The Cabal

FIFTY-THREE

Kangas and Mustapha touched down a few minutes before six a.m. at Andrews Air Force Base outside Washington, in a State Department Gulfstream IV arranged by Stuart Marston in Baghdad. Remington had called just before they boarded and warned them to stay sober and get some sleep. They would need their wits about them in the morning. And it was exactly what they’d done.

The aircraft taxied immediately over to a VIP hangar where they were met by a bird colonel who didn’t bother introducing himself. A new Ford Taurus was parked nearby.

“The car’s a rental, not expected back for five days,” the Air Force officer said. He was of medium height and build, probably around forty or forty-five years old, and he had a thousand-yard stare. At one time in his career he’d been there and then some. “When you’re finished wipe it down and leave it on some side street.”

“Yes, sir,” Kangas said, and he was about to ask about their equipment, but the officer turned away, got into a staff car, and drove off. No one else was around.

“Typical,” Mustapha said.

They tossed their overnight bags in the backseat. Mustapha got behind the wheel and started the engine as Kangas slipped in on the passenger side.

The sat phone rang. It was Remington. “I assume you’re on the ground and have the car.”

“Just got it,” Kangas said. “What do you have for us?”

“You need to get over to Dulles on the double march. McGarvey’s coming in on United 981, scheduled to land in less than an hour.”

Kangas put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Dulles and hustle,” he said, and Mustapha drove out of the hangar and headed toward the main gate. “That was quick. What about our equipment?”

“Standard-issue Berettas, a couple of spare magazines and silencers for each of you under the seats. But don’t take them into the terminal. If McGarvey somehow manages to get past the Bureau agents, you’ll have to get on his trail and run him down. I want no gunplay anywhere in or near the terminal. Make damn sure of it.”

“Will someone backstop us?” Kangas asked. “Because we can’t leave the car in short-term parking, wait to see where McGarvey is off to, and then get back to it before he’s out of sight.”

“Cal Boberg is already in place. If need be he’ll tail McGarvey while you get your car, and give you the details by phone.”

“Why don’t we just wait in the garage?”

“Because I want two extra sets of eyes to watch what happens,” Remington said, and he sounded vexed.

Limey bastard, Kangas thought. “Once we’ve finished this business and get paid, we’re retiring.”

“That will be for the best,” Remington said. “Just see that you finish the job this time. It was because of you that Roland was gunned down.”

Maybe there would be just one more job after McGarvey, Kangas thought, breaking the connection. Remington had been asking for it for a long time now.

They were waved through the gate by an air policeman, and just off base got on I-495, the Beltway, and headed west, early-morning traffic still light but beginning to build.

“What’s the situation?” Mustapha asked, and Kangas told him.

“Boberg is already out there to act as a spotter once McGarvey shows up.”

“Then we take him down if he makes it past the Bureau guys?”

“Just like his son-in-law,” Kangas said. “Nothing fancy.”

“What about equipment?”

“Berettas under the seats.”

Mustapha glanced at his partner. “No screwups this time.”

“No,” Kangas agreed. “Not this time. We can’t afford to have the bastard come gunning for us.”

“And we have two million each on the line.”

“There’s that, too,” Kangas said, but mostly he was thinking about McGarvey and Baghdad. The son of a bitch could have shot them both dead and thought nothing of it. And he would have, had he known who’d put the IED at Arlington. “First things first,” he said.

“I hear you.”

Traffic began to pick up the closer they got to Dulles, most of it cabs, buses, and the occasional hotel van all coming to meet the dozen or more incoming international flights. Kangas and Mustapha reached the short-term car park just as United 981 was touching down, and they hustled into the main terminal where they took up positions across from the corridor leading out of the Customs and Border Protection Center. They were near one of the gift shops not yet open for the day, so they could look at the reflections in the glass as if they were window shopping.

The main hall was fairly busy now, because in addition to the incoming international traffic, domestic flights were beginning to accept passengers. But it was easy to spot the pair of FBI agents by their uniforms: dark blue suits, the jackets cut a little large to accommodate the bulge of their pistols, white shirts, ties correctly knotted, and earpieces. They stood on either side of the customs exit.

“If they recognize him he won’t make it out of here,” Kangas said.

“Unless he takes them down,” Mustapha said.

“Won’t happen. That treason shit is just some sort of cover.”

“For what?”

“Beats me. But there’s not a chance in hell of McGarvey taking out Bureau guys or cops.”

“We’re different,” Mustapha said. “If he makes us he’ll know why we’re here.”

It was something Kangas hadn’t understood, because Remington wanting two extra pair of eyes here made no sense. Not unless he wanted McGarvey to spot them, which made even less sense.

Five minutes later a man leaning against a wall next to a men’s room, not twenty feet from the Customs exit, lowered the newspaper he was reading, and Mustapha spotted him.

“There’s Calvin.”

Kangas looked over and Boberg raised his paper.

Twenty minutes later, when the first of the international passengers began straggling out from Customs, the main hall was busy enough that Kangas and Mustapha could afford to turn around and watch with little likelihood they would be made.

Most of the people coming out were businessmen, carrying laptops and hauling roll-about luggage, a few couples, one woman with three young children, an older woman toting a dog carrier while hauling a very large roll-about on which she had stacked two small bags.

A gray-haired man, fairly husky, a hanging bag over his shoulder, emerged from customs, glanced up at the overhead signs pointing toward ground transportation, and started to talk away when the pair of FBI agents fell in step beside him, and grabbed his arms. The man struggled at first, trying to pull away, and said something, obviously angrily.

“That’s not him,” Kangas said. “What the hell are they doing?”

One of the agents flashed his badge, and, suddenly subdued, the man allowed himself to be led away back into the Customs area.

Boberg lowered his newspaper, shrugged, and started to walk away, but Kangas shook his head. Urgently. And Boberg stopped.

Two minutes later another man, husky, but with a darker complexion than the first man, his hair dark brown, emerged from Customs. He carried only a small nylon bag and he was dressed like a contractor, which was the only reason Mustapha spotted him.

“It’s him, the guy in the bush jacket just coming out.”

Kangas saw the resemblance at once. The clever bastard had changed his disguise and papers. He made sure that he had Boberg’s attention and he nodded toward McGarvey.

Boberg did a double take, and when he looked back Kangas nodded again, and he and Mustapha headed back to short-term parking as quickly as they could without attracting any attention.

FIFTY-FOUR

At the curb outside the main terminal building Louise pulled up in her Toyota SUV, and McGarvey walked across to her, but before he opened the passenger-side door he glanced at the reflections in the car window in time to spot a dark, slightly built man in a tan jacket suddenly pull up short and turn away.

He wasn’t surprised that the Bureau had shown up, he and Otto had expected it, nor was he surprised that he’d picked up a tail. A local Admin hand, no doubt. But the fact that all three of them, and whoever else would be coming after him, knew the flight he was coming in on had to mean there was a leak at the CIA. Someone senior in Operations, or possibly even someone on the seventh floor.

Most likely the Friday Club had people imbedded in the Company, probably the FBI, and almost certainly in Congress and the White House. Something serious was happening in Washington, or was about to happen. Maybe it wasn’t as fanciful as what was on the disk that Givens had supposedly handed over to Todd, but it was big enough to maneuver a charge of treason against a former CIA director, and then send someone gunning for him.

He got in on the passenger side. “Where’s Otto?”

Louise glanced in her rearview mirror, pulled out, and headed away. “At home trying to figure out how much damage your escapade in Baghdad did to your case.” She glanced at him. “Are you okay? We were worried.”

“They knew I was coming and they had a couple of guys waiting for me just outside my hotel,” McGarvey said. “Slow down.”

“What?” Louise asked, not quite sure that she’d heard right.

“Slow down, but don’t make it too obvious. I think we’re going to have some company.”

She glanced in the rearview mirror, but slowed down by a few miles an hour. Otto had complained that Louise was a manic driver with a lead foot. She couldn’t stand to be passed. Slowing down meant that she was now going the same speed as just about everyone else.

“Did you bring me a weapon?”

“In the glove compartment,” Louise said, glancing in the rearview mirror again. “I’m a photo interpreter and image analyst, how am I supposed to know someone is following us?”

“I’ll take care of that part,” McGarvey said. He pulled a Wilson 9mm Tactical from the glove compartment, along with a suppressor, and three extra magazines of ammunition. The pistol was loaded and ready to fire.

“It could be anybody,” Louise said.

“Just drive.”

“Where?” she asked, alarmed.

“Soon as we pick up our tail, I want you to speed up and head back to Georgetown, to Rock Creek Park.” He used the control button on the center console to turn the door mirror on his side to a position that would enable him to watch the road behind them. “At some point I’ll have you slow down so that I can hop out and then you can take off. Drive around until I call for you to come back and pick me up. It’ll be safe by then.”

She was clearly upset now. “Otto says they’ve branded you a homicidal maniac because of Baghdad. Did you kill an Iraqi police captain?”

“No.”

“Well, somebody at the State Department got a report from its people on the ground over there, that’s exactly what you did.”

“Any witnesses?”

Louise opened her mouth to say something, but then she shook her head. “If there were, Otto couldn’t find any mention.”

“I took Sandberger and three of his people down. Any witnesses who can place me at the Ritz?”

She shook her head again. “But State knows that you were there and the shootings couldn’t have been coincidental.”

“The Bureau had two agents waiting for me.”

“Otto told me about switching identities. A State Department FSO. They’re not going to be very happy.”

“No, but the other guy waiting for me also knew what flight I was coming in on,” McGarvey said.

“A leak?” Louise asked. “Otto was worried about it.”

“Was he expecting it?”

She nodded glumly. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Who the hell are these guys and what do they want? They have to be more than lobbyists.”

“Sixty-four-dollar question,” McGarvey said, watching the mirror. A dark blue Taurus had pulled up from way behind as if the driver had been in a big hurry, but then had slowed down, keeping up a position three cars back. “Switch lanes right now and speed up,” he told Louise.

She glanced in her rearview mirror and suddenly pulled into the next lane left and hit the gas. The big Toyota surged forward, and a hundred yards later she had to move left again to pass a cab.

The driver of the Taurus managed to keep up, while maintaining his position three cars back. McGarvey could make out two figures in the front seat, but they were too far away for him to make any sort of identification. But he knew damned well they were Admin muscle.

“They’re back there, in the dark blue Ford,” he said. “You can drive normal now.”

“You’re going to kill them,” Louise said, glancing nervously at him again.

“Not unless I have to,” McGarvey said. “I need answers not bodies.” He’d seen enough bodies lately to last three lifetimes. And yet it wasn’t over, and possibly would never be over. Plato had said that only the dead had seen the end of war. Maybe his turn was coming.

Traffic on the Airport Access Road all the way down to where it crossed beneath the Beltway and finally the off ramp to I-66 was busy as usual, but the blue Taurus managed to keep up even though Louise drove erratically, always searching for the fastest lane.

At one point she glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. “They’re still back there.”

“Otto was right, you drive too fast.”

“Makes him crazy,” she said smiling. “Should I slow down?”

“No, you’re doing just fine. Those guys probably think you’re trying to shake them, which is what I want them to think.”

She took the ramp to the Key Bridge, and as they crossed the river directly into Georgetown, McGarvey pocketed the three spare magazines of ammunition and screwed the silencer on the end of the Wilson’s barrel.

Louise was glancing at him, clearly frightened now. “I don’t know if I can lose them long enough for you to get out.”

“I want them to see you dropping me off,” McGarvey said. “That’s the whole point.”

“They’d be stupid to try to come after you. Why not grab me?”

“They’re Admin shooters and they want to take me out,” McGarvey said. It was the next step after Baghdad. He’d definitely got their attention, and now they were going to make the next series of mistakes that would lead him directly to the Friday Club. He just had to stay alive and out of custody until he could find out what was going on. What had been going on since the operations involving Chinese intelligence in Mexico City and Pyongyang. Those had been difficult and very expensive operations, neither of which had produced any visible results, other than having him branded as a traitor.

It made no sense. And situations that made no sense bothered McGarvey to no end.

Across the river, Louise turned east on M Street NW until the off ramp into Rock Creek Park, just at the beginning of Pennsylvania Avenue. Suddenly they were on the winding road that led north nearly two miles all the way up to Connecticut Avenue, crossing and recrossing the creek twice as it meandered through the sometimes densely forested park.

This morning traffic on the road was light, and only a few joggers and bicyclists were out and about, and none of the benches or picnic areas was occupied. On the weekends the park was always busy, but on weekdays most people were either at work by now or on the way.

Which was perfect as far as McGarvey was concerned, because he definitely did not want any collateral damage if shots were fired.

“Where do you want this to happen?” Louise demanded, her voice shrill now.

They had already reached the first bridge across the creek and for the next stretch the park area was very narrow, not enough room to maneuver.

“We’re going to cross under Massachusetts Avenue. A little past that there’s another bridge. I’ll get out there.”

“Jesus Christ,” Louise said, her hands tight on the steering wheel.

Two minutes later they crossed under Massachusetts Avenue and almost immediately the second bridge was just ahead.

“Now,” McGarvey said.

Louise jammed on the brakes and McGarvey popped open the door and jumped out even before the Toyota came to a full stop.

“Go,” he shouted over his shoulder, and darted off the road about ten yards into the woods, where he stopped and looked back.

Louise was gone, and the blue Taurus had pulled over to the side of the road and two men were getting out. The same two from outside his hotel at Baghdad. It was perfect.

FIFTY-FIVE

Kangas and Mustapha stood at the edge of the road looking down the hill into the denser woods. The rising sun was in their eyes, but they knew that McGarvey had to be somewhere close, they’d seen him jumping out of the Toyota.

“There,” Mustapha said suddenly, and Kangas looked where his partner was pointing in time to see McGarvey disappearing farther down the hill.

“That’s the bastard,” Kangas said.

“Whoever the broad was probably brought him a weapon,” Mustapha said. “Could be a trap. He jumps out, and like complete idiots we run after him.”

“That’s exactly what this is. But we’d be bigger idiots to turn down three mil each.”

“Won’t do us any good if we’re dead. I say we turn around and get the fuck out of here right now. You know what this guy is capable of.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know us, now, does he,” Kangas said. “And I’m not ready to walk away from a pile of money.”

“You’d do it even if there was no money at stake,” Mustapha said, and Kangas grinned.

“Payback time for Baghdad.”

“Sandberger…”

“Fuck Sandberger, this is for us,” Kangas said. “Go left, I’ll go right. We’ll catch him in our cross fire.”

Mustapha nodded. “Careful what you shoot at.”

Kangas took the silencer out of his pocket and screwed it onto the end of his Beretta, and headed down the hill into the woods, slightly to the right of where they’d last seen McGarvey, at the same time Mustapha headed at an angle the other way.

Back at the airport they had just reached their car when Boberg called and described the Toyota SUV that had come for McGarvey. “Some woman driving, but she’s not on any of our lists. I checked.”

“Anyone else with her?” Kangas had asked as Mustapha headed down the spiral ramp to one of the cashier gates at the bottom.

“Not unless they were hiding in the backseat.”

“Did he spot you tailing him?”

“I don’t know,” Boberg said. “But I think it’s a good possibility. He was looking at something in the passenger-door window. Maybe at the woman, but he could have been looking at the reflection in the glass.”

“If he spotted you he’ll be expecting someone from Admin to be on his ass,” Kangas said. It had been a stupid mistake on Boberg’s part that just made their jobs a lot tougher. “Thanks.”

“Take the bastard down anyway you can. That’s priority one after what he did to us in Baghdad. We’ll pick up any loose ends afterward.”

“Could be collateral damage.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Boberg had said. “Get the job done this time.”

Ninety seconds from the moment they’d come within tailing distance, the Toyota had suddenly sped up and the woman had driven like crazy into Georgetown and the park.

The bastard had definitely set a trap for them, and when he saw it was them he would shoot first and ask questions later. Only this time Kangas had a bargaining chip. One that McGarvey wouldn’t be able to resist.

FIFTY-SIX

From where he stood behind the bole of a large tree McGarvey heard the two men coming down the hill and knew they had separated, as he expected they would. Once out of sight from the road he’d headed off to the right, well away from the line the first of them had taken, putting him on their right flank, not between them.

Theirs was a good tactical move, but they hadn’t counted on the unexpected, and they were walking into a trap. It was something that happened when the operator underestimated his opponent.

A couple of minutes later he spotted a figure moving through the trees about forty yards beyond where he figured the first guy was coming down the hill. But the first one had stopped. He was smart, possibly suspecting something.

“Mr. McGarvey,” a man called out, off to the right, perhaps ten yards away. “We know you’re down here somewhere. It was very smart of you to take our fight away from the road where innocent bystanders might get hurt. Very smart.”

McGarvey moved halfway around the tree to where he had a better sight line up the hill and to the right, and he caught just a flash of something dark, perhaps the sleeve of a jacket or shirt.

“But there’s no need for gunplay this morning. Because we have something that you want. And we’re willing to trade.”

The bastards hadn’t flown commercial back from Baghdad. Probably hitched a ride on a military transport, or perhaps a private jet one of the oil or reconstruction firms operated.

“Mr. Kangas, I told you that I would kill you if I saw you again,” McGarvey said. “And that goes for your partner out to your left.”

“We know about you. What you’re capable of, and I’m not ashamed to admit that we made our mistakes in Baghdad, but now everything has changed. Mr. Sandberger and a couple of his personal bodyguards, plus Harry Weiss, are all dead, and Admin is in pretty tough shape.”

“I’m listening,” McGarvey said. He stuffed his pistol in his belt, and got down on his hands and knees, below the level of most of the brush and tall grasses, and careful to make absolutely no noise began edging his way back up the hill.

“We lied to you in Baghdad. Admin was responsible for your son-in-law’s death and the IED at Arlington. It was meant for you. Mr. Sandberger wanted you dead to protect one of his clients.”

McGarvey stopped. He was less than five feet from Kangas, who was looking in the general direction of the big tree. It took everything within his power not to shoot the contractor in the back of the head, right now.

“Listen, we want to make a deal with you. We’re getting out of Admin, too much shit is going to hell. It’s no longer healthy for us.”

McGarvey took out his pistol, suddenly stood up and in two steps was on Kangas, jamming the muzzle of his silencer into the side of the man’s head. “Drop your pistol now.”

Kangas hesitated for just a second, but then did as he’d been told.

“Tell your partner to drop his weapon and come closer so I can see him.”

“Ronni stay where you are, he has me,” Kangas shouted. “Sorry, Mr. McGarvey, but you’ll have to be satisfied with just me.”

A black rage threatened to block McGarvey’s sanity, but he forced himself to calm down. This was business, nothing more. These guys were only a means to an end. “Who were the shooters who took out my son-in-law and the newspaper reporter and his family?”

“Just one gun. Ex Green Beret, works out of our Washington office. He’s Mr. Remington’s right-hand man. He was our spotter at the airport when you came in. Short, dark.”

“Name?”

“Calvin Boberg. Lives down in Arlington.”

“Why are you telling me this?” McGarvey asked.

“Because if it was my family that got wiped out I’d go after the bastard who did it, and nothing could stop me.”

“How do I know it wasn’t you?”

“We’re contractors, which means we don’t kill women and children. But that’s what Admin’s come to, and now that Mr. Sandberger’s dead it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse, because Remington is a crazy son of a bitch.”

“But you were sent to Baghdad to kill me, and now you’re here,” McGarvey said. “Why specifically?”

“Because of what your son-in-law probably told you on the phone after meeting with the reporter.”

“The Friday Club?”

“Yeah, Mr. Foster, he’s one of our biggest clients, and he wants you dead.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, and I swear to Christ it’s the truth. But Remington and Sandberger were both worried that you would probably get too close for comfort. You were the company’s top priority.”

What Kangas was saying had the ring of truth to it, but there was more, just out of reach. McGarvey could feel it.

Something moved a little higher up the hill toward the road, but still to the left, but then stopped. Kangas had heard it and he stiffened.

“Tell him to walk away or I’ll shoot you right now and it’ll be just him and me,” McGarvey said.

“You’re going to shoot me anyway.”

“No need, I got what I wanted.”

Kangas shifted his weight to his left leg and started to swivel away from the gun pointed at the side of his head. The man was good, his movement sudden and swift, but he’d tensed the instant before he started to turn and McGarvey had felt it, and followed to the left, the pistol never leaving the contractor’s jawline.

“Your choice,” McGarvey said, jamming the pistol even harder.

“What do you want me to do?” Kangas asked, resignation finally in his voice.

“Tell your partner to toss his gun out where I can see it and walk back up to the car and wait for you.”

“Ronni,” Kangas shouted.

“I heard him,” Mustapha said from maybe only a few yards farther up the hill. “I can take him out from here.”

“Don’t miss,” McGarvey said, and he pulled the pistol’s hammer back. It was not necessary but the sound was distinctive.

“Do what he says, goddamnit, and we get to walk out of here alive!”

“I heard what you told him,” Mustapha said. “If Remington goes down, what about the money?”

“Screw the money.”

Mustapha was silent for several seconds.

“Come on, man,” Kangas said. “Just do it.”

Mustapha stepped into view, his hands in plain sight out to the sides. He let his gun drop to the ground. “If you’re going to shoot me it’ll have to be in the back,” he said. “But it wasn’t us who wiped out your family, you have my word on it.” He turned and started back up the hill.

When he was gone, McGarvey stepped back. “Go.”

Kangas didn’t bother turning around, just headed up the hill after Mustapha.

When they were both gone, McGarvey followed them, coming within sight of the road just as they were getting into the Taurus. A minute later they drove away, and McGarvey called Louise’s cell.

“Can I bum a ride?” he asked when she answered.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Remington was fifty years old, the same age his father had been when he’d hung himself from a ceiling light fixture, the only decisive thing the man had ever accomplished in his miserable life. And at this moment Remington figured that he had come to his own crossroad. Either the McGarvey situation would be resolved and Admin would continue its work in Baghdad for the State Department and here in Washington for the Friday Club, or everything would fall apart.

The cab had taken Colleen over to Reagan National Airport an hour ago, and before she’d walked out the door she’d kissed him, something she had not done in private for a very long time.

“It’s the shootings in Baghdad, isn’t it,” she’d said. “Roland was assassinated and you think you might be next?”

She was a bright woman, and never missed much, but he’d just smiled. “Anything’s possible, my dear. Might even get run over by a bus.”

“But you’re sending me up to New York just in case. How terribly romantic.”

“Just for a day or two.”

She gave him a double take. “You’re actually worried something like that could happen here. I mean just now that you’ve been handed the company practically on a silver platter. Doesn’t seem fair somehow.”

Remington had wanted to tell her to shut her mouth, but he’d held his smile. “Have a good time in New York.”

She’d given him a last, searching look. “Always do,” she said and she left.

It was quiet on Wednesdays, when the house staff had the day off. The only one left was Sergeant Randall, his driver and personal bodyguard, who had his own apartment in the carriage house above the garage at the rear of the property.

Remington stood by the French doors in his study looking at the rose garden. At this moment the bushes were bare, and looked dead. But in two months the garden — his personal project — would be magnificent. If everything held together that long, and he was here to see it.

It was coming up on nine-thirty, time to leave for the office, and yet the only word he’d received had been from Boberg who’d confirmed that McGarvey had shown up in disguise.

“A woman picked him up at the curb in a Toyota SUV,” Boberg reported. “But the plates matched some French doctor supposedly out of the country right now.”

“What about Kangas and Mustapha?”

“Last I heard they were following the Toyota into the city. Haven’t you heard from them yet?”

“No.”

“I’m in the office now, do you want me to try to reach them? Find out what’s going on?”

“I’ll take care of it myself from here,” Remington said. “But listen, Cal, I’m putting you in total charge of Admin for the next couple of days. I’m going to be busy soothing some ruffled feathers.”

“He hasn’t called here yet,” Boberg said, referring to Robert Foster.

“He’s waiting for me to take care of the situation. So just sit tight.”

“Business as usual?”

Remington laughed despite himself. “Or the illusion thereof,” he said. “Something comes up, call me.”

“Will do.”

Remington called the sat phone Kangas had been using since Baghdad, and it was answered on the second ring.

“It was a bloody fucking circus,” Kangas shouted.

Remington could hear the sounds of people and traffic in the background. “Where the hell are you?”

“On the Mall, in front of the Vietnam Memorial. Figured we needed to be around a lot of people. The son of a bitch is good, and we’re going to need some serious help if you still want him taken down.”

Remington held the phone tightly to his ear, but his other hand was shaking. He hadn’t had a drink in two days, and he needed something now. “What happened?” he demanded.

Kangas settled down and went over everything that happened from the moment McGarvey showed up and Boberg told them about the Toyota SUV. “The bitch driving stopped up in Rock Creek Park and McGarvey jumped out and ran into the woods. It was a setup.”

“Which you must have guessed.”

“Right. But the guy knows his stuff.”

“Why didn’t he kill you?” Remington asked, afraid that he already knew the answer, and knew he wouldn’t like it.

“He wanted us to take a message back to you.”

“Me, personally?”

“He mentioned you by name, and he also said he knew about Foster and the Friday Club. Said he was coming after everybody because of what happened to his son-in-law and wife and kid.”

“He knows Admin was involved? That you and Ronni were the triggermen?” Remington asked, astounded.

“He knows Admin was involved, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him what part we played,” Kangas said. “So what’s next? If you want us to go after him again, we’ll need more money, but we’ll arrange for our own extra muscle.”

Remington’s stomach was sour. “What’s next, you pricks?” he practically shouted into the phone. “You’re fucking fired, that’s what’s next. And you’ll have more to worry about than McGarvey, because every contractor on our payroll will be gunning for you. And I’ll make goddamned sure that every other service knows how incompetent you are.”

“Just maybe you’re our next target,” Kangas said.

“In your dreams,” Remington shot back. But he was talking to dead air. The connection had been broken.

He slammed the phone down, and went to the wet bar where he picked up the brandy decanter, but after an intense moment put it back. “Not now,” he muttered. “Not like this.”

It had been the worst possible news. Sandberger, and now this. And for the first time since he’d gotten out of the service, just before he’d teamed up with Roland to start Admin, and before he’d married Colleen and her money, he felt as if his back was truly up against the wall. He imagined that his father had felt the same thing at the end. But the old man had run out of options; no place to go and no money with which to get there.

Remington went back to his desk and sat down. It was different for him. He had set aside a fair amount of money — some of it siphoned from Admin and some of it from Colleen — and he owned a pleasant eighteenth-century villa in the south of France, just a few kilometers inland from the Med. Life could be comfortable there.

A new life, he thought. But first he had to cover his back. Maintain the illusion that Admin was still up and running and very much on track, which would give him time to slip well clear before he was missed. Twenty-four hours, tops.

Reluctantly he called Foster’s encrypted number, which wasn’t answered until the fourth ring.

“I expected a call from you much sooner, Gordon. What is the current situation vis-à-vis Mr. McGarvey?”

“I sent two shooters after him here in Washington this morning.”

“But they failed again, is that what you’ve telephoned to tell me?” Foster asked.

“Yes, sir. But it’s worse than that. Apparently McGarvey not only knows that Admin engineered the deaths of his son-in-law, wife, and daughter, but all of it was at the behest of the Friday Club. At your behest.” Remington hoped the bastard was squirming. That all of them in the man’s little group of tin-pot lobbyists were. None of them had any class that only centuries of English breeding could produce.

“How could he know such things unless someone from your staff said something. How about your two shooters?”

“They don’t know that you are a client. Only Roland and me and a few key people know about it.”

“It’s possible somehow they found Givens’s real CD and it’s also possible that Roland opened his mouth to try to save his life,” Foster said. “But it doesn’t really matter at this stage, because Mr. McGarvey has no proof. Couldn’t possibly have.”

“Perhaps you should see that the FBI takes a more active interest in arresting him. Maybe there could be an unfortunate shoot-out.”

“No,” Foster said flatly. “Your firm was hired to take care of just this sort of thing, and will continue to do so. Whatever it takes, no matter how much money you need, no matter how many Admin personnel it takes, I want McGarvey eliminated.”

“That may be messy.”

“Handle it.”

“McGarvey will almost certainly come after you, and quite soon I would think. Probably tonight. I’ll be sending Cal Boberg out to your place. He’s one of our best. He’ll handle it, as you say.”

“I’ll be expecting him,” Foster said. “But Gordon, I have my own security measures out here. Make sure he’s forewarned. His only mission will be to provide an outer layer of defense should McGarvey be foolish enough to come all this way.”

“Yes, sir,” Remington said.

After he hung up, he thought about his next moves. He would be out of here no later than midnight and on his way first to Atlanta aboard the company jet, as a diversion, and then off to Paris, commercial, and his new life. Long before his rose garden bloomed he would be eating clementine oranges from his own trees.

He telephoned Boberg at the office. “A change of plans, Cal. I have a new assignment for you.”

FIFTY-EIGHT

On the way back to the Renckes’ brownstone in Georgetown Louise was silent, almost as if she were afraid to ask the one question that had been on her lips the moment she’d seen him waiting by the side of Rock Creek Road.

And he was glad for it, because he felt battered, physically as well as emotionally. Admin had killed just about everyone he truly loved on the orders of the Friday Club. Robert Foster’s orders. S. Gordon Remington’s orders. Roland Sandberger’s orders.

But just before Louise pulled into the driveway back to the garage in what once upon a time had been a mews of carriage houses with apartments above, she glanced at him. “Are you okay?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been better,” he said. He felt that a great weariness was falling on him because of what he knew, and because of what would have to happen next.

“Did you kill those two guys?”

“No need for it,” he told her. “I wanted information and they gave it to me. It was a part of the bargain, so I had them toss their weapons and let them drive away.”

“Will they come back?”

“Maybe,” McGarvey said. “And if they do I’ll kill them.”

Louise said nothing, just shook her head and parked the car. They went inside together and Otto came to the head of the stairs. His operational headquarters, as he called one of the front bedrooms filled with computer equipment, was on the second floor. He’d spent most of his days and nights up there since Todd’s funeral and the explosion afterward.

“How’d it go,” he asked.

“He didn’t kill them,” Louise said. “Anybody hungry for breakfast?”

“Sure,” McGarvey said. “Then I’ll need to borrow your car.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Wherever Gordon Remington is holed up. Because if the two contractors at Rock Creek report in, he’ll go to ground. Might run anyway because of Baghdad, and I definitely want to catch him before he gets too far.”

Louise looked up at her husband. “You’d better tell him,” she said, and she went down the hall to the kitchen.

“Tell me what?” McGarvey asked, going upstairs.

Pete Boylan stood at the open door to Otto’s workroom. She was dressed in jeans and a light sweatshirt, the sleeves pushed up, and even though her face was bruised, and she had a bandage on her left arm, she still looked fetching. “You’re a popular guy, Mr. Director,” she said. “You might think about hanging out here until after dark, less chance of you being spotted.”

“I walked right past the two Bureau agents at the airport.”

“Yeah, and they’re mad as hell,” Otto said, and he led McGarvey back to his workroom. Two long tables filled with large wide-screen computer monitors, keyboards, and several pieces of equipment that prevented electronic eavesdropping, prevented virus infections, and allowed an undetectable wireless connection through the system at a Starbucks half a block away had been set up in a long V shape.

“You need to take a look at something,” Pete said. She sat down at one of the keyboards and pulled up the FBI’s For-Internal-Use-Only Persons of Interest page. The first name on the list was McGarvey’s. Included was a lengthy file with photographs of him in various disguises and in various locals including Frankfurt, and most recently Baghdad — but none showing him at any crime scene.

“They know you were there,” Pete said. “But take a look at this.”

She brought up the rest of his file, including his bio and a fairly complete rendering of his CIA jacket from day one right up to the Mexico City and Pyongyang incidents.

“All classified top secret or above,” Pete said.

“I’ve been looking, Mac, but I have no idea how that stuff got to the Bureau,” Otto said. “No traces were left behind in any of the Company’s computer systems. So if someone hacked our mainframe they were better than me.”

“It was probably done the old-fashioned way,” Pete said.

And McGarvey saw it before Otto, who was too tied into his computer world to think along a parallel line. “Someone copied the paper files and hand-carried them across.”

“Someone with access,” Pete said. “Someone on the seventh floor.”

Otto saw it, too. “This proves it,” he said. “We thought McCann was working with someone else in the company,” he explained to Pete. “Maybe someone he was reporting to.”

“Well, he’s still there, and he’s trying to bring you down, Mr. Director,” Pete said.

“Show him the rest.”

“Okay, so the Bureau is looking for you, but so is the U.S. Marshal’s Service.” She brought up the Service’s internal-use files and came up with the same dossier on McGarvey. “And the State Department’s Bureau of Intelligence and Research, D.C.’s Metro Police, and just about every law enforcement agency — state, county, and municipal — in a several-hundred-mile radius. Homeland Security has you on its watch list. And just this morning Baghdad police were seriously looking for you, and Iraq’s ambassador to the U.S. filed a formal complaint.”

Nothing was a surprise to McGarvey except the speed at which everything was happening. “Foster must be getting nervous to go to these lengths,” he said.

“I came over last night and Otto briefed me,” Pete said. “But we still don’t have enough proof that Foster’s Friday Club has anything to do with this, or with the Mexico City or Pyongyang incidents. Leastways nothing we can take to the Justice Department.”

“How’d you find this place?” McGarvey asked.

“I sent an e-mail to Otto’s home account and he answered me within ninety seconds.”

“Untraceable,” Otto said.

“Most of the people I talked to on Campus think someone is gunning for you, but their hands are tied. They’re afraid for their jobs. It’s scary over there. Morale has never been so low.”

“Technically makes you a traitor,” McGarvey said.

She smiled. “Just doing my job, Mr. Director.”

“Might be easier if you started calling me Mac. My friends do. The ones in this house at least.”

“You’d be surprised how many friends you have in this town,” she said.

“And just now too many enemies,” McGarvey said. “But you’re wrong about proof, I’ve got all I need.” And he told them about Kangas and Mustapha in Baghdad and again in Rock Creek Park this morning. “Admin is right in the middle of it.”

“On the Friday Club’s orders,” Otto said. “But the stuff on the disk they found in Todd’s car is worthless. So right now all we have is your word that a couple of Admin contractors at gunpoint told you everything.” Otto shook his head. “We need more than that to convince just about everyone in Washington including the president’s staff that you’re no traitor.”

“We can go after these two guys,” Pete said. “Present them as material witnesses.”

“They’re just shooters, not planners. They heard stuff, but they probably had no direct contact with Foster and his group,” McGarvey said. “It’s why I went to Baghdad, to see what Sandberger had to say. But he was willing to take a bullet rather than tell me anything. Which leaves us Remington.”

Otto was clearly worried. “What do you have in mind?”

“Find out where he lives, find out what security measures he has in place, and if he has bodyguards, and then I’ll go over to see him.”

“And if he’s willing to take a bullet the same as Sandberger, that’ll leave us with squat,” Otto said. “Admin killed Todd and Katy and Liz. We already had that pretty well figured out. But as bad as it is you gotta calm down and think it through. Honest injun.”

“Goddamnit, I’m not going to walk away,” McGarvey said, his entire body numb. Killing Sandberger had been satisfying. Too satisfying, and yet Otto was right, killing Remington would do nothing for them.

“Okay, so if you get nothing out of Remington, what next? Foster?”

“Yes.”

“And after him you’d be gunning for some top people in this town,” Otto said. “Think it out. Where does it end? And more important than that, where’s the connection between Mexico City, Pyongyang, and now? Because I don’t see it.”

“You still need material witnesses,” Pete broke in. “One material witness who would be willing to testify against Foster to save his butt. S. Gordon Remington.”

“That’s right,” McGarvey said.

“To save his butt from you,” she said quietly. “There’s no way you can run around Washington on your own — especially not during the day — no matter how good your disguise is.”

Louise was at the door. “She’s right. I recognized you because we’re friends. Could happen again if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Otto can check out Remington’s house and security measures and I’ll go over there myself later, around dinnertime, and ring the doorbell,” Pete said. “I’m not very threatening-looking, and he wouldn’t be expecting someone like me to show up.”

“He’s ex-SAS,” McGarvey said. “Sandhurst.”

“No offense, Mac, but he’s an old guy who probably hasn’t been on a field assignment in years. And I’m pretty good. I think I can take him down, and bring him back here, and we’ll have our foot in the Friday Club’s front door.”

It made sense but McGarvey didn’t like it. “That puts you on the firing line.”

“I didn’t lose a child or a spouse, but I did lose a partner who was my friend. And I’ve been on the firing line before.”

“You can’t go on a field ops with an empty stomach,” Louise said. “Breakfast is ready.”

FIFTY-NINE

Pete Boylan had wanted to be a tomboy all her life, but her good looks had made that nearly impossible, and at thirty-three she was just as frustrated as she’d ever been. Men tended to fall into two groups: those who were intimidated by her and those who trivialized her. Neither type of man had ever interested her, so she was still single, and hating that, too, which sometimes, like this evening, lent her a mean streak. She wanted to hit someone.

She cruised slowly along Whitehaven Street in her personal car, a red Mustang convertible, top up, past the Danish embassy and then the Italian embassy, Remington’s upscale house with the tall iron gate at the front entrance sat between them.

Otto had set her up with a one-piece voice-operated wire that looked like an in-the-ear-canal hearing aide. “Just drove past his house,” she said softly.

“Any visible activity?” McGarvey’s voice was soft but understandable in her ear.

“Lights on upstairs and downstairs, and a Bentley parked in the driveway, trunk lid open, no trunk light.” It was past eight and dark already.

“He’s going someplace.”

“Looks like it,” Pete said. “I’m at Massachusetts Avenue now. Soon as the light changes I’ll drive up to Thirtieth and make a U-turn.”

“How’s traffic?”

“Not bad,” Pete said. The light changed and she made a left then almost immediately a right, and made a sharp U-turn in somebody’s driveway. Two minutes later she was across Massachusetts Avenue and heading back to Remington’s house.

She missed Dan, and wished he were here with her right now. He was bright, kind, and above all understanding, just like her father had been in Palo Alto when she was growing up, especially when she’d gone through her teen years. But he’d had a heart attack when she was in her first year of pre-law at USC, and by the time she’d made it home he was gone. There wasn’t a day when she didn’t think of him, and it would be the same with Dan for the rest of her life.

She pulled up to the curb and parked, blocking Remington’s driveway. “Okay, I’m here, still no activity.”

“If he’s heading out, it means he’s probably desperate,” McGarvey said. “So watch your back.”

“And don’t forget about his driver, Sergeant Randall,” Otto’s voice came through the earpiece. “Ex-Sandhurst and SAS along with Remington. Probably tough as nails.”

“As far as they’re concerned I’m coming from the CIA to conduct an unofficial briefing on the Baghdad situation for Mr. Remington.”

“He’ll ask you on whose orders,” McGarvey said.

“I’m not allowed to give you that information, sir.”

“If something goes bad it might take me ten or fifteen minutes to get to you, so keep on top of it. Give us a clue.”

“Will do,” Pete said.

She took out her CIA identification wallet, got out of her car, and went to the front gate where she pushed the button for the bell, aware that a closed-circuit television camera was pointed at her. A few seconds later an overhead light came on.

“What is it?” a man’s voice came from the speaker grille. He sounded English.

Pete held her ID up to the camera. “Pete Boylan. CIA. I’ve been sent to brief Mr. Remington on the situation in Baghdad.”

“We’re aware of the situation.”

“Some new facts have just come to light, and it was thought that you should have this information immediately. It’ll only take a couple of minutes, sir.”

“Who sent you?”

“I’m not at liberty to give you that name. But he said you would know who it was.”

“Just a moment.”

If Remington called someone over at Langley the game would be over before it began. But the gate lock buzzed and she went through and up the walk to the red front door with a brass knocker, which opened as she approached.

A short man, craggy face, definitely not Remington, wide brown eyes, narrowed now with suspicion, looked at her. “Let me see your identification.”

She held it out for him, but when he reached for it she pulled back. “You may look, Sergeant Randall, but you will not touch.”

“Are you armed?”

Pete almost smiled. “Of course.”

“I’ll have your weapon, then.”

“Not a chance, Sarge,” Pete said. “Inform Mr. Remington that I’ve returned to the Campus.” She turned and started away, but Remington came to the door.

“It’s all right. Come back, please, I need to know what you brought for me.”

Pete turned back. Remington was dressed in a European-cut dark blazer with the family crest on the breast pocket, a white shirt, and club tie. “Are you going out this evening, sir?”

“To the office. We’re in crisis mode.”

“It’s why I was sent, sir,” Pete said.

He stepped aside for her to enter the stair hall, long crystal chandelier, ornate side tables, a pristine white marble floor, and a large painting of a man in formal dress on one wall opposite a mirror in an ornate gold frame. Sergeant Randall had stepped back a few feet, but he was super-alert.

“This is for your ears only, sir,” Pete said.

Remington was looking at her breasts. “Give us a minute, Sarge.”

Randall hesitated for just a moment, but then turned and disappeared down the corridor to the rear of the house.

“I have to tell you that I’ve never seen a prettier CIA officer,” Remington said. “But were you in an accident recently?”

Pete reached inside her jacket and withdrew her 9×19 mm compact Glock 19 pistol, fitted with a short barrel silencer and pointed it at Remington, who reared back, and stumbled away a couple of steps. But Pete followed him, keeping just out of his reach. If he lunged she meant to switch aim and shoot him in the kneecap. The whole idea was to get him back to Georgetown alive.

“I’m not here to assassinate you, Mr. Remington, but if you cry out or in any way try to alert Sergeant Randall, I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

It took Remington several beats to understand something of what he was facing. “You’re not really from the CIA.”

“Yes, I am. Housekeeping actually.”

“Then why are you here pointing a pistol at my head?”

“Somebody wants to have a chat with you before you leave town.”

The rest of it came to Remington. “McGarvey,” he said. “I’ll take my chances here.” He started to turn around.

“One step and I will shoot you,” Pete warned.

Remington stopped, his back to her. “If I go with you, McGarvey will kill me anyway, so I’m a dead man.”

“You have one option.”

“Which is?”

“Help us prove what Foster and his Friday Club are up to; what Joshua Givens evidently found out about and passed to Todd Van Buren that resulted in their deaths.”

Remington’s shoulders sagged, and he turned around. “It’s bigger than you can imagine,” he said. “There’d be no place safe for me.”

“If you don’t cooperate do you think McGarvey will back off? He knows your company was involved in the deaths of his son-in-law and the Post reporter. And he knows your people killed his wife and daughter.”

“And he killed Roland without hesitation because of it.”

“Only because your boss chose to take a bullet rather than cooperate,” Pete said.

Remington’s lips parted slightly at the same moment Pete became aware of the distant sounds of traffic as the front door opened. Sliding to the left and swiveling on one heel she was in time to see Sergeant Randall coming through the door, his gun hand rising. With no time to assume the proper two-handed grip and solid firing stance, she pulled off two snap shots, one smacking into the wall, but the other hitting the sergeant in center mass and he fell back, bouncing off the door frame and crumpling to the floor.

Before she could recover her balance Remington was on her, his superior weight bulling her to her knees. Instead of resisting, she went with his forward momentum, ducking down so that he came over the top of her back, and she grabbed the material of his jacket with her left hand and helped him the rest of the way over.

She scrambled away on her butt and heels, and got to her feet as Remington turned over and tried to reach Randall’s pistol. But he was too old, and too slow, and Pete was on him before he got two feet, and jammed her pistol in the back of his neck at the base of his skull.

“Now that the situation is stabilized and your sergeant is dead, give me one good reason not to pull the trigger,” she said. McGarvey and Otto were listening, and she’d just told them that she was okay.

“We want him alive,” McGarvey said.

“We have a safe house for you,” Pete said.

“What about afterward?” Remington asked, looking over his shoulder from where he was sprawled on the marble floor.

“If you mean your house in France and your secret bank accounts in Switzerland, Guernsey, and the Caymans, that will depend on how well you cooperate. We can take the house and drain your accounts easier than you think.”

“Flash drive,” Remington said.

“What about a flash drive?”

“The Friday Club. All of Admin’s records. Names, financial dealings. Everything. You can’t imagine.”

“Everything on the Friday Club?” Pete asked, for McGarvey’s benefit.

“Anyone else in the house?” McGarvey asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Make sure you have the flash drive and then get him out of there, right now. His sergeant might have called for backup,” McGarvey said. “I cheated. I’m five minutes away.”

SIXTY

The Toyota SUV moved quickly in the night up the Rock Creek Parkway, and past the spot where Louise had dropped McGarvey off early that morning. Now, except for the streetlights, the park was mostly in darkness and all but deserted.

“Do you really think his sergeant called for help?” she asked.

“I think that it’s likely if they got suspicious,” McGarvey said.

Otto had fitted him with the same earpiece comms unit that Pete was using, except his had a lapel switch that in one position was a party line connecting him with Otto and Pete, while in the other only he and Otto could talk.

He flipped the switch that excluded Pete. “Were you able to intercept any calls to or from Admin’s offices?” he asked.

“Several since this afternoon, but just about everything in or out is heavily encrypted with some really good shit. My darlings are working on it, but it might take more time than we have.”

“No calls to Metro D.C. police?”

“Not to Remington’s address.”

McGarvey flipped the switch. “You don’t have to answer unless you’re in trouble. I want you to get out of there as fast as possible and head up to Massachusetts Avenue, take the first right, and then the next into Rock Creek Park. We’ll run interference from there. If that’s a roger, cough.”

Pete’s cough came out clearly.

“Have you got the flash drive yet? One cough yes.”

“Okay so it’s encrypted,” Pete said. “We’ll need the key.” She was talking to Remington.

“The key will save time, but Otto can crack it,” McGarvey told her.

“Which makes you our next best bet,” Pete said. “Now, nice and easy, we’re going out to my car and take a little drive. Do as I tell you, and you just might survive to make it to France.”

“Make sure the street is clear before you leave the house,” McGarvey told her.

They came around the last long sweeping curve before Massachusetts Avenue and Louise pulled over to the side of the road, and switched off the headlights. “Do you want me to turn the car around?”

“No, don’t turn the car around yet,” he told Louise, but for Pete’s benefit. “Not until we’re sure she’s clear and on her way.”

“Hold up,” Pete said.

McGarvey could visualize her at the front door, using Remington’s much larger bulk as her cover. She wasn’t a field officer, but she was a smart woman and well trained. She knew what she was doing, but McGarvey was anxious. If something were to go wrong, it would happen within the next sixty seconds.

“We’re clear,” Pete said into his earpiece.

McGarvey flipped the transmit switch back to Otto-only. “Anything from Admin, or D.C. Metro?”

“Nada,” Otto said.

“Son of a bitch,” Pete swore, and McGarvey flipped the transmit switch.

“Talk to me,” he said.

“Dark blue or black Ford, maybe a Taurus, coming on fast. Halfway to my car. No other cover.” She was out of breath.

It was Kangas and Mustapha, back for revenge. They wouldn’t give a damn about Pete. They wanted to take Remington down. “We’re on our way right now, Pete. Get down! Get down!”

Louise flipped on the lights and rocketed to the red light on Massachusetts. There was a break in traffic so she blew through it and accelerated across the bridge to Whitehaven a little more than a block away.

“Shit, I’m hit!” Pete shouted. “Remington’s down. Two guys with silenced automatic weapons just jumped out of the Taurus. I’m returning fire. Get here now, Mac!”

They had to wait for several precious seconds for traffic until Louise could turn onto Whitehaven.

“Kill your lights,” McGarvey told Louise. He had his pistol out.

As soon as the Toyota’s headlights were out, they could see muzzle flashes a hundred yards away.

“Pull over here,” he told her. He didn’t want her in the line of fire. She wasn’t a field officer.

“No time,” Louise said and she headed directly for the blue Taurus.

SIXTY-ONE

Hunched down behind her Mustang, Pete ejected the empty magazine from the handle of her pistol, slammed another in its place, and charged the weapon. Remington was down, and definitely dead. He had taken several rounds to his torso and at least two to his head.

His body lay a few feet back on the sidewalk.

But she had managed to get off fifteen rounds on the run over the top of her car, and nearly made it to cover when she’d been hit in the left hip. The initial shock had stung like hell and knocked her to her knees. But she was sure it was just superficial, though her butt and upper leg were numb.

The two men from the Taurus who’d opened fire were somewhere in the road, maybe behind their own car. Evidently they’d been taken by surprise when she had returned fire. But a Glock 19 compact pistol was no match for a pair of automatic weapons. She didn’t recognize the sound, but the guns were effective.

She ducked down so she could see the street from beneath her undercarriage, but nothing was there except for the ford. No feet on ankles.

“They’ve gotta be close, so watch yourself,” she said softly.

“Keep down, I’m right on top of you,” McGarvey told her.

Suddenly she heard a car coming up the street at a high rate of speed, and someone firing what had to be a nine-millimeter pistol.

She pulled herself up to a crouch so she could see over the hood of her car. One of the shooters hidden behind the Taurus was aiming his weapon at the oncoming car when Pete fired one shot catching him in the side, knocking him down.

To her left the Toyota screeched rubber, braking to a halt, and she had just a split second to see a dark figure jump out of the passenger side and disappear behind a line of parked cars ten yards away, when the shooter down behind the Taurus opened fire.

She turned and fired two shots, the first ricocheting off the pavement, the second catching him in the side of the head or throat, and he fell back and was motionless.

“One down—” she said, when a figure came running out of the darkness to her right.

“Bitch,” he shouted, practically on top of her.

“Damn,” she said, turning, trying to bring her pistol to bear, but she was too late and she knew it.

Her hip gave out and she lurched against the hood of her car and began to fall as someone behind her fired three shots, all of them connecting with the man who fell backward, almost in slow motion, his silenced weapon discharging a volley of shots in an arc up in the air.

All of a sudden she was sitting on her butt on the curb, the night silent, her head buzzing, a pool of blood slowly gathering under her.

McGarvey loomed above her. “You’re hit,” he said, and she could hear his voice coming from his lips as well as in her earpiece.

“Not bad, I think,” she mumbled.

McGarvey holstered his pistol then rolled over on her side. He undid her jeans and pulled them down around her hips then yanked off his jacket, balled it up and pressed it against the wound in her hip. “Hold this in place,” he said, guiding her hand to it.

He opened the door of the Mustang, then picked her up and gently put her in the passenger seat.

“I’m taking Pete to All Saints. Tell them we’re coming in. I’m driving Pete’s car.”

“How bad is she?”

“She’s losing a fair bit of blood.”

“They might tip off the Bureau that you’re on the way,” Otto said.

“I’ll take the chance,” McGarvey said. “Have Louise follow us.”

Pete was hearing all of this and when McGarvey got behind the wheel she wanted to tell him that she would get there herself, but her focus went soft gray and nothing was making sense.

At All Saints Hospital the gate opened for them and they drove inside and around back where a pair of nurses waited with a gurney. As soon as McGarvey pulled up, they eased a semiconscious Pete out of the car and helped her up onto the gurney.

“Are you hurt, Mr. Director?” one of them asked.

He had a lot of Pete’s blood on him. “I’m fine,” he said.

“Dr. Franklin’s standing by upstairs for her. He says that you were never here. So go.”

“What about her?”

“She was never here either. So just go. And leave her car.”

They wheeled Pete inside the hospital, and McGarvey hesitated a few moments before he walked back to Louise waiting in the Toyota. So much history here, he thought. Some of it with good outcomes, but other bits not so good. He could see Todd’s shot-to-hell body lying on the stainless-steel table. Nothing he could have done to prevent it. Nothing.