“What is your confidence that this may be of some significance?”
“Less than 20 percent.”
Otto pulled up short on the last step. “How much less?”
“Two percent less, so eighteen percent total.”
TWENTY-TWO
At Andrews, McGarvey thanked the navy crew for the quick flight to and from Petawawa before he got off the Gulfstream. “Interesting place,” the pilot said.
“Out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Maybe, but once we were out of Ottawa’s TCA, we picked up a RCAF F/A-18 escort that landed just behind us and took off again a minute before you showed up.”
“Making sure that we didn’t stray?”
The pilot shook his head. “Making sure that the former CIA director got in and out safely. Somebody put out the word that you might be at risk.”
“Did you talk to the crew?”
“No need, sir. It’s SOP. We sometimes provide an escort for incoming noncommercial flights carrying VIPs who could be targets for assassination.”
“I guess I must have stepped on someone’s toes,” McGarvey said.
“Yes, sir.”
They had called ahead for a taxi, and as soon as they left Andrews’s main gate, he gave the driver his Georgetown address, then phoned Pete, who was still with Otto and Mary.
“You’re back?” she asked.
“I’m on my way to our apartment to pack a few things. Have Otto book me an overnight flight to Johannesburg.”
“Okay, I’ll wait until you get here to tell me what’s up. But we have military stuff going over there all the time; we can probably get you a ride.”
“Make it commercial this time.”
“Okay, but that’s two explanations you owe me. Do you want me to tag along?”
“No need. It’s just going to be a quick in and out.”
“In the meantime, Lou has come up with something interesting.”
“She got a hit on the Moscow airport search?”
“It’s something else,” Pete said. “But you have to pass right by here from our place to get to Dulles, so we can go over in person what Lou came up with. Maybe you can come up with something we haven’t thought of.”
Otto got on. “I assume you’re going out to talk to Slatkin’s CO if he’s still around. Do you want me to give them the heads-up?”
“No.”
Otto hesitated for just a beat. “We’ll talk when you get here.”
“Might not be time; I want to be on a flight tonight.”
“You have plenty of time. You’re already booked. First-class Emirates leaves at five till eleven. So pick up your Thomas Blake passport.”
“Rebook it under my own name,” McGarvey said.
This time, Otto didn’t miss a beat. “Bring your air marshal creds so you can travel armed. Just in case.”
* * *
McGarvey had the cabbie wait for him as he went upstairs and packed a few things in an overnight bag, plus his passport and air marshal credentials, along with an extra magazine of ammunition for his Walther.
By long habit, he went to the front window but stood to one side as he looked out. The taxi was directly below, but so far as he could tell, nothing seemed threatening. No cars or vans parked that seemed out of place. Nothing on any of the rooftops within view. And nothing in any of the windows. Even the window on the third-floor apartment across the street had been replaced.
Nothing was out there, but he could practically feel the target painted on his back. Someone was gunning for him. They’d tried and failed twice, though Hicks had done a marginally better job of it than the South African.
But he didn’t think it was over yet. And sooner or later, whoever was coming for him would be better still and maybe even luckier. His only recourse then was to go deep or continue hunting back.
And he’d only ever gone deep once, not to hide from an assassin but from his own life that had been shattered by an ultimatum that his wife had given him very early in his career.
His time in Lausanne had lasted only a couple of years until the CIA had sought him out to ask for help with a difficult assignment. He had reluctantly agreed to come back, which had begun a long string of operations, one of which had eventually led to the death of his wife after they had gotten back together, along with their daughter and her husband.
In fact, every woman since then had been murdered for who and what he was. And at this moment, he had terribly mixed feelings. He was frightened for Pete, and yet he was determined with everything in his soul not to let such a thing happen again.
This time, he was going on the hunt with a vengeance.
* * *
McGarvey’s cab got to Otto’s place in McLean that was only a couple of miles from the Dulles Airport Access Road off I-495 at a little before seven, leaving him plenty of time to make his flight.
Pete met him at the door, and when they were inside the front hall and he’d put his bag down, she took him in her arms and looked into his eyes. “Should I start worrying about you now?”
He smiled. “Save your worries for the other guy.”
“Silly me. Somehow I thought you would say something like that.”
They went back to the kitchen, where Mary had poured a cognac for McGarvey. Otto was on the patio pulling steaks off the grill.
“Can’t send you across the pond without something decent to eat and drink,” he said, coming in.
Pete got the salad and Coronas from the fridge, and Mary got the baked potatoes from the oven, put them on a serving platter, and brought them to the table.
They all sat down, but no one reached for the food.
“Pete told me that Lou came up with something interesting,” McGarvey said, breaking the silence.
Otto got his laptop from the counter and put it in front of Mac. “Hit Enter.”
McGarvey did, and the brief interview with Susan Patterson, who was in Seattle with Hammond, came up.
“Susan Patterson, still as gorgeous as ever,” a woman reporter said.
Mac looked up, but Otto gestured at the laptop. “Wait for it.”
The interview only lasted a couple of minutes, but then Hammond, standing behind her and slightly to her left, said something out of place for the situation.
McGarvey backed it up and played it again.
“—let’s just say that Seattle has always been in my heart as one of the most photogenic cities on the entire planet,” said Susan.
“A beauty in the heart of beauty,” the reporter said.
Hammond took Susan by the arm. “We have a boat to catch,” he said in her ear, but the mic was still hot, and the camera caught the expression on his face, then went blank.
McGarvey looked up. “Lou, what’s the significance of this interview?”
“I’m at 18 percent, but I found it interesting that Ms. Patterson was lying; she is not in Seattle to scout for a movie location, and Mr. Hammond’s posture and voice stress levels indicate that he may be under some pressure.”
“Go on,” McGarvey said, only the vaguest of ideas where Otto’s AI program was heading.
“I was looking for connections to you that had gone poorly for the people you were dealing with. Mr. Hammond and Ms. Patterson may feel some animosity because of the failed bitcoin scheme you offered them.”
“Thin,” McGarvey said, but he was intrigued by how the AI program was dealing with human variables.
“Yes, Mac. My confidence is only 18 percent.”
“Not high, but above statistical averages,” Otto said.
TWENTY-THREE
At customs and immigration in Jo’burg’s O. R. Tambo International Airport, McGarvey had to surrender his pistol and spare magazine of ammunition to the uniformed official, who also checked a database of all international air marshals to make sure McGarvey was on the list.
“Your weapon will be returned to you at the boarding gate when you leave tomorrow morning,” the man said, his manner cool but off
iciously polite. “Do you have anything else to declare?”
“No.”
“What is the purpose of your visit to South Africa?”
“I’ve come to speak with General Leon.” Stanley Leon, a one-star, was the CO of South Africa’s Special Forces.
“Yes, sir,” the official said, and he handed McGarvey’s passport over.
A short connecting corridor, guarded by a security guard and cameras plus notices that no one was to enter customs from this direction, led directly to automatic doors out to ground transportation. The multilane driveway was busy with people who’d just arrived on the Emirates flight queuing up for taxis, buses, and the outer lane for private cars and a couple of limos.
A man in his thirties, built like a star soccer player, obviously military by his bearing and buzz cut but dressed in a civilian suit, no tie, came over from his illegally parked Mercedes SUV.
“Good morning, Mr. Director. I’ve been sent to take you to your hotel.”
“I’m here to speak with General Leon at Brigade Headquarters.”
“Yes, sir, the general is expecting you. But unfortunately, non–South African civilians are currently not allowed on base.”
“In that case, I’ll find my own way to the hotel,” McGarvey said, and he started to step around the man, who moved directly in his path.
“The general and his aide-de-camp will meet you at the hotel. A private conference room has been arranged, and I was told to assure you that any questions you may have concerning Sergeant Slatkin will be answered so far as national security concerns will allow.”
It was about what McGarvey had expected, but he also knew that trying to speak to the general from Washington by phone or computer would have run into a brick wall. Now that he was here diplomatically, he couldn’t be ignored.
“Then let’s go.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve also been instructed to inform you that you will not be allowed away from the hotel until it is time for you to leave on the return flight.”
“May I ask why?”
“You brought a weapon into South Africa.”
“I’m traveling as an air marshal.”
“You’re on the list, but you are not active.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
General Leon, also dressed in civilian clothes, was seated at a small conference table at the hotel, two floors above the lobby. He was flanked by one man also in civvies, and like the driver who’d withdrawn, he was obviously military, his bearing and posture erect, his hair cut short, and his build athletic.
“Our meeting will of necessity be a short one, Mr. Director,” Leon said, his South African accent so rounded he almost sounded Australian.
“I appreciate whatever help you can give me,” McGarvey said, taking a seat across from him.
“Sergeant Slatkin has been a civilian for three years,” the aide said, his manner clipped.
“I didn’t think the Recces fielded assassins to take out former CIA directors,” McGarvey said, his manner just as abrupt. “I’m here to find out why he came to kill me and who hired him.”
“I can’t answer either of those questions,” Leon said.
“He maintained an offshore bank account that had been credited with a quarter of a million U.S. dollars. Was he worth it?”
“Evidently not,” the aide said.
“The man’s training was first class,” Leon said. “He was good at his job.”
“Was he tested?”
“If you meant by that did he draw blood? The answer is yes, but I cannot discuss any specific operation, you must understand.”
“Did he ever travel to Russia for any reason?”
Leon glanced at the aide, who shook his head.
“No, sir, but…” He left it hanging.
“But?”
Leon nodded.
“He was involved briefly in a joint training mission outside of South Africa.”
“Where?” McGarvey asked.
“I can’t say, sir.”
“When was the mission?”
The aide glanced at the general. “I don’t have that information.”
McGarvey turned to the general. “I meant how long after the mission with the Russians did Slatkin fuck your daughter?”
Leon’s expression didn’t change, but he got to his feet. “I want this man brought directly back to the airport, where he is to be put on the next airplane that is scheduled to fly anywhere as long as it’s out of South Africa. If he resists, shoot the son of a bitch.”
McGarvey sat back. “Evidently, Slatkin wasn’t the only South African who wanted me dead.”
* * *
McGarvey’s driver from the airport brought him to the departures gates. The general’s aide escorted him to an office overlooking the main concourse, where they picked up a sealed pouch. From there, they went to the Delta counter, where a first-class ticket to Rio de Janeiro was waiting for him.
The aide escorted him through security to a Delta boarding gate, where the last of the passengers were going through the door into the Jetway, and he handed the sealed pouch to the female gate agent.
“Take this to the pilot. It contains this gentleman’s weapon and air marshal identification. He’s not to have them back until you leave South African airspace. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” the gate agent said. She disappeared down the Jetway and a minute or so later was back. “Done,” she said.
“Don’t come back to South Africa,” the aide said.
“So long as you don’t lose another of your operators,” McGarvey said.
He followed the gate agent aboard the 747, and when he was seated alone in an aisle seat in the main deck third row and the hatch was sealed, one of the stews brought him a cognac.
“Glad to have you aboard, Mr. McGarvey,” she said.
Another stew brought the sealed pouch back to him. “Captain’s compliments, and welcome aboard, sir. He asks that if you need to make a phone call please wait until we reach ten thousand feet.”
A few of the other passengers, realizing that he was a VIP by the way he was being treated by the crew, looked at him, and he raised his drink.
As the safety instructions came up on the seat-back monitors and the flight attendants were checking seat belts and shutting the overhead bin doors, he sat back and closed his eyes. He had found out exactly what he’d hoped to find out by coming here.
Slatkin was definitely working for the Russians, and General Leon had confirmed it.
TWENTY-FOUR
They were delayed overnight in Seattle to finish provisioning the MV Glory and had not gotten away until just after eight the next morning. The weather had been overcast and cool, and Susan was in one of her bitchy moods, which usually came on when she was without an audience.
That night, they were well up the Strait of Georgia, and on the second midmorning, Vancouver to their south, Captain Rupert Miller called Hammond in the saloon.
“We have a helicopter, Canadian registry, requesting to land on deck, sir.”
Susan was watching a rerun of one of her older movies, even bitchier this morning than she had been yesterday. No one else would be joining them for at least four days, and she freely admitted that she had no idea how she would cope without going absolutely stir-crazy.
“Have we done something wrong? Is it a police or military helicopter?” Hammond asked, something clutching at his gut.
“No, sir. It’s a civilian helicopter. The pilot says he’s bringing a friend.”
“Did he give you a name?”
Susan had turned down the sound of the television and was looking at him.
“No, sir.”
Hammond didn’t need something like this now. Especially not one of his financial advisers—or worse yet, one of Susan’s hangers-on. He had purposely wanted isolation of his ship on the inside passage up to Alaska to think things out, consider his next move. Or even if ther
e should be a next move.
The reality of the little game he was playing, engaging in a manhunt, especially a man of McGarvey’s capabilities, had become troublesome, even daunting. He hadn’t wanted it to be over with just the two attacks. He’d wanted it to continue, and yet now that both assassins had failed, he was having serious second thoughts.
“What shall I do, Mr. Hammond?”
“Reduce speed and let him land,” Hammond said.
“Yes, sir.”
Hammond put the phone down, and the yacht immediately began to slow. He went aft and watched out the sliders as a sleek blue helicopter with Canadian markings slowly approached. At the last moment, it flared and expertly touched down on the helipad.
The passenger-side door opened, and Mikhail Tarasov, wearing jeans, a dark pullover, and khaki jacket, jumped down and, keeping low beneath the slowly rotating blades, came forward to where Hammond was waiting.
“Who the hell is it?” Susan asked.
“Mikhail.”
“Shit,” she said, getting up. “I’m going below; call me when he’s gone.”
“You might want to stay and hear what he has to say.”
“Push it, Tommy boy, and I’ll jump ship and take my friends with me the instant we dock somewhere civil.” She gave him a glaring look and took the stairs below.
A crewman had appeared and was chocking the helicopter’s wheels as Hammond opened the slider for Tarasov. They shook hands.
“I’m a little surprised to see you,” Hammond said. “How did you find us?”
“After that cheap stunt on the television in Seattle, it took just a few calls to the marinas to find out where you were and the fact you’d headed north.”
“So what?”
“So your operator failed and you run for the hills. How obvious can you get?”
“How do you know he failed?”
“McGarvey showed up in person in Petawawa aboard one of the navy’s Gulfstreams that the CIA uses.”
It was the news Hammond was afraid Tarasov was bringing. “What the hell is Petawawa?”
Gambit Page 10
