Gambit, David Hagberg [most life changing books .TXT] 📗

Otto got on. “I assume you’re going out to talk to Slatkin’s CO if he’s still around. Do you want me to give them the heads-up?”

“No.”

Otto hesitated for just a beat. “We’ll talk when you get here.”

“Might not be time; I want to be on a flight tonight.”

“You have plenty of time. You’re already booked. First-class Emirates leaves at five till eleven. So pick up your Thomas Blake passport.”

“Rebook it under my own name,” McGarvey said.

This time, Otto didn’t miss a beat. “Bring your air marshal creds so you can travel armed. Just in case.”

McGarvey had the cabbie wait for him as he went upstairs and packed a few things in an overnight bag, plus his passport and air marshal credentials, along with an extra magazine of ammunition for his Walther.

By long habit, he went to the front window but stood to one side as he looked out. The taxi was directly below, but so far as he could tell, nothing seemed threatening. No cars or vans parked that seemed out of place. Nothing on any of the rooftops within view. And nothing in any of the windows. Even the window on the third-floor apartment across the street had been replaced.

Nothing was out there, but he could practically feel the target painted on his back. Someone was gunning for him. They’d tried and failed twice, though Hicks had done a marginally better job of it than the South African.

But he didn’t think it was over yet. And sooner or later, whoever was coming for him would be better still and maybe even luckier. His only recourse then was to go deep or continue hunting back.

And he’d only ever gone deep once, not to hide from an assassin but from his own life that had been shattered by an ultimatum that his wife had given him very early in his career.

His time in Lausanne had lasted only a couple of years until the CIA had sought him out to ask for help with a difficult assignment. He had reluctantly agreed to come back, which had begun a long string of operations, one of which had eventually led to the death of his wife after they had gotten back together, along with their daughter and her husband.

In fact, every woman since then had been murdered for who and what he was. And at this moment, he had terribly mixed feelings. He was frightened for Pete, and yet he was determined with everything in his soul not to let such a thing happen again.

This time, he was going on the hunt with a vengeance.

McGarvey’s cab got to Otto’s place in McLean that was only a couple of miles from the Dulles Airport Access Road off I-495 at a little before seven, leaving him plenty of time to make his flight.

Pete met him at the door, and when they were inside the front hall and he’d put his bag down, she took him in her arms and looked into his eyes. “Should I start worrying about you now?”

He smiled. “Save your worries for the other guy.”

“Silly me. Somehow I thought you would say something like that.”

They went back to the kitchen, where Mary had poured a cognac for McGarvey. Otto was on the patio pulling steaks off the grill.

“Can’t send you across the pond without something decent to eat and drink,” he said, coming in.

Pete got the salad and Coronas from the fridge, and Mary got the baked potatoes from the oven, put them on a serving platter, and brought them to the table.

They all sat down, but no one reached for the food.

“Pete told me that Lou came up with something interesting,” McGarvey said, breaking the silence.

Otto got his laptop from the counter and put it in front of Mac. “Hit Enter.”

McGarvey did, and the brief interview with Susan Patterson, who was in Seattle with Hammond, came up.

“Susan Patterson, still as gorgeous as ever,” a woman reporter said.

Mac looked up, but Otto gestured at the laptop. “Wait for it.”

The interview only lasted a couple of minutes, but then Hammond, standing behind her and slightly to her left, said something out of place for the situation.

McGarvey backed it up and played it again.

“—let’s just say that Seattle has always been in my heart as one of the most photogenic cities on the entire planet,” said Susan.

“A beauty in the heart of beauty,” the reporter said.

Hammond took Susan by the arm. “We have a boat to catch,” he said in her ear, but the mic was still hot, and the camera caught the expression on his face, then went blank.

McGarvey looked up. “Lou, what’s the significance of this interview?”

“I’m at 18 percent, but I found it interesting that Ms. Patterson was lying; she is not in Seattle to scout for a movie location, and Mr. Hammond’s posture and voice stress levels indicate that he may be under some pressure.”

“Go on,” McGarvey said, only the vaguest of ideas where Otto’s AI program was heading.

“I was looking for connections to you that had gone poorly for the people you were dealing with. Mr. Hammond and Ms. Patterson may feel some animosity because of the failed bitcoin scheme you offered them.”

“Thin,” McGarvey said, but he was intrigued by how the AI program was dealing with human variables.

“Yes, Mac. My confidence is only 18 percent.”

“Not high, but above statistical averages,” Otto said.

TWENTY-THREE

At customs and immigration in Jo’burg’s O. R. Tambo International Airport, McGarvey had to surrender his pistol and spare magazine of ammunition to the uniformed official, who also checked a database of all international air marshals to make sure McGarvey was on the list.

“Your weapon will be returned to you at the boarding gate when you leave tomorrow morning,” the man said, his manner cool but officiously polite. “Do you have anything else to declare?”

“No.”

“What is the purpose of your visit to South Africa?”

“I’ve come to speak with General Leon.” Stanley Leon, a one-star, was the