over his shoulder at his partner then turned back. “I see. And now what are your expectations, Herr McGarvey?”
“That you’ve just run out of questions. That you’ll be reporting this to your superiors in Pullach. That you will not interfere with the movements of Sandberger or his employees. That this incident has been reported to the consul general here in Frankfurt, and most likelyvia some old-boy connection to Langley. And that sometime tomorrow someone will show up to fetch me.”
Mueller was not happy.
“Have I left something out?”
“Fuck you,” Mueller said, and he and his partner left the interrogation cell.
“And the horse you rode in on,” McGarvey added.
SIXTEEN
It was around two the next afternoon when David Whittaker, the deputy director of the CIA, showed up at the Drake Kaserne and McGarvey was fetched from his VIP guest suite.
Since he’d not brought an overnight kit, he’d been supplied with pajamas and toiletries, had been fed a good wiener schnitzel with boiled potatoes and several bottles of dark Lowenbrau for dinner, and an equally good breakfast and lunch. Other than that he’d been left alone, though the morning English edition of the
International Herald-Tribune
had shown up at his door, and he’d had a television to watch, but no telephone.
Whittaker was dressed, as usual, in an old-fashioned three-piece suit, bow tie, and wingtips; his eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He was the most moral man McGarvey had ever known, and stern because of it. His was just about the last of the old-school East Coast Presbyterians, the kind who had ruled the roost since the OSS days of World War II.
“You’ve become something of a problem,” he said when McGarvey was brought to the dayroom, and they shook hands.
“I always have been,” McGarvey said. When Mac was the DCI, Whittaker ran the Directorate of Operations, and had done a fine job. Now he had risen to his highest level in the Company; it wasn’t likely that he would ever become the DCI, because he was too low key, not political enough. The U.S. was one of the few countries in which the top spy wasn’t a professional intelligence officer, only an appointed, well-connected amateur, and for a long time morale at the CIA had been low. Especially these days when more than fifty percent of the Agency’s employees had less than five years’ experience.
“The Germans have released you into my custody,” Whittaker said. “As you might guess a lot of strings had to be pulled at the highest levels.”
“Thanks.”
Whittaker gave him a bleak look. “So far this incident has not reached the White House. At least not officially—”
“Which incident is that, Dave?” McGarvey interrupted sharply. “My arrest here or Todd’s assassination?”
“The Bureau has identified Todd’s killers. They were Muslim extremists, members of one of al-Quaida’s splinter cells in Laurel, Maryland.”
“Bullshit,” McGarvey said. He was trying to put a cap on his almost blind anger, and it was taking everything in his power.
Whittaker overrode him. “They were targeting CIA officers. It was the same group who made the hit just outside our main gate a few years back. Todd just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Arrests are expected any time now?”
“No,” Whittaker said. “One of their bomb makers apparently screwed up yesterday and blew up the storefront mosque where they were at afternoon prayers. The rubble is being sifted for clues as to who was directing them.”
“What about Givens?”
“He and his wife and child were killed in a home invasion, a simple robbery.”
McGarvey tried to interrupt, but Whittaker held up a hand. “Twopairs of fingerprints were found in the apartment and the suspects are already in custody.”
“They admitted it?”
“Not yet.”
“They have alibis?”
Whittaker conceded the point. “It was to be expected. But they’ll eventually come
“That you’ve just run out of questions. That you’ll be reporting this to your superiors in Pullach. That you will not interfere with the movements of Sandberger or his employees. That this incident has been reported to the consul general here in Frankfurt, and most likelyvia some old-boy connection to Langley. And that sometime tomorrow someone will show up to fetch me.”
Mueller was not happy.
“Have I left something out?”
“Fuck you,” Mueller said, and he and his partner left the interrogation cell.
“And the horse you rode in on,” McGarvey added.
SIXTEEN
It was around two the next afternoon when David Whittaker, the deputy director of the CIA, showed up at the Drake Kaserne and McGarvey was fetched from his VIP guest suite.
Since he’d not brought an overnight kit, he’d been supplied with pajamas and toiletries, had been fed a good wiener schnitzel with boiled potatoes and several bottles of dark Lowenbrau for dinner, and an equally good breakfast and lunch. Other than that he’d been left alone, though the morning English edition of the
International Herald-Tribune
had shown up at his door, and he’d had a television to watch, but no telephone.
Whittaker was dressed, as usual, in an old-fashioned three-piece suit, bow tie, and wingtips; his eyes wide behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He was the most moral man McGarvey had ever known, and stern because of it. His was just about the last of the old-school East Coast Presbyterians, the kind who had ruled the roost since the OSS days of World War II.
“You’ve become something of a problem,” he said when McGarvey was brought to the dayroom, and they shook hands.
“I always have been,” McGarvey said. When Mac was the DCI, Whittaker ran the Directorate of Operations, and had done a fine job. Now he had risen to his highest level in the Company; it wasn’t likely that he would ever become the DCI, because he was too low key, not political enough. The U.S. was one of the few countries in which the top spy wasn’t a professional intelligence officer, only an appointed, well-connected amateur, and for a long time morale at the CIA had been low. Especially these days when more than fifty percent of the Agency’s employees had less than five years’ experience.
“The Germans have released you into my custody,” Whittaker said. “As you might guess a lot of strings had to be pulled at the highest levels.”
“Thanks.”
Whittaker gave him a bleak look. “So far this incident has not reached the White House. At least not officially—”
“Which incident is that, Dave?” McGarvey interrupted sharply. “My arrest here or Todd’s assassination?”
“The Bureau has identified Todd’s killers. They were Muslim extremists, members of one of al-Quaida’s splinter cells in Laurel, Maryland.”
“Bullshit,” McGarvey said. He was trying to put a cap on his almost blind anger, and it was taking everything in his power.
Whittaker overrode him. “They were targeting CIA officers. It was the same group who made the hit just outside our main gate a few years back. Todd just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Arrests are expected any time now?”
“No,” Whittaker said. “One of their bomb makers apparently screwed up yesterday and blew up the storefront mosque where they were at afternoon prayers. The rubble is being sifted for clues as to who was directing them.”
“What about Givens?”
“He and his wife and child were killed in a home invasion, a simple robbery.”
McGarvey tried to interrupt, but Whittaker held up a hand. “Twopairs of fingerprints were found in the apartment and the suspects are already in custody.”
“They admitted it?”
“Not yet.”
“They have alibis?”
Whittaker conceded the point. “It was to be expected. But they’ll eventually come
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