Retribution (9781429922593) (32 page)

“It would be in their best interest to prevent a nuclear exchange,” Page said. “In addition I spoke with General Bhutani yesterday afternoon, and he assured me that there would be no war.”

“That was an unauthorized contact, Walt,” Fay said.

“My call was unofficial and was about another completely separate matter.”

“Yes?” Fay prompted when Page didn't continue.

The president interrupted. “You have something of a personal relationship with the general, isn't that right?”

“Yes, sir. I've been to Islamabad twice to see him, and we met again in New York at last year's Global Conference on Intelligence Issues. When I spoke to him yesterday I couldn't detect any stress in his voice.”

“Were there translators?” Bible asked.

“No, his English is adequate. But my people tell me that it's difficult at best to lie in a language foreign to your own.”

“I know some pretty good liars,” Bible said.

I'll bet you do, Page wanted to say, but he held his tongue. He didn't like the woman, and it had nothing to do with her gender. She was a politician first, an intelligence director second.

The president turned to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Bruce Ringers, who'd held just about every important post in the military since his graduation from West Point thirty-five years ago, including combat roles in Kosovo, the first and second Iraq wars, and briefly at the beginning of the conflict in Afghanistan. He and Secretary of Defense Matthew Koratich were close personal friends, and the secretary-chairman working relationship was better than any in history. Under the two men things were getting done—including the top-down reorganization of the entire military-industrial juggernaut.

“What's your assessment, Bruce?”

“They've been there before, and each time they've backed off before things could go too far.”

“I hear a but in there.”

“Yes, sir. Having that much military hardware in such close proximity is inherently dangerous. Sooner or later someone will make a mistake, which could touch off a conflict. In this case an exchange of nuclear weapons, even if only theater size, could touch off a much larger regional war. The casualties would be massive.”

“Surely that's not their intent?” the president asked.

“No, sir,” Koratich said. “But as Bruce said, mistakes will happen sooner or later.”

“The Chinese have sent a delegation to Islamabad. Maybe we should send someone to New Delhi. Or if the situation is already dangerously close to the brink, you might want to telephone Prime Minister Narendra Modi.”

“I'll do both,” Langdon said. He turned again to Ringers. “What's our military response?”

“If you mean go to a DEFCON 4, I'd advise against it. Not unless you would want a measured response if hostilities actually start.”

“Christ, no,” the president said. After a beat he got to his feet. “Keep me advised,” he said, and he left the room.

*   *   *

Page was the last to head down the corridor when Fay pulled him aside. “The president would like to have a brief word. We'll meet him in the Oval Office.”

“I've had no update on McGarvey,” Langdon said. “I assume he went to Pakistan. Is he back safely?”

“Yes, sir,” Page said. He went through everything that had happened in Islamabad and at the safe house in Rawalpindi, including McGarvey's opinion as a former DCI that the current issue over Kashmir was merely saber rattling by President Mamnoon Hussain to appease a population sick of power outages and an economy that was in meltdown.

“Nothing was settled by his going to Pakistan?” the president asked.

“No, sir, except that an ISI major who apparently was the paymaster for the group that has already killed two of the SEAL Team Six operators and their families was himself killed in a shootout.”

“Then it's over?”

“McGarvey doesn't think so.”

“What's next?”

I think he's going to offer himself up as a lightning rod.”

 

FIFTY-SIX

KLM Flight 1824 from Berlin landed at Montreal's Trudeau International Airport a few minutes before five in the afternoon after a ten-and-a-half-hour flight. All but the first class passengers looked shell-shocked.

Ayesha was traveling under a very good British passport that identified her as Suzanne Reynolds from London. She went through customs and immigration with no trouble and headed down to the rental car counters as planned.

Pam was four passengers behind her, traveling under a U.S. passport identifying her as Janice Whittaker from Milwaukee.

“Do you have anything to declare?” the agent asked her, looking at her customs form.

“No,” Pam said, keeping her face straight. It was possible McGarvey had come up with a photo of her, but it wasn't likely that it would have been distributed to airports here in Canada. Before they had left Berlin she had dyed her hair dark brown and had her passport photo taken wearing glasses.

The immigration officer stared her for several long beats, but then handed back her passport. “Welcome to Canada, ma'am.”

Downstairs Ayesha was waiting near the Hertz counter on the ground floor of the parking garage. She looked nervous. “Was there a problem?”

“No.”

“You were delayed.”

“You should have stayed in Islamabad, if you're going to act that way. This is the easy part.”

“I'm sticking with my investment. I won't get in the way.”

“You're already in the way,” Pam said, and she got in line for a car.

Ayesha's husband had been made of the same stuff as his wife. He had been the paymaster and he had stuck his nose where it hadn't belonged because he wanted to be the one in charge. He had made a mistake by coming face-to-face with McGarvey, and it had ended with his death. It had been so stupid. But without his connection to the money there would not have been an operation, a fact he had pointed out to her from the beginning. Now she was stuck with the woman.

Pam looked back at her and smiled. Perhaps the woman would be shot to death in the end after she had made the final payment. Like husband, like wife.

*   *   *

The car was a Ford Fusion with a full tank of gas. Forty-five minutes after they'd touched down, they were merging with heavy work traffic on Highway 20, heading north toward the Highway 10 Pont Champlain Bridge across the St. Lawrence River that would lead to Highway 15 south, and shortly thereafter the U.S. border and Interstate 87.

“We need to get something perfectly clear before we hit the border,” Pam said. She'd been checking her rearview mirror since they'd left the airport. So far as she could tell they were clean.

“Don't lecture me,” Ayesha shot back.

“I will and you'll listen, because our lives depend on it. The guys you met in Berlin are professionals. All of them ex-special forces with the German army. Some of the best badasses in the world, and they won't stand for any of your rich-girl shit.”

“But I'm the one with the money.”

“Money is important, but they value their lives more. If for one instant they think that you're leading us down a back alley with no way out, they'll kill both of us with no compunction and run.”

“I said that I'd stay out of the way.”

“More than that, keep your mouth shut.”

Ayesha turned away for a moment. “Why are you constantly looking in the rearview mirror?”

“Because McGarvey is a sharp bastard, and by now he's probably guessed that I'm coming after him. In fact he may be counting on it. And I wouldn't put it past him to have someone looking for me.”

“For us,” Ayesha said quietly. “I'm doing it for my husband; you're doing it for money.”

“For more than that. Much more.”

*   *   *

Traffic had thinned out just before the border, which was about fifty-five miles south of Montreal, but then bunched up at the checkpoint. On the Canadian side they had to show their driving licenses and the car rental contract when it was their turn. They were ten cars back.

“Busy today,” Pam said, handing their papers out the window.

“They're looking for someone,” the border patrol agent said.

“Anyone specific?” Pam asked, hoping that Ayesha wouldn't panic.

“They've been paranoid since 9/11.”

“Can't blame us.”

The agent looked up and smiled. “I guess not,” he said. He looked at Ayesha. “You okay, ma'am? You look a little green.”

Pam didn't have a pistol, and they were pretty well stuck here, with no way back and no way forward.

Ayesha smiled weakly. “We just came crossed the Atlantic. Calm flight. But I get airsick no matter what.”

The officer nodded. “My wife's the same way, and nothing helps.” He handed back their papers, stepped aside, and waved the next car forward.

Pam drove the several yards to the line on the American side. “You did good,” she said. “But you don't have much to worry about. If they catch you they'll merely send you back to Pakistan. I'm a different story.”

The wait was nearly a half hour, and the line behind them was long enough that cars were backed up on the Canadian side. When it was their turn at one of the lanes Pam handed their papers out the window to the border agent, while another used a mirror on a long handle to check the undercarriage.

“Open the trunk, please,” the officer said as he looked over their passports and the car rental contract.

Pam opened the trunk and a third officer went around to the back.

“Where were you born?” the officer asked Pam.

“Milwaukee.”

“Still have relatives there?”

“My mom and dad are dead, and I have no brothers or sisters. Friends.”

“Where do you work?”

“In the bottling plant at Schafer's Brewery. It's on Wisconsin Avenue.”

“What was the purpose of your visit to Canada?”

“Honeymoon. We got married last week.”

The customs officer looked at her, and then at Ayesha, who was embarrassed. After a beat, he handed back their papers. The officer at the rear closed the trunk lid and the one with the mirror stepped aside.

“If your partner is going to live here, she'll need a green card.”

“Yes, sir,” Pam said and the officer waved them on.

Ayesha started to say something, but Pam held her off until they were well out of sight of the border crossing and on the open interstate.

“We're partners, so don't forget it.”

“But why? It's disgusting, and illegal.”

“Not here, but I wanted to give the asshole something to focus on other than our papers. And it worked.”

 

FIFTY-SEVEN

They were temporarily bunking at the Renckes' off-the-grid house on a pleasant street in McClean across the river from Falls Church. The company knew that Otto had his bunker, but no one on campus thought it was such a good idea to go looking for it.

McGarvey had taken Pete over to All Saints Hospital in Georgetown to get her knee looked at. The small facility tucked away on a side street was used to treat wounded intelligence service officers—mostly from the CIA—in secret. Luckily, it was nothing more than a dislocated kneecap that would heal itself in time.

They stopped afterward at their apartments and got fresh clothes, and in McGarvey's case, his go-to-hell kit of spare Walther and magazines, several sets of IDs, and cash—in case he needed to get out of the country in a hurry.

“You think it could come to that?” Pete had asked.

“If we miss Schlueter I might have to follow her. And there might not be enough time to get my things.”

It was early evening by the time they got back. Louise was doing steaks on the grill in the backyard.

“She does the cooking. I open the beer and wine,” Otto said, grinning.

The weather was pleasant and they sat at a picnic table out on the patio. Otto had taken to smoking cigarettes—three each day—but although Louise was on his case she really didn't push it. Smoking was bad, but it had replaced his old habits of drinking heavy cream by the quart and eating Twinkies by the dozen. He'd actually slimmed down and looked pretty good.

Mac and Pete slept in separate rooms, Louise's doing, and no one mentioned anything about it, though everyone, including Mac, felt the tension and the way Pete looked at him.

“There's been nothing from the Pakistanis about the incident, which isn't all that surprising considering what they're facing right now,” Otto said. “So what's next?”

“The White House and the company are staying out of our way for the moment, and the navy is ignoring the whole problem,” McGarvey said. “All but three of the guys are out of the service, none of them retired, and so far none of them has asked for help.”

“Proud,” Louise said.

“Yeah.”

“Remind you of anyone we know?”

McGarvey was at a loss.

“She means you, Kirk,” Pete said.

He guessed that they were right, but it was neither here nor there. “Schlueter and her team are coming back to finish the job, and I think that the ISI will continue to finance them. And the timing is probably good considering the fact that our focus is on the situation between them and India, especially now with the Chinese involved.”

“Their first target has to be you,” Otto said. “You stopped them once in Norfolk, and you threw a monkey wrench in the works in Islamabad.”

“Right. And I'm going to make it easy for them. I'm going to be right out in the open, so as far as they're concerned they'll be getting two for one.”

“We're going to make it easy for them,” Pete said.

“No.”

“Have Marty fire me and I'll tag along as a civilian.”

McGarvey started to press his protest, but Louise interrupted.