Bambridge drove McGarvey and Pete over to the Old Headquarters Building, busy with the morning shift arriving, and upstairs they went to the director’s seventh-floor office. Walt Page and Carleton Patterson were waiting for them and Otto breezed in a moment later.
“Am I late?” he asked.
“No,” Page said and he directed them to have a seat. His expression was even sterner this morning than normal. His was a banker’s face in the middle of a financial meltdown.
McGarvey and Otto had talked at length over the Atlantic last night about the situation here, the only puzzle being the assassination of Wolf at the hands of some unknown gunman. The biggest question of all was the BND’s reluctance to find out why he’d been killed. Apparently he was at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he was robbed and his car stolen. The stripped VW Jetta was found the same day in an industrial section of Berlin. Case closed.
It was their relationship with Pakistan—similar to that of Washington’s. The ongoing fight against the Taliban was primary: all other considerations were off the table.
“We’re in a difficult situation, for which I’m expected to give some advice to the president as quickly as possible,” Page said. “The fact of the matter is I have nothing of value to tell him.”
“The situation with the attacks on SEAL Team Six team is not over,” McGarvey said, but Page raised a hand.
“If you’re right about that, which you very well may be, it’s not the situation I’m talking about. Pakistan and India have been rattling sabers over the past twenty-four hours. As of early this morning our surveillance satellites detected the activation of missile installations along the border with Kashmir. Pakistan’s Ra’ad ALCMs and India’s new Nirbhays, both of which are nuclear-tipped, are at the ready or will be very soon.”
“It’s happened before,” McGarvey said. “And you can’t tell me that we had anything to do with the escalation.”
“It can’t have helped,” Bambridge told Page. “I assume that you’ve had the time to read the transcript of their debriefing this morning.”
“Yes,” Page said.
“And so have I,” Patterson said. “Nothing in it would indicate some flash point being crossed, though their actions at this time, as Marty suggested, could not have helped. A gun battle between an ISI major and his wife, plus another woman, and the former director of this agency and one of our current employees was a political slap against President Mamnoon Hussain. The fact that you entered Pakistan under false passports—diplomatic passports—was another serious slap against this agency and the White House.”
“The president’s national security adviser knew the score,” McGarvey said, though he didn’t know why he was defending himself.
“Yes, and he told you that you would be on your own,” Page said. He was angry. “But not that you would drag along Ms. Boylan, not that you would use our assets on the ground, or borrow one of our Gulfstreams and crew to pick you up in London.”
“That was my doing, Mr. Director,” Otto said.
“That’s beside the point. Our Islamabad station is in shambles and Don Simmons has threatened to resign just when we need him the most.”
“Did Milt Thomas get out?”
Page was vexed. “Yes. He managed to make it overland just outside Peshawar, where an army helicopter picked him up and flew him across the border to Jalalabad. Also a consequence of the mess you created. As it was they made it across the border minutes before a pair of Pakistani fighter jets showed up.”
“He’s a good man. None of it was his fault.”
“No,” Page said sharply. “Yours.”
“Yes,” McGarvey said, suddenly sick to death with all the bullshit. Page was a good man, but he was too caught up in the political consequences of dealing with a crisis—not of his making, or of anyone else’s in his office—that he had lost sight of the reality of the situation.
“That’s a refreshing change,” Bambridge said.
“The saber rattling between Pakistan and India is just that. Showmanship for their electorates. Pakistan’s president is under a lot of pressure because the country is falling apart. Their financial structure is crumbling, electricity is a major problem even in the bigger cities—Islamabad included—and although we’re winning the war against the Taliban, a sufficient percentage of his electorate support the terrorists to the extent that they resent our drone strikes. So what’s a beleaguered head of state supposed to do? Fix the problems? Impossible in the short run. So he does the next best—shift the focus elsewhere.”
No one said anything.
“I sat in your chair, Walt, and I didn’t much like it,” McGarvey continued. “Tell the president what you know and leave the speculation to someone else. This is the Central Intelligence Agency—not the Central Second-Guessing Agency. Leave that to the national intelligence director; she seems to be good at it.”
“So where does that leave you at this point?” Page asked.
“Has there been any direct response from anyone in Pakistan about what went down?”
“None. Pat Garrick assured me that there’ve been no phone calls or e-mails in the past thirty-six hours concerning the—incident.” Air Force Lieutenant General Patrick Garrick was director of the National Security Agency, which monitored just about everything electronic just about everywhere.
“About what I expected.”
“John wants to have a chat with you.” John Fay was the president’s national security adviser.
“I’m not going to have the time,” McGarvey said, and he got to his feet. “If there’s nothing else, Mr. Director?”
Bambridge was pissed off, but Page held him off. “Tell me that you’re not going back to Pakistan.”
“I’m staying here. They’re coming to me.”
“You’re convinced that the attacks against the SEAL Team Six will continue?” Patterson said. “Even though they know that you have become personally involved?”
“I think so. Partly because they believe that neither the CIA, the FBI, nor the ONI are willing to get involved.”
“Could be the two murders are isolated incidents?”
“No,” McGarvey said. “I’m going to need Ms. Boylan and Otto.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Bambridge said.
“Try to stop me, sir, and I’ll resign,” Pete said, getting up.
Otto was grinning ear to ear as he got to his feet. “You wouldn’t want me to resign. Be your worst nightmare.”
“You’re convinced the threat is real?” Page asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“What next, then?” Patterson asked.
“We’re going to try to save these guys from themselves.”