Gambit Page 6

  “And whoever hired him has good connections. They knew that Pete and I would be coming to D.C.”

  “Okay?”

  “How?” McGarvey asked.

  “They were probably watching us in Florida and spotted our move,” Pete said.

  “Why not kill me there?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Let it leak that a so-far unidentified male was found seriously wounded in the vicinity of your apartment,” said Otto.

  “How?” Pete asked.

  “An FBI site,” Otto said. “He’s being treated at GW University Hospital.”

  “Make it All Saints,” Mac said. “That’s where he was taken and where his body is still on ice. We’ll give the staff the heads-up, and I’ll be waiting.”

  TWELVE

  Hammond’s twin-engine Bombardier Global 7000 touched down at Washington’s Reagan National Airport just before nine, and as soon as they’d reached the private aviation terminal, the hatch opened, and the stairs lowered, he left the plane.

  The crew had been instructed to refuel and stand by for a departure sometime tomorrow. His bags would be sent over to the Hay-Adams immediately, arriving even before he did.

  A Mercedes Maybach had been sent for him, and the uniformed driver held the door open for him. “Good morning, Mr. Hammond.”

  Hammond nodded and slipped inside.

  Mikhail Tarasov, who until recently had been the major player in the Russian energy giant Gazprom, was seated on the opposite side. “Good morning, Thomas. I trust you had a good flight as usual.” He was a slender man in his late forties, with light brown hair, and a nearly constant serious mien. He looked more like an American than a Russian.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” Hammond said, and yet he really wasn’t. Russians, especially the new oligarchs, did not take failure lightly. Hammond was wealthy, but Tarasov was wealthier and more connected with some internationally powerful people.

  “Your call for a replacement has disturbed some mutual friends, who would like to know what game you’re playing at.”

  The glass partition separating the front from the back was up, ensuring that whatever they said would not be heard by the driver.

  “You know exactly what’s going on.”

  “Nyet. It was not a part of the original deal. You wanted a favor, and we agreed if you would provide us with an untraceable favor. You have failed, and we want to know why.”

  “Our operator is dead.”

  “We have learned that may not be the case. In fact, he is apparently recovering at the small private hospital that the CIA uses to treat its wounded agents in Georgetown.”

  Hammond was stunned. “How do you know this?”

  “We have resources. But the fact is the man you selected was not up to the job. You thought he was dead, and you asked for another man not much better than your South African. The question stands, Thomas, what are you and your movie star playing at?”

  Hammond was angry. “Don’t try to manage me, because if our arrangement were to go public, you would have more to lose than I would.”

  Tarasov laughed. “You underestimate us and overestimate yourself.”

  “I don’t need you.”

  “Yes, you do, because we have a mutual goal. You help us and we help you. We just want to know what game you are playing. A very simple question for which a very simple answer would suffice.”

  They had left the airport and were on the Williams Memorial Bridge leading across the river into the city center. Hammond looked out the window for a longish moment or two, weighing his options. The gas-and-oil deal he had with the Russians had the real potential of making him something in the vicinity of $5 billion. It was more than the bitcoin deal McGarvey had offered them, and in the long term a hell of a lot less volatile.

  The Russians had been skeptical at first that they even needed a front man in Western Europe until Hammond had convinced them of his connections. At the moment, most Europeans, especially the French, were mistrustful of the new American president but even warier of the Russians, especially since Putin had been reelected. He was being called the New Stalin, and it made a lot of people nervous.

  Hammond was selling his personal connections. Along the way in the dot-com boom, he had made a fortune, but he had been smart enough to include a lot of hungry people in government—especially in places like the Netherlands and Belgium, and even France, where Russian oil and gas only accounted for small percentages of their energy needs.

  “Talk to me, Thomas, as a friend and a business partner. Please.”

  Hammond held his silence as he considered his options. Either trust Tarasov and whoever the man was connected with in Moscow or back away from the deal.

  The South African shooter who’d been hired through Susan’s expediter—who was now dead—only knew the expediter. Even if he were given drugs to make him talk, he could never produce any link beyond Bell.

  In the long run, it didn’t matter if Slatkin was dead or alive. Hammond turned back to Tarasov.

  “It is a game,” he said. “One that will end up where we want to end up.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Actually, I wanted the South African to fail. I was almost 100 percent certain that he was no match for McGarvey.”

  “Then what’s the point? We want Mr. McGarvey dead, and we don’t want it traced back to Moscow. There are no other considerations.”

  “Including how I conduct my business?”

  “Yes, but be careful you don’t make a fatal mistake.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mikhail?”

  Tarasov pursed his lips. “There are certain people in Moscow who feel that we should let this go. Just turn our backs on the entire deal and perhaps sweep up whatever debris is left behind.”

  “But there are others who think differently.”

  “Yes, and these men do not take mistakes lightly. Too much is at stake here, even beyond our deals in Greece and Spain.”

  “McGarvey will die, there’s no doubt of it.”

  “But?”

  “It’s the how of it.”

  Tarasov turned away. “Yeb vas.” It was a common, very vulgar Russian expression that roughly meant fuck your mother.

  “I want to have some fun.”

  “Explain to me your fun.”

  “Big-game hunting.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m hunting Mr. McGarvey for sport. The South African was my first shot, which I was almost certain would miss. Cost me only two hundred and fifty thousand. I’ll double that offer for the next try. Four times that for the third, if needed. Eight times, ten times, whatever.”

  “Don’t you think that he’ll come to realize what’s going on and hunt you back?”

  “I hope so.”

  “He’s good. Maybe the best.”

  “He’ll make a mistake sooner or later.”

  “He has his own resources; supposedly, he’s a millionaire.”

  “I’m richer,” Hammond said.

  “It’s your life on the line.”

  “My shooters will never meet me face-to-face.”

  “I have a specialist waiting for you at the hotel.”

  “Does he know you?”

  “Yes,” Tarasov said.

  “I’ll videoconference with him, my voice electronically altered. It’s actually very simple. The device isn’t bigger than a cell phone, and in fact, I own the half-dozen patents. And I’ll have an expediter for now who he will work with but never meet unless they fail.”

  Tarasov sat back. “It appears that you think of everything.”

  “Not really. But I can buy just about anything or anyone.”

  “But not me.”

  “No, which is why we’re friends.”

  Tarasov nodded. “His name is Donald Hicks, and he was a Canadian Special Operations sniper.”

  “What’s he doing on your side?”

  Tarasov smiled. “You’re not the only man on the planet with
money, Thomas. And Hicks is very hungry since they put him out to pasture.”

  THIRTEEN

  All Saints, set back from the street not far from Georgetown University, was guarded in front by an electrically controlled iron gate and from behind by a tall spike-topped fence, beyond which was a broad line of trees.

  It was dark when Pete, driving her green BMW, dropped McGarvey off in front. “How long are you going to wait for someone to show up?” she asked. She was nervous.

  “Overnight, at least,” McGarvey said. “Maybe twenty-four hours. If they’re sending someone, it won’t be long.”

  “Whoever’s gunning for you wants to get it over with in a hurry, is that what you’re saying?”

  “Something like that.”

  “We could put up a chopper, or at least drones to watch the place. Anyone comes within a hundred yards, we’ll know about it.”

  McGarvey had known she would object to what he was doing. Just as Mary had tried to talk him out of it. Only Otto saw the logic, and the why, of it. “Our people would swoop in and arrest him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take him down to Belvoir for interrogation, which you would be a part of, but not in charge since you’re not with the Company any longer. You’re a freelancer, just like me.”

  “What’s your point, Mac?”

  “He would have rights. Constitutional rights that wouldn’t let us do much more than waterboarding and maybe drugs—and even that would be pushing it. But in the end, if we couldn’t prove anything other than trespassing, we’d have to release him.”

  Pete saw it. “But not you.”

  “If someone shows up here wanting to take a shot at me—or anyone else, for that matter—he’s lost his rights as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You want that to happen.”

  “No. But if someone is gunning for me—”

  “Which you think is the case.”

  “If it’s true, then I don’t want to screw around sitting on my thumbs waiting for it to happen. Either someone comes here tonight or tomorrow at the latest, or I’m going to start pushing back.”

  “Start where?”

  “The White House and the Pentagon.”

  “If you start poking around, you’re bound to find a hornet’s nest.”

  “I’m counting on it,” McGarvey said.

  “I want to come in with you.”

  “Go back to McLean. If they can’t get to me directly, they might try an end run. Otto and Mary are vulnerable.”

  Pete’s mouth tightened, and she looked away for a moment. “I didn’t do such a hot job last time.”

  She had been with Otto’s wife, Louise, at an interview in Laurel, Maryland, when a shooter had killed Lou, who’d been standing less than ten feet from Pete.

  McGarvey reached over for her hand. “You weren’t expecting it.”

  “I should have been.”

  * * *

  Gary Starrs, the brother-in-law of one of the SEALs who had taken out Osama bin Laden in May 2011, was chief of night security at the hospital, and he was waiting at the rear door as the gate buzzed open and McGarvey walked around from the front.

  Starrs was an unremarkable man in all respects, standing just under six feet with a medium build, except for his eyes, which held the thousand-yard stare of a man who has seen close-quarters battles.

  The green Bimmer drove off, and Starrs glanced over at the monitors at Security Post One, which showed a wide-angle view of the entire perimeter three hundred meters out. Nothing was showing. And nothing was eating at his gut, an instinct he had honed in four separate deployments to Afghanistan.

  But when Mr. McGarvey asked for a favor, it was time to jump to, feelings or not.

  Helen Berliner, the chief of nurses, came around the corner. “Has Mac called to say when he’s going to be here?”

  Starrs turned. “He’s coming up the driveway.”

  Berliner had volunteered to pull a double shift when she’d been told that Mac was camping out here at least tonight for a possible confrontation with a bad guy or guys. In fact, the entire staff wanted to be on board, and she had to turn away most of them.

  “Life goes on, and I’ll need staffers who aren’t asleep on their feet around the clock,” she’d told her people.

  This night, it was just Berliner and one other nurse, plus Gary and two others on the security team.

  Mac had insisted on a minimal staff on the real chance that someone had eyes on the place. And he’d even asked that Dr. Franklin go home, leaving only Phil Geyer, the usual on-duty physician.

  “Are your people set?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Front and rear third floor.”

  “They’re going to get damned tired staring out the windows without a break.”

  “They’re just covering the two shooting positions,” Starrs said. He nodded to the perimeter monitor. “Someone shows up and they’ll get the word. In the meantime, they’re mostly kicking back, staggered interior patrols every twenty minutes.”

  “We’re covered?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Berliner was looking at the monitors. “I thought you said that Mac was coming up the driveway.”

  Starrs looked up. McGarvey had disappeared from view. “Shit, shit,” he said.

  * * *

  McGarvey held up to the left of the door, his back to the brick wall. He had ducked below the angle of the surveillance camera, and for the first few seconds, he’d hoped that whoever was pulling security was on the ball and would have come outside, guns drawn.

  But it was nearly a full minute before Starrs burst out the door, his Heckler & Koch room broom in his right hand pointed low and right.

  McGarvey waited until he’d cleared the doorway, and he rose and placed the muzzle of his pistol on the back of the man’s head.

  “You’re dead,” McGarvey said. “And the castle is wide open.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Starrs said. He slowly raised his right hand. He was holding a small block of Semtex. “If I went down, my grip would have let go, and boom, one dead intruder.”

  McGarvey lowered his weapon. “Not bad. But the advice most field commanders give their people is that you don’t win wars by dying for your country—you make the other poor bastard die for his.”

  Starrs nodded. “Anyway, it was just in case, sir.”

  “Just in case I missed,” Berliner said from the doorway. She was holding a Beretta 9mm in her right hand, pointed directly at McGarvey.

  Mac had to smile. “Okay, you guys win. But nurses aren’t supposed to carry weapons.”

  “Not in a civilian hospital, they don’t, Mr. Director, but this place is different.”

  McGarvey holstered his gun. “If someone is coming, it’ll be in the night, probably just before dawn. But it’s a long shot. I’m just clutching at straws here.”

  “What else can you tell us?” Starrs asked.

  “It’ll almost certainly be a lone shooter. A professional who won’t make easy mistakes and won’t discriminate when it comes to his targets. I’m number one, but get in his way and you’re dead.”

  “Piss someone off?” Berliner asked.

  Again, Mac had to smile. “Happens all the time. Maybe it’s my personality or something.”

  FOURTEEN

  At the Hay-Adams, Hammond and Tarasov went up to a Lafayette Park View suite and let themselves in without a bellman accompanying them. Hammond’s bag had already arrived and his things laid out in the wardrobe and bathroom. A bottle of Dom Pérignon was chilling in an ice bucket.

  “I’m flying back to New York tonight,” the Russian said. “And then Moscow on Tuesday.”

  “You’re staying for the interview?”

  “Of course, unless you’d rather I not. It’s up to you if you hire him, but he’s a hell of a lot more competent than Slatkin.”

  “If I don’t think so, do you have someone else in mind?”

  “There are plenty more where this one came from. Believe me, you can’t
imagine how many crazies with guns are out there just looking for a chance to make a dollar or whatever currency you’re offering.”

  “Is he here in the hotel now?” Hammond asked. He opened the champagne and poured a glass, but Tarasov waved it off.

  “He put himself up at the Rosewood.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “It’s in Georgetown, actually not far from the hospital.”

  Hammond was surprised. “Has he already been told about his target?”

  “Only in the most general terms.”

  “Then how the hell did he know to book a room so close?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell else don’t you know, Mikhail?” Hammond demanded. The assassin was too close for comfort; any number of things could go wrong—things that his money might not be able to insulate him from.

  He had told Susan that he admired what she had done in Athens and admitted that he would have hired someone to take Bell down rather than take the chance himself.

  She had smiled and shrugged it off. “Just another bit part in an action movie. ‘Lights, cameras, sound, action.’ Bang!”

  Hammond took his iPad from his shoulder bag and set it up on the dining table, then got the champagne and his flute and brought them over. “Do we know his room number?”

  “Yes, and he’s waiting for our call.”

  “Does he know that he won’t be able to see us or hear our actual voices?”

  “His type very seldom meets their principals,” Tarasov said. “It’s considered bad form.”

  “You’ve not had a face-to-face?”

  “No,” Tarasov said. He came over, sat down, and gave Hammond the number.

  * * *

  Once, when Hammond was a shy, skinny little boy of five, his parents took him to the aquarium exhibit at the San Diego Zoo. He remembered standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling glass window looking into one of the exhibits. He’d just stepped forward and put a hand out to touch the glass when a gigantic polar bear appeared out of nowhere, a massive paw hitting the glass with a thump directly in front of the boy’s face.