“But?” McGarvey prompted. It wasn’t like the deputy director to hold back.
Bambridge glanced at Page, who nodded.
“The Taliban beat him up. Dislocated his jaw, broke a couple of teeth with a rifle butt. Cracked a couple of ribs. We took him to All Saints, where they fixed his teeth and took some X-rays of his chest to see how bad the damage was.” Bambridge looked away for a beat, the gesture also uncharacteristic for him. “The thing is, Franklin says Haaris has cancer, and it’s spreading. Chemo and radiation therapy would prolong his life but not by much. Anyway, Dave declined.”
“How long does he have?”
“Less than a year, six months of which he’ll be on his feet. But after that he’ll probably go downhill pretty fast.”
“It’s why he wants to get back with his people to help figure out what our response should be,” Page said. He shook his head. “It’s a damned shame, when we need him the most.”
“You gave him the option to quit?” McGarvey asked. He knew almost nothing about Haaris except for his reputation, which was as sterling as his impeccable manners.
“Of course,” Page said. “I spoke to him a half hour ago. Told me he was a little rushed for time, so he excused himself and left.”
“Extraordinary man, by all accounts,” Patterson interjected. Yet there was something in his tone of voice and the look in his eyes that didn’t sit quite right. But McGarvey let that slide as well.
“Here’s the situation as I see it. The president wants to see me. Since I shut down my phone and computer — I wanted to be left alone — Miss Boylan was sent to talk me into coming up here.”
Bambridge started to say something, but McGarvey held him off.
“Did anyone at the White House know I wasn’t taking calls?”
“Her chief of staff, Tom Broderick, I would imagine,” Page said. “It was he who phoned to ask if you were in town.”
“Who else here on campus?”
“All of us in this room — except for Carlton,” Page said.
“A couple of people on my staff, including the housekeepers who arranged the aircraft,” Bambridge said.
“Me and Louise,” Otto said. Louise was Otto’s wife, who sometimes did contract work for the Agency.
“Someone knew Miss Boylan was coming to see me, and they didn’t want that to happen,” McGarvey said. “Means two things: there’s a leak here or at the White House, and whatever the president’s going to ask me to do involves the situation in Pakistan.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Bambridge said.
“There were two guys in the boat. Small, dark. Almost certainly Middle Eastern.”
“Inconclusive,” Patterson said, but without much conviction.
“Enough for me,” McGarvey said.
“That being the case, what do you propose?” Patterson asked.
“Well, we’re not going to invade Pakistan. From what Otto gave me they still have thirty nuclear weapons and the means to launch them on rockets, from aircraft, from surface ships and possibly even from their Hamza submarines. The Indians know this also so it’s not likely they’ll launch a preemptive strike. And from what this Messiah character told the mob in front of the Presidential Palace, the Taliban are once again friends of Pakistan. Trained well enough, or helped by someone in Pakistan’s military — probably someone from Quetta Air Force Base — to set off one of the weapons as a demonstration.”
“So what’s left?” Page asked, but it was a rhetorical question and everyone knew it.
“That’s up to the president.”
“We’ll provide any sort of backup you need. And our COS Ross Austin in Islamabad should be able to fill you in on what’s going on.”
“I’d like to talk to Haaris before I head over to the White House, maybe get together with his team.”
“And I might have something more for you,” Otto said.
“I have a foolish question, my dear boy,” Patterson said. “Since you believe the attack upon your person has something to do with the Pakistan issue, would you like some help, maybe a couple of bodyguards?”
McGarvey had to smile. “As you said, a foolish question.”
“They could try again.”
“I hope they do. It’d mean that I was irritating someone.”
Bambridge couldn’t hide a slight smile. “Are you armed?”
“I will be when I leave the building.”
“Let us know what the president wants of you, if you would,” Page said. “If it involves what we all believe it will, we’ll need to adjust our thinking, and Ross will have to be given the heads-up.”
“The president is going to ask me to assassinate the Messiah,” McGarvey said.
“Indeed,” Page said.
“I don’t know if I’ll do it.”
SEVENTEEN
Pete walked across the connecting walkway from the Original Headquarters Building into the new building, past the cafeteria that faced the inner courtyard with its copper statue “Kryptos,” which had recently been totally decrypted. The debriefing room was on the second floor, its windows also facing inward to the pretty courtyard with its walkways, statues and landscaping.
Haaris was seated at the end of a small conference table for six when Pete walked in. He was faced by Don Wicklund and Darrel Richards from the Directorate of Intelligence. His product and in general his conclusions on the Pakistan issue over the past several years had been so stellar that whenever he came back in from the field he was treated with kid gloves.
Both Wicklund and Richards were well-seasoned officers in their mid-forties who had done their stints in the field and had come in from the cold to take important administrative positions. They were respectful and pleasant. Just three friends having a little discussion. Could have been about the weather.
They all looked up. Wicklund and Richards had expected her, but Haaris hadn’t, though he didn’t show much surprise.
“Welcome back, Dave,” she said. “Looks like a rifle butt to your chin. Must have hurt like hell.”
“It stung a bit.”
Pete sat at the opposite end of the table. “I’m Pete Boylan. Mr. Page asked me to sit in on your debriefing. Just a little bird in the corner. He’s concerned not only about your well-being but about what the hell just happened over there.”
“Miss Boylan, your reputation precedes you,” Haaris said.
“Good, I hope.”
“Nothing but.”
The man was in pain, she could see that, but something else was bothering him, something deep at the back of his eyes, in the set of his mouth, in his mannerisms, which were nothing less than pleasant. No artifice that she could detect, just something bothering him.
She had read his jacket on the way up from Florida, and the only real anomaly, the only fact that didn’t seem to fit, was his wife, Deborah nee Johnson. The woman had dropped out of recruit training at the Farm before she was flunked out. And a few months later she and Haaris were married. Haaris, the smooth, urbane, educated and worldly man. And Deb the farm girl from Iowa with a law degree, just barely, though she’d never taken or passed any bar examination in any state. The two as a couple didn’t gel in Pete’s head.
His latest psych eval was mostly good, as were all the previous ones, and there didn’t seem to be any hint of marital troubles. He and his wife didn’t entertain much, nor did they accept many invitations, but they came across as a happily married couple.
It just didn’t fit in Pete’s mind.
“We have your written report that you sketched out on the flight back from Incirlik that says you weren’t aware of this Messiah nor did you see the dramatic speech he made at the Presidential Palace,” Wicklund said. He looked and acted like a professor of history.