Soldier of God (2 page)
Authors: David Hagberg
Zahir, a short squat man with a thick mustache, but nearly bald on top, met Khalil in the rustic lobby. They warmly embraced. A fire burned on the stone hearth. The log walls were adorned with mounted fish, presumably caught by former patrons of the fishing camp.
“I’m glad you have finally arrived safely,” Zahir said. “Will you have something to eat? Our people would like to sit with you.”
“Soon. Is the equipment we need here?”
“Yes.”
“Our other soldiers are in place?”
Zahir checked his watch. “I spoke with Abdul in Juneau this morning. All is as it should be. The vessel will depart in a few hours and begin its southbound cruise.”
“The resort staff?”
“The maintenance man, two guides, and the owner are dead, as you ordered. Their bodies were placed in the generator building, safe from the wildlife. The owner’s wife and their daughter are being held upstairs, in case a radiotelephone call needs to be answered.”
“Cell phones are out of range?”
“Yes.”
Khalil nodded in satisfaction. “Give the daughter to the men. When they are finished with her, kill her. The mother can answer the telephone if need be.”
“They will like that.”
“Now we will go fishing,” Khalil said. “Do you know how, Zahir?”
“There is no fishing in the desert.”
Khalil laughed. “Then we will learn together.”
“In the meantime I will send someone to the dock for your bags.”
Kirk McGarvey got out of the cab into the cold drizzle at the cruise ship dock, and paused for a moment to unlimber his tall, husky body and look up at the bulk of the 192-foot pocket cruise ship
Spirit of ’98
that would be his and Katy’s home for the next seven days.
Spirit of ’98
that would be his and Katy’s home for the next seven days.
He was a man of about fifty, in superb physical condition because of a daily regimen of hard physical exercise overseen by Jim Grassinger, his bodyguard, and the physical trainers and docs at the Central Intelligence Agency. It didn’t do to allow the director to get flabby, especially not this director. He wasn’t overly handsome, but his face was pleasant, his gray-green eyes honest and direct, and he exuded the quiet self-confidence of a man who was supremely capable of taking care of himself no matter what the situation was. People who got close to him, and who were perceptive enough to understand who he was, felt protected, as if they were under an umbrella where the rain could never reach them.
He had more than twenty-five years’ experience working for the government, first in the Air Force as an intelligence and Special Ops officer; next with the CIA as a case officer with assignments everywhere from Vietnam to Berlin and back; then as a freelance working what in those days were called “black operations,” which more often than not resulted in the death of one or more bad guys; and finally, reluctantly, back to Langley as the Company’s director.
Whenever he had a choice, he opted for a field assignment over a desk job, which was a curious contradiction to his main passion, besides his family: the study of Voltaire, the eighteenth-century French philosopher
whose thoughts on everything from religion to government to science he found fascinating.
whose thoughts on everything from religion to government to science he found fascinating.
Otto Rencke, the best friend he’d ever had, who worked for him as special projects director, was fond of telling anyone who’d listen that Voltaire was okay for a Frog, except that he’d never known when to keep his opinions to himself. Which was the same criticism usually thrown at McGarvey.
Common sense is not so common
, Voltaire wrote in 1764, and as far as Mac was concerned, nothing had changed in the intervening two and a half centuries.
Common sense is not so common
, Voltaire wrote in 1764, and as far as Mac was concerned, nothing had changed in the intervening two and a half centuries.
The sign on Truman’s desk had read that the buck stopped there, but the sign on McGarvey’s desk should have warned The Bullshit Stops Here. He hated nothing worse than liars, cheats, and bullies. Tell it like it is, or keep your mouth shut. Don’t blow smoke up my ass. Lead, follow, or get out of the way, but don’t whine about it. Anything but that.
A knight in shining armor, his wife Katy called him, but almost never to his face, and certainly not in public. He would have been embarrassed.
“Hey, how long are you going to keep me locked up?” Kathleen asked from inside the cab.
McGarvey, realizing he had been wool gathering, took her hand and helped her out. “Sorry about that,” he said.
She laughed, the sound light, almost musical. It was her happy, if not contented, noise, a mood he was finally beginning to recognize and understand without having to ask. She was tall for a woman, and slender, with short blond hair that framed a perfectly oval face, high cheekbones, full lips, finely formed nose, and a Nefertiti neck. She was fifty, but it was impossible to tell her age by looking at her, because her complexion was nearly flawless, and she was in almost as good physical shape as her husband, and for some of the same reasons—a lot of exercise and a strict attention to diet. In addition, though she would never admit it, she’d had a couple of brief, but expensive sessions with a plastic surgeon. Katy wasn’t denying her age, but she wasn’t letting it get the better of her. Not just yet.
“What a beautiful boat,” she said with pleasure.
“Ship,” McGarvey corrected, automatically. They weren’t the first of the ninety-six passengers aboard, but they were not the last, and the dock was busy with cabs, a couple of Cruise West courtesy buses, and people pushing carts with their luggage. No one seemed to mind that it was
dark, raining, and in the low forties. The scenery on Alaska’s Inside Passage—hundreds if not thousands of islands, mountains, glaciers, and dense, almost primeval, forests—and the wildlife, including whales, would make the holiday worth just about any discomfort. The
Spirit of ’98
, a magnificent four-deck cruise ship built in the style of a turn-of-the-century steamer, had actually been used in the Kevin Costner movie
Wyatt
Earp
. She had all the modern amenities including diesel engines, a full suite of electronics, lifeboats, a first-class gourmet kitchen and staff, plush upholstery, carved wooden cabinetry, and a player piano in the Grand Salon, but she looked like a gold rush ship. She had a single funnel just aft of the sweeping bridge, sharply vertical bows complete with pennant staff, and fine, old-fashioned lines.
dark, raining, and in the low forties. The scenery on Alaska’s Inside Passage—hundreds if not thousands of islands, mountains, glaciers, and dense, almost primeval, forests—and the wildlife, including whales, would make the holiday worth just about any discomfort. The
Spirit of ’98
, a magnificent four-deck cruise ship built in the style of a turn-of-the-century steamer, had actually been used in the Kevin Costner movie
Wyatt
Earp
. She had all the modern amenities including diesel engines, a full suite of electronics, lifeboats, a first-class gourmet kitchen and staff, plush upholstery, carved wooden cabinetry, and a player piano in the Grand Salon, but she looked like a gold rush ship. She had a single funnel just aft of the sweeping bridge, sharply vertical bows complete with pennant staff, and fine, old-fashioned lines.
McGarvey paid the cabby for the lift from Juneau’s airport as his bodyguard Jim Grassinger took the bags from the trunk. Needing a bodyguard was one of the downsides of the job as DCI. He had been used to taking care of himself for most of his life. But having a bodyguard was in his charter, and he’d already had one killed out from under him, proving the necessity. But he still didn’t like it, though he had developed a great deal of respect and trust in Grassinger over the past year.
“I hope it stops raining sometime this week, Jim,” McGarvey said. “I’d like to see you work on your tan.”
“We’re in the wrong part of the world for that, boss,” Grassinger replied. He was not a very large man, and almost no one would take a second look at him. He had a round face, pale blue eyes, thinning, sand-colored hair—his mother was Swedish—and in a suit, the jacket always cut large to accommodate his hardware, he could easily pass for the manager of the appliance section at Sears. But behind his bland, pleasant demeanor was a body of hard bar steel and the determination to match. First in hand-to-hand combat at the CIA’s training facility in Virginia; first in marksmanship with a whole host of weapons including handguns, foreign and domestic, assault rifles, riot guns, submachineguns, RPGs, and handheld missile launchers such as the Stinger, the Russian Grail, and the LAW; and first in surveillance and countersurveillance methods, he repeatedly turned down offers from the Secret Service to protect the president.
He liked working for the CIA. And as far as bosses went, McGarvey was the best in his book.
He liked working for the CIA. And as far as bosses went, McGarvey was the best in his book.
He never stopped scanning the dock, and his jacket, beneath which he carried a 9mm Glock 17 with a nineteen-round box magazine, was loose as usual. He was doing a job that he would not quit until he was fired, retired, or killed, none of which he figured was going to happen anytime soon.
McGarvey and Katy each took a bag and walked across the covered boarding ramp into the ship. It had begun this cruise last week in Fairbanks, and would head down to Seattle in a few hours.
Normally, Grassinger would have gone ahead to check out the ship, but this time the crew and all the passengers had been vetted by the CIA and by the DoD because the former secretary of defense Donald Shaw and his wife, Karen, were also on board. Both he and McGarvey were significant targets for groups such as Osama bin Laden’s al-Quaida, but they both traveled with bodyguards, the Coast Guard was nearby, the ship would be under almost constant satellite surveillance, and Shaw’s and McGarvey’s names had not been made public. Even their travel arrangements from Washington had been kept strictly under wraps.
Both couples needed the time off, the Shaws because of the continuing strife in Iraq, for which the former SecDef was working in an advisory capacity for State, and the McGarveys because of the horrible ordeal they had gone through less than a year ago in which Katy had been brainwashed into actually attempting to assassinate her husband.
Their only daughter, Elizabeth, who worked for the CIA as a field officer and instructor, had suffered too. She’d been four months pregnant but had lost the baby in an arranged accident. Now she and her husband, CIA combat instructor Todd Van Buren, could not have children. They were in their twenties, head over heels in love with each other, and Elizabeth’s hysterectomy had devastated them.
The Shaws and McGarveys were greeted in a receiving line by four ship’s officers, including the captain, the purser, the concierge, and the chief steward, who assigned them their accommodations and dinner seatings.
“Mr. and Mrs. James Garwood,” the concierge announced.
“Welcome aboard the Spirit,” Captain Bruce Darling said, shaking hands. “If there’s anything I can personally do to make your trip more enjoyable, please, don’t stand on ceremony. Just ask.”
“Good scenery, good food, and good weather, Captain,” Kathleen said, smiling.
Darling chuckled. “How about two out of three, ma’am?”
“Fair enough,” she told him, and she and Kirk moved off with a steward’s assistant to their first-class cabin, as Grassinger went through the same routine. He would be bunking in a cabin adjacent to the McGarveys’.
The cabins were relatively Spartan compared to those aboard larger cruise ships. But the McGarveys’ cabin was equipped with a television, a reasonably sized bathroom, a queen bed, and a killer view from a very large window.
“Just leave the bags,” McGarvey told the steward.
“Yes, sir. We sail at five, and there will be a welcoming cocktail party in the Grand Salon at six.”
Katy went to the window and looked across the channel at the docks and the processing buildings for the fishing fleet.
“Should we dress?” McGarvey asked.
“No, sir. Casual will be fine,” the steward said. He was a slight man with an olive complexion and a ready smile. “There will be a lifeboat drill first.”
“Fine,” McGarvey said. When the steward was gone, he took off his jacket and tossed it on the bed, revealing a quick-draw holster at the small of his back that contained the 9mm version of the Walther PPK. He seldom went anywhere without the pistol. The German handgun was an old friend that had saved his life on more than one occasion.
“Well, we finally made it,” Kathleen said, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
McGarvey went to her and took her in his arms. She leaned her head back against his shoulder. “How do you feel, Katy?”
She chuckled at the back of her throat. “Pregnant, happy as hell, content, frightened out of my wits, fat, hungry, thirsty.” She turned her face up to his.
He kissed her for a long time. “A penny for the laugh.”
“You said Katy. I almost corrected you.”
“Kathleen. Old habits die hard,” McGarvey said.
They watched out the window, in each other’s arms, for a few minutes content with the peace and quiet after an extremely contentious year. Of all the places in the world they could have picked for a week’s vacation—the Caribbean, Greece, Wales to look up her relatives, Ireland to look up his—they had chosen an Alaskan cruise because of the isolation. They were both peopled out. If truth were to be told, they would almost have preferred a desert island somewhere.
She snuggled a little closer to him, pressing her breasts against his chest. “Hmm.”
“Tender?” he asked.
“A little,” she answered.
McGarvey felt a sudden surge of doubt. “We’re doing the right thing, aren’t we?”
She chuckled again. Her everything’s-really-okay sound. “If you mean being fifty and getting pregnant, no, we’re being reckless. But if you mean getting pregnant with our daughter and son-in-law’s fertilized egg because they can no longer have children, we’re being foolish, but loving.” She looked up at him again, her face open and vulnerable. “Is my knight a little frightened?”
“Yup.”
Her eyes filled. “It’s okay, because it’s you and me, darling. Nothing else counts.”
Someone knocked at the door. Kathleen stiffened for a moment, but then settled back. Life went on.
McGarvey gave her a brief kiss, then went to the door. It was Grassinger. McGarvey let him in.
“What’s the drill tonight, boss?”
“We’re going to the cocktail party, then dinner, and we’ll be turning in early,” McGarvey said.
“And sleeping in,” Katy added.
“What about Shaw’s bodyguard?” McGarvey asked.
Grassinger nodded. “Tony Battaglia. He’s good man. Ex-Army Special Ops. He’s up on the bridge deck in the captain’s sea cabin.” The Shaws occupied
the owner’s suite, the only accommodation on that deck, except for the captain’s on-duty quarters, which he used only in an emergency when his presence on the bridge was required 24/7.
the owner’s suite, the only accommodation on that deck, except for the captain’s on-duty quarters, which he used only in an emergency when his presence on the bridge was required 24/7.
“I’ll talk to him, see if we can coordinate our activities so that you and Battaglia can have a little slack time,” McGarvey promised, but he gave Grassinger a stern look. “Let’s get something straight from the get-go. I’m here on vacation, which means I’m not going to jump through a lot of security hoops. The ship is secure, the passengers and crew have been vetted—twice—and I’d just as soon not see you until we get to Seattle.”
“The passengers and crew have been cleared, but I don’t trust anybody, boss.”
“Neither do I. But we’re here to relax.”
“Maybe you are, but I’m not,” Grassinger mumbled.
“None of the passengers are going to relax either,” Katy said. “Not unless both of you keep your jackets on all the time to cover up your arsenals. Guns make most people twitchy.”
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