The Fourth Horseman (13 page)

“And the rest?”

McGarvey shrugged. “From all accounts your wife was a gentle soul. Whoever killed her was a bully. And I don’t like bullies.”

“The world is full of them, didn’t you know? Or are you a Don Quixote, tilting at windmills?”

“Something like that,” McGarvey said, letting it hang there.

“I’m going now,” Haaris said.

“Home?” Pete asked.

“No, the office, I recalled my team,” Haaris said. “We need to revise our position for the president this morning.” He started down the hall the same way Dr. Franklin had left.

“What’s next?” Pete called after him.

“A reception for diplomats at the Pakistani embassy this evening,” Haaris responded without looking back. “I’m going to stick it to them, see who reacts.”

It was coming up on six, and McGarvey was tired.

“How about some breakfast?” Pete asked.

“Sure.”

They walked outside from the rear exit, where Pete’s car was parked. “This isn’t the end of it,” she said.

“It’s just started,” McGarvey said, mulling over the entire situation. The ISI killing Haaris’s wife made no sense, unless they had stumbled on her while waiting for Haaris to show up. But if that had been the case the operation had been incredibly sloppy, unlike the one off Casey Key. It was an anomaly, something he neither trusted nor liked, except that anomalies usually pointed to something, some direction no one expected.

They drove over to a Panera Bread restaurant.

“He wasn’t distraught,” Pete said before they got out of the car.

“They wanted him, but they took out his wife instead.”

On the surface it made no sense. The situation was almost the same as one he’d encountered on his first wet assignment for the CIA at the beginning of his career. He’d been sent to Chile to kill a general who’d ordered the murders of thousands of innocent civilians. But when he got to the general’s compound in the middle of the night, the general was making love to his wife. The alarm had been sounded and McGarvey had only seconds to react. Out of necessity he had assassinated both of them.

Later he had beaten himself up thinking about the woman, until he’d learned that she’d fancied herself a devotee of Joseph Mengele’s wife—the Nazi who’d personally butchered thousands of Jews. Mengeles’s wife had many of the victims’ skin removed, had tanned the pieces—most often taken from their backs—and had painted pictures on some of them and made lampshades from others. She was as monstrous as her husband. As was the wife of the Chilean general, and she’d deserved to die. But McGarvey had never gotten over it.

“I held his hand for a few seconds,” Pete said. “I could feel his pulse. It should have been fast, but it wasn’t. His heart rate was that of a man at peace with himself. What do you make of that?”

*   *   *

McGarvey went back to Pete’s apartment with her, where he sacked out on the couch for a few hours. It was against his better wishes to get her involved, but she’d at least had a half night’s sleep and she kept watch.

Otto called at a little after eleven as Pete was fixing them an early light lunch. He took the call at a window of her second-floor apartment from which he could look down at the street. But the traffic seemed normal. No one lurking in a doorway or on a rooftop with the glint of sunlight off the lens of a scope.

“Page has been trying to get in touch with you all morning and so has Marty. Broderick has been putting a lot of pressure on us. They want you to act right now. The situation in Islamabad is starting to spin out of control. None of the EU countries are in any hurry to return their embassy staffs, and from what Austin is sending us, it looks as if Taliban committees are being set up at all the key governmental offices, and more importantly, at all the major air force and navy bases. The bases where nuclear weapons are being mated for deployment.”

“Has Haaris briefed the president yet?”

“He went over there around ten, And so far as I know he hasn’t returned,” Otto said. “The metro cops were all over his wife’s murder, but he knows someone at the Bureau who took over the case. And he’s agreed to be interviewed, but only briefly, so that he can get on with his work.”

“Anything new from your analysis of the Messiah’s voice?”

“It was the same guy who spoke at the Presidential Palace. But my darlings are having a tough time re-creating the original voice. Whatever equipment he used was well above the over-the-counter Radio Shack lash-up. Professional-grade stuff. Shit that only a government is likely to come up with.”

“The Pakistani embassy is hosting a cocktail party for diplomats tonight. Get me a pass for it.”

Pete had come to the kitchen door in time to hear McGarvey’s request. “Me too,” she said.

McGarvey started to object, but Otto overheard her.

“She’ll be good cover,” he said. “Anyway, two sets of eyes and ears are better than one. And they’ve promised to have the new prime minister there. He’s flying in this afternoon.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Will Page be there?”

“No, but Fay and his wife will be.”

“Black tie, I assume,” Pete said after McGarvey hung up.

“Of course.”

“I can hardly wait.”

TWENTY-THREE

The main reception hall of the Pakistani embassy was packed with more than 250 people, a significant portion of the top diplomats in the city, almost all from nations that did regular business with Islamabad. A long buffet table was spread out along one side of the large circular room. White-coated waiters moved through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres, sweet mint tea in small cups and glasses of Dom Pérignon.

McGarvey in a tux and Pete in a simple black over-one-shoulder cocktail dress and a tasteful diamond necklace stood to one side of the entry, sipping champagne. Neither of them was armed.

“I haven’t spotted Haaris yet,” Pete said.

“It’s going to be interesting to see Haaris’s reaction if and when he does show up,” McGarvey said. “Especially if he publicly pins the blame for his wife’s murder on the ISI.”

“It still doesn’t make sense to me that he could think the ISI was behind it. Otto has the recordings of him talking with General Rajput, and they seemed like old friends, or at least allies. And it was the ISI who supposedly rescued him from his Taliban captors.”

“He changed his tune this morning.”

“A strange man,” Pete said. “Did you know that he was born in Pakistan?”

“Otto said something about it. His parents were killed when he was very young, and a rug-merchant uncle brought him to London and put him in the best schools, including Eton.”

“When he came to us he was a British citizen. But what’s most curious to me is that he was willing to share what he learned with the British Secret Intelligence Service. Technically made him a traitor.”

“I’ve not seen his entire jacket yet.”

“I have and you need to look at it soon,” Pete said. “Read between the lines. The guy is filled with hate for what they did to him as a kid in school.”

“British public schools are notorious, but they’ve graduated some pretty substantial people.”

Pete looked up at him. “You’re playing devil’s advocate again.”

“I guess I am. I don’t trust him either, but just because he was used hard as a kid in school, and he’s filled with hate, as you say, doesn’t make him bad. Nor does the fact that he was born in Pakistan, and raised by an uncle, make him suspect.”

“But?”

“I don’t know,” McGarvey said. And he really didn’t. “But before I pack my bags I’m going to press him. Maybe Otto’s right about him.”

“My God, you’re not seriously thinking about going over there to take out the Messiah?”

“I don’t think that even a SEAL Team Six unit with all the right intel and a lot of luck could do it. And get back out.”

“That’s not what I asked, Mac,” Pete pressed. She took his arm. “No screwing around now. What the president wants you to do is crazy.”

“Less crazy than sending troops over there.”

John Fay and his wife came over. “Mr. McGarvey, your name came up again in a strategy session this afternoon,” the secretary of state said. He was of the old school of diplomats, among the last of a certain class defined by breeding, refinement and intelligence.

“I imagine it did,” McGarvey said, and he introduced Pete as a CIA special projects officer.

“A serious title,” Jeanne Fay said. “If it implies what I expect it must.”

“There’ve been interesting moments,” Pete said, smiling pleasantly.

“Excuse us, ladies, but I’d like to take Mr. McGarvey aside for just a minute or two,” Fay said.

“Miss Boylan is privy to everything that I’ve done or have been asked to do over the past couple of years,” McGarvey said.

Fay was just a little vexed, but he didn’t press. “Have you come to a decision? The president is running out of viable options.”

“Like the situation when Russia invaded the Ukraine?” Pete asked.

“Worse. Kiev had no nuclear weapons and not much of a military.”

“They’re not going to start a nuclear war,” McGarvey said.

“Did you see the Messiah’s latest broadcast?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“I was surprised that he was inviting everyone back—especially us,” McGarvey said. “Our taking out a significant portion of their weapons had to be viewed as an act of war.”

“Yet there has been no mention of it, officially or unofficially,” Fay said. “What do you make of that?”

“I’m not a political analyst, Mr. Secretary. Just a tool.”

“At this point a very important tool. The question is, will you do it?”

It dawned on McGarvey that Fay was frightened, but it was impossible to tell if the secretary of state was more frightened of the situation in Pakistan or of the president’s decision to have an assassin kill the Messiah. “Do what?”

“Don’t be crude, Mr. McGarvey. The order was put on the table, and you are a volunteer. You can either carry it out or simply turn your back and walk away. Though from what I understand happened in Florida, the latter might not be an option for you.”

“Do you think something like that will happen again if Mr. McGarvey turns down the assignment?” Pete asked.

“You don’t think that it’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s stupid.”

Fay smiled faintly. “As a matter of fact, so do I. To this point Pakistan has shown no aggression towards us.”

“They want our financial support,” McGarvey said. He was fascinated with the secretary’s verbal maneuvering.

“Shahid has called for a continued cease-fire, in this instance with no time limits.” Shahidullah Shahid was the primary spokesman for the Tehreek-e-Taliban Pakistan, the organization of militants in the country.

“I would think that’s good news. Are we sending Powers back to Islamabad?”

“He leaves in the next day or two.”

“What’s his brief?”

“To open a dialogue with the new prime minister, whoever he turns out to be,” Fay said.

“Will Powers be here tonight?” Pete asked.

“No, Miss Boylan, for reasons that should be obvious to you and Mr. McGarvey.”

Pete started to say something, but McGarvey held her off. “Has he been told what the president suggested?”

Fay hesitated. “No.”

McGarvey had never considered himself a political animal, but he’d seen equal amounts of what he took to be brilliance and sheer idiocy coming from just about every office in Washington and the Beltway, including the National Security Agency, the CIA, the Pentagon and the White House.

“Every time we’ve had one agenda for an ambassador and another either for our military or intelligence services, it’s almost always turned out for the worse. I would have thought that you guys understood that by now. Especially after Benghazi and the aftermath.”

“One mistake.”

“Supplying bin Laden and his fighters with Stinger missiles to use against the Taliban—after which they were and still are used against us. Going into Iraq with no intention of rebuilding their infrastructure. Getting bogged down in an unwinnable war in Afghanistan. The list isn’t endless, Mr. Secretary, but it’s long.”

Fay took a moment to answer. “Mistakes have been made, but we do what we can do. Have you never made an error?”

“Plenty,” McGarvey said.

There was a flurry across the room. The Pakistani ambassador to the U.S., Idrees Burki, came to the middle of the room and held up a hand. The guests fell silent. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present to you the new prime minister of Pakistan, General Hasan Rajput.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Rajput, dressed in a British-cut dove-gray suit, with a blue dress shirt of horizontal white stripes and a plain gray tie, shook hands with Ambassador Burki and then turned to face the crowd, his eyes lingering one by one on the guests.

McGarvey stepped to one side so that Fay wasn’t blocking his line of sight to Rajput, and the new PM spotted him, with no hint of recognition.

“Who is he?” Fay asked.

“Until two days ago he was the general in charge of the ISI’s Covert Operations Division,” McGarvey said.

“I’ll be damned,” Fay replied, and he started forward, but McGarvey laid a hand on his arm.

“Just a minute, Mr. Secretary. What are you going to say to him?”

“I’ll merely introduce myself. It’s customary in these circumstances.”

Other diplomats approached Rajput and the Pakistani ambassador, forming what amounted to a receiving line.

“You have a little time yet. And considering what our SEAL teams did to their weapons, and the loss of lives on both sides—none of which has been made public—it might be better if you didn’t get to him first.”

“I thought that you weren’t a political animal.”

“I’m not, but first I want to see if Dave Haaris shows up.”

Fay gave him a sharp look. “He blames the ISI for murdering his wife. He wouldn’t dare show his face here.”

“Well, he just walked in the door,” Pete said.

Haaris, perfectly dressed in what was obviously an expensive tuxedo, an unreadable expression on his face though his lips were set in a tight smile, stopped to get a glass of champagne from a waiter then headed across the room to where the receiving line was forming.