Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel Page 22

  “Major Kuzin, I’m at Delta.”

  “He is expecting your call, Major. One moment please.”

  Delta was the unofficial designator for the Novorossiysk training base.

  General Subotin came on. “I hope that you have called with good news.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. Anatoli died en route.”

  “He had only a broken leg.”

  “He’d been shot and bled out within minutes after we’d gotten him aboard.”

  The line was silent for several moments, and when Subotin came back he sounded resigned. “Then we’ll never know what those bastards were trying to accomplish in Paris.”

  “It would seem not, sir.”

  “Too bad. But what about the other matter? I’m being pressed by General Gibson. He asked me to look into it as a personal favor.”

  “Nothing on that score, sir. The man who was fished out of the sea was our operator, there’s no doubt about it.”

  “Not Mr. McGarvey?”

  “No, sir. But I honestly wished it had been. I would have loved to interview him before we sent him home.”

  “I’m sure. When you get back to Moscow with your report, please copy me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then thank you for your personal involvement. I’ll pass it along to Mr. Putin.”

  “I’m truly sorry that the situation turned out as it did.”

  * * *

  McGarvey, in shackles binding his ankles and wrists, was escorted by a pair of operators to a small concrete box of a room four stories beneath a hardened bunker, across the eleven-thousand-acre Spetsnaz base from the headquarters complex.

  Coming in aboard the helicopter he’d gotten a good aerial view of the sprawling training facility, which in many respects was a near duplicate of the CIA’s Farm. But nothing he’d seen from a couple of hundred feet above was any more detailed then the satellite pictures Louise had shown him and Pete a year and a half ago.

  Spetsnaz special forces operators were trained just as rigorously here as the CIA’s recruits were at Camp Perry.

  A Spetsnaz captain, seated at a small metal table in the middle of the room, looked up. “Remove Mr. McGarvey’s shackles. I don’t think he means to cause us any trouble.” The man’s face was deeply scarred by childhood acne, but his eyes were warm and his expression was friendly.

  “At least not for now,” Raya said, coming in behind them.

  The operators removed the shackles and left. Neither they nor the captain or the woman were armed.

  Raya closed the door and invited Mac to have a seat in one of the two chairs facing the captain at the table. She had the same eager expression as she’d had on the helicopter ride to the base. She was genuinely glad to be at this place at this moment.

  “You know of course that I won’t cooperate,” McGarvey said, sitting down. He was dressed in the same clothing he’d been given aboard the patrol vessel.

  “Yes, we know this,” Raya said. “But you must know that time is on our side, so we won’t have to resort to drugs, at least not in the near term.”

  “Fair enough. But I will escape, and if needs be I’ll kill you.”

  “Then we understand each other,” Raya said.

  “Shall we begin?” the captain asked. “Incidentally my name is Vadim Tarasov. I am the chief psyops officer here. Do you understand what this means?”

  McGarvey nodded. “We have the same psychological warfare and counterwarfare division at the Farm.”

  “We know this, but our people are better,” Tarasov said. “Let’s start with your particulars—name, date, and place of birth, Social Security number, addresses. Data that we can easily verify with a soft credit check.”

  “You have that information.”

  “You never liked your positions at Langley—not as head of the Clandestine Service nor as DCI. You’re a field man—always have been.”

  “True.”

  “So just out of curiosity, why did you take those jobs?” Tarasov asked.

  “That’s easy,” Raya said. “Mr. McGarvey has always operated under the flag-waving comic book hero Superman’s motto. Truth, justice, and the American way. A patriot and gentleman in the truest sense of those words.”

  “And a friend,” Tarasov said.

  “A loyal friend and lover,” Raya agreed. “Who has lost every woman he’s ever been involved with.”

  Raya stood to McGarvey’s left. He looked at her, but said nothing. She and the captain were a good team. They were baiting him, and they knew that he knew it. But angry men made mistakes, especially at the beginning or near the end.

  “Of course, you could not have heard about Ms. Boylan. She apparently died of her wounds at your consulate in Istanbul.”

  “A tragic love story,” Tarasov said.

  “One that he is all too familiar with,” Raya said. “No one left to mourn him.”

  “Will you have anyone mourn your death?” McGarvey asked her.

  * * *

  Otto was in his inner office, looking up at an image of a woman on one of his large flat-screen monitors, when one of his darlings announced that Louise and Pete were at the door.

  “Open sesame,” Otto said, not taking his eyes off the screen. He was missing something. He could feel it around the edges, like the nagging start of a toothache.

  “Who’s that?” Pete asked.

  “Raya Kuzin. She’s one of Putin’s chief advisers on things American—especially the CIA and especially Mac,” Otto said, turning to her. “How are you?”

  “I’ll live,” Pete said.

  “Pretty girl,” Louise said. “What’s she doing up there?”

  “Apparently she was aboard the helicopter that fished Mac out of the water.”

  “What was a Putin adviser doing in Novorossiysk at just that moment?” Pete asked. “That’s gotta be more than a coincidence.”

  “They knew that he was coming to them, so Putin sent her out to conduct the initial interviews,” Otto said. “Thing is, she called Subotin and told him that the guy they pulled out of the water was one of theirs. Supposedly a SVR ringer aboard the patrol vessel. She told the general that the man bled to death from a gunshot wound. And all that was on an unencrypted line.”

  “Why didn’t she go through the Kremlin? Report it directly to her boss?”

  “Because she knew that we would be listening,” Otto said.

  “So in effect she told us that they do have Mac. The SVR ringer story was just that.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Otto said. “The point is, why did she do it?”

  “She wants something,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, but what?” Louise asked.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The pretty blond Skyjet stewardess came aft to where Najjir and Miriam were finishing an early supper of eggs Benedict and mimosas in the well-appointed main cabin of the Gulfstream 350.

  “Sir, the captain asks to tell you that our flight plan has been changed,” she said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Najjir demanded. He looked out the window, but nothing was visible except for desert to the horizon.

  “We have been diverted to Riyadh.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” Najjir said, something clutching at his chest.

  Miriam’s eyes were wide. “What’s this about?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m damned well going to find out,” Najjir said, undoing his seat belt.

  “The captain will speak with you, sir, but first there is a phone call for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but they asked for you by a name that is not on our manifest, and the captain is most concerned.”

  Najjir snatched the phone next to his armrest. “This is Claude Degas. To whom am I speaking?” Degas was the name he’d used to book the flight to Jeddah, on the Saudi Red Sea coast.

  The only immediate trouble that he could think of was that Endicott’s body had been found in the old factory and th
e murder had been traced back to him and Miriam. But it had been a clean kill, with no witnesses. Nor did he think that anyone had noticed them parking the car in a downtown garage and taking a taxi from there to the private aviation service.

  “Ah, Mr. Najjir, this is Colonel Wasem. I’m calling on behalf of Prince Awadi bin Abdulaziz.”

  “You have the wrong person.”

  “Yes, sir, but the prince wants most urgently to speak with you and your companion, concerning Paris and, most recently, Istanbul.”

  “I don’t know who you are or what the fuck you’re talking about, but I chartered this flight to Jeddah and now I’m diverting to Cairo.”

  “I work for the GIP, as you once did, and if you will take a look out any window on the starboard side of your aircraft, I believe that you will reconsider.”

  Najjir looked to the right, as a pair of F-15C fighter jets with Saudi markings appeared, so close that he could see the pilots in each of the fighters.

  “They have been asked to escort your aircraft, where once you have arrived the crew will be allowed to return to Istanbul.”

  Najjir exchanged a look with Miriam, who seemed about ready to jump out of her skin. If McGarvey had been found he would be in Novorossiysk by now, and even though the Russians had him, he would still provide some leverage with the Saudi intelligence agency, and whoever Prince Abdulaziz was.

  “I understand,” he said, and he put the phone down. “Bring us another mimosa, if you please, love,” he told the stewardess, who nodded and went forward.

  “What the hell is going on?” Miriam demanded, her voice low. She was frightened.

  “That was a GIP colonel who says that some prince wants to talk to us.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “He mentioned Paris and Istanbul.”

  The captain came aft. His name was Webb and he was a Scot. “I don’t know who the hell you people are, and I don’t give a damn. But as soon as we drop you off in Riyadh we’re gone.”

  “Be careful on your radios, or this aircraft and your crew might disappear somewhere out in the desert.”

  The captain started to say something, but he thought better of it, and went forward.

  * * *

  Colonel Yaser Wasem, who was in charge of the GIP’s Special Projects North American Division, telephoned Prince Abulaziz’s compound just outside the city. He got one of the prince’s personal secretaries. “The couple who Prince Awadi wishes to see are en route.”

  “Were there any difficulties?”

  “Nothing insurmountable.”

  “Hold, please.”

  “As you wish,” Wasem said.

  The secretary was back two minutes later. “We are sending a car for them. The aircraft will be refueled and allowed to fly anywhere, providing it is out of Saudi airspace. While on the ground the crew will be isolated. Is this clear?”

  “Perfectly. Will I be required to escort the couple to the prince’s compound?”

  “No, and once they have left the airport and the aircraft and crew are gone, the GIP will withdraw its interest in the matter. Is this also clear?”

  “Of course,” Wasem said, but the secretary had already hung up.

  The only troubling aspect was why he had been personally contacted to handle the situation that, so far as he knew, had nothing to do with North America. Although Prince Awadi was only a minor cousin, he was still a royal. And one of a particularly—some said—insane temperament.

  He figured that realistically he had two options. Either he could ride it out and weather whatever shitstorm Prince Awadi was involved with. But the last time something the prince had cooked up ended in the execution by firing squad of a rising star within the GIP.

  Or he could suddenly go to Washington to make an on-site personal inspection of his four networks—three in DC and the fourth in New York. Of course he would take his wife, Laila, and their two children, Izet and Rana, with him. He’d been approached by a couple of major US military equipment suppliers to work as a liaison. It could be a good life for them.

  If he could get them out of the country without the prince finding out.

  * * *

  Prince Awadi was only one of more than one thousand Abdulaziz cousins, but his power as deputy minister of foreign finance and communications, as well as every other aspect of his existence, was nearly absolute. He was a royal.

  But it was not enough for him. He wanted to be ambassador to the UN, where he could speak for the entire kingdom. His prestige in Washington as well as here in Riyadh, at the royal palace, would be beyond measure. And the wealth that he could accumulate because of his position would be equally uncountable.

  But such a sudden rise entailed risks. Which he had willingly taken for the last two years, projecting his apparent insanity as a smoke screen. A misdirection.

  He was on the fourth hole of the lush, green, par-three nine-hole golf course at his palatial compound north of the city. He was alone, so it gave him no pleasure cheating three pars in a row and just about to putt for a forty-foot birdy. But he was so close to bringing his big op, as he’d thought of his plan, to fruition, he wanted no one around him, in case he made a slip of the tongue.

  But this thing now in Paris, which had blown up because of some stupidly improbable case of blind bad luck, needed to be resolved. And the son of a bitch and his whore flying from Istanbul were going to be the means of his success at last. And no one or nothing on earth, not Allah himself—God bless the Prophet and disciples—would get in the way.

  Awadi’s putt ended five feet to the left of the hole and easily twenty feet short. He wrote a three on his scorecard, then walked across the green and picked up his ball.

  Back at his cart, he stuffed the gold-plated putter in the bag, sat behind the wheel, and called a number in Moscow.

  A man answered on the first ring. “Da?”

  “What is the current status of my shipment to Jeddah?”

  “There has been a complication.”

  Awadi held his temper in check, avoiding screaming a thousand obscenities. “What complication?”

  “Paris was not the distraction you promised it would be.”

  “The tower did not come down, but the police and French intelligence service are involved. They’ve asked help from the Americans.”

  “That’s the problem. One of them has ended up here in our hands.”

  “One of who?” Awadi practically screamed. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “A former director of the fucking CIA is here, and we can’t admit we have him.”

  “It has nothing to do with our deal.”

  “It has everything to do with it. They’re watching us so closely we can’t fart without the bastards taking notice.”

  “How much more do you want, to make delivery as planned?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “One hundred million euros?”

  The Russian said nothing.

  “Two hundred?” Awadi said. “Two hundred fifty?”

  “Five hundred,” the Russian said.

  The figure—a half a billion euros—took Awadi’s breath away. “Yes,” he said. “Agreed. Give me a date.”

  “Forty-eight hours,” the Russian said. “But not here.”

  “Where?”

  “New York.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  It was two in the morning and Bambridge was sitting in his kitchen nursing a glass of red wine and smoking one of his wife’s Marlboros. Filthy habit, he’d always thought, and he’d been an ever-present nag whenever she lit up, even though he’d smoked since he was fifteen and had not quit until three years ago.

  But this morning the smoke, which made him slightly dizzy, was a comfort.

  He’d tried one of the porn sites to contact Rodak, but the entire address was gone. The site had not just been shut down; it had been erased.

  It was Rencke, of course. The son of a bitch was on the hunt, and the man wouldn’t stop until he was eliminated. Wiped off
the fucking face of the earth. Along with his geek of a wife. And McGarvey, and Pete Boylan.

  Either that or he could run. Bury himself somewhere. He had accumulated enough money over the past several years, plus the mil and a half from this op, so that could afford to change his identity, including a little plastic surgery, and set himself up as a retiree. Someplace warm and anonymous. Somewhere in the Caribbean.

  But Bill Rodak was the key. If the Russian thing went all to hell because of McGarvey none of them would be safe, but Bill had the connections to make problems disappear.

  Marty’s wife, Pamela, wearing pajama bottoms and an old T-shirt of his, padded into the kitchen. She got a wineglass from the cupboard and he poured her some wine.

  “You’re up late,” he said.

  “Did you know that the alarm system isn’t working?” Pamela said. She was a shrew of a woman, with a narrow face and a beak of a nose. But she was sharp.

  “Maintenance is coming over first thing to check it out.”

  She took the cigarette from him. “With everything going on lately, shouldn’t they be here already?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She took a drag of the cigarette and gave it back to him. “You’ve been shittier than normal lately, more hours at work, nightmares about McGarvey damned near every night, and now smoking? What gives?”

  “What nightmares?”

  “You keep calling his name.”

  Marty turned away. If he had to take a runner, he’d figured to go it alone. But he and Pamela had been together for twenty-one years, too long a time to throw away. She’d told him more than once to dial it back. He was too uptight, too much of a prig sometimes. Go with the flow, she’d say. Chill out.

  But such things were not in his nature. His job was the problem.

  Quit, then, she’d say. You’re a bright man, lots of experience. You could set yourself up as a security consultant. A lot of those guys cash in on their Company experience. Why not you?

  Marty stubbed out the cigarette. “I may be in some trouble.”

  She nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  “I may have screwed up.”

  “Happens to everyone.”

  “This is the big time. McGarvey was taken by the Russians after his girlfriend was killed. I had a hand in it.”