instant, recovering nearly as fast as his boss had. He, too, was guarded.
One of the bodyguards started to rise, but Sandberger motioned him back.
“Good afternoon,” McGarvey said.
“You come as something of a surprise, Mr. Director,” Sandberger said pleasantly, but cautiously. “No coincidence, I suspect.”
By now the customs officers had contacted their superiors, who would be querying the Federal Intelligence Service, the BND, as to what the former director of the CIA was doing in the country on a diplomatic passport. And what information did they have on the American contractor company Administrative Solutions, and what one or more of its officers were doing here.
“No,” McGarvey said. He sat down in one of the easy chairs facing the two men, as well as the front entrance. He was wearing a kahki sport coat and he made a show of unbuttoning it, in part to convey the message that he was armed and ready to use his weapon, and in part to distract himself for a second so that he didn’t just jump up and take all four of them apart.
“What are you doing here, then?”
“I want to know who killed my son-in-law.”
Sandberger and Remington exchanged a quizzical look and Sandberger spread his hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you’ve lost someone in your family, I’m sorry. Was he in the business?”
“A Washington Post investigative reporter and his family were also murdered, after he’d spoken to my son-in-law.”
Sandberger did not respond.
“It had to do with an investigation of the Friday Club. I’d like to know what connection you and your company has with Robert Foster.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re a liar, of course,” McGarvey said, letting a sharp edge into his tone. “And a murderer.”
Sandberger had been drinking coffee. He leaned forward, picked up his cup with a steady hand, and eyed McGarvey as he took a sip. “You’re retired, aren’t you? A little old to be running around accusing people of things. One of these days your reflexes will go bad, be a little off, and something will jump up and bite you in the ass.”
“How about Alexander Turov? That name ring a bell?”
Sandberger said nothing, and Remington was holding himself in check.
“He knew your name,” McGarvey said. “I took it from his laptop after I killed him in Tokyo.”
Sandberger just shook his head, but it was obvious to McGarvey that Turov’s name was familiar to him.
“The Russian was an interesting man. He was an expediter, nothing more, while your firm fields some of the shooters.” McGarvey looked pointedly at the bodyguards. “I killed him because it was my job, nothing more than that. But when I find out who assassinated my son-in-law, it’ll be more than a job.”
Remington started to say something but Sandberger held him off with a gesture.
“Thanks for the warning, if that’s what it was. But I had nothing to do with your son-in-law’s tragic death.”
A pair of husky, Teutonic-looking men, square, solidly chiseled features, one of them completely bald, both of them wearing suits cut a little large in the middle to conceal the bulges made by weapons carried in shoulder holsters, came in from the portico. They were obviously federal cops.
“Watch your backs, gentlemen,” McGarvey said. “Every time you look over your shoulders I’ll be there, until one of you fucks up and then I’ll kill you.”
As the BND officers started over, McGarvey took out his sat phone, snapped photographs of Sandberger, Remington, and Sandberger’s muscle, then hit speed dial for Rencke’s number.
The cops were five feet away when the connection was made and McGarvey transmitted the photos. “Call Dave,” he said, and he laid the phone on the coffee table, stood up and spread his arms and legs, all the while smiling at Sandberger.
FIFTEEN
“That won’t be necessary, Herr McGarvey,” the bald officer said, his English accented but good. He offered his ID booklet, which identified him as Hans Mueller, Bundesnachrichtendienst embossed around a stylized eagle.
He was a desk jockey and not an actual spy, or shooter, and McGarvey relaxed. “What can I do for you?”
“Just a few questions,” Mueller said. He glanced at Sandberger and the others. “I assume that none of you have carried weapons into Germany.”
Sandberger shook his head.
“I’m armed,” McGarvey said, and the cops zeroed in on him. He had their attention.
“Will you surrender your weapon at this time?”
“Of course,” McGarvey said pleasantly. He took his Wilson from its holster at the small of his back, ejected the magazine and carefully levered