Flash Points: A Kirk McGarvey Novel Page 17

  “But why?” Pete asked.

  “I don’t know. But the second group involves fourth- and fifth-ranking officers from at least ten or fifteen intelligence agencies.”

  “Including the CIA?”

  “I don’t know that either. But I’m working on it.”

  “Both with the same two common threads. Me first and then the president.”

  “Insanity,” Pete said softly.

  “I’ll start with the White House,” McGarvey said.

  FORTY

  It was four when McGarvey went up to the director’s office on the seventh floor. He’d asked Pete to stick with Otto, and escort him home when he was ready to leave for the day.

  “You could be marching straight into the lion’s den,” Otto had warned.

  “Could be someone on the president’s staff pushed and I’m going to push back.”

  “Jesus,” Pete said.

  Walt Page came down the hall from the Watch just as McGarvey was getting off the elevator. He looked like the image of a Wall Street banker, well dressed, serious in an East Coast manner and normally unflappable. But just now he did not look happy.

  “Were you the unknown gunman at the Watergate the cops are looking for?”

  “Yes, and we need to talk because this situation is starting to spiral out of control.”

  “Usually happens when you’re involved.”

  They went straight through past his secretary to his office, which looked over the woods behind the Old Headquarters Building. It was a tranquil view that very often did not match the situation inside the various buildings on the campus. In many ways this place was more of a crisis center than either the Pentagon’s War Room or the White House Situation Room.

  “Coffee?” Page asked, directing Mac to have a seat.

  “I need to see the president this afternoon,” McGarvey said.

  Page was in the act of sitting down, but he stopped, his left hand on the desk. “Okay, Mac, you have my attention, if that’s what you wanted.”

  “I’ve come up with some pretty strong evidence that two groups of people want me dead. One of them has hired the terrorist who took down AtEighth last year, and the other may involve a consortium of mid-level intelligence officers from perhaps as many as a dozen agencies around the world. Including the DIA.”

  “They’ve already tried and missed. But why have you been targeted?”

  “Otto says that I’m a rogue operator.”

  “You both are, but it doesn’t answer my question.”

  “We’re in the middle of a soft coup, directed by a few people in the Pentagon and the intel officers we’ve already identified.”

  “A soft coup, if you’re right, to do what? Depose Weaver?”

  “Make him look like a fool. Maybe force his hand into doing something so completely irresponsible that he’d have to be impeached.”

  “Irresponsible how?”

  “Maybe getting us on the brink of another war that nobody could win.”

  “A war with who?”

  “With any number of countries, along the flash point divides.”

  “You’re talking about Pakistan and India, Israel and North Korea and just about everyone else on their borders.”

  “And others.”

  “You said there were two groups. Who is the second?”

  “Someone inside the White House.”

  Page sat down and called his secretary in the outer office. “We’re not to be disturbed for any reason.” He hung up, his mood unreadable. “Are you accusing the president of trying to kill you?”

  “I don’t think he’s involved, at least not directly.”

  “The intel group—and I’m assuming you believe that could involve someone inside the Company—wants to push the president into making a blunder, make him look bad, and they believe that you have to be eliminated before you expose them. Your soft coup.”

  “Yes,” McGarvey said. “The problem is the blunder could get out of hand and a shooting war could actually start.”

  “But the White House group, the one you think the president has no knowledge of, wants you dead for what reason? It’d have to be a very good one.”

  “The intel people want him to look bad, but his own people want the opposite, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “The real problem is, who hired al-Daran—al Nassr, ‘the Eagle’—to kill me?”

  “Providing that you’re on the right track, I’d have to guess it was your flash points people. Providing anything you’ve come up with is even close to reality. Or perhaps your Eagle came after you purely out of revenge for stopping him from taking down the second pencil tower in New York.”

  “Someone tried to kill me at the Farm, and the woman gunned down at the Watergate was killed by guys I’m pretty sure were military or ex-military, sent because she was meeting with me.”

  “She was one of your flash point people?”

  “Yes, and she was possibly in contact at some point with al-Daran in Monaco and with the Saudi intelligence agency.”

  “Lets the White House off the hook.”

  “I shot one of them in the stairwell outside of Fischer’s apartment, but the second shooter was gunned down in the parking garage by someone else.”

  “Someone from the White House group?”

  “It’s a possibility, Walt. And if they’re willing to go that far, whatever they’ve got planned to make their boss look good could backfire just as easily.”

  Page swiveled in his chair and looked out the window. “You can see the seasons changing from here. Sometimes after it snows all night, the scene out there is beautiful. Peaceful, serene. Nothing bad creeping up on us.”

  He turned back. “As of a half hour ago Hezbollah had fired six rockets into the heart of Tel Aviv. Lots of casualties. We’ve got reasonable intel that Iran may have reneged on their nuclear treaty. Their diplomatic envoy has been called to Camp David, where the president has gone for a long weekend.

  “North Korea announced that it will fire a series of ICBM’s that could rain down on us. And you’ve told me that you think someone working on behalf of the president may have tried to assassinate the former director of this agency. Does any of that sound totally nuts to you?”

  “Insanity run amok,” McGarvey said. He felt sorry for Page, and for every other hapless son of a bitch who’d ever taken the job as director of the CIA. The world was a scary place and the person who sat behind this desk, and who answered not only to Congress but to the director of national security and the president, was never in an easy spot.

  If he brought bad news, he was blamed. If he brought good news, he was suspected of having his head buried in the sand.

  The new national director of intelligence, who was chartered to oversee all fourteen separate U.S. intelligence agencies, and supposed to shoulder all the responsibilities for reporting and analysis—the same job the CIA had been created to do—was not much more than a showpiece: a purely political appointment with little or no intelligence gathering or analysis capabilities.

  McGarvey had sat in Page’s seat for a very short time, and he’d hated every minute of it. At heart he was a field officer, not an administrator.

  “Okay, you and I will chopper up to Camp David. To this point this president has been accessible. But once we get there, what are you going to tell him? And remember, if it doesn’t make any sense to me, it surely won’t to him.”

  “I’ll tell him what I suspect is happening. What the unintended consequences might be.”

  “You’re going to warn the president?”

  “What other choice do we have?”

  “Quit right now, and walk away from it.”

  “I’ve already tried that, Walt. But they came to me in Sarasota.”

  “Your Eagle did. Go after him, not the president,” Page said. “Not this president. He’ll just laugh in your face.”

  “I’ll mention Nixon.”

  FORTY-ONE

  C
amp David, officially known as the Naval Support Facility Thurmont, was located on five thousand mostly wooded acres about sixty miles northwest of the White House. Staffed by navy and Marine Corps personnel, the place was not open to the public and even the airspace above the facility was strictly off-limits.

  Except to the DCI’s helicopter flying up from Langley, and squawking the proper transponder codes.

  Page had phoned Martha Draper, the president’s chief of staff, to ask for the meeting. As it turned out, Amir Saleh, the Iranian envoy, had already left, and the president was in a very good mood.

  “Something new since your morning brief?” she’d asked.

  “Yes. But we shouldn’t take up too much of his weekend.”

  “We?”

  “I’m bringing Kirk McGarvey with me. He’d like a word.”

  McGarvey, sitting across from Page’s desk, the phone in speaker mode, had heard Draper’s hesitation.

  “Anything I need to brief the boss on before you get up here?”

  McGarvey shook his head.

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

  An F-15 fighter/interceptor jet appeared off their starboard side, and flying dirty and slow kept station until the DCI’s Airbus AS365 Dauphin VIP helicopter was cleared for landing, and touched down on the pad a hundred yards south of the Laurel Lodge conference room.

  Three specially equipped golf carts were waiting as Page and McGarvey got out. Two of them carried Secret Service officers, while Draper and President Weaver were in the third.

  Two of the Secret Service agents hustled over.

  “Are you armed, Mr. McGarvey?” one them asked.

  “No.”

  “The president has a few minutes for you, sir,” the agent said. He spoke briefly into his lapel mic.

  Weaver got out of his golf cart and waited until the agent escorted McGarvey and Page to him. He was a tall man, well above six feet, with a husky, but in no way overweight, build. His face, expressive eyes and square jaw had probably been seen on more television news and broadcasts and internet sites over the past two years than any other person’s in history.

  One of his famous lines during the run-up to the election was: “Face it, people, I’m more popular than Santa Claus.”

  He and Page shook hands. “Good to see you, Mr. Director.”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever met Kirk McGarvey.”

  “Never had the pleasure,” Weaver said. He and McGarvey shook hands, the president’s grip dry and firm. “But your reputation precedes you, and like just about everyone else, I was happy to learn that you survived the terrorist attack. You were lucky.”

  “Luckier than most, Mr. President.”

  Weaver smiled.

  “Kirk wanted to have a word with you, Mr. President,” Page said.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Weaver said, taking McGarvey’s arm. “We won’t be long,” he told Page.

  They took a path directly away from the helicopter, down the hill through the woods. Both Secret Service carts followed at a discreet distance.

  McGarvey had briefed several presidents over his career, and Weaver was the same as all of them, in that an electric aura surrounded him, like a halo, or the northern lights. The power was palpable and very real.

  Away from Page and Draper his smile went away, but he said nothing until they were around a bend in the path and out of sight of everyone except his Secret Service minders. He stopped.

  “I understand that you were involved in the shooting at the Watergate last night,” he said.

  It was a mistake. No one was supposed to know that McGarvey had been there. The man’s arrogance was the first thing in McGarvey’s mind, but he didn’t change his neutral expression.

  “Yes, sir. I was running down what I thought was an important lead that led me to Ms. Fischer—she was an analyst with the National Security Agency.”

  “I was briefed on her position. What lead?”

  “There may be a conspiracy to bring you down.”

  Weaver laughed. “Every president has faced that sort of thing. And if you guys kept running after the bogeymen hiding in the woods, you’d be missing the Islamic extremist bastards lined up on our borders. This is all-out war, McGarvey, don’t kid yourself. And the final outcome is just about as perilous for America as it was the day after Pearl Harbor.”

  “I agree with you.”

  Weaver smiled briefly. “That’s good,” he said. “Very good. Now are you telling me that you were targeted in Sarasota by these conspirators?”

  “It’s very likely they thought I might create a problem for them.”

  Again Weaver laughed, but it seemed forced. “From what I’ve been told you have a habit of getting into people’s faces. Enemies of America. And you’ve damned near lost your life on more than one occasion. And you’ve lost your wife and daughter and son-in-law. Maybe it’s time to retire.”

  “I’ve tried that, Mr. President. It never seems to stick.”

  “Your past catching up with you?”

  “Yes, sir, just like yours.”

  Weaver’s smile disappeared. He glanced back at his Secret Service detail, but they were far enough away to be out of earshot. McGarvey had not spotted any parabolic audio pickups on either cart, nor any other obvious surveillance devices in the trees, or beside the path.

  “Your job is to catch the bad guys coming our way. You did a good job in New York, and I expect if you keep your eye on the ball this time, you’ll do the same.”

  “Yes, sir. But that doesn’t change the likelihood that you’ve become a target. One that could very well spiral out of control.”

  “The CIA has no charter to spy within our borders. I suggest that you stick to that directive.”

  “Wouldn’t have worked in New York, Mr. President.”

  Weaver stepped close. “Look, you son of a bitch, I’m not going to listen to your shit. Back away, or I’ll have your ass down in Guantánamo.”

  “I signed on to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.”

  “Guantánamo along with your girlfriend and your geek friend.”

  It was a second mistake.

  “Someone on your staff may have hired the same Saudi-directed terrorist who took down the pencil tower in New York to kill me.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “One of them may be Ron Hatchett.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You sent him to Beijing. To do what?”

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “The thing is, he isn’t your enemy. In fact, he and the others believe that they’re your friends. They want to protect you. Save your presidency. Just like Haldeman and the others wanted to save Nixon’s.”

  “Get the hell back to Washington.”

  “Only this time, Mr. President, more than just a few people could get killed. Could lead at least to a regional war. Maybe something worse.”

  Weaver stalked directly back to his Secret Service detail, who had moved up a little closer because they’d realized that a possible threat was unfolding.

  “I want this son of a bitch back on the helicopter, now. If he refuses to leave, shoot him.”

  PART

  THREE

  The Consortium

  Two days later

  FORTY-TWO

  Yaser Abboud, dressed in an ordinary Western business suit, waited in the large anteroom outside of Prince Awadi bin Abdulaziz’s office at a compound outside of Riyadh. He had been summoned from his office at GIP headquarters to drop everything and come immediately. He’d been expecting the call for several days now, and he had done his homework.

  Although the prince was only one of at least a thousand Abdulaziz grandsons, and only held the position of deputy minister of foreign finance and communications, he was still of royal blood. And his power was nearly absolute.

  It was the prince who’d directed Sa’ad al-Sakr to
hire al Nassr to strike the U.S. last year, and even though the operation had been at least a partial success, it was Prince Awadi who had ordered al-Sakr’s death.

  Just about everyone inside the intelligence agency knew about the execution, but they had only a few glimmerings of why it had been ordered. Al-Sakr, himself a minor prince, had been a major in special projects, but in this case his royal blood had not saved him.

  Prince Awadi was making a reputation for himself over the dead bodies of officers who failed him. Abboud had a feeling his own head was getting close to the chopping block. And for nothing other than obeying orders.

  The ornately carved double doors opened, and Prince Awadi’s personal secretary beckoned. “The prince will receive you now, Captain.”

  Awadi was short for an Abdulaziz, but his nose was typically prominent, his eyes hooded and his complexion dark. He was dressed in Gucci loafers, no socks, designer jeans and a white silk shirt, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He did a lot of traveling in the West, and he’d taken to dressing the part. No explanations for why he didn’t dress traditionally, but then princes had no need to explain themselves.

  He was standing looking out the sliding glass doors at the lush green of the par-three nine-hole golf course he’d built a couple of years ago. Just the cost of maintaining the fairways and greens, especially the water features, was astronomical.

  But again, royalty was never questioned, even with the plunge in oil revenues.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Abboud said, stopping a respectful distance away.

  “What progress, Captain?” Awadi asked without turning.

  “I have the complete cooperation of the others. When the moment arrives the disinformation campaign will begin. U.S. military intelligence will believe that the threats of nuclear attacks at the six key flash points are on the verge of developing.”

  Awadi said nothing, waiting for Abboud to continue.

  “Our analysts believe, as you do, that President Weaver, faced with so many multiple problems, will be forced into making a series of missteps. The confidence of the American public will be deeply shaken.”