Something similar had happened not long after that, when another woman had fallen in love with him and she had been killed in a bomb blast that destroyed a restaurant in Georgetown.
Then Katy and their daughter and son-in-law had lost their lives because of him.
He couldn’t allow something like that to happen again — which in his heart of hearts he knew would. So he kept his distance. It hurt Pete, because she could sense that he had feelings for her. But it was better than identifying her body on a slab in a morgue somewhere.
“I haven’t turned on my computer, or watched much television in the past ten days.”
“And you’ve shut off your landline and cell phone. It’s why I’m here. We need your help.”
The sirens were closer now. McGarvey led Pete across the road to his house. Here the island was less than a hundred yards wide, and they were inside by the time the fire trucks and rescue squad had arrived.
They sat at a table on the lanai overlooking the pool, beyond which was the gazebo where Katy had loved to sit at dawn with her first cup of tea to watch the birds. The Island Packet was tied to the dock, behind which a small runabout sat out of the water on its lift.
“It’s pretty,” Pete said.
McGarvey felt a little odd having her here but not terribly guilty. He brought them Coronas with pieces of lime. She’d once told him that she wasn’t always a lady; sometimes she liked to drink a cold beer straight out of the bottle.
“Yes, it is,” McGarvey said. “Help with what?”
“It’s complicated,” Pete said. She quickly sketched everything that had gone on over the past twenty-four hours, including Haaris’s trip to Islamabad, his kidnapping and his escape a few hours later. “Barazani is dead — beheaded by this guy who the crowd in front of the presidential palace called ‘Messiah.’ He told them that the Taliban were no longer the enemy. That they needed to work together for a new Pakistan.”
“How about Sharif?”
“No one can reach him, and the ISI is keeping off of the radar for now. Their headquarters along with the Army’s General Headquarters have been surrounded, as have most of the government buildings in Islamabad and Rawalpindi.”
“What about the air force and navy bases?”
“No troop or ship movements,” Pete said. “For all practical purposes Pakistan’s government, military and intel services have been shut down. And for now India is biding its time. But if Pakistan so much as twitches, they promise to protect the sanctity of their borders using any and all means at their disposal.”
“That sounds like a quote.”
“A spokesman for India’s prime minister,” Pete said. “But there’s more. We’re pretty sure that at least one nuclear weapon was stolen from the air force base at Quetta last night. It was detonated about fifty miles south in an unpopulated area close to the Afghani border. Page thinks it was a demonstration by the Taliban that they not only have nukes, but that they know how to use them.”
“What else?” McGarvey asked, though he had a good idea where this was leading and why she had been sent to ask for his help.
“The hell of it is that life is going on as usual. Kids are in school, the shops are open and, from Ross’s accounts, doing a brisk business. There’ve been no further incidents of rioting or explosions or gunfire.”
“What about the Messiah?”
“The television stations keep rebroadcasting his speech and promising that he will be talking to the people again very soon, and that he has the reins of government firmly in control.”
“It was a coup, and less than twenty-four hours later the country has calmed down,” McGarvey said. “So other than the nuclear demonstration the only real problem is the Taliban and what they’ll do next.”
“Directed by the Messiah, and no one thinks it’ll develop into a ‘let’s all lie down with the lambs.’ At least not for long.”
“What about our embassy?”
“Ready for business, soon as the ambassador and his staff return.”
“Ross and his shop?”
“Hunkered down in place. He sent a field officer to Quetta to confirm the bomb, but he hasn’t been heard from so far. Other than him and Dave Haaris’s kidnapping there’ve been no aggressive acts toward Americans other than the NEST casualties.”
“So what does Page want from me this time?”
“It’s the White House. The president wants to see you right now. None of us know for sure what she’s going to ask you to do, but we think it’s a safe bet she’s going to ask you to assassinate this Messiah.”
“Otto thinks that too?”
Pete nodded. “He’s already working on something. The voice the Messiah used to speak to the people was artificial. Altered electronically. Otto’s trying to clean it up. But the question up in the air is, why would he need to change his voice? To fool whom?”
“Us,” McGarvey said. “Because we know who he is. And the guys in the boat were no coincidence.”
FOURTEEN
Haaris sat reclined in a dentist’s chair at All Saints in Georgetown. The hospital was the place where wounded intelligence agents were brought when their identities needed to remain secret. The facility, discreetly located in a three-story brownstone, was equipped with the latest medical technology and the best doctors, surgeons, dentists and nurses in the business.
Dr. Rupert Marks straightened up and lifted his clear goggles to his forehead. “Nothing terrible in there,” he said, patting Haaris on the shoulder. “Two teeth damaged, which I’ve temporarily capped for you, but that’s the worst of it, except for the bruising. You’re not going to be so terribly handsome for the next few weeks, but as soon as the procaine wears off your speech will get back to more or less normal.”
“Nothing permanent?” Haaris asked. He’d come back to DC, his CIA mission definitely not accomplished; but he had come back, nevertheless, and as a wounded hero — even better.
“No. We’ll have the permanent caps back from the lab tomorrow. Any time after that stop by and we’ll finish up. Won’t take more than twenty minutes.”
“Thank you, appreciate your expertise.”
Rupert smiled. “I’ll send you my bill in the morning.”
Rupert’s assistant took off Haaris’s bib and raised the chair. “You’ll sound a little lispy for a half hour or so.”
Haaris grinned. “That a real word, luv?”
“It’s my word,” she said. “Before you go, Dr. Franklin would like to see you, he’s just around the corner in his office. It’s next to the lab.”
“I’ll find my way, thanks.”
Dr. Allan Franklin, the chief surgeon and administrator of All Saints, was seated behind his desk in his tiny, book-lined office on the ground floor, just across from the security station in the lobby. The door was open.
Haaris knocked on the door frame. “You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“Come in and have a seat,” Franklin said. “And close the door.” He was a slender man, his hairline receding, his fingers long and delicate.
“Bad news about my ribs?” Haaris asked, sitting down.
“How are you feeling?”
Haaris started to shrug, but then thought better of it. “What is it?”
“We took some pictures, routine for chest injuries. We found something else. A tumor on your pericardial sac that has probably been there for some time — maybe a year or longer. Operable in itself, but the cancer appears to have spread to your spine and three of your ribs. One of the reasons they didn’t fracture. They’re too soft.”
Haaris crossed his legs and shrugged. “Prognosis?”
“We can remove the tumor, but as for the bone cancer you’ll need chemotherapy, and it won’t be pleasant.”