Tower Down--A Kirk McGarvey Novel, page 22
* * *
They reached the Italian border and the same uniformed officials on both sides who had checked McGarvey through earlier just waved him across. If Major Galan’s people had recognized him, they hadn’t alerted the French border people yet.
“Maybe they just wanted to get rid of us,” Pete said.
No one was behind them, and McGarvey watched in the rearview mirror as the officer on the French side went back into the crossing post.
Traffic was light on the Autostrada and they made good time, reaching the airport outside of Genoa in just under one hour. Gratto had the jet on the tarmac in front of the general aviation terminal, and as soon as McGarvey and Pete arrived he spooled up the engines.
The man at the terminal who had arranged for the rental car signed for its return, and they went aboard and were airborne in less than ten minutes.
“We’ll stay out of French airspace,” the pilot said.
“Good idea,” McGarvey told him. “And thanks for standing by.”
“Our pleasure, Mr. Director.”
As soon as they were at cruising altitude, Toynbee came back with a brandy for each of them. “This’ll start you out while I’m fixing dinner.”
He returned a minute later with an ice pack for Pete’s face. “I hope the bastard who did that to you gets cancer and dies a long, painful death.”
Pete grinned. “Thanks. Me too.”
* * *
Dinner was filet mignon, a baked potato, a small salad with bleu cheese dressing, and a good Bordeaux. McGarvey inhaled his, and Pete wasn’t far behind him.
Toynbee laid the seats at the back of the small cabin as flat as they would go, and brought out small pillows and blankets for them.
“Dessert?” he asked. “I promise, just like the steaks, not out of a can.”
“Sleep,” Pete said.
“You too, Mr. Director? I’ll wake you an hour out. Someone will meet us there to take you home.”
* * *
It was a few minutes after four in the morning local when they were on final approach to Andrews before Toynbee woke them.
“Sorry, guys, but I didn’t have the heart to wake you any earlier,” he said. “Mr. Rencke agreed with me. He said the meeting has been scheduled at nine.”
McGarvey felt gummy, but better than he had for the last couple of days. The ice pack had helped with Pete’s face, but she still looked battered, and his anger spiked again. “You look good,” he told her.
She smiled. “Liar. But I’ll take the compliment.”
Toynbee came back with coffee. “This oughta help a little.”
“Do you want to marry me?” Pete asked.
“My wife might take exception, but sure, if you clean up first.”
The landing was smooth, and an armored Cadillac Escalade with two minders was waiting for them.
“Compliments of the DCI himself,” Toynbee told them.
At the open cabin door Gratto turned in his seat. “This isn’t over yet, is it,” he said as a statement, not as a question.
“Not by a long shot,” McGarvey told him. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Where to next?”
“Mallorca.”
FIFTY-ONE
Kamal took the TGV up to Paris first thing in the morning, about the same time as Hammond slipped his moorings and headed for the leisurely overnight run to Mallorca. A half dozen other mega-yachts made up the fleet, and Hammond had promised Kamal a stateroom would remain open for him as long as he wished.
Sa’ad was waiting for him at the Deux Magots, the lunch crowd of tourists just starting to fill the place. The GIP major did not look pleased.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Kamal said, and he turned and headed across the street without looking back.
Sa’ad caught up with him just as they passed the entry to the Métro. “Are we taking the subway?”
“No, too many ears.”
“Why did you call me from Riyadh so suddenly? What has happened?”
“I came head-to-head with McGarvey’s woman.”
Sa’ad stopped short. “You stupid man. It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”
“I think I convinced her that I’m a money launderer. A businessman.”
“I’m washing my hands of you, and that order was given directly by the palace to my boss. I’m here only as a courtesy to a man who has already given us great service.”
“No,” Kamal said.
“I know that you are an atheist, nevertheless I’m telling you to go with Allah. But if you insist on continuing, our intelligence might have to be shared with the CIA. It would be out of my hands.”
It was what Kamal had expected, and it was exactly why he had called for Sa’ad to come to Paris. “Including the fact that you hired me to take down two buildings, including AtEighth?”
“You can’t prove any of that.”
“I think that if you give me up, they’ll find my numbered accounts at PSP. It wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility for them to trace the dates and amounts back to the GIP.”
“Not likely. And in any event it would prove nothing. We might even send operatives to kill you.”
“Except that I was on a Saudi Arabian–approved mission, and the blame was to go to ISIS. And the point is that I’m still active. I’ve not completed my orders.”
“Your orders are to stand down,” the agent runner said angrily.
“Repeat that,” Kamal said, taking his phone out of his jacket pocket. He dialed a number with his thumb, and pushed send. “Our conversation has been sent to an anonymous remailer that you will never find.”
“You’re a dead man.”
“You’ll have to catch me first. And of course you really can’t call the Americans for help. There would be too many questions.”
Sa’ad glanced around. The street and sidewalks were crowded, but the two of them were all but anonymous here. He started to reach beneath his jacket.
Kamal knew that he had won. “Here in the middle of Paris in broad daylight?”
Sa’ad hesitated.
“I’m only doing what you wanted me to do in the first place. That has not changed.”
“Is it more money you want?”
“No.”
“Then what? I don’t understand.”
“I want the contact number reactivated. And I’ll need to know what security precautions are being taken to stop the next tower from going down.”
“My God, man, you can’t be serious.”
“Very serious. The second tower is coming down with or without your help. But it’ll be a hell of a lot easier if you’ll cooperate with me. Our careers are linked. You and I are brothers. If I fall, so do you.”
“The blame will never come back to the palace.”
“No, just to you and me. Rogue operators, working completely on our own.”
Sa’ad took a long moment to work out the ramifications. “If it’s not about the money, then why?”
“You wouldn’t understand. “
“Try me.”
“For the pleasure of the thing.”
Sa’ad absorbed it. “You’re insane.”
“Totally. But don’t confuse that with stupidity.”
“Maybe a bullet in the back of your head would be the best for both of us.”
“It’s too late for that.”
* * *
After leaving Sa’ad, Kamal booked a ticket on the TGV from Paris to Barcelona and took a cab to the busy Gare de Lyon train station, where he had a late lunch of two bières ordinaire and a croque-monsieur grilled ham and cheese sandwich.
He used his travel app to contact the Grand Hotel Central, one of the best hotels in the Spanish city. Booking a suite for just the one night under his Castillo identification, he waited until the absolute last minute to board the train for the six-and-a-half-hour trip.
Sa’ad had sent no one for him. Or at least he’d not been able to pick out anyone from the thinning crowd on the platform.
He found his first-class compartment as soon as they’d pulled out of the station. An attractive woman in her mid-to-late-forties was seated across from him. She was obviously Parisian; her medium chestnut short hair was mussed just outside of perfection, and her blouse, its long sleeves pushed up to her elbows, the tattered but slim-fitting jeans and high-heeled shoes, plus a Hermès print scarf, were casually elegant. Dans le vent, the French said. “In the wind.” “In fashion.”
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly.
“Madame,” she corrected him.
He inclined his head slightly. “Pardon, I didn’t notice a ring.”
A few minutes later they were moving through the outskirts of Paris, and he telephoned the Hermitage and spoke to the day manager.
“This is M. Castillo. I’m checking out, and I’ll need you to do two things for me.”
“Of course, monsieur. Will you be settling your account with the American Express platinum we have on record for you?”
“Of course, and please add a forty percent tip for your staff, and accept my apologies for the incident with the police last night.”
“Thank you for your generosity, and think nothing of the incident. Now, how may I personally be of service, M. Castillo?”
“Firstly I would like the valet to place my motorcycle in storage for the time being.”
“It’s already been taken care of, sir.”
“And I would like my things packed and sent by air to the Grand Central Hotel in Barcelona, to arrive no later than six this evening.”
“Of course, though we may have to employ a private aviation service.”
“I’ll leave that to your good judgment.”
“Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“For the moment, no.”
* * *
The attendant came for his ticket, followed by a steward from whom Kamal ordered a decent bottle of champagne.
“Dom Pérignon, sir?” the young man asked.
“Will you join me?” he asked his compartment mate. “It will certainly make the journey, and perhaps dinner a little later, go more quickly.”
“Yes, please,” she said.
“Two glasses,” he told the attendant.
When he was gone Kamal offered his hand, which the woman took. “Angel Castillo.”
“Oui, I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. Her voice was soft and husky and she smiled at the corners of her eyes and lips. “Denise Theroux. Are you Spanish?”
“Mexican.”
“I’ve never met a Mexican before.”
“Then I’ll give you the short course why we’re superior in so many ways.”
She laughed.
FIFTY-TWO
They dropped Pete off at her apartment in Georgetown, one of the minders staying with her, while the other was to drive McGarvey over to his place.
“We’ll be back in a half hour,” McGarvey told her.
“I’ll need more than that, and then you’re taking me to breakfast. We have plenty of time. And we need to talk.”
McGarvey’s minder was Benny Barton and McGarvey had seen him before. He and the other minder, Sam McGuire, were ex-SEALs, and looking at them there was nothing spectacular to see. But they were trained killers and worked as a team. Marty had sent the best.
“What’s the word on Campus?” McGarvey asked.
“They’re going to try to bring down another one, Mr. Director. But the word is that no one wants to believe it.”
“Any guesses on which one and when?”
“Something on East Fifty-seventh.”
“Why there?”
Barton looked at him. “It’s where the first one was. And it’s where the money is, sir. Would you buy into the neighborhood now?”
“No.”
“Neither would anyone I personally know. Those kinds of places are mostly for people who want to thumb their noses at the rest of the world. Like the prince out east somewhere who has a two-hundred-bedroom mansion. Who the hell needs two hundred bedrooms, and ten swimming pools, and a staff of two hundred?”
“I don’t know.”
Barton was suddenly sheepish. “Sorry, sir. I’m not some do-gooder who thinks nobody should be rich, but those who are have to share everything with the poor. But Jesus, how much is too much?”
“No apologies necessary,” McGarvey said. “But I can think of a few who do good with their money. Bill Gates and his wife, for instance.”
“You’re right, sir. But you asked why target places like the pencil towers? It’s the same as the trade towers on nine-eleven. To the kind of people who gravitated to al-Qaeda and now ISIS we’re Satan, New York is hell on earth, and those buildings are the devil’s symbols. They have to bring them down. And maybe they won’t stop at just two.”
“That’s a cheery thought.”
“Just doing what they pay me for, sir.”
* * *
At his apartment, which was just a few blocks away from Pete’s, McGarvey shaved and took a shower. He repacked his bag with some fresh clothes including a jacket, a tux in its hanging bag, and the last two clean passports and ID kits from his go-to-hell stash. Major Galan had returned the Walther, even the silencer, and two mags and ammunition.
Neither he nor Pete would walk around unarmed. And he was going to try his damndest to convince her to stay either here or at worst up in New York to lay the groundwork for what he knew was going to turn out to be practically a search for a needle in a large stack of needles. Manhattan had a lot of tall buildings.
They just had to figure out which one was next and mount a full-court press.
Otto phoned him on the way over. “How’re you guys doing?”
“We could use a little more sleep, but right after the meeting I’m headed to Mallorca to catch up with Hammond.”
“I just talked to Pete; she says she’s packed and ready to go. Meeting’s here in one hour. You guys can grab a quick bite in the cafeteria, and afterwards Louise says you guys are having dinner here and spending the night. Audie wants to see you, and anyway, Gratto and his crew need to get some rest before they head across the drink again.”
McGarvey could sometimes bulldoze Otto, but he’d never been able to get past Louise, especially not if they held up the trump card: Audie, his granddaughter.
* * *
Barton called two minutes out, and when they pulled up Pete and her minder came out of the building. McGarvey got in the backseat and she climbed in with him as McGuire loaded her bags into the rear area.
The minders’ heads were on swivels as was McGarvey’s, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Within forty seconds of stopping they were on the way to Langley.
The two housekeepers had been briefed. If it was Nero at Cannes and aboard Hammond’s yacht for the race, and again at the Hermitage, where he had taken Pete at gunpoint, then the man had good intel. Good enough that he would know McGarvey and Pete were back in D.C., and send someone to pick them off.
“So where are we going to breakfast?” Pete asked. She had taken a shower, fixed her hair, and had put on a little makeup to cover the redness on the side of her face. She looked fresh and eager.
“The cafeteria. Walt wants to get the meeting started.”
“Peachy. Anyway, Louise called and invited us for dinner and a sleepover. Promised we wouldn’t have to be in separate beds.”
“Good.”
“Audie will be there. Sweet kid, she calls me Auntie Pete and then laughs. Louise says that she’s bright and knows a lot more than we give her credit for.”
McGarvey looked away for a moment.
“They’re doing a good job raising her,” Pete said.
He turned back. “Better than I could on my own.”
* * *
Otto met them with their passes at the elevator in the VIP garage. He went up with them to the cafeteria across from the covered walkway that overlooked one of the inner courtyards. Just outside the windows was the Kryptos statue, with four encoded messages cut into the copper plates. Three of the messages had been decrypted several years ago, but it wasn’t until recently that Otto had cracked the fourth. It had helped with an op that Mac had been in the middle of.
Looking haggard, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, his long hair flying all over the place, his tattered jeans and CCCP sweatshirt a little dirty where he’d spilled Coke or something down his front, he was happy to see them.
“I’m not sure who Castillo really is, but I don’t think he’s Nero,” Pete said.
“And I don’t think he’s Valdes,” McGarvey said. “Gut feeling.”
They went down the serving line, got bottles of water, Pete a ham and egg sandwich, and Mac and Otto chile with beans and a couple of tortillas. The food was surprisingly not bad.
“That’s good enough for me,” Otto said as they took their seats. The place for breakfast lunch, dinner, and around midnight for breakfast again was usually busy but at this hour it was mostly deserted.
“So assuming Castillo is neither Valdes nor Nero, what’s next?” Pete asked. “We’re going back to Mallorca to Hammond’s yacht? But we can’t just shoot the guy for kidnapping me.”
“I’m going to press him,” McGarvey said. “You’re going to New York to help the Bureau and NYPD investigators. We need to know what Nero’s next target will be, and his timetable.”
“You’re talking about the Tower at the UN,” Otto said. “If that’s the place then his timetable is UNICEF’s children’s day in the General Assembly Building four days from now. Thirty-five hundred kids from around the world will be there. And it’s only one thousand feet from the building, which is nearly twice that tall.”
“We can’t surround the place, because he’d just delay the attack until we backed off, which we’d have to do sooner or later,” Pete said. “Whoever the hell Nero is. We don’t have any clear pictures from AtEighth, no fingerprints from the Caddy he used to pick up Seif. No DNA. Nothing. We’re in the dark. Just guessing.”
“If it’s Castillo and his target is the Tower across from the UN we have to stop him,” McGarvey said.
