A shot from a rooftop to the west in Georgetown was certainly possible. But if a sniper had been set up there waiting for him to come out of his apartment, he could have taken the shot almost immediately. To the east toward Dupont Circle most of the sight lines to his position were partially blocked by trees.
If he was going to do it, he would be somewhere in the park, or in a car or van driving along the parkway. But traffic was still not heavy, and McGarvey had not spotted anyone suspicious passing by.
He turned and started back. It was possible that a sharp ISI analyst had worked out the likelihood that he would actually come to Islamabad. He’d been there before. They knew him, they knew what he looked like, how he moved.
Taking him out here would be chancy. Florida was easier. Running him over in the water could be defended as an accident. Inexperienced boaters not spotting a head in the waves; accidents like that had happened before.
And that same analyst could also have come to the conclusion that if McGarvey was running in the park, after the incident in Florida, he would be offering himself as a target in order to catch the gunman. A possibly no-win outcome if the shooter missed, because despite opposition to what the Company called enhanced methods of interrogation, such methods were still used when necessary. If McGarvey captured an ISI contractor, the truth would come out.
Still weaving and bobbing as he ran, McGarvey reached the parkway when his cell phone rang. It was Otto.
“I found her. She’s banged up but not seriously. They’re taking her to All Saints right now.”
A cool, dispassionate anger came over him. “What happened?”
“I sent a chopper up to find her. Looks like she was forced off the road a few miles south of our front gate. She rolled down the hill and up against a tree. No one could see her from the parkway because of the heavy brush.”
McGarvey jogged across the road. “Is she conscious?”
“Our guys who got to her first said she was in and out. Lots of blood but it looked like superficial scalp wounds. Could be a concussion but we won’t know until Franklin takes a look at her.”
“I’m going to change clothes and get over there. Tell Page I’m taking the president’s assignment.”
“The ISI will spot you the minute you get off the plane.”
“No. they won’t,” McGarvey said. “I’ll see you as soon as I can.”
It was after ten by the time Franklin came out of the operating theater on the second floor and walked down to talk to McGarvey in the waiting room at the end of the hall.
“She’ll have a couple of black eyes and a lot of bruising on her legs and thighs, but there were no broken bones nor any brain trauma.”
“She’s hardheaded.”
Franklin shook his head. “You all are,” he said. “How’s Dave Haaris doing?”
“He’s back at work.”
“Too bad about his wife on top of his own problem.” Franklin shook his head again. “I don’t see how you guys do it. Patching you up is a hell of a lot easier job.”
“When can I see her?”
“They’re cleaning her up now. She wants to go home, but I’m keeping her overnight just to be on the safe side. You can try to talk some sense into her as soon as they get her up to her room. I don’t want her getting dressed and walking out of here.”
McGarvey went up to Pete’s room on the third floor as soon as she was wheeled up from the operating theater. Her smile was lopsided but she was as glad to see him as he was to see her. He kissed her lightly on her cheek.
“Franklin says you’ll be okay, but he’s keeping you overnight.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Pete said, her voice a little slurred.
“I’m taking your old clothes, they’re a mess, and bringing you some clean clothes and some other stuff in the morning. You’ll be staying on Campus for the time being. They tried to take you out to make me think twice.”
“You’ve decided?”
“No other choice,” McGarvey said, and an expression he couldn’t read came over Pete’s face.
TWENTY-EIGHT
McGarvey passed the spot where Pete’s car was forced off the road, broad furrows cut in the grassy slope all the way down into the bush and trees that no passing motorist had spotted. The ISI — and now he was almost 100 percent certain it was they — had tried to kill her to get to him. And from their point of view it had been the right thing to do, given his history. But if they had meant to distract him by a repeat performance of something that had happened to him three times before — killing someone very close to him — they were dead wrong.
Vengeance hadn’t worked for them when they’d sent a German assassination squad to the U.S. to kill all the SEAL Team Six operators who had taken out bin Laden. But here and now for McGarvey, vengeance was a powerful motivator.
He was given a VIP pass at the main gate and he drove up to the Old Headquarters Building and parked in the basement garage. The elevator stopped at the security station on the first floor, where he had to surrender his weapon before he was issued a pass that allowed him access to just about every office on the entire campus. Many former DCI’s retained that badging privilege because they often worked in unpublicized advisory capacities. And every time McGarvey walked through the door, the security people welcomed him back.
He’d phoned ahead and Walt Page was waiting for him upstairs on the seventh floor. The DCI’s secretary passed him straight through. No one else was present. It was just the two of them, as McGarvey had insisted be the case.
“How’s Miss Boylan?” Page asked.
“Banged up but not serious. Franklin’s keeping her overnight to make sure. I’m going to bring her out here soon as she’s released, have Security keep an eye on her.”
“Good idea.”
“Were you told what happened at the Pakistani embassy last night?”
“John Fay filled me in. Said that you and Miss Boylan were there too. Are you going to tell me that the attack on her this morning had something to do with what went on there?”
“I think that the ISI wants to keep me out of the mix. It’s why they tried to kill me in Florida, and it’s why they went after Pete — to distract me. Have you seen Dave this morning?”
“I wanted to talk to you first. Susan Kalley called from the White House, wanting to know what the hell happened. The president is ready to discount just about everything Dave’s told her. And she’s pulling the records of every meeting he had with her, even during her campaign.”
“What’ll she find?”
“Nothing but solid advice, so far as I know. But his wife’s murder has hit him very hard. I’m thinking about putting him on administrative leave.”
“Might not be a bad idea, but give it a day or so. I’m going to talk to him this morning.”
“You don’t trust him.”
“No,” McGarvey said. Both he and Pete had got the strong impression that Haaris’s performance last night had been staged, and he said as much to Page.
“You and Otto think that he might be the Messiah,” the director said. “But it could be that you’re cherry-picking him. Focusing on every little bit that supports your notion while discounting everything else. Suppose it was an intruder, a burglar, who his wife surprised, and not a hitman sent by the ISI?”
“The ISI didn’t kill her, nor did a burglar.”
“Who then?”
“He did it.”
Page sat back. “Good Lord almighty. Do you have proof?”
“No, but their marriage could have been a front all along. Could be she walked in on something he was doing or saying that she wasn’t suppose to know about. He wouldn’t have had much of a choice.”