Free The Cabal by David Hagberg Page A

coming up with any air reservations yet,” Otto said.
    “How about flight plans?”
    “Admin has only the one Gulfstream. So if it’s Remington he’ll be traveling commercial. Maybe under an assumed name. Anyway my babies are chewing on it.” Rencke’s babies were his computers and some of the most sophisticated programs on the planet.
    Now that it was beginning, now that he was preparing to go back into the field, he began to calm down; his nerves had been jumping all over the place since he’d gotten word of Todd’s assassination, but now they were steadying out. He held out his right hand, palm down, his fingers spread, and he was rock solid.
    “I need to get over there by morning, at least before noon. Noncommercial. A clean diplomatic passport, no questions asked by anyone on the seventh floor, at least not until I’m finished. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
    “To do what, Mac?” Otto asked. “Lean on Sandberger? The guy’s a tough son of a bitch. And if the German
federales
catch you carrying—or worse, if you shoot someone—it’ll get back to Adkins at the speed of light.”
    “And he’d have to sit up and take notice,” McGarvey said. “We’re talking about the murder of my son-in-law. The son-in-law of a former CIA director. That carries some weight.”
    “Yes, it does,” Rencke said. “From both sides of the fence. Your shooting days are supposed to be over. You’re too personally involved this time. It’s expected that you’ll back off and let the Bureau handle it.”
    “I’ve always been personally involved,” McGarvey said, bitterly. “All my life.” And he knew that he should be asking himself if it was worth it, but at this moment the question was moot.
    Rencke was silent for a long time, and when he came back he sounded sad, resigned, as if he knew that no matter what McGarvey did, no matter what action his old friend took, he would be there for him, as he had been for years now. Mac was family, and except for his wife, Louise, his only family.
    “A Gulfstream and crew will be ready at Andrews within the hour. Your passport will be aboard. What else do you need?”
    “Give me one hour on the ground in Frankfurt, then call Dave Whittaker and tell him I might need some backup.” Whittaker, who was a stand-up guy, was the deputy director of operations when Mac was the DCI. Now, under Adkins, he’d become the deputy director of the agency. His was a steady if stern hand, and although he’d never completely approved of McGarvey’s tradecraft, he’d always supported his boss one hundred ten percent.
    “Shit, Mac,” Rencke said after a long moment. “You’re not thinking straight. Honest injun.”
    “You’re probably right,” McGarvey agreed. “But I didn’t create the situation.” The hard edge was back in his voice, and in his heart.
    He shook his head, and the only thing he could think of were the bastards, the dirty rotten bastards. And he could see the son of a bitch putting the insurance round into the back of Todd’s head.
    “I didn’t start it,” he said bleakly.
    “I’ll be here for you.”
    “Thank you,” McGarvey said and he broke the connection. And for a long time he stood in the semidark corridor, the only light coming from the exit sign at the door to the stairs, and thought frankly about his life, about his contributions to the safety of the United States. Thinking about his career that way seemed almost filled with hubris, and yet he was proud of what he had done—or most of what he had done. And now he was back at it, only this time his motives were a whole hell of a lot more personal.
    Katy was still sleeping when he went back into the room, took a small leather satchel, about the size of a dopp kit, out of their luggage, and went across the hall to one of the empty rooms where he switched on a nightstand light after he’d closed the door.
    She had watched him open the floor safe in their bedroom back in Florida as she was