Flash Points: A Kirk McGarvey Novel Page 26

  Marty started to object, but Page held him off with a gesture.

  “A consortium of mid-level intelligence officers from around the world have been in contact with one of our generals who said that if Weaver were elected he would have trouble following any order from the White House.”

  “We’ve been over that ground already,” Page said.

  “Yes, but it came to me that the intel officers Echo talked to were ones whose agencies were directly, or at least heavily indirectly, involved in a number of trouble spots around the world. Places where if the wrong responses were made by Weaver it could result in fighting, possibly even the threat of nuclear strikes. Flash points. India–Pakistan, Israel and most of its neighbors, China–Taiwan, especially North and South Korea.”

  “We know what’s at stake,” Marty said. “That’s what we do here, remember?”

  It was Carleton’s turn to interject. “That’s not what Kirk is saying.”

  “Most of the people on Otto’s Consortium list are responsible for intercommunications with each other, and in some circumstances with us,” McGarvey said. “But none of them have communicated in the past several months.”

  “You set that up during our tenure as DCI,” Page said. “Talk before shooting. Good system.”

  “What if the Consortium started raising false flags? Maybe the guy on Otto’s list who works for India’s Defence Intelligence Agency warns that he has reliable intel that Pakistan is rattling its sabers. Its nuclear sabers, and the Indian government would like some help from our government.”

  “A problem for the president,” Page said, understanding coming into his eyes, his bad mood deepening.

  “The president would be forced into telephoning Pakistan’s PM, who of course would claim that nothing was going on. Weaver would come out looking like a fool, especially when his call to Shahid Abbasi was made public.”

  “Abbasi would have to act on Weaver’s call, in case it was India wanting to cause trouble,” Page said. “Tensions would be bumped up a notch.”

  “Let’s add China and Taiwan on the same day, and one by one a half-dozen other spots would flash. Maybe Putin would be dragged into the mix. Situations beyond Weaver’s ability to handle would pop up all over the place.”

  “Impossible for any president,” Page said. “But Weaver is the one sitting in the Oval Office.”

  “Once the ball got rolling, trouble could very easily follow,” Carleton said. “A tense situation could spiral out of control.”

  “The Consortium wants to make Weaver look so bad Congress would have no other choice but to impeach him.”

  “If we didn’t get into a shooting war first,” Bambridge said.

  “What are you suggesting we do about it?” Page asked.

  “There’s more,” McGarvey said. “On top of all that, someone else wants to make sure that Weaver succeeds. They’re going to do something drastic to make the president look very good. Turn him into a hero.”

  No one said anything for a longish moment until Page spoke up.

  “Someone on his staff, or directed by his staff, has put something in motion, is that what you’re saying? Like Nixon’s people at the Watergate break-in?”

  “Watergate was just a spy mission to get intel on what the Democrats were doing. Tame stuff.”

  “But now?”

  “Ron Hatchett, the president’s deputy adviser on national security affairs, took an under-the-radar trip to Beijing a month ago. Something, I suspect, that even Weaver doesn’t know about.”

  “You’re guessing,” Bambridge said.

  “Otto is working on some secure email trails, but I think that Hatchett hired someone to do a job of work.”

  “Dirty tricks?” Carleton suggested.

  “I think that the Saudi-born operative called al Nassr, Kamal al-Daran, was the one who met with Hatchett.”

  Marty and the others were startled.

  “The same guy that took down the pencil tower in New York and damned near took down a second one?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “To do what, specifically?”

  “I think that he’s been hired to direct one or more teams of ISIS recruits to attack us here in the States.”

  Marty came half off his chair. “Where the fucking hell did you come up with something like that?” he demanded.

  “We think that he visited a training base in northern Mexico. We redirected a satellite to take a closer look at what we expected had been used by one of the drug cartels as a staging point for shipments across our border.”

  “Did you see his face? Did you make a positive ID?”

  “No. But a man using one of Kamal’s false IDs stayed a night in Chihuahua not far from the base. The next morning he took a flight to Dallas–Fort Worth.”

  “And?” Page asked, his voice soft. He knew what was coming.

  “The base hadn’t been abandoned. Looked like a dozen or more people were training with weapons. On one pass we even detected two explosions.”

  “Did you give the Mexican authorities a heads-up?”

  “By the second day activities at the camp appeared to be winding down.”

  “And you think what? Page asked.

  “The ISIS team or teams are already here.”

  “You want to go back to the president and confront him with this,” Page said, not as a question but as a statement.

  “Exactly that,” McGarvey said. “And I also want to tell him that Hatchett or whoever hired al-Daran also hired the man to do another job.”

  “To assassinate you?” Carleton asked.

  “Something he’s already tried to do more than once.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Pastor Buddy’s Gulfstream G280 touched down at San Francisco International Airport a little after eight in the morning local, and the pilot taxied over to the Signature private jet terminal, where a Maybach limo and driver were waiting.

  No girl had accompanied Kamal, at his request.

  “I’m meeting with three sets of donors, and I’m not going to have much time for pleasure,” he’d told the pastor.

  “Money does take precedence after all, brother,” Buddy had agreed.

  All told to this point, Kamal had transferred three-quarters of a million dollars to the pastor’s private account, with promises of much more to come.

  “My salvation,” Kamal had told him piously.

  Buddy had sketched the sign of the cross in the air in front of Kamal’s face. “And my eternal gratitude.”

  The image of breaking the idiot’s neck and watching his face turn blue as he died stayed with Kamal the entire journey west.

  “I’ll be about an hour, perhaps a little longer,” he told the Gulfstream pilot.

  “Shall we refuel?”

  “File for New Orleans next.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kamal left his two bags in the aircraft’s cargo hold. He’d fixed simple ultraviolet telltales on the locks that would show up only under the UV flashlight on his satphone. If they were tampered with he would know, and the faint glow would show up on the fingers of whoever had opened the locks. It would be an automatic death sentence.

  “Where shall I take you, sir?” the limo driver asked when a Signature attendant had closed the rear door.

  “St. Mary’s Cathedral,” Kamal said. “It’s on Gough Street.”

  “Yes, sir. I know it.”

  It was a Friday and the middle of rush-hour traffic, so it took the better part of a half hour to get downtown and double-park in front of the church. Kamal got the driver’s cell phone number.

  “I should be only fifteen or twenty minutes. I’ll call and let you know when you can pick me up.”

  Kamal got out of the car and went inside the church, where from the door he waited until the Maybach was gone. He went outside and headed to the parking garage, where he’d left the RV.

  * * *

  Baz hadn’t said where the two people he’d sent would be staying, but he�
��d vouched for their reliability. “It’s a matter of doing something for their eternal souls. Nothing will stop them.”

  Kamal walked past the garage, making sure that the place wasn’t being watched. So far as he could tell the block was clean, and he went back.

  The padlock on the door was gone. For a long moment he stared at the hasp, his rage threatening to block out his reason.

  He tried the door, but it had been locked from inside. The only windows were above the service door, which opened and shut as a single unit. There were no cracks through which he could look inside.

  Traffic on the street was light, and a man and a woman had come out of an apartment building down the block and walked away.

  Kamal took his pistol put of its holster, and holding it out of sight from any passersby, knocked on the door with his free hand.

  “Yes, just a moment, please,” a man said from inside. His accent was Middle Eastern.

  The door rattled open and one of Baz’s men stepped back. Kamal didn’t know his name, nor did he care, but he recognized him from the training base.

  A woman he also recognized from the camp, in jeans and a yellow T-shirt, was crouched on the roof of the RV from where she could look out the windows above the door. She had seen him coming.

  Kamal stepped inside and pulled the door shut. “You’re two days early, what are you doing here?”

  “The hotel wasn’t safe. We thought we would be better off staying here,” the girl said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The man at the desk looked at us like we were some kind of idiots.”

  Kamal almost laughed despite himself. “What about food and water?”

  “The vehicle is well stocked and very comfortable,” the girl said. “We will be ready on Sunday. We have made a promise.”

  The passenger-side door was open.

  “What about the explosives?”

  “We’ve attached the detonators, and we’ve already programmed the number into both of our cell phones. All but the last digit.”

  Kamal resisted the urge to step back. The two of them didn’t look crazy, but they were only the number 9 away from taking out not only this garage, but a fair portion of the entire block.

  “As we promised, al Nassr, we will not fail you,” the girl said.

  Kamal nodded. “Then may Allah bless and keep you.”

  “So as his will goes,” the girl replied from the roof of the RV. “There is no one coming. If you wish to leave now, it is safe.”

  * * *

  Kamal holstered his pistol before he left the garage. He walked back to the cathedral where he phoned the driver, who showed up a couple of minutes later.

  “Back to the airport, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  On the way he had second thoughts about going to New Orleans. Baz’s people had shown up at Buddy’s church, and the pastor had taken them in with open arms. A couple of workers looking for a place to bunk, three meals a day and salvation, for which they were willing to work for no pay, was an extra bonus from his new benefactor. No questions needed to be asked.

  Kamal had no doubt that they would don their explosive vests and walk down the aisles at noon in the middle of the sermon and kill a great number of Christians. Praise Allah.

  Nor did he have any doubt that the couple sleeping in the RV would drive it onto the Golden Gate Bridge and set off the explosives at noon on Sunday.

  New Orleans would be no different. Even more people would die.

  Which left a woman with a baby at Grand Central Station and Kirk McGarvey.

  * * *

  Kamal gave the driver a hundred-dollar bill and went inside the terminal, where he found the pilot and co-pilot in the crew lounge.

  “Ready to go, sir?” the pilot asked.

  “Change of plans. Do we have enough fuel to make New York City, or do we need to top off first?”

  “Plenty, with a reserve. Will we be spending the night, sir?”

  “I’ll be staying for a few days, but I won’t be needing you for at least a week, perhaps longer.”

  “We’ll check the en route weather and file a flight plan,” the captain was saying, but Kamal had turned and walked away.

  Back on board, he helped himself to a bottle of Krug from the galley, opened it, and was strapped in and starting on his second glass when the crew came aboard.

  The captain hesitated a moment. “Pastor Buddy wishes you a safe flight, and looks forward to your return. He’s just sorry that you’ll miss Sunday’s sermon.”

  “Not as sorry as I will be,” Kamal said.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  McGarvey emerged from the VH-60S executive helicopter at the Pentagon’s heliport at four in the afternoon. An army first lieutenant was waiting to escort him.

  “Good afternoon, sir. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the conference room.”

  “Thanks,” McGarvey said.

  Otto had arranged for the helicopter and for a CIA photo ID showing McGarvey as a special assistant deputy director to the DCI. Page’s secretary had phoned to set up an appointment with General Echo and Lieutenant Colonel Chambeau, without mentioning Mac’s name, for an exploratory meeting on the shooting incident at the Watergate.

  McGarvey had to show his ID in order to pass through security and the lieutenant took him to the D ring and then up to the fourth floor. The building was surprisingly quiet, but operations in Iraq and Afghanistan had mostly wound down, leaving Syria as the only major hot spot for now.

  They followed the ring just past corridor three to an office marked 321. “I’ll be standing by to take you back to your ride, sir.”

  McGarvey knocked once and went in.

  Echo and Chambeau, seated at a small conference table, looked up.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Echo said, and he started to rise, but McGarvey waved him back.

  “We can either do this the easy way here and now, or turn it over to your boss and the FBI. Your choice, gentlemen.”

  Echo and Chambeau exchanged a look, but the general sat back down.

  “I’m only going to take a couple minutes of your time,” McGarvey said. He perched on the edge of the table across from the two men. “Cooperate and you’ll probably walk free. Fuck with me, and I’ll have the Bureau here within minutes. We already have enough on both of you to make charges of conspiracy to commit treason, conspiracy to commit mass murder, and conspiracy—or at least complicity—in the death of Susan Fischer.”

  “I wasn’t involved,” Chambeau blurted.

  “Your wife had her killed because you were fucking her. You knew it was going to happen and you did nothing.”

  “Prove it,” Echo said.

  “You contacted your peers in a dozen intelligence services around the world, including Pakistan’s ISI, and Russia’s SVR, to have them help you bring down Weaver. Treason, Echo.”

  “Like I said, prove it.”

  “I want you to call it off. Tell your friends to back away. Now. This afternoon. This evening.”

  Echo got to his feet. “Go fuck yourself, McGarvey.”

  McGarvey pushed away from the table. “People could get killed, you arrogant bastard.”

  “We’ve already had this discussion,” Echo said. “We won’t have it again.”

  He headed for the door, but McGarvey put a hand on the man’s chest and pushed him back.

  Echo wasn’t a large man, but he was reasonably fit. He threw a roundhouse. McGarvey ducked the punch and rapped the knuckles of his right fist on the bridge of the man’s nose, staggering him badly enough that he almost went down. Blood gushed from both nostrils.

  “Enough!” Chambeau shouted. “We’ll call it off, I promise.”

  “You’re a fucking dead man, McGarvey,” Echo snarled.

  Otto was already on the line when McGarvey pulled out his cell phone.

  “A security detail is on its way to you.”

  “Call the Bureau’s Washington SAC to get a team over h
ere. We’ll give them what we already have.”

  “I’m on it. Are you carrying?”

  “I left it on the chopper.”

  “Good. I’ll let Page know what’s happening. Just stand by, help is on the way.”

  “I have friends on the inside!” Echo shouted.

  The door was flung open, and two civilian security guards, their pistols drawn, were right there.

  One of them came in, while the other stayed in the corridor.

  “Arrest this son of a bitch,” Echo told the guards. “But watch him, he’s got a gun.”

  McGarvey spread his arms and legs. “My name is Kirk McGarvey. I work for the CIA. I am not armed.”

  The first guard holstered his pistol, and while the one in the corridor covered him, he searched McGarvey. “He’s clean.”

  “My identification is inside my jacket on the left side.”

  The guard got it, leaving himself wide open to be disarmed. He stepped back and checked the ID. “He’s a deputy director.”

  “The FBI is on the way to arrest these two men on charges of treason,” McGarvey said. “Keep an eye on them.”

  “This man’s an imposter,” Echo told the security officers.

  The officer didn’t know what to do.

  Echo pulled out a Beretta semiauto pistol from beneath his uniform blouse.

  Before he could point it, McGarvey stepped aside, snatched the gun from the general’s hand and pushed him back against the conference table.

  “You had your chance, you dumb bastard.”

  “He’s going to get us in a war!” Echo screamed. “He’s going to launch nuclear weapons. The man is unhinged. He’s not qualified. He’s not fit to sit in the White House. He has to be stopped, goddamnit!”

  “The general needs a medic,” McGarvey said.

  Chambeau had remained seated through all of it. “Susan was a part of it, I think,” he said. “But I never thought it would go this far, this fast. I thought it was just talk.”

  “What about your wife?”

  Echo had fallen silent.

  “She and her brother were close,” Chambeau said, and then he looked away.

  * * *

  McGarvey was sitting back in his chair in Otto’s office, taking a break, when Pete came up from the cafeteria with coffee and sandwiches. It was midnight.