Face Off--A Kirk McGarvey Novel Read online

  Otto held his silence. It was almost always for the best to allow Marty to calm down and accept the inevitable.

  “The most I’ll recommend is that the general hand this over to the president, who can call the Saudi ambassador. But not until we get solid confirmation that one of our officers is aboard that jet, that it belongs to the prince, and that Ms. Boylan isn’t just off on a joyride.”

  Otto shook his head. “Marty, do you even hear yourself sometimes?”

  “That’s as far as I’m taking this business. McGarvey is coming home and when he gets here I’ll personally debrief him.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “What the fuck are you saying to me now?”

  “Mac is going to ask Pete to marry him,” Otto said. “Do you suppose he’s going to get on a plane, fly back here, and answer your questions while the woman he loves has been kidnapped?”

  “I’ll have the French arrest him. They can escort him to the plane.”

  “Real problem is that the DGSE is looking for a little guidance from us. Mac killed, or at least caused the deaths of, at least eight men—three at the Eiffel Tower and another five in a church in Saint-Denis—after you gave your word that he and Pete would not be armed.”

  “You’re goddamned right.”

  “But they’re going to want to pin a medal on him for saving the Eiffel Tower. So you and the general are going to have to make a decision within the next hour, tops. Help Mac get to Istanbul and maybe Saudi Arabia or turn your back on him. And, Marty, even if the general doesn’t understand who Mac is, you certainly know what the man is capable of.”

  “I’ll have Tony send some housekeeping muscle from our embassy to make sure he gets on the plane.”

  Tony Blair, no relation to the former British PM, was the CIA’s chief of Paris station. His title was listed as cultural attaché.

  “You’re not listening to me,” Otto said. “Mac will get out of France on his own as quickly as possible, and nothing or no one on this earth will stop him. Unless you mean to have him assassinated.”

  “Good Lord, what do you take me for?”

  Otto got up and went to the outer office.

  Alice had evidently been listening, because she was on the phone. She looked up. “The director will see you now, Mr. Rencke.”

  Marty came to the door. “Stop this at once,” he shouted.

  Otto marched down the corridor and entered the DCI’s outer office. His secretary, a man about Alice’s age, smiled. “You may go right in, Mr. Rencke,” he said.

  Edward Gibson was a small, very compact, fit-looking man with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, the sidewalls showing bare scalp. He wore his dark gray business suits with the same precision he’d worn his marine uniforms.

  “Mr. Director, we have a problem.”

  “I know what the problem is, so have a seat and let’s figure out what we can do about it,” the general said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  They’d been airborne for less than ten minutes, Najjir just removing the C-4 from Pete’s chest, when Miriam came forward from the head.

  “I didn’t want to miss the excitement,” she said. She sat down across from them.

  Najjir was vexed, Pete was sure of it, but he didn’t let it show. “You’re supposed to be on your way back to London,” he said, mildly.

  “Cost me five hundred euros to bribe the asshole and his secretary to keep their mouths shut,” Miriam said. She gave Pete a smile. “Well at least you won’t be able to blow us all to kingdom come. Anyway, has he told you where he’s taking us?”

  “Istanbul,” Pete said, buttoning her blouse.

  “I’d have thought back to the training base in the desert. I guess he really wants to go mano a mano with your Mr. McGarvey. But if you ask me that’s his second biggest mistake of the day.”

  “The first?” Pete asked.

  “Not killing both of you immediately,” Miriam said. “He had the chance but he blew it. Too bad.” She smiled again.

  “You should have done as you were told,” Najjir said.

  “Oh, shut the fuck up. You’re going to need help when her boyfriend shows up. And by all accounts of his—adventures—it’s exactly what he’ll do. So how about fetching us girls some champers, so we can get caught up on our gossip.”

  They had only the flight crew, but no steward, so Najjir, the expression in his eyes completely neutral, went forward to the galley.

  Suddenly the situation struck Pete as totally surreal, as if she was caught up in some insane drama where nothing any of the players said or did made any sense to her.

  “So why do you suppose he didn’t?” she asked.

  “Kill you both?” Miriam asked.

  “Yes.”

  Miriam considered it. “Ego, I suppose. He’s trying to regain his chops—as you Americans say. He blew this op, so I thought that it would be in my best interest to tag along and help him regain his cred.”

  “If not by killing us, then how? You’ve got me because I made a stupid mistake. But you can’t seriously believe you’ll bag Mac. If you think so, then you guys are either dumber than you look or you’ve lost your fucking minds.”

  They heard the champagne cork coming out.

  “You know enough about us to ask the next question, I suppose,” Miriam said. “Why Istanbul and not home?”

  “I think the royal family might take exception about him luring the former director of the CIA back to home sweet home. In the first place it’d tie your attack on the Eiffel Tower to them. That wouldn’t set well in Washington, let alone in France. Saudi Arabia would become an outcast country—almost as bad as Iran—maybe worse.”

  “Then why Istanbul?”

  “It’s a big city,” Pete said, but then she knew why. “He has friends there.”

  Najjir came back with the bottle of Dom Pérignon and three flutes. “Clever girl,” he said.

  “An army, actually,” Miriam said, taking a glass from Najjir. “You would be amazed how much is for sale in Turkey—especially now. Every Muslim fanatic—and there is a share of them there—would more than love to kill a couple of Americans.”

  “Kill one, actually, but save the other,” Najjir said.

  * * *

  Marty had joined them in the DCI’s office, and Carlton Patterson, who was a longtime general counsel for the agency and close friend of McGarvey’s, had arrived moments later.

  “The French have ordered him out of the country,” Marty explained, and he looked at his watch. “Should be on his way to de Gaulle by now.”

  “But as I understand the situation, he wants us to get him to Istanbul as quickly as possible,” the general said. “We could get something to him before the Gulfstream touched down.”

  “If that’s where they’re going,” Patterson said. He was in his late seventies, tall, dapper, always well dressed and soft spoken. No director in the past twenty years had thought to replace the man.

  “They’ve filed for Atatürk,” Otto said. “But Mac thinks that it’s possible they’ll head to someplace inside Saudi Arabia.”

  “If they stop to refuel in Turkey we could have our people there to meet them,” Marty said.

  “Won’t work if they remain aboard,” Patterson said.

  “Anyway the Gulfstream has a seven-thousand-mile range—no need to refuel,” Otto said. “No reason for them to actually land there, unless they have something else in mind.”

  “And that’s the problem Mr. Rencke has brought to us to solve.”

  “You’re saying that McGarvey may be wrong?” Patterson asked.

  “It’s a possibility that Najjir is using Pete as bait to lure Mac into a trap. Istanbul would be the perfect place for it. If the guy’s got money—and we have to assume he does—he could hire a lot of guns.”

  “Given enough muscle, assassinating even someone like Mac would be fairly simple,” Patterson said.

  “They don’t want to kill him,” Otto said. “Apparently they found ou
t who he is and it could be they want to take him alive.”

  “All the more reason to make sure he makes it back here,” Marty said. “At least it would give us time to figure some course of action. And for the moment I’m suggesting that we take it to Poynter.”

  Richard Poynter was the secretary of state.

  “You’re suggesting a diplomatic move,” Patterson said. “But if it’s explained to the Turkish authorities that they have a hostage situation on their hands—assuming the aircraft lands in Istanbul—then the police would move in and almost certainly there would be casualties. Ms. Boylan could be caught in a cross fire.”

  The general was looking directly at Otto. “Do you think it’s likely that Mr. McGarvey will allow himself to be flown home?”

  “Not a chance in hell, Mr. Director. And you can take that to the bank.”

  “Assuming the aircraft lands at Istanbul, and assuming the passengers, including Ms. Boylan, get off and go into the city, and assuming that Mr. McGarvey actually makes it that far, and assuming that they capture him alive—what then? What do they want?”

  “Why the dear boy’s intelligence value, of course,” Patterson said.

  “He’s been gone from this office for a long time; he can’t be up to date,” the general said.

  “Trust me, he is,” Marty said, glancing at Otto. “He knows at least as much about what’s been happening in the Watch as we do.”

  The Watch was a five-person crew housed in a highly secure and very high-tech office manned 24/7, just down the corridor from the DCI’s office. They monitored every single US intelligence resource, from which they produced a comprehensive morning report that outlined all current threats against US interests—in progress or developing—around the world. In the old days the DCI would personally brief the president, but these days the report went to the director of national intelligence, who in turn briefed the president.

  “How?” the general said, steel all of a sudden in his voice.

  “He has friends who still trust his judgment,” Otto said.

  “You?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And me,” Patterson said.

  TWENTY-TWO

  McGarvey figured he had only two choices left. Either disable Dominique and make a run for it before they got back to the DGSE, or try to talk himself out of being put on a plane back to Washington.

  He chose the latter, simply because the young woman seated beside him in the car was an innocent. And even if he didn’t hurt her too badly, her career would be over if she lost him.

  They were passed through a rear entrance by armed guards behind bulletproof glass in a gatehouse. The extra bunker mentality was something new, and Mac said as much.

  “A lot has happened in France over the past few years,” Dominique said, tight-lipped. But she was clearly relieved that she had gotten her prisoner back inside the intelligence service compound.

  Alarie met at them at a side door to the main headquarters building. “Did you find her?” he asked, as Mac and Dominique got out.

  “She’s on her way to Istanbul aboard a private jet that’s owned by a Saudi prince,” McGarvey said as they went inside. “But I think it’s possible they’ll change flight plans before they get there and go direct either to Riyadh or, more likely, to a private airstrip out in the desert somewhere.”

  “Yes, we received a complaint from the FBO’s director at Le Bourget, who said he didn’t give a damn if you saved the Tour Eiffel, you threatened his life.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Alarie inclined his head. “Would you have killed him?”

  “No,” Dominique answered first. “There was no need.”

  “Merci,” Alarie told her. “You may return to your regular duties now. Mr. McGarvey and I are going to have a little chat while his and Ms. Boylan’s things are brought over from their hotel. Afterwards he and I will drive out to de Gaulle to meet his flight. First class, as is his custom.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dominique said. She gave McGarvey a resigned look and left.

  Alarie and McGarvey took an elevator up to the top floor, quiet, almost as if the place was deserted. But this was where the DGSE’s top officials, including the director’s offices, were located. It had almost the same feel as the seventh floor of the OHB at Langley.

  “Your flight back to Washington is only the first small measure—of many—to thank you for what you did for France today. Inestimable damage could have been done to us besides the destruction of a national symbol and the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of casualties. If the tower had come down, France could never again believe in its future. The blow to us would have been a thousand times worse than it was for you when your twin trade towers came down, even worse than Pearl Harbor.”

  “I have to go after her,” McGarvey said.

  “I understand and agree with you completely, my old friend. But you must understand that first we need to get you out of France and back to your people who are waiting for you.”

  “No, I don’t understand. Let me leave France, but not on a commercial flight to Washington.”

  “Unfortunately my hands are completely tied,” Alarie said.

  They went into a corner office, where a man in a business suit, his jacket off, his tie loose, his collar undone, was on the phone. He hung up immediately.

  “The director will see you now, gentlemen,” he said, jumping up. He knocked once on Lacoste’s door, opened it, and stepped aside.

  Claude Lacoste looked up and got to his feet. He was a very tall man, with a square face and a large Gallic nose. Dressed in his gray Ministry of Defense uniform, all the buttons done up, he was a striking double for Charles de Gaulle.

  He put out his hand. “Monsieur McGarvey, I am happy that we finally meet.”

  McGarvey ignored the gesture. “I need to fly to Istanbul and then likely to Riyadh or someplace in Saudi Arabia. And it has to happen as soon as possible. Before the Gulfstream lands at Istanbul, unless it changes flight plans.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible. As I told General Gibson just a few minutes ago. You are being returned to Washington, where, once you arrive, you will be free to go wherever you wish. Provided it is not back here to France.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” McGarvey said. He turned to Alarie. “Let’s leave now. I’d like a glass of wine and something to eat at the airport.”

  “I’m welcome for what?” Lacoste asked, a tightness in his voice and manner.

  “For the Tour Eiffel, you arrogant prick. And I hope that if the life of someone you love is ever threatened you won’t simply sit here in your office and issue directives.”

  * * *

  Najjir had gone forward to talk to the crew, leaving Miriam and Pete alone. The Gulfstream was plushly laid out, with a separate conference area forward and three swiveling seats on each side of the cabin, facing each other, each with its own super glossy table inlaid with what looked to Pete like ivory.

  “Amazing what money can buy,” Pete said. “Even in Saudi Arabia now that oil is down again. And of course in Russia.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Miriam said, looking out the window at essentially nothing because of their altitude, only a few cloud tops in the distance off to the southeast, toward the Med.

  “All SVR agents—or at least the good ones—are trained in the realities of geopolitics.”

  “You think that I’m a Russian.”

  “Of course you are, though you’ve got the cockney-trying-to-rise-above-her-upbringing accent pretty well down pat. But I expect that you’ve always been a quick study.”

  Miriam shrugged.

  “What I don’t understand is what purpose bringing the Eiffel Tower down would have done for the Kremlin.”

  Still Miriam held her silence, but she had an amused look on her pretty face.

  “Of course it would be stupid of me to think that you staged the entire business only to snatch me in order to lure Mac. His intelligence value, if you could get anything w
orthwhile out of him, would be nothing short of stellar. A game changer for you and your boyfriend’s careers.”

  “He is not my boyfriend,” Miriam replied just a little too sharply.

  Pete had struck a nerve. “Zero for the lions and one for the Christians,” she said. “We’re making progress.”

  “What nonsense are you talking about?”

  “You were assigned to help him—for whatever reason—but once everything fell apart back there I suspect that he tried to kill you. Something you must have figured might happen, and you were ready.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “He sent you away—back to London—but you showed up here. The question is, why?” Pete asked. “Unless you talked to your handler in Moscow, who told you that the SVR wanted to share the product if a former director of the CIA were actually to be captured.”

  “Be careful that your guesswork doesn’t become so accurate that we’d be forced to eliminate you.”

  “Are you really that stupid? Am I supposed to believe that if I cooperate you’ll let me just walk away?”

  “But what other alternative do you have, my dear?” Najjir asked, coming from forward.

  Pete smiled. “The real question is, who are you working for? I mean the broad here is an SVR operative who you tried to kill. So whose orders were you following—her handler’s or yours?”

  Najjir was amused. “What makes you think that we’re on the outs with each other?”

  “The stupid bitch all but drew me a diagram of how you tried to kill her. But she was waiting for it, and she came back against your orders to return to London and change her appearance.”

  Miriam started to say something, but Pete held her off.

  “Now, I have to admit that the CIA has made some colossal blunders. The Bay of Pigs comes to mind. But Jesus Christ, all of us aren’t as brain dead as you two.”

  Najjir and Miriam said nothing.

  “Come on, guys, the fucking Eiffel Tower?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  McGarvey had given his word to Alarie that he wouldn’t try anything on the way out to the airport, so it was just the two of them, plus a driver, but no housekeeping muscle.