wonder why they thought it necessary to ask.”
“Maybe I was a little too forward. A lot of Brits don’t care for familiarity by the staff.”
“But they’ve hired you.”
“I’ll be off then,” Endicott said.
He went back to the garage, where he took his Glock 29 subcompact pistol from the locked leather bag he kept under the driver’s seat. Checking to make sure the action worked properly, he stuffed the small 10mm pistol—a favorite of a number of other NOCs he knew—into his belt on his left side, beneath his uniform blazer.
He got behind the wheel and started the engine, but before he pulled out he debated whether he should call Rencke and let him know what was going on. But he decided to wait until he had something more definite to report.
* * *
Najjir and Miriam emerged from the hotel just as Endicott was approaching the portico.
They had changed into clean clothes, he with a linen blazer and slacks and she in a white, low-cut silk pantsuit and medium heels, a bright scarf around her neck tied in the French style, to one side.
“How are we going to work this?” Miriam asked.
“You’re sure that you left nothing in the suite that could lead back to us?” Najjir asked.
“Of course.”
She hadn’t. He’d checked. “Then before we go to the airport, Mr. Endicott, or whoever he is, will meet with an unfortunate accident.”
“The police will be notified and they’ll come looking for us.”
“Looking for the Worleys, who will no longer exist.”
“I won’t be able to return to London.”
“Nor Moscow.”
“No.”
“Then we’ll go home, and wait for the dust to settle. No one will follow us there.”
“I thought we were going to Berlin.”
“Jeddah will be safer.”
Miriam nodded. “It’ll be temporary for me, love. My idea of home is
different than yours. But then you’re a man, and you have money, and life is better for you there.”
“Trust me, I don’t plan on spending a minute longer in country than needs be,” Najjir said. “And you’re welcome to stay with me as long as necessary.”
“Then what?”
“New faces, new names, new legends.”
“All well and good, Karim, if that’s your real name.”
“It isn’t.”
“Well, whoever, what then?”
“New operations. I think delivering McGarvey to the Russians will stand us in good stead with the right people.”
Miriam shivered a little. “I just hope to Christ that the son of a bitch doesn’t take a runner, or God forbid the Russians actually release him.”
“He won’t and they can’t,” Najjir said.
Endicott got out of the car and opened the rear passenger side door for them.
* * *
They headed away from the hotel, and a block later Najjir pulled out his pistol but kept it out of sight, below the level of the driver’s headrest, until they came around a busy corner.
“What do you folks have in mind first?” Endicott said. “If it’s lunch, I know a perfect spot.”
Najjir laid the muzzle of the pistol on the back of Endicott’s skull. “Do you know Tarlabasi?”
Endicott stiffened, but kept his voice reasonable. “Sure, but why the hell anyone would want to go to a neighborhood like that is beyond comprehension.”
“I suspect that you work for the Company and that you know, or think you know, who we are.”
“Bullshit.”
“Take the next left, and watch your speed. If a cop tries to stop us, I’ll shoot you first, and then him. If you do exactly as I tell you to do, you might just walk away from this assignment.”
“The odds aren’t in my favor,” Endicott said, looking in the rearview mirror.
“We are going to take your weapon—I’m sure that you’re carrying—and your phone and steal your car By the time you get to a phone we’ll have ditched the car and will be long gone.”
Endicott made the corner. “Why should I believe you?”
“Do or don’t, I couldn’t care less.”
“Anyway, I’m not carrying and I’m not a spy.”
“I expect that you’re an NOC, in a nice gig, chauffeuring your johns and listening to their private conversations.”
Endicott said nothing.
“Two blocks, take the right.”
“Fuck you.”
“You either die now, or in the next minute or so, and we’ll get out of the car and walk away,” Najjir said. “Or you can take us to the factory in Tarablasi, where you might have a chance to take us down. McGarvey probably would have succeeded if he hadn’t been dragging the broad around.”
Endicott said nothing.
“Zero chance now, or a slightly better chance if you cooperate. Figure the odds.”
Endicott wished he’d called Rencke, but he made the right. It was a shitty deal, but he was fast on his feet and a damned good shot. And this time it was the bastard in the backseat saddled with his own broad.
FIFTY-TWO
Pete got through customs and immigration, and Louise, long legs and bony shoulders, dressed in jeans and a white silk blouse, was right there, taking her in her arms.
They hugged for a longish moment, people still arriving parting around them.
“You look better than I thought you would,” Louise said. “Did you manage to get any sleep on the flight?”
“It wasn’t possible. What about Mac?”
“He should be in Novorossiysk by now.”
“Then the Russians have him, no doubt?”
“Yeah. But Weaver phoned Putin, who promised to look into it, so nobody here is writing him off just yet. So don’t you either.”
Pete was bone tired, the wound in her side ached, as did pretty much the rest of her body, especially her breasts, where the son of a bitch had slammed his fists. But mostly she was worried and mad as hell. “Let’s get to campus and see what Otto’s coming up with.”
“First, All Saints. They’re waiting for you.”
“Langley.”
“Not yet. You need tending to, and when Otto’s in his work mode we’d just be getting in his way. Besides, I have to tell you something about my hubby that’ll knock your socks off.”
Pete wanted to argue, but in her heart of hearts she knew that Louise was right. “What about him?”
“I’ll tell you on the way into Georgetown. Where are your bags?”
“There’s nothing,” Pete said, despondent, again. “He’ll try to escape and they’ll shoot him.”
“Like I said, Pete, nobody’s writing him off. Anyway, he’s been in worse jams.”
* * *
Dr. Alan Franklin, the chief medico at All Saints, was waiting for them, and as soon as they came through the back entrance he had his nurse whisk Pete immediately down the corridor to the state-of-the-art emergency room.
“She’ll want to get out of here ASAP,” Louise said. “So unless she really needs to be admitted, just check her out and give her a pill or something.”
It wasn’t like Louise, and Franklin’s left eyebrow rose. “This about McGarvey?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s been scuttlebutt.”
“They got involved with something that started out in Paris, but moved to Istanbul. Pete got free in exchange for Mac, who they turned over to the Russians. We’re pretty sure that he’s at one of their Spetsnaz bases right now, but the Russians won’t admit they have him.”
“She knows?”
“Yes.”
Franklin shook his head. “What’s the prognosis?”
“We’re working on it.”
“You should get some rest, you and Otto, though I suppose that’d be futile medical advice.”
“Mac’s a friend,” Louise said. “I’ll be in the waiting room. Don’t take too long, Doc.”
“We’ll see,” Franklin said, and he left.
* * *
Otto didn’t answer until the fourth ring, which was so unusual for him that Louise checked to make sure the number was right. When he came on he sounded dejected.
“How’s Pete?” he asked.
“She’s with Franklin right now. But she got through customs under her own steam, and she wants to come see you.”
“I’m stuck.”
It was the first time Louise had ever heard her husband say such a thing. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Novorossiysk is coming up a complete blank, or just about. What encrypted satellite coms and even local en clair phone calls my darlings are monitoring make absolutely no mention of Mac, or of anything unusual happening. It’s ordinary business, including training schedules and Ukraine operations. They’re making no effort to hide anything.”
“What about communications with the chopper that picked up Mac?”
“The man they picked up was identified as Anatoli Fedorov. He’s an OR 8 michman, an engineering warrant officer. Broken leg.”
“The man they picked up had no broken leg. It was Mac.”
“Maybe so, but they’re covering their asses pretty good. Fedorov is listed on the ship’s company, and captain has asked for a replacement. The only screwy thing is that the chopper was towed into a hangar before the passenger was off-loaded.”
“Bad weather? If it was the warrant officer, maybe they were protecting him from the elements.”
“Blue skies.”
“It was Mac.”
“You’re right. But it means that he’s disappeared already.”
* * *
Franklin had Pete’s X-rays up on the computerized flat-panel screen. “Iglesias did a good job,” he said turning to her.
“I’ll live?” Pete asked.
“Now you sound like McGarvey.”
“It’s catchy. So, what’s the verdict?”
“I’d like to keep you overnight
for observation, but you’ll live. Just try not to get into another fight in the next month or so.”
“I’ll try,” Pete said, standing up.
“Where’s Mac?” Franklin asked.
“He’s in badland, and we’re working to get him back.”
Franklin shook his head. “You guys might give some thought to retiring. Settling down.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, and she left.
Louise looked up when Pete walked in. “So?”
“Lots of bruises, but the bullet missed my liver. Let’s go talk to Otto.”
* * *
They took the Roosevelt Bridge across the river and headed up the Parkway, traffic heavy as it usually was at this time of the morning.
“So what happened in Paris? Otto hasn’t had time to give me all the details. He’s been working around the clock and he’s damned worried about Mac.”
Pete was staring at the highway, but not seeing the traffic. She was right there with Mac.
“We’ll get him back, guaranteed,” Louise said. “Everyone’s working on it, even the president. The Russians have him and they know that we know it. They’re not going to do anything stupid.”
“Accidents happen.”
“What about Paris?” Louise repeated.
Pete had to smile. “He asked me to marry him.”
“Wow,” Louise said. “And you accepted?”
“Of course.”
“He must have choked on it.”
“Just about,” Pete said. “You were going to tell me about something Otto did, that just about knocked your socks off…” One part of her couldn’t believe that she was talking about shit that didn’t really matter. Ordinary day-to-day shit.
Louise told her about the incident with Marty in the general’s office, and Pete laughed out loud, and then she cried so hard that Louise pulled over to the side of the road and held her.
FIFTY-THREE
Raya Kuzin used the en clair phone in the base commander’s office to call General Subotin at the SVR’s director’s dacha outside of Moscow. She knew that any phone calls—in the clear or encrypted—would be monitored by the Americans now.
“Who is calling, please,” one of the general’s house staff answered.
Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel Page 21
