“I don’t think I’d care to be around any of them when it hits home,” McGarvey said.
“I know what you mean,” Dillon said.
“The boat was found downriver near Newport News, apparently in good shape, but there was no sign of Graham,” McGarvey said.
“He won’t get far on foot, will he?”
“He had it all planned ahead of time. By now I expect he’s either out of the country or on his way out.”
“The FBI will at least cover the airports, for God’s sake,” Dillon said. He was having a hard time believing what he was hearing. “They know what he looks like, don’t they? A man like that can’t just waltz onto an airplane and fly away. That’s one of the reasons Homeland Security was created.”
McGarvey shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him just how naïve most Americans really were. Even after 9/11. “You can’t imagine how easy it is for a pro,” he said.
Dillon looked away.
“Anyway, I have to get back to Washington, but I want you guys to lay low here for the time being. Admiral Puckett will send for you when the time is right.”
Dillon turned back. “We’re all sorry about Terri, but no one thinks it was your fault.”
“Thanks,” McGarvey replied, but he didn’t know what else to say. Her death was, in his mind, his fault. He should have been better at covering her back.
A tall man with longish blond hair, a crumpled but stylish linen suit, and thick glasses presented his British diplomatic passport and the return portion of his first-class ticket on Lufthansa’s noon flight to Berlin to one of the security officers at the international departures lounge.
The airport was busy this morning. Arriving by cab from the city, Graham had spotted the extra security measures that had obviously been only recently put into place. A dozen Virginia Highway Patrol and Loudon County radio cars were stationed along the departing passengers unloading area, and the deputies were scrutinizing the faces of every white male who entered the terminal.
Maintaining a neutral expression, Graham got out of the cab and marched directly past one of the cops, who gave him a once-over with no sign of recognition.
Inside, there were more police, and several National Guard troops with bomb-sniffing dogs where passengers were checking their bags.
Walking down the corridor to the international lounge, Graham was able to see that airliners pulled up to jetways were being guarded by other National Guard and law enforcement officers.
Yet he’d been allowed to walk past them all without a question. Homeland Security was an even bigger joke than he thought it would be. America’s borders had always been even more porous than those of Canada and Great Britain. Security had always been one of the more serious faults of a free and open democracy. But it amazed him how little had actually changed in the United States after 9/11.
They still didn’t get it. Only one man did, and thinking about McGarvey gave him almost as terrible an empty feeling in his chest as missing Jillian did.
The day of reckoning would come. He had twice underestimated McGarvey, and there would not be a third time, because for Graham there was no longer a jihad. The next time they met, Graham would kill him.
And arranging such a meeting would be as simple as offering the former DCI exactly what he wanted.
“Good morning, Sir Thomas,” the security officer said, looking up from the passport photograph into Graham’s eyes that were now blue. “Do you have any other baggage?”
“No, just this one,” Graham said. His passport identified him as Sir Thomas Means, the third assistant to the British ambassador to Germany. “Just popped over for a day and a wake-up. Have to get back into the fray, you know.”
The security officer handed back the passport, while a second officer passed Graham’s overnight bag through a hazardous materials scanner. Since he was traveling under diplomatic papers his luggage could not be searched unless something showed up on the scanner.
It did not. Nor did anything on his body set off the security arch when he walked through it.
“Have a good flight, sir,” the officer said, as Graham collected his bag.
“Thank you, I will,” Graham said, smiling, and he sauntered across to the bar to have a glass of wine, despite the hour, and wait for his flight to be called.
SIXTY-NINE
Just after lunch Gloria Ibenez took the elevator up to Rencke’s office across the corridor from the Watch. He’d phoned her around eleven to tell her that McGarvey would be coming to the Building in a few hours and wanted to talk to her. Since then her stomach had been aflutter with anticipation.
Despite his repeated denials of her and despite the obvious fact that he was happily married, she was in love with him. And for the past few days she had been miserable because, although he had protected her from Howard McCann, he’d been avoiding her.
Until now.
The pass around her neck did not authorize entry into Rencke’s inner sanctum, so she had to be buzzed in. He was seated in front of one of the several wide-screen monitors that were arrayed in a broad U formation. Some of them displayed satellite images of what looked like a large city, a seaport, which Gloria recognized as Karachi, and the slum section of Fish Harbor where bin Laden was supposedly hiding in the compound. A series of figures and mathematical equations crossed the screen directly in front of Rencke, his fingers racing over the keyboard. The background was lavender.
“Oh, wow, Mac just came through the gate,” he said without looking up.
His office was a mess; classified files, photographs, and maps covered the small conference table in the middle of the room and were stacked on chairs and in piles on the floor along with empty plastic Twinkie packages and empty cartons of cream. Despite his marriage to Louise Horn, who’d tried to change his horrible eating habits, he reverted to his old ways whenever he had the bit in his teeth, as he apparently had now.
“What does he want with me?” Gloria asked, perching on the edge of the conference table to Rencke’s left.
“Unless I’m way off base, I think he’s going back to badland to finish the job, and I think he’s going to ask you to tag along again.”
Gloria lost her breath for a moment. She could almost feel Kirk’s arms around her, smell his scent. It was a good, safe feeling. Comfortable, but exciting. “Will Mr. McCann sign off on the assignment?”
Rencke chuckled. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he said without missing a keystroke or looking away from the monitor.
“I meant that I want to have a career here after this assignment,” she said. She couldn’t think of any other job she’d rather have.
“I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem either,” Rencke said. He suddenly stopped typing, but it took several seconds for the equations and diagrams to catch up. When they did, the background color deepened sharply.
“What is it?” she asked.
Rencke turned to her. “It’s a threat assessment. They failed again because of Mac, and now they’re going to drop everything to find him and kill him.”
“Did he find the submarine?”
Rencke nodded. “Last night. Actually early this morning. That part’s a nonissue now, except that Graham managed to escape.”
As irrational as it was, being left out of anything McGarvey was involved with stung. “Why didn’t someone tell me? Maybe I could have helped.”
“It was Mac’s call,” Rencke said. His bemused genius persona was gone, replaced now by someone who seemed genuinely concerned about her. “Look, you’re in love with Mac. Well, so are a lot of us. You’re not the first, and I suspect you won’t be the last.”