Gambit David Hagberg (most read books in the world of all time TXT) 📖

“Yes, sir,” the official said, and he handed McGarvey’s passport over.

A short connecting corridor, guarded by a security guard and cameras plus notices that no one was to enter customs from this direction, led directly to automatic doors out to ground transportation. The multilane driveway was busy with people who’d just arrived on the Emirates flight queuing up for taxis, buses, and the outer lane for private cars and a couple of limos.

A man in his thirties, built like a star soccer player, obviously military by his bearing and buzz cut but dressed in a civilian suit, no tie, came over from his illegally parked Mercedes SUV.

“Good morning, Mr. Director. I’ve been sent to take you to your hotel.”

“I’m here to speak with General Leon at Brigade Headquarters.”

“Yes, sir, the general is expecting you. But unfortunately, non–South African civilians are currently not allowed on base.”

“In that case, I’ll find my own way to the hotel,” McGarvey said, and he started to step around the man, who moved directly in his path.

“The general and his aide-de-camp will meet you at the hotel. A private conference room has been arranged, and I was told to assure you that any questions you may have concerning Sergeant Slatkin will be answered so far as national security concerns will allow.”

It was about what McGarvey had expected, but he also knew that trying to speak to the general from Washington by phone or computer would have run into a brick wall. Now that he was here diplomatically, he couldn’t be ignored.

“Then let’s go.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve also been instructed to inform you that you will not be allowed away from the hotel until it is time for you to leave on the return flight.”

“May I ask why?”

“You brought a weapon into South Africa.”

“I’m traveling as an air marshal.”

“You’re on the list, but you are not active.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“Yes, sir.”

General Leon, also dressed in civilian clothes, was seated at a small conference table at the hotel, two floors above the lobby. He was flanked by one man also in civvies, and like the driver who’d withdrawn, he was obviously military, his bearing and posture erect, his hair cut short, and his build athletic.

“Our meeting will of necessity be a short one, Mr. Director,” Leon said, his South African accent so rounded he almost sounded Australian.

“I appreciate whatever help you can give me,” McGarvey said, taking a seat across from him.

“Sergeant Slatkin has been a civilian for three years,” the aide said, his manner clipped.

“I didn’t think the Recces fielded assassins to take out former CIA directors,” McGarvey said, his manner just as abrupt. “I’m here to find out why he came to kill me and who hired him.”

“I can’t answer either of those questions,” Leon said.

“He maintained an offshore bank account that had been credited with a quarter of a million U.S. dollars. Was he worth it?”

“Evidently not,” the aide said.

“The man’s training was first class,” Leon said. “He was good at his job.”

“Was he tested?”

“If you meant by that did he draw blood? The answer is yes, but I cannot discuss any specific operation, you must understand.”

“Did he ever travel to Russia for any reason?”

Leon glanced at the aide, who shook his head.

“No, sir, but…” He left it hanging.

“But?”

Leon nodded.

“He was involved briefly in a joint training mission outside of South Africa.”

“Where?” McGarvey asked.

“I can’t say, sir.”

“When was the mission?”

The aide glanced at the general. “I don’t have that information.”

McGarvey turned to the general. “I meant how long after the mission with the Russians did Slatkin fuck your daughter?”

Leon’s expression didn’t change, but he got to his feet. “I want this man brought directly back to the airport, where he is to be put on the next airplane that is scheduled to fly anywhere as long as it’s out of South Africa. If he resists, shoot the son of a bitch.”

McGarvey sat back. “Evidently, Slatkin wasn’t the only South African who wanted me dead.”

McGarvey’s driver from the airport brought him to the departures gates. The general’s aide escorted him to an office overlooking the main concourse, where they picked up a sealed pouch. From there, they went to the Delta counter, where a first-class ticket to Rio de Janeiro was waiting for him.

The aide escorted him through security to a Delta boarding gate, where the last of the passengers were going through the door into the Jetway, and he handed the sealed pouch to the female gate agent.

“Take this to the pilot. It contains this gentleman’s weapon and air marshal identification. He’s not to have them back until you leave South African airspace. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” the gate agent said. She disappeared down the Jetway and a minute or so later was back. “Done,” she said.

“Don’t come back to South Africa,” the aide said.

“So long as you don’t lose another of your operators,” McGarvey said.

He followed the gate agent aboard the 747, and when he was seated alone in an aisle seat in the main deck third row and the hatch was sealed, one of the stews brought him a cognac.

“Glad to have you aboard, Mr. McGarvey,” she said.

Another stew brought the sealed pouch back to him. “Captain’s compliments, and welcome aboard, sir. He asks that if you need to make a phone call please wait until we reach ten thousand feet.”

A few of the other passengers, realizing that he was a VIP by the way he was being treated by the crew, looked at him, and he raised his drink.

As the safety instructions came up on the seat-back monitors and the flight attendants were checking seat belts and shutting the overhead bin doors, he sat back and closed his eyes. He had found out exactly what he’d hoped to find out by coming here.

Slatkin was definitely working for the Russians, and General Leon had confirmed it.

TWENTY-FOUR

They were delayed overnight in Seattle to finish provisioning the MV Glory and had not gotten away until just after