“I don’t know how long it’ll be.”
“We’re not going to sit out there doing nothing, Kirk. Elizabeth is a translator and trained analyst. You’ll get her a computer so that she can do some work. I’ll help.” She hadn’t put it in the form of a request.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“We’re involved now, whether you like it or not. You’re going to have two extra troops in your platoon. We’ll stay behind the front lines, but we won’t be idle.” She glanced at her daughter. “Close your mouth, Elizabeth,” she said, and McGarvey had to shake his head.
“Who’s supposed to be the boss around here?”
“You are,” Kathleen said seriously. “So get the people who ordered this done to us, and let us get on with our lives.”
“I want you to stick with Dick Yemm and the other guards, do what they tell you to do, okay?”
“Yes. But now get out of here and close the door on the way out. Elizabeth and I have some things to work out.”
Van Buren was coming down the hall. “I wouldn’t go in there right now,” McGarvey told him. “She’s with her mother, and if you interrupt they’d probably eat you alive.”
The guards were expecting him, and he was passed through the gate after his ID was checked. The main parking lot was nearly full even though it was a Sunday. Because of the developing crisis in the Sea of Japan the agency was on emergency twenty-four-hour-per-day footing and would stay that way until the situation was fully resolved.
Inside the lobby he was handed a security badge. All the red tabs were filled in, indicating he had access to every section of the vast facility. The plastic pass also allowed him to use the executive elevators, which went directly up to the seventh floor.
“Good morning, Mr. McGarvey,” one of the guards at the security arches said. “Are you armed?”
“Yes, I am.”
“May I see your weapon? I need to log the serial number.”
McGarvey took out his Walther PPK, removed the magazine, cycled the round out of the chamber and handed the pistol to the guard, who logged the serial number then handed it back.
“After this you can use the executive entrance. Your driver will know where to drop you off.” The guard’s name tag read Scrignolli. “Welcome aboard, sir.”
“Thanks,” McGarvey said. He reloaded and holstered his gun, and took one of the elevators upstairs where he had to go through a similar security procedure before he was allowed to continue. Security was tight, but the guards seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
The deputy director of Operations’s office wing occupied the entire east corner of the top floor, adjoined by a conference room, the offices of the deputy director of Central Intelligence and the director and their staffs, including the general counsel. Beyond that was another conference room and finally the deputy director of Intelligence’s wing in the west corner.
Ms. Dahlia Swanfeld, a dowdy old woman with silver-gray hair up in a bun, who had been the private secretary to Howard Ryan and Phil Carrara before him, got to her feet when McGarvey walked through the door. Beyond her the door to the DDO’s office was open, and McGarvey could see that no one was inside.
“Good morning, Mr. McGarvey,” she said, a tight expression on her face, as if she were expecting trouble.
“Did Dick Adkins ask you to come in this morning?”
“No, sir. But I thought I should be here for your first day, and at least until you hire my replacement.”
“Are you leaving the CIA?”
“Not unless I’m asked to leave. You know that I was Mr. Ryan’s secretary during his tenure as DDO.”
“But you also worked for Phil Carrara.”
“Yes, sir.”
McGarvey smiled. “Everyone’s allowed at least one mistake. Are you ready to go to work?”
Her round, pleasant face broke out into a big grin. “Yes, sir.”
“Good, then get me a cup of coffee, strong and black, and bring your notebook, I have a lot of catching up to do.”
“Shall I call Mr. Adkins?”
“Not yet.” McGarvey went into his huge office that looked out over the trees and rolling hills behind the second wing. The weather was absolutely beautiful, the foliage in full bloom, but he didn’t think he would spend much time appreciating the scenery, not from this office.
All of Ryan’s and Dick Adkins’s personal belongings had been cleared out, leaving the desk blank. One door led to a conference room while another led to a good-sized, well-equipped bathroom that included a shower. Bookcases dominated one wall, and a number of file cabinets and a built-in safe for sensitive documents, another. A painting of skipjacks on Chesapeake Bay was hung on the wall above a couch, two chairs and a coffee table.
A lot of history had been made from here, some of it his own personal history, much of it not so pleasant to remember, though now that he was here like this, he harbored no grudges, held no resentment; too much was happening for that.
Ms. Swanfeld came in and set the coffee on the desk. “I took the liberty of stocking your bathroom. There’s an electric razor, toothbrush and a few other things. The way this job sometimes goes, I suggest that you bring a change of clothes, maybe a couple of shirts, ties, a spare jacket, things like that.” She opened one of the locked file cabinets and pulled out several thick file folders and books, which she placed at his elbow. “These are your computer access codes, safe combinations, Agency telephone directory, National Reconnaissance Office, National Security Agency and Federal Bureau of Investigation locator numbers and emergency contact procedures, as well as a White House staff directory of private numbers.
“I assume that you’re going to want to meet with Mr. Adkins and your staff as soon as possible. They’re all here today because of the crisis and because they knew that you were coming in. The only thing on your schedule so far is a three o’clock in the general’s office with Mr. Danielle and Mr. Paterson.
“The General and Mr. Paterson are at the White House, and Mr. Danielle is having lunch with Senator Thomson in town. But the general was keen that you see him at three.” She laid another file folder on the desk. “These are the pool drivers and bodyguards. They’re all good men, but if you have someone else in mind, that’s your prerogative, of course.”
McGarvey set the folder aside. “We’ll put that on hold for the moment. For now I prefer to take care of myself.”
“Not a wise decision, Mr. McGarvey, but it’s your call,” Ms. Swanfeld said. Ryan had wanted to fire her because she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, but Murphy had not allowed it. She’d been with the CIA for a long time, and she was very good at what she did, taking care of DDOs and keeping them out of trouble.
“How much of my background were you given?”
She smiled faintly. “Enough to tell you that I’m happy you’re here. And I can speak for the rest of the DO as well. It’s about time.”
“You might not be so happy three months from now.”
Her smile broadened. “We’ll just have to see, Mr. McGarvey.” She flipped open her notebook. “How is Elizabeth coming along?”
“She’ll be out of the hospital in a day or two. I want a safe house set up for her and her mother as soon as possible.”
“Mr. Adkins took care of that. He has the file.” Miss Swanfeld handed him a phone memo. “Colonel Guy de Galan from the DGSE would like to speak to you as soon as possible. He’s sent two of his people over to help with the investigation. Mr. Adkins has that file as well. But Colonel Galan wants to speak to you personally.”
“What can you tell me about Dick Adkins?” McGarvey said. Ms. Swanfeld’s nostrils flared.