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

films and get the best writers adapting the best novels we can acquire. We can afford to hire the best costars for you and start snapping up every screen we can find anywhere in the world. Plus, we could afford to build state-of-the-art theaters just about everywhere.”

Susan was looking at him, her lips parted.

“Even if you made a movie every year, the principal shooting would only take eight or ten weeks. The rest of the time, we could play. Wouldn’t be a bad life for the two of us.”

“I’m too old,” Susan said.

“Bullshit. I can name a dozen actors a hell of a lot older than you still up there on the screen.”

She smiled. “I meant to get married.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“People who marry are usually in love.”

This time, Hammond smiled. “You are a gigantic pain in the ass sometimes, but I do love you, and I guess I have loved you for a very long time. Plus, you’re better than most of the other girls I’ve been with.”

She reached over with her foot and nudged his leg. “Would it scare you if I said yes?”

“Yes, it would.”

“That’s good,” she said. “But I won’t change my last name, at least for the screen.”

“Fair enough,” Hammond said, and he raised his glass. “To us.”

She raised hers to his. “Matrimony, holy shit.”

When they sipped the wine, her smile faded. “Back to square one,” she said.

“I want to finish the game.”

“Okay. So tell me how.”

“Our only real shot at this is to hire an overwhelming force to finish the thing,” Hammond said.

FIFTY-ONE

The woman in the gazebo whom Pete had shot and wounded had been flown up to Washington, where she’d been taken to All Saints Hospital for care by Dr. Franklin and his staff.

She’d been hit in her gallbladder, which had to be removed, and in her hip, less than an inch from her spine.

It was eight in the morning when Franklin, his mask off, came from the third-floor operating room to where McGarvey and Pete were standing by in the waiting room down the hall.

“She’ll live, no problem at all, without her gallbladder,” Franklin said. “But it’s the wound in her hip that’ll cause her difficulties for the rest of her life, I’m afraid.”

“She and her husband were professionals,” McGarvey said. “They were here to assassinate both of us.”

“I know, and they failed. My job is to save lives, even hers.”

“When can we talk to her?” Pete asked.

“She’ll stay in recovery for an hour or so, then she’ll be moved down to the second floor. You can have at her then,” Franklin said. “Now I’m going home.”

When Franklin was gone, McGarvey phoned Otto, who was already on campus. “What have you come up with?”

“She and her husband rented the Jet Skis from Sporty’s in Venice under the names George and Carolyn Schilling and paid with an Amex card. Their creds checked out legitimate, but Mary walked them over to Ed Banes, who’s taking a close look.”

Banes was chief of Special Projects in the Science and Technology Directorate, whose job—among other things—was building paper, plastic, and online credentials for the CIA’s field agents. He was the best man on campus for spotting fakes.

“What else?”

“Other than the total LE and media shitstorm going on down there, I did find out that the car parked at the marina was rented at the airport in Schilling’s name, and they bought the AR-15 at a gun shop in Bradenton under the same driver’s license.”

“How about fingerprints and DNA?”

“No match in any database Lou has found for the prints, and the lab should have an answer on DNA later today. But don’t count on much. These people were professionals, and right now, we’re thinking they’re Asian, maybe Chinese. Dental work, pubic hairs, and a couple of markers that seem to show they’ve had some good plastic surgery, making them look Western. And their skin had been lightened recently.”

“The PLA’s special operations brigades?”

“If these two follow the same background path as the Canadian and South African who came at you, then I’d say it’s a good bet.”

“Keep us in the loop,” McGarvey said.

“We will, but don’t get your hopes up. To this point, it looks as if these guys were at the top of their game,” Otto said. “In the meantime, the Bureau wants to debrief you, the Sarasota County Mounties want to have a moment of your time, and television newspeople from every network, including a half dozen from overseas, along with The New York Times, Washington Post, AP, and a host of others, are demanding interviews.”

“What about Taft?”

“He’s asked that you stop by.”

“Anything from the White House or Pentagon?” McGarvey asked.

“Nothing yet. But you and Pete—especially you, Mr. Director—are at the top of the news heap.”

“It’ll pass.”

“Yeah, but not unless something bigger comes along—like maybe Russia declaring war on us.”

Hammond called Tarasov’s number on the encrypted phone—the only number on that phone—at two in the morning, and the Russian answered on the first ring as if he had been expecting the call. And he almost sounded amused.

“I take it that you’ve heard the news. Not unexpected to you, I trust.”

“You promised me that they were the best.”

“They were, but McGarvey is better,” Tarasov said. “And frankly, Thomas, I suggest that you hope they were shot dead before they had a chance to mention your name. If you have that man on your trail, you will be—as the Americans are fond of saying—shit out of luck.”

“I’m not giving this up until the bastard is dead.”

“You’ll have to kill his wife as well.”

“That’s my intention. But I’ll need your help again.”

“Certainly. But don’t forget our pipeline deal. Germany is still under fire for dealing with us, and as Germany goes, so does the rest of Europe. Weaver, on his second term, has made it his mission to stay friends with Mr. Putin while at the same time rein him in. A complicated, unpredictable man, your president.”

“I want this over with so I can