“Sir, it would help if I had some idea in what direction you want us to take this investigation. I mean, if it’s a possible collusion between the Russian delegation and someone in Washington, maybe the White House, we could put together a good case for wiretapping.”
“Nothing like that. This time, it has to do with a private citizen who may be in physical danger because of possible business dealings with Russia.”
Sherman glanced over. “Physical danger?”
“Imminent. And Hammond Enterprises Strategic Liaison Group, which Rodriguez headed, might have something to do with it. Or at least they might have information we can use.”
“Do we have a search warrant for the offices, or subpoena for Wilfred Maslak, who’s the acting COO? We have Rodriguez’s murder as an open case because of his connection with Kuprik.”
“I don’t want to slow this thing down, tying it up with lawyers. I spoke with Maslak, and he agreed to meet informally with us this morning.”
“I’m surprised Hammond didn’t put a stop to it. The guy’s got a rep as a shark.”
“That might not happen for a lot of reasons, one of which I’m trying to prevent this morning. Or at least it’s something I want to find out.”
“Whoever this private citizen is, he must be important, sir.”
“Kirk McGarvey.”
“Jesus.”
* * *
The Strategic Liaison Group’s offices occupied a part of the third floor in a building directly across First Avenue from the Dag Hammarskjöld Library. Sherman parked on the street in front and put an FBI OFFICIAL BUSINESS placard on the dash.
She and Bender showed their IDs at the door and were buzzed in by the security officer inside the small lobby.
“May I help you?” the cop asked.
“We’re here to see Mr. Wilfred Maslak. Hammond Enterprises Strategic Liaison Group.”
“You’re investigating the accident with Mr. Rodriguez, I assume.”
“Yes.”
“You guys are about eight hours late. The office was closed and everything moved out even before I got here this morning.”
“Everything?” Bender demanded.
“I went up and took a look myself when I came in. Nothing’s left. They even swept the floors.”
* * *
The Turkish Airlines flight arrived in Athens on time at quarter to nine in the evening local, and after getting through customs and immigration—with no questions about the contents of their sealed diplomatic pouch—McGarvey and Pete took the shuttle over to the nearby Sofitel Hotel.
The next ferry to Serifos from Piraeus left at five after seven in the morning, which gave them a full night to get some rest, and then all day the next day to get settled in at the lighthouse. McGarvey was pretty sure that if there was to be an attack, it would come in the middle of the night. Pete had agreed, and so had Otto.
They got a room looking away from the airport toward the hills sparkling with house lights and streetlights.
“I’m going to jump in the shower and then try to get a few hours’ sleep,” McGarvey said.
“Do you want to have dinner downstairs or here in the room?” Pete asked.
“Here.”
“Any preferences?”
“Something Greek,” Mac said, and Pete laughed.
If this time a team was coming after them, their numbers would be a disadvantage as well as an advantage. More firepower would tip the scale for the opposition, but in the dark, on unfamiliar ground, they could become disoriented under the right circumstances.
McGarvey had thought about it on the flight over, and he’d finally come to the conclusion he’d experienced in the field on more than one occasion—the man whose life was being threatened had the advantage if he kept his head. The adrenaline released knowing you were being hunted was a powerful stimulus.
The optimum situation would be four operators coming after him and Pete. Enough firepower to give the team confidence and yet a large enough number that a strategy of hit-and-run could scatter them. But it would become a problem if there were more of them, enough to set up a firing line or, better yet, an attacking front that was meant to herd their prey toward a fixed position.
When he was finished and in a robe, the waiter had just brought up their dinner of avgolemono soup, dolmades, a plate of salted sardines and pita bread with olive oil, plus a bottle of ice-cold Retsina wine.
“Is this okay?” Pete asked.
“Perfect,” McGarvey said, and they sat down to it, Pete pouring the wine.
“What’s the plan?” she asked as they ate. “Still sleep by day and wander the hills at night like gypsies?”
“It’ll be a night attack, I’m pretty sure of it. There’s too many people out and about during the day.”
“I don’t think that these people would give a damn about collateral damage.”
“No, but they don’t want witnesses.”
“Okay, a night op. Makes sense for them, especially if they think to bring along night vision optics. Do a SEAL Team 6 on us.”
“Blind them with tactical flashlights,” McGarvey said, but he was beginning to get uneasy. She had warmed to the operation, almost as if she were looking forward to it.
“Do we go our separate ways?” she asked. “A circle of two, or one of us as bait?”
“Together. Each of us can effectively cover a one-eighty arc.”
She raised her glass. “You and me, babe, together,” she said, making the toast.
He was about to remind her that this wouldn’t be some exercise they’d played at the Farm, when Otto called.
“No definitive proof yet, but Lou has upped Hammond’s probability to 17 percent.”
McGarvey had put it on speaker mode. “What do you have?”
“Bender paid a call to Hammond’s office that liaises with the UN.”
“The one that Rodriguez headed?” McGarvey asked.
“Yeah, and the place was empty,” Otto said. “Bender called me himself and said the office had been totally cleaned out, not so much as a scrap of paper. A forensic team is fine-tooth combing the place, looking for whatever they can find. Maybe Hammond’s fingerprints.”
“Seventeen percent isn’t a gimme.”
“No, but he gave me two other tidbits. They’re trying to find out where Hammond is at the moment and send someone out to interview him.”
“He wouldn’t talk without an attorney.”
“No, but if he’s involved, it would put him on notice,” Otto said. “But there’s more. Bender is sending a team over to Serifos to help you out.”
“Goddamnit. Talk to Taft and see if the son of a bitch can be delayed.”
“I don’t know.”
“Thirty-six hours.”
“You think it’s going to happen tomorrow night?”
“I think so.”
“A premo?”
“Something like that,” McGarvey said.
FIFTY-NINE
The Gulfstream was held up on the tarmac at the international airport outside Sofia, Bulgaria, for nearly three hours before Captain Bogdan Borisov called from the cockpit and Vetrov went forward.
“There’s been a delay,” the captain said in Russian. He was a stocky Bulgarian with dark features and almost Siberian looks. His copilot, Darina Petrov, was a slightly built blond woman with movie-star looks and a hard expression in her eyes as if she would take no crap from anyone, especially a man.
“What is it?” Vetrov asked.
“We’re to hold up here until tomorrow. Your drop isn’t to be until twenty-four hours from now.”
“At 0100,” Vetrov said. Delays in any op were never unusual. You simply went with the flow. “We’ll need a place to bunk.”
“On board, I’m afraid,” Borisov said. “They want us undercover during the day, so we’ve been given an empty hangar at Gama Aviation Services.”
“Will we be allowed to use the hangar for calisthenics? Being cooped up is bad for us.”
“Yes, but as I said, you will have to sleep aboard. We have plenty of water and provisions, plus toilet capacity.”
“Very well. When will we be moving inside?”
“Within the next twenty minutes.”
“Should we be expecting customs officials?”
“No. Everything has been arranged. In the meantime, I want you to keep the window shades down until we’re inside.”
“Will you and your copilot be staying aboard for the night?”
Darina looked up, a slight smirk on her lips. “Of course not,” she said, and she turned away.
Vetrov lowered his voice. “If this is a setup, neither of you will live out the week.”
“Lieutenant, we don’t shit in our own nests,” the woman said. “We’re getting paid too much for that.”
“Senior Lieutenant,” Vetrov said, and he went back to brief his men.
* * *
The Louis XV Alain Ducasse restaurant in the hotel had been almost empty by the time Hammond and Susan finished their meal and the last of the Krug Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs champagne. But because of their wealth, the waitstaff and sommelier did not press, and near the end, the chef du cuisine himself came out and had shared a glass of wine with them.
Afterward, they had gone up to the suite where they had taken a long, sensuous shower and had gone to bed and made love slowly, deliberately, but with more passion than Hammond could ever recall.
When they were finished, lying in bed in each other’s arms, looking up at the ceiling, Susan laughed, the sound soft and at the back of her throat.
“What?” Hammond asked.
“We’re getting pretty good at this,” she said.
“No movie set, this time, no body double.”
It took a long minute before she answered. “I’m going to say something, and I don’t want you to laugh. I’m serious.”
“Okay.”
“I’m getting off the merry-go-round.”
“What do you mean?”
“No more in front of the camera. I’m done.”
“Bullshit. You’re a damned fine actor, and you photograph well.”
“I don’t need it anymore, Tom. I want out. I’ll continue to produce, and maybe I’ll even try directing.”
Hammond turned over on his side and looked at her. “What are you saying?”
“You know goddamned well what I’m saying.”
“Mrs. Thomas Hammond?”
“Something like that, but without the name change.”
“And then what?”
“We live our lives,” she said. “Get old and cranky, get cirrhosis of the liver, gray hair, shit that even a good plastic surgeon won’t be able to do much about.”
“But?” Hammond asked. He’d heard it coming.
“Let’s stay here for a bit and drop the McGarvey thing. It’s just a game, it’s dangerous, and it’s expensive. Let it go.”
Hammond was silent for a bit. “Is that a precondition?”
“No, just a respectful request,” Susan said, and she smiled. “It’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear myself say. But I’m saying it now. Let’s quit the bullshit and move on.”
Hammond was trying to form an answer when the Russian phone rang. It was Tarasov.
“Why did you shut down your New York office?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Hammond demanded.
“The office was closed overnight, which in itself wasn’t so bad, except that the FBI showed up apparently as a follow-up to the murders of Rodriguez and Kuprik. The place was empty.”
Hammond was stunned. “Where the hell are you getting all this information?”
“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is your team is waiting on the ground in Sofia for the operation tomorrow night. McGarvey and his wife are staying the night in an Athens hotel, and presumably, they’ll be taking a ferry out to the island first thing in the morning. In the meantime, the FBI has found out where you’re staying.”
“So what?” Hammond practically shouted. “I can hardly take a dump without everyone knowing about it. It’s the same for Gates and Jeff and Elon and just about every player.”
“They’re sending someone to interview you.”
Hammond’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
“You’re in a better position to answer that than I am,” Tarasov said.
“I only know what I’ve read in the papers. I’ll fly Morton over. He can be here by morning.” Morton Fay was Hammond’s chief attorney.
“Do nothing of the kind!” Tarasov shouted. “You have an attorney present and they’ll smell blood. You’ve done nothing wrong, nothing illegal; just keep that in your head. And whatever you do, tell that bitch you’re in bed with to keep her mouth shut.”
Hammond had nothing to say.
“This will be over in less than thirty-six hours, and then you have some work to do for me.”
“What if they miss?”
“It’s not likely, but it doesn’t matter, Thomas. In thirty-six hours, whatever the outcome, it’s over and done with.”
* * *
McGarvey and Pete got off the ferry at the port city of Livadi, but instead of walking into town with the dozen or so other passengers, they found a taxi to take them up to the lighthouse.
The old man behind the wheel was a familiar face.
“Welcome home, mister and missus,” he said, his accent very heavy.
“It’s good to be home,” Pete said. “You are well?”
“Yes, of course,” the old man said. “Will you be coming back to town for shopping? I can come back up?”
“Maybe this afternoon,” McGarvey said. “How has the tourist business been the past few days?”
“Tolerable for this time of year. But the market, especially in America, has been down this last quarter, so people are watching their spending.”
“Anyone interesting show up lately?”
The driver looked in the mirror. “No. Are we expecting Mr. Otto?”
“Maybe later,” McGarvey said. “But we’d just as soon have no tourists stopping by to take a look at the old lighthouse.”
“A man and woman need their privacy,” the driver said.
SIXTY
Bender had enough pull at FBI headquarters to commandeer the services of a C-27 jet, which was the government designation for a Gulfstream G550, and to have a crew meet him and Special Agent Sherman—whom he’d brought down from New York—at Joint Base Andrews across the Potomac from Washington and fly them to France.
They’d managed to get a few hours’ decent sleep on the flight, and an hour outside of the Nice Côte d’Azur Airport, Bender cautioned the other agent that they would have to proceed with care lest Hammond put up a screen of defense lawyers.
“The man didn’t get where he is without being shrewd, which is his weakness. He’s sure of himself. He doesn’t think he makes mistakes.”
“How do you want to work this, sir?” Sherman asked. “We have no direct evidence that he was in any way involved with the attacks on Mr. McGarvey and not much more that he was involved with the deaths of his office manager or the Russian diplomat.”
“You’re absolutely right, except McGarvey had a brief and not very satisfactory relationship with him a couple of years ago.”
“The attack on the pencil tower in New York. I glanced through the file last night.”
“What I could gather from the CIA’s after-action report that was distributed to our director as well as the White House through the National Director of Intelligence’s office, McGarvey ingratiated himself with Hammond by offering a financial deal involving a scheme to corner the bitcoin market and make a killing. The point was McGarvey wanted an invitation to a party at the tower near the UN that he somehow knew was going to come under attack in exchange for the deal.”
“And you think that Hammond might be seeking revenge?”
“He has the reputation for destroying anyone who tries to come up agains
t him in a business deal.”
Sherman was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s so thin it hardly warrants a phone call, let alone a face-to-face interview.”
Bender did not like to be contradicted, and he was angry for just a moment. But just for a moment. “Pull a small thread in a sweater and the entire thing falls apart. And trying to assassinate a former CIA director is a very big deal, and I’m willing to try anything to prevent it.”
“A career maker,” Sherman said.
Bender glanced at her. “Or breaker,” he said. “Are you with me?”
“Yes, sir. All the way.”
* * *
It was just coming up on two in the afternoon when they rented a car and drove the fifteen miles up to the Hotel du Paris. Bender’s directorate had traced Hammond and his girlfriend, the actress from Skagway, of all places, to Geneva, then Italy, and finally here, which had not been particularly difficult.
The two of them, especially Susan Patterson, were highly visible people. Gossip magazines and tabloids covered just about every move they made.
Pulling up in front, they surrendered the car to a valet parker and went inside to the front desk. “We’d like to have a word with Mr. Thomas Hammond,” Bender said.
“May I ask who is calling?” the deskman, dressed in a morning coat and starched shirt, asked.
“We’re old friends.”
“Oui, monsieur,” the man said. He picked up a phone, said something that Bender couldn’t quite hear, and replaced the receiver. “You may go up now, sirs. Mr. Hammond is expecting you.” The man gave them the suite number.
Halfway across the lobby, Sherman glanced back over her shoulder. “How the hell did Hammond know that we were coming?”
Bender was troubled. “I don’t know, but I’m going to ask him.”
* * *
“This is my play,” Hammond told Susan.
“Do you want me to go down to the pool?” she asked.
“No, we’ve done nothing wrong. But if they ask you something, which I’m sure they will, just play the empty-headed girlfriend. It’s a role you know pretty well.”
Gambit Page 25
