The Cabal (34 page)

It was one in the afternoon in Washington when Remington and his wife, Colleen, met for lunch at the George Hotel just down from Union Station. She’d remarked that it was an odd choice, but he hadn’t explained that he wanted to come here to satisfy a perverse curiosity to see where the
Washington Post
reporter had met with McGarvey’s son-in-law. The dining room/bar area was faintly art deco and nice, though not grand. Not up to Colleen’s usual standards.

But she hadn’t complained, and in fact had stopped all her complaining after the dinner party at Foster’s home. She’d been impressed with her husband, and he’d even cut back on his drinking—because of the crisis mode Admin was in—which impressed her all the more.

“What made you think of this place?” she asked when their martinis came.

The dining room was nearly full, but the service was good.

Remington shrugged. “Someone mentioned the place. Thought we should give it a try.”

She looked around, and smiled. “I approve. Anyway, Gordo, I’m famished.”

Remington’s sat phone vibrated in his pocket and he hesitated whether to ignore the call, but with everything happening here in Washington and in Baghdad, he answered it. “Remington.”

Colleen shot him a disapproving look.

“We’re in deep shit over here, sir.” It was Peter Townsend, Sandberger’s administrative assistant, who’d done all of the nuts-and-bolts negotiations with the State Department reps in Baghdad. A lawyer by training, he’d served one term as a junior congressman from the Russian River area of California. He sounded shook up.

“What is it?”

“Mr. Sandberger was shot to death in his suite about an hour ago.”

Remington was struck dumb for just a moment, and it must have showed on his face because Colleen put down her drink and gave him a concerned, questioning look. “What about Hanson and Alphonse?”

“They were taken out, too, but it looks as if Mr. Sandberger killed Brody. It’s not making any sense to me, because Harry Weiss was found shot to death in his car a block from the hotel. What the hell is going on? I wasn’t told that we were facing any sort of a threat of this magnitude.”

It was McGarvey, of course. Couldn’t be anyone else, but for now they needed to do some serious damage control. “Okay, listen up. I’ll come there as quickly as possible, but it probably won’t be until tomorrow. In the meantime you’re the on-site supervisor as of this moment. I want the mess cleaned up before I get there. Get in touch with Captain Kabbani, he’s been of some help in the past.”

“His body was found in an alley a block from the hotel. He’d been shot to death at close range. You have to tell me what the hell is going on if you expect me to take care of this shit, because I have no idea what’s coming next. And what do I tell our guys that’ll make any sense?”

Remington didn’t have a clue, but Townsend was waiting. All of Admin was waiting because he’d just become president of the company. The easy way, he couldn’t help but think, and he smiled for just a moment, and his wife’s right eyebrow shot up.

“Goddamnit, I’m in the hot seat. I’m not a contractor, I’m a negotiator, a lawyer.”

“Do you know Stuart Marston?” Remington asked.

“Yes, of course I do. He’s been our point man at State. Helped put the deal through for us.”

“Call him, set up a meeting and tell him what you know—”

“I don’t know shit,” Townsend shouted.

“Calm down, and let me finish,” Remington said. Colleen was watching him, hanging on every word. “Tell Stu that we think it was
Kirk McGarvey. The man’s gone over the edge, and he had some sort of a personal vendetta with Roland.”

“Holy shit,” Townsend said.

“Get a hold of yourself, Pete. Until I get there you’re Admin in Baghdad. Work with Marston. Work the problem, don’t let it work you.”

Townsend was silent for several beats, and when he came back he sounded as if he was coming down. “Do I mention McGarvey’s name? I mean the guy was the DCI at one time.”

“The FBI is looking for him, and Justice is considering bringing him up for treason,” Remington said. “So definitely mention his name. It’s something that guys like Marston understand.”

“It’s late here, I’ll call him in the morning.”

“Call him now. He needs to hear about this from us, not the Iraqi police.”

“You’re right.”

“I’ll get there as soon as I can. But keep in touch.”

“Will do,” Townsend said and he rang off.

Remington broke the connection and lowered the phone.

“Talk to me, Gordo,” Colleen said, keeping her voice low.

“Bit of a muckup over in B-town,” Remington said. “Roland and a couple of his people have been shot to death.”

“Good Lord,” Colleen said, but then he could see in her eyes that she understood the consequences as well as he did. “Do you actually have to go over there?”

“We’ll see,” Remington said, and he dialed Robert Foster’s private number, which would be rolled over to wherever the man was. Anywhere in the world.

On the third ring it was answered by a voice mail message. “Leave your name and number after the tone.” But before Remington could leave a message, Foster came on.

“Good afternoon, Gordon. Is something bothering you that you called this number?”

The waiter came over to take their order, but Remington waved him off and waited until he was out of earshot.

“I just received word that Roland was assassinated in Baghdad about an hour ago. His bodyguards were taken out, as was Baghdad’s chief of police.”

“That’s certainly a stunning development. Do you know who was behind this and why?”

“It was McGarvey,” Remington said. “Our operations over there are facing a potential meltdown. I’m flying over tonight to straighten it out.”

Foster’s reply was immediate. “No. I want you to remain here in Washington. Business as usual. Do you have any idea where Mr. McGarvey is at this moment? Certainly not still in Baghdad?”

“I’m not sure, but I believe he’ll try to get out of the country, probably either through Kuwait, the way he got in, or perhaps across the border into Turkey.”

“Is he receiving help from the CIA?”

“Unknown, but I’d say it’s fairly unlikely considering the charges Justice is preparing to file against him.”

“I was under the impression that you had arranged for some of your people to take him out.”

“Apparently they failed.”

“Are they dead?”

“I don’t know, they haven’t surfaced yet. Last I heard they had reached Baghdad.”

Foster was silent for a moment. “This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to arrange for your contract over there to go to Decision Infinity. They can use the money. I need all of your attention devoted to the McGarvey problem.”

“That would put Admin in a bind,” Remington protested, even though he had to agree with what was coming next. “We’re carrying a large salary and training budget.”

“We’ll take care of your company,” Foster said. “Your main objective
now is to kill Mr. McGarvey as soon as possible. I don’t care where or how, just get the job done, Gordon, and you will be a busy man, because we have the main issue to contend with.”

“I wasn’t in on that loop,” Remington said. “Roland never discussed it with me.”

“Conclude the McGarvey business, and you will be brought into the loop, as you call it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Remington said, but he was talking to a broken connection.

The sky to the east was just beginning to lighten when Hadid slowed down and pulled off the highway a few miles outside of Az Zubayr, a small city just north of the border with Kuwait and barely twenty miles from Basra.

“It’s too dangerous to cross the border now,” Hadid said. “It’s what the authorities will expect Mr. Tony to do. We’ll stay here until nightfall, when Mr. James will spring into existence.”

The battery in McGarvey’s sat phone had worn down, and the Range Rover’s cigarette lighter receptacle didn’t work, but Hadid had promised that when they finally stopped, the phone’s charger could be directly connected to the battery under the hood.

They followed a dirt track for a few miles out into the desert until they came to what at one time in the past might have been a farm or more likely a small sheep station. A main stone building in absolutely horrible condition, a gaping hole in one of the walls, and half the roof missing, sat at the edge of a small dried-up stream. Several other,
much smaller buildings in even worse condition made up what would have been a small compound, sections of a stone wall visible here and there.

“This belonged to one of my uncles, but during the first war the U.S. Army based three tanks here. They didn’t leave much.”

“Who owns it now?”

“The family, so this in some respects belongs to me,” Hadid said. “But no one cares. There is no oil just here.” He drove around to the back of the main structure and backed the Range Rover inside, where most of the roof was intact, then shut off the ignition.

It was a good spot, covered from the air and from the highway or anyone coming up the dirt track. Getting out of the car McGarvey felt a sense of sadness for the people who had lived here, their shattered lives. Maybe they had dreamed of cashing in on the oil revenues that had never materialized. All that had shown up on their doorstep were Iraqi tanks and American ordnance.

Hadid had opened the hood. He took the sat phone charger, cut the wires from the plug with a penknife, and peeled them back so they were long enough to be wrapped around the battery terminals. He plugged the other end into the phone, and a second later the charge indicator lit up, and he grinned. “Now we will spend the day here—you and I plus the battery—recharging.”

They sat on the open tailgate and ate their breakfast of flat bread, figs, goat cheese and American vinegar, and sea salt potato chips. Hadid had brought several bottles of sweet tea for himself, along with several liters of water and two cans of Heinekin for McGarvey.

“After the last twenty-four hours you’ve had I thought beer would be better than tea.”

“No worse than yours,” McGarvey said, opening one of the warm beers. “What’s next for you?”

Hadid smiled wistfully. “The sadness is leaving, Mr. James. They are waiting for me in Paradise. This I truly believe and it gives me comfort.”

There was nothing to be said in reply.

“After you are safely back at the Crowne under your new identity, I’ll return to my duties in Baghdad. And for you, did you accomplish what you came here for?”

“A part of it.”

“But there is more back in Washington?”

“A lot more,” McGarvey said looking away.

“Revenge is never the just thing,” Hadid said. “But very often it is the only thing for the soul. I hope you finally find what you are looking for.”

McGarvey was dead on his feet, and bunked out in the rear of the Range Rover he managed to sleep through most of the day, although he continued to have dreams about the explosion that had killed Katy and Liz, and about Todd’s battered body covered by the sheet at All Saints. And on waking around four in the afternoon the images didn’t want to fade.

Hadid was already up, and he was in the front room of the house, looking through a pair of binoculars up toward the highway. “I thought we might be having some visitors,” he said, not looking over his shoulder.

“Civilian?” McGarvey asked. He thought it was a good possibility that either the Baghdad police or more likely Admin would have sent someone after them.

“American military. But why they got off the highway is a mystery.”

“They’re gone?”

“Yes,” Hadid said, lowering the binoculars. “We have a few more hours to wait. There’s more food and water, but no beer.”

McGarvey went back to the car, got the things Hadid had brought for him, and using the door mirror on the passenger side dyed his hair dark brown, darkened his complexion with one of the chemicals Martinez had supplied him with in Miami, and finally placed contact lenses in his eyes to change their color from gray green to blue. When
he was finished he exchanged the passport and other documents that identified him as Tony Watkins a freelance journalist, with the papers of James Hopkins, a contractor with Decision Infinity.