the main reason his wife of three years had left him. According to her he’d been the coldest most distant man she’d ever met. Not cruel, not mean; he’d not been a wife beater, he’d just never been there in spirit for her. No flowers, no presents, no caresses, yet he’d been there for her financially. A Rock of Gibraltar. But as she’d told him: “Who wants to love a bloody rock?”
And when she’d left him, he’d been nearly indifferent. He was what he was.
A noise came to him from somewhere to the northwest. Faint at first, on the slight breeze, but then louder, and he recognized it as an incoming helicopter. A light machine, definitely not military. He pushed away from the tree, all of his senses alert. He’d not expected this.
A minute later he picked out the navigation lights and strobe of the chopper as it descended toward the helipad, which suddenly lit up. A moment later the lights around the exterior of the house came on. Any approach on foot now was next to impossible.
It was a safe bet McGarvey wasn’t aboard, so it had to be Foster’s friend or friends coming out here in reaction to what had happened in Baghdad, or most likely what had probably happened to Remington within the past couple of hours.
Very possibly whoever was coming to see Foster could affect Admin’s future position. And like many men in Boberg’s profession, he’d set aside enough money in offshore accounts, plus an emergency traveling kit of a few thousand dollars in cash along with three extra passports and other IDs, so that if the need ever arose he could drop everything and disappear immediately.
The helicopter finally came into full view as it flared over the landing pad, and Boberg recognized it as an Italian-built AgustaWestland AW-139 VIP machine. The CIA had recently purchased three of them.
He pulled the binoculars from his bag, and when the chopper came to rest on the pad he trained them on the hatch as it opened.
A tall man wearing a dark Windbreaker and plain dark baseball cap got out, and hunching over moved away from the slowly rotating main blades.
A golf cart came from behind the house and headed to the helipad at the same moment the man turned so that Boberg could see his face. It was David Whittaker, the interim director of the CIA.
No real surprise there, except that McGarvey had seriously stirred the pot at the highest level, as he’d done before. And Boberg settled back to see how the evening turned out. At the very least it would be interesting, he thought.
SIXTY-FOUR
David Whittaker had been running on pure adrenaline ever since Admin’s shooter had taken Todd Van Buren and the Washington Post reporter down. He’d warned Foster that if McGarvey got involved, and he certainly would, the dynamics would change and there’d be no way to predict the outcome.
Foster’s bodyguard, Sergeant Schilling, had driven out to the helipad with a golf cart and brought Whittaker over to the house, where Foster waited drinking a cognac in the living room.
“Your visit is not totally unexpected this evening. Have you brought news? Good, I hope.”
“Not good,” Whittaker said. “And remember, I warned you that the situation could get out of hand.”
Foster shrugged. “Nothing that can’t be dealt with. Would you care for a drink?”
“I don’t believe I’ll be having anything to drink until this business is resolved and we can get back on schedule. McGarvey has been a thorn in our side ever since Mexico City.”
“We all agree, just as we all agree that he is to be dealt with, which is exactly what Administrative Solutions is doing for us at this moment.”
“Evidently you’ve not heard the latest.”
“Roland and some of his people were shot to death in Baghdad. Yes, I have. And the FBI has a warrant for McGarvey’s arrest. But Gordon assures me that he would not live to be taken in.”
“Remington was shot to death in front of his house, not two hours ago,” Whittaker said, and he was satisfied to see that he’d finally gotten to Foster, whose lips tightened. “McGarvey was almost certainly involved but it’s not entirely clear how it all played out.”
“Meaning what?” Foster asked.
“Remington may have been gunned down by two of his own people, who were in turn shot to death on the street. His bodyguard was found shot to death inside the house.”
Foster turned stiffly and poured another cognac. “Are you sure you won’t join me?