before you came in, and he says it’s gotten spooky over there. The only trouble he’s run into is the disappearance of the guy he sent to check things out in Quetta.”
“Could be he was too close when the bomb went off.”
“That’s what Ross is worried about,” Otto said.
Someone was at the door. Otto glanced at a monitor. “It’s Pete,” he said and buzzed her in.
“Thought I’d find you here,” she said to McGarvey. “Haaris just finished with his debriefing—and it was brief—and afterwards we had a little one-on-one in the cafeteria. Franklin says he has cancer, gives him only six months on his feet.”
“Marty told us that much,” McGarvey said. “How was he handling it?”
“He’s dedicated. Said that time waited for no man, not even him. So he scurried back to his people.”
“Too dedicated?” McGarvey asked. He’d never liked things that didn’t add up.
“I guess if I were in his place I’d want to spend my last months with someone I loved, maybe lying on a beach somewhere, drinking piña coladas. Listening to some good reggae. Or maybe eating and drinking my way through Paris.”
“Unless he has an agenda.”
“Love or hate, your choice, Mac,” she said. “I’ll give you a lift over to the White House.”
“I want to have a word with Haaris first. I’ll meet you in your office.”
“I don’t have an office here.”
“Where do you work?”
“I have a place in Georgetown. Not too far from your apartment. I’ll wait for you in the cafeteria.”
* * *
The Pakistan Desk consisted mostly of a dozen cubicles, each with a specialist, surrounding a central meeting space that doubled as a library and tripled as a computer work center. Haaris’s office was behind a glass wall on the side of the room opposite the door.
McGarvey had been given a blue badge, which gave him access to every office on the entire campus. When he walked in, Haaris was seated in the middle of the meeting space with his staff—most of them young men, along with an older woman, her gray hair up in a bun.
Haaris looked up with a scowl. “We’re in the middle of something,” he said.
“Sorry to barge in,” McGarvey apologized. “But I’d like to have a word with you.”
“Well?”
“What’s your thinking on the situation?”
“We’re discussing it, as you may well expect.”
“I’ve been called to the White House. They want my opinion. I want yours. What’s going to happen in the next twenty-four hours? Forty-eight? Seventy-two? One week? One month?”
“The million-dollar question, Mr. McGarvey. What do you think will happen?”
“Depends on whether something were to happen to the Messiah, and if it were to be blamed on us.”
Haaris laughed, though it was obvious his mouth hurt. “We were crude in Vietnam, were crude in Afghanistan and Iraq, so it wouldn’t surprise me if we botched this as well. We’ll have a position paper for the president first thing in the morning. In the meantime you may tell her, if you wish, that you are exactly the wrong sort to get involved.”
“I’ll do that,” McGarvey said. “Because I happen to agree with you.”
NINETEEN
“The man’s peckish,” McGarvey said on the way over to the White House. Pete was driving her BMW three hundred series convertible. She’d flown to Munich and bought the made-for-Europe model, and drove it for a month so that when she had it shipped back to the States it came in as a used car. She’d left to try to get over McGarvey, and she had come back with a car.
“Wouldn’t you be?” she asked.
They were on the parkway across the river, and McGarvey was in what almost amounted to a funk. He knew damn well what the president was going to ask him to do, and even some of the why of it, and he was almost 100 percent certain that getting close enough to the Messiah to put a bullet in his brain, and then getting the hell clear, was the wrong thing to do.
Except that the president would
“Could be he was too close when the bomb went off.”
“That’s what Ross is worried about,” Otto said.
Someone was at the door. Otto glanced at a monitor. “It’s Pete,” he said and buzzed her in.
“Thought I’d find you here,” she said to McGarvey. “Haaris just finished with his debriefing—and it was brief—and afterwards we had a little one-on-one in the cafeteria. Franklin says he has cancer, gives him only six months on his feet.”
“Marty told us that much,” McGarvey said. “How was he handling it?”
“He’s dedicated. Said that time waited for no man, not even him. So he scurried back to his people.”
“Too dedicated?” McGarvey asked. He’d never liked things that didn’t add up.
“I guess if I were in his place I’d want to spend my last months with someone I loved, maybe lying on a beach somewhere, drinking piña coladas. Listening to some good reggae. Or maybe eating and drinking my way through Paris.”
“Unless he has an agenda.”
“Love or hate, your choice, Mac,” she said. “I’ll give you a lift over to the White House.”
“I want to have a word with Haaris first. I’ll meet you in your office.”
“I don’t have an office here.”
“Where do you work?”
“I have a place in Georgetown. Not too far from your apartment. I’ll wait for you in the cafeteria.”
* * *
The Pakistan Desk consisted mostly of a dozen cubicles, each with a specialist, surrounding a central meeting space that doubled as a library and tripled as a computer work center. Haaris’s office was behind a glass wall on the side of the room opposite the door.
McGarvey had been given a blue badge, which gave him access to every office on the entire campus. When he walked in, Haaris was seated in the middle of the meeting space with his staff—most of them young men, along with an older woman, her gray hair up in a bun.
Haaris looked up with a scowl. “We’re in the middle of something,” he said.
“Sorry to barge in,” McGarvey apologized. “But I’d like to have a word with you.”
“Well?”
“What’s your thinking on the situation?”
“We’re discussing it, as you may well expect.”
“I’ve been called to the White House. They want my opinion. I want yours. What’s going to happen in the next twenty-four hours? Forty-eight? Seventy-two? One week? One month?”
“The million-dollar question, Mr. McGarvey. What do you think will happen?”
“Depends on whether something were to happen to the Messiah, and if it were to be blamed on us.”
Haaris laughed, though it was obvious his mouth hurt. “We were crude in Vietnam, were crude in Afghanistan and Iraq, so it wouldn’t surprise me if we botched this as well. We’ll have a position paper for the president first thing in the morning. In the meantime you may tell her, if you wish, that you are exactly the wrong sort to get involved.”
“I’ll do that,” McGarvey said. “Because I happen to agree with you.”
NINETEEN
“The man’s peckish,” McGarvey said on the way over to the White House. Pete was driving her BMW three hundred series convertible. She’d flown to Munich and bought the made-for-Europe model, and drove it for a month so that when she had it shipped back to the States it came in as a used car. She’d left to try to get over McGarvey, and she had come back with a car.
“Wouldn’t you be?” she asked.
They were on the parkway across the river, and McGarvey was in what almost amounted to a funk. He knew damn well what the president was going to ask him to do, and even some of the why of it, and he was almost 100 percent certain that getting close enough to the Messiah to put a bullet in his brain, and then getting the hell clear, was the wrong thing to do.
Except that the president would
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