The Fourth Horseman Page 29

  “Keep Dave away from her. No telling what he’s capable of doing.”

  “What about you?” Otto asked.

  “I assume we’re going to Langley to answer some questions, but afterwards I’ll have a few things to tell the president. Stuff she’s not likely going to like.”

  “I want to be on the team interviewing Haaris,” Pete said.

  “And I want to listen in,” Mac said.

  SIXTY-SIX

  The two minders Boyle had sent with Haaris handed him over to a pair of Langley muscle who’d shown up at Andrews with a Cadillac Escalade. Actually, it felt good to be back, not because this was home—he’d never felt that—but because this was the end game that had been in the planning stages for more than five years.

  By now the three packages had arrived at their points of entry. Two had been sent to the joint base at Dover and the third to Farnborough, outside London. They would be isolated with other hazardous materials.

  Messy, full of potential troubles just waiting to happen. But the outcome was inevitable. The firing circuits had been connected to cell phones. Any incoming call would immediately start the detonation cycles. All three of the phones had the same number.

  He’d given his word not to be difficult, so he’d not been handcuffed by Boyle’s people. And the pair from Langley saw no need for restraints either. Haaris was one of theirs.

  “Gentleman, thanks for the ride across the pond,” he told the two from London. “Must you turn around and get back immediately?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” the one named Masters said. They were both kids, barely in their late twenties.

  “Too bad, I would like to have taken you to dinner this evening,” Haaris said. They shook hands. “My compliments to Mr. Boyle.”

  All very civilized, Haaris thought, getting into the backseat of the Caddy. But it was happening the way he’d expected. There’d been accusations that he was the Messiah, but there could be no proof of it yet. On top of that he was cooperating, and he had the sympathy vote on two counts—his wife’s murder and his own terminal cancer. And sympathy almost always blinded the observer.

  They were passed through the gate, and once they were on the ring road, the security officer riding shotgun turned in his seat. “I was told to ask if you needed to stop first at All Saints, sir.”

  “Thanks, but no. Nothing Franklin can do for me at this point. I’d like to get my debriefing over with. The situation is spinning out of control and my people need to be on it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Marty Bambridge, his tie correctly knotted, his suit coat buttoned, met them at the elevator in the underground VIP parking garage beneath the Original Headquarters Building.

  “Glad to have you back, David,” the DDO said, shaking hands. He dismissed the two minders, who drove off.

  “It’s good to be back even though I walked away from a developing mess,” Haaris said. He left ambiguous what developing mess he was talking about, the one in Pakistan or the one here on his desk because of Pakistan. He wanted to get Bambridge’s reaction. But the DDO missed it.

  “Under the circumstances—we’re all terribly sorry about Deborah—no one could blame you. Though you did leave us in something of a lurch.”

  They rode directly up to the seventh floor, which surprised Haaris. “I thought that the director would have waited until after my debriefing to see me.”

  “He has a few questions first, we both have. Since your trip and your disappearance, you have become operational, under my purview.”

  “Has my desk been taken out of the DI?” Haaris asked. The DI, or Directorate of Intelligence, was where the analysis of most incoming information was performed. The DO, or Directorate of Operations—most often called the National Clandestine Service these days—did the work in the field. It was tasked with all kinds of spying, including the administration of the NOC program—the spies in the field who worked without official cover. It was their deaths the stars on the granite wall downstairs in the lobby represented.

  “At least until what we’re facing has been resolved.”

  The DCI’s secretary told them to go directly in.

  Walt Page was leaning against his desk, saying something to Carlton Patterson and an attractive woman in jeans, a white blouse, the sleeves rolled up above her shoulders, and a pink baseball cap.

  It took just a moment for Haaris to realize who she was because he’d not expected to see her here. He managed to cover the lapse by walking directly to Page and shaking his hand. “Quite a mess, Mr. Director. But not completely unexpected.”

  “Welcome back,” Page said.

  “Thank you,” Haaris replied. He turned to the others. “Carleton. And Miss Boylan, I’m surprised to see you here this morning.”

  “Why’s that, Dave?” Pete asked.

  “Just surprised, nothing more.”

  “Would you like a cup of coffee or anything before we start?” Page asked. His body attitude was of a man wanting to have a little chat and nothing more. He was saying that this was not to be an inquisition.

  It was more than Haaris had expected. “No. I’d like to get this over with so I can resume work. My people have a lot to catch up with.”

  “They’ve been holding the fort,” Bambridge put in, and Page shot him a look.

  “Where’ve you been all this time?” Page asked. “Boyle says you told him Paris and Istanbul, but we haven’t been able to find any traces.”

  “You wouldn’t have. I’m good at my job.”

  “What were you doing all this time?”

  “Grieving, in part, and coming to accept my condition,” Haaris said. “But before you ask, I am not the Messiah. I’ve not been anywhere near Pakistan since I got free from the Taliban. And I only hope that you put a contract on his life. He is directly responsible for the mess we’re facing. If we can take him out, we can start to repair the damage he’s caused.”

  “You warned us,” Pete said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m just wondering why.”

  “It was relatively easy to predict a unifying voice such as his to show up.”

  “I meant, why were you so adamant about warning the president that she would have to act? She ordered McGarvey to go over in disguise and kill him. You didn’t mention the unintended consequences, whether or not Mac was successful.”

  “Was he? The Messiah has evidently disappeared.”

  Marty started to say something but Pete held him off. “We lost touch with him.”

  “He was there in Islamabad?”

  “Yes,” Pete said. “And I think you were there too.”

  Haaris sat back, suppressing a smile. He had them. “You still think that I played the role of the Messiah.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your proof? Or is it just wishful thinking? Blame this on me, perhaps because of a less than lovely childhood? British public schools do have a reputation. Well deserved, I can assure you, from direct knowledge, though the education they offer is first rate.” He looked at the others. “But why, Miss Boylan? Why would I have put everything at risk to pull off such a fantastic scheme?”

  “You were dying. One last hurrah, thumb your nose at us and our cousins.”

  “Something like this would have to have been planned for years. I only just found out about my cancer last week.”

  Pete didn’t respond, and he thought that she looked confused, her lone argument shot down so easily.

  “If you want to find out his real identity, where he’s disappeared—unless Mr. McGarvey’s mission was a success—and the way out of the mess that we ourselves made, then let me get back to work.”

  No one said a thing.

  Haaris got to his feet. “I’ll get my people headed in the right direction, and then I’d like to go home for a shower, something to eat and a change of clothes. At some point I’ll need to brief the president.”

  “First we’ll need to debrief you, David,” Pete said, her
voice soft, almost silky, somehow bothersome.

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  Pete got up. “Good.”

  “Mr. Haaris, a question first, if you please,” Patterson said, his voice also soft. “Of course we’re all off-base here, about your being the Messiah, but we’re just trying to do our jobs.”

  “I understand.”

  “When the dust has settled, so to speak, do you contemplate bringing suit against the Company? Taking us to court and all that? Perhaps a memoir you’d refuse to allow us to vet? It’s been done before.”

  “Heavens, no,” Haaris said. “I’ve been an American from the beginning and always will be.” He smiled. “Truth, justice and the American way. Is that how it goes?”

  No one returned his smile.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Otto went with McGarvey over to Saul Landesberg’s studio in Technical Services, at the same moment Pete was walking out of the DCI’s office with Haaris. They’d heard everything over an in-house audio feed that Otto had set up. No one else except Pete knew about it, especially not Page, and certainly not Haaris.

  “He held his own,” Otto said.

  “No one accused the man of being stupid,” McGarvey said.

  “Gentlemen?” Landesberg asked, looking up.

  “We were talking about someone else, not you,” McGarvey said. “Especially not you.” He paused. “The ISI had me for a few hours, during which I was waterboarded.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Sporty. The point is, your makeup job survived.”

  “Of course it did,” Landesberg said. He sat McGarvey down and took the earbud out and handed it to Otto. “Won’t work in here. We’re shielded against everything except actual human presence. What happens in this room—how it happens—stays in this room.”

  “Interesting problem,” Otto said, grinning.

  It had taken Landesberg a little more than two hours to complete McGarvey’s disguise but less than twenty minutes to restore his hair color, uncover his natural features and bring back his complexion.

  “Nothing else I can do about your hair, but it’ll grow back in a few weeks. Nobody recognized you, not even close up?”

  “Just Pete Boylan.”

  “No shit?”

  “I’d give you a tip if I knew what you charged,” McGarvey said.

  “On the house, Mr. Director. And if you ever need me again, I’ll be here.”

  Outside, the section secretary had a phone call for McGarvey from Page.

  “The president wants to see you,” the DCI said.

  “How’d it go with Haaris?”

  “About how you expected it would. If he’s guilty of anything it’s being overly smooth. Miss Boylan just left with him to do the debriefing.”

  “I want to listen in before I head over to the White House, because I already know what the president is likely to say to me.”

  “I talked to her personally just now. She said you were to come immediately.”

  McGarvey hesitated.

  “Just get it over with, and try to be polite for a change. There’s never been a president who could do without you, but not one of them ever ended up liking you. Maybe this one will be different.”

  “I doubt it. Have a car brought round for me.”

  “Do you want a driver?”

  “No.”

  * * *

  On the way down to Otto’s office, McGarvey explained where he was going. Otto gave him a cell phone.

  “It should give me decent reception even from the Oval Office.”

  “Good thing you’re on our side. I’m going to make it short and to the point.”

  “She’ll have a witness, probably Susan Kalley.”

  “Good.”

  “What are you going to tell them?”

  “The truth,” McGarvey said.

  “I don’t think this president will like it very much.”

  * * *

  McGarvey was expected at the East Gate and was passed through without a credentials check. He turned the plain Chevy Impala with government plates around so that it was facing down the gentle hill, just past the door into the White House.

  The president’s adviser on national security affairs had been alerted to his arrival and she met him. “Thank you for being so prompt, Mr. McGarvey.” She was dressed in a feminine business suit, medium heels, a scarf around her throat. A serious outfit for a serious moment.

  McGarvey, on the other hand, wore khaki slacks, a white polo shirt and black blazer, boat shoes on his feet. His attitude was that he’d stopped over for a chat after just getting back from the front.

  “Are you carrying a firearm, Mr. Director?” the marine guard asked.

  “No.”

  He followed Kalley across to the extremely busy West Wing.

  “The Messiah has vanished,” she said. “Of course I’m sure that you knew this.”

  “It’s a mess over there. Any word yet from India?”

  “Their new aircraft carrier is standing about fifty miles off the coast from Karachi, and General Nasiri is screaming bloody murder, threatening to launch the air force to deal with the threat.”

  “I don’t know the name.”

  “Wasim Nasiri; he was the Pakistani army’s chief of staff and served as a defense minister. Sharp man, from what we’ve been told. Their parliament appointed him as temporary spokesman for the government, and the supreme court confirmed it last night. But I can tell you that he’s not made any difference so far. The country is in an almost total civil war. Some of the military units, especially up north and a few in the southwest, have joined the Taliban.”

  “What about their remaining nuclear weapons?”

  “Nasiri assured us that they are safe.”

  “Do you believe him?” McGarvey asked at the open door to the Oval Office.

  “No,” Kalley said.

  The president, her jacket hanging over the back of her desk chair, was just getting off the phone when they came in. “The Messiah has vanished,” she said.

  Kalley closed the door.

  “Did you manage to assassinate him?”

  “I met him face-to-face, and in fact he has not disappeared. He is here in the States, at Langley.”

  “The CIA has him in custody?”

  “Not yet. He’s one of ours, and no one else but me is convinced he played the role.”

  “Haaris,” Kalley said.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to see him here,” the president said, reaching for the phone.

  “That wouldn’t be smart, Madam President,” McGarvey said.

  “What did you say?”

  “If I’m right he is a dangerous man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.”

  “If he tried to get in with a gun he’d never get past the sentries.”

  “He wouldn’t need a weapon.”

  The president looked as if she was on the verge of exploding. “You’re convinced that David Haaris and the Messiah are one and the same man?”

  “Yes, ma’am”

  “You idiot,” Kalley said. “By your meddling you damned well might have sparked the breakdown.”

  “That will be enough,” Miller said.

  Kalley didn’t want to quit.

  “Leave us now,” the president said.

  Reluctantly Kalley got to her feet, glaring at McGarvey, and walked out of the Oval Office.

  “I asked you here to thank you, not only for what you did in Pakistan, but for what you’ve done, and what you’ve given, for your country. Unfortunately, there’ll be no medals, nor ceremonies on the lawn.” The president got up and came around her desk. McGarvey rose and she extended her hand. “It’s all I can do for now.”

  McGarvey smiled, and shook hands. “It’s enough for now,” he said.

  Miller read something in his eyes. “It’s not over yet.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then don’t let me keep you.”

  Outside, McGarvey walke
d down the hall the same way he’d come in. Kalley was nowhere in sight. At the east door he nodded to the marine sentry.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Director.”

  Outside he got in the Chevy, drove directly down to the gate that led to East Executive Drive and was passed through.

  He picked up his cell phone. “I’m out,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” Otto asked.

  “After Haaris.”

  “He’s still here on Campus, and you don’t want do anything there. He’ll fight back, and there could be a lot of collateral damage. Go to my place, out of his way. I’ll give Louise the heads-up.”

  “I’ll do better on my own,” McGarvey said.

  “No, you won’t. Anyway, don’t be so goddamned stubborn, for once in your life. We’ve done this bullshit together a long time; let’s not change the game in midstream. I’ll let you know when he’s on the move.”

  “Depending how it goes with Pete, he might just try to see the president. But whatever happens, it has to be me who takes him down. He’ll take anyone out who gets close to him.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Haaris left the small conference room where Pete had debriefed him for the past twenty minutes, his heart skipping a beat in every six or seven despite his outward calm, and took the elevator down to the first floor.

  McGarvey had managed somehow to escape from the ISI, and later that night a SEAL Team Six helicopter had picked him up and taken him and Miss Boylan across the border to Jalalabad. The worst of it was that both of them were convinced that he was the Messiah, though apparently they had only the slightest glimmer of his motivations and absolutely none of what was coming next.

  She had refused to tell him where McGarvey was at the moment, but it was a real possibility that he could be here on Campus.

  “We’ve determined that the Messiah’s voice was electronically modified. We’ve had a computer program working the problem since the first speech, and we’ve come up with a number of certainties. The speaker was born in Pakistan, most likely in Lahore. He got his education in England, starting as a young boy, and his diction, grammar and manners are of the old school. He’s in his late thirties and has spent some time, perhaps years, in the States. The programs picked up a few traces of an American accent. Northeast.”