He pulled his Walther from the holster under his jacket at the small of his back. “That’s enough now.”
The shooter backed up warily.
More people had gathered, but they kept their distance.
Someone had apparently called the police, because a patrol car, its siren blaring, screeched to a halt on the street above.
“For now it’s out of my hands,” McGarvey said.
The shooter glanced up as two uniformed police officers came down the stairs on the run. He turned on his heel and in three steps was at the edge and threw himself into the river.
The cops were shouting. “Arrêtez! Arrêtez!”
McGarvey laid his pistol on the pavement, then backed up to the river’s edge in time to see the shooter swimming very fast downstream with the current, toward the bridge.
The cops were on McGarvey just as the shooter reached the middle arch at the same time a commercial barge came upriver, its horn blaring five warning blasts.
The shooter was swept aside by the bow of the boat, and for several seconds it seemed as if he would get clear, but then he was sucked underwater just forward of the stern. Almost immediately the river turned red, his body caught in the screw and chopped up.
FIFTY-ONE
Alex got out of the cab, but instead of immediately going into the hotel, she walked a few doors down to a Godiva chocolate shop, where she dawdled over buying a small box of truffles and having a pleasant chat with one of the clerks.
The place was reasonably busy, mostly with tourists—some of them Brits, and a few Germans and a Russian couple. But no one suspicious. No one was following her now.
Back at the hotel, the uniformed attendant held the door for her and she went down the short corridor directly to the elevators. Again, to her eye, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Presumably, McGarvey had come back here after the shooting, and it was more than likely that Pete Boylan had stayed behind, probably to search her room.
Upstairs, a maid was coming out of her room. “Mademoiselle, your room is ready,” the woman said.
“Merci,” Alex said, and gave the woman the box of chocolates. The woman thanked her, surprised.
Someone other than the maid had been in the room. The attaché case was lying at a different angle on the luggage stand, and the zipper on her overnight bag was completely closed. She had left it unzipped by half an inch.
It was made to look like amateurs had done this. It was possible that the maid or someone else on the hotel’s staff had been looking for something to steal, but it was more likely in her mind that she had been given a message. Hopefully, by McGarvey or Pete Boylan.
She tossed her purse onto the bed and searched the attaché case and the overnight bag, but nothing was missing, though some of the contents had been very slightly rearranged.
Her room looked down on a pleasant courtyard with a small fountain, some trees, and flowering bushes. No way out from there. It left only the front door and presumably a delivery entrance and dock, and possibly a path across the roof to another building.
She had not been the least bit surprised when McGarvey had shown up; in fact, she had expected him. Her only concerns were that she had not detected him behind her, and that she had come into France unarmed.
She got undressed, and took a quick shower, mostly to refresh herself. It was the middle of the night her time, and she was beat, but her adrenaline was pumping hard enough that she was wide-awake. She had come looking for George, and she had sent him the message. She wanted to be awake to find out if he responded, not only to that but to the failed assassination attempt.
She phoned room service and asked for a pot of tea with lemon, and a croissant with butter and raspberry confit.
Paris was already coming to an end for her. If George responded, it would possibly be off to Tel Aviv or wherever he suggested. If not, she would have to go deep, and it would have to be a lot deeper than any of the others had gone.
Roy had changed the fourth panel on Kryptos, which she had to admit was pretty clever, and now McGarvey knew what was probably still buried above Kirkuk, though possibly not the entire reason why, nor who had put it there.
When she was dressed, she called the operator and asked to be connected to McGarvey’s room.
Pete answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” She sounded stressed.
“In my room. Has Kirk returned yet?”
Pete hesitated for just a beat. “Quite a show you put on in the park.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes. And when you took off, Mac followed you on foot. Did you see him?”
“Briefly at a sidewalk café on the Champs-Élysées, where someone tried to kill me. I managed to get out of there, but Mac didn’t follow me. I suspect he went after the shooter.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“Some guy with a rifle in a second-floor window across the avenue. I think it was a Barrett.”
“Hard to miss at that short a range,” Pete said.
“I got lucky.”
“Was it your George?”
“I didn’t get that good a look, but I don’t think it was George.”
“Who else wants you dead?”
Alex managed to laugh. “I can think of a few people. An Iraqi or two, among others. But George could have sent someone. I’ve left word for him.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does is whether or not he answers and what he says.”
“What was your message?”
“Just that I was the last of the team, and did he want to meet with me?” Alex said. “What about Kirk? Have you heard from him?”
“Not yet,” Pete said. “Look, I’m coming to your room. We need to talk.”
“I just got out of the shower. Give me a couple of minutes.”
“Okay.”
Alex went to the window and called the travel agency on her cell phone. “Has there been an answer yet?”
“Yes,” the agent said. “One word: Come.”
“How soon can you get me there?”
“You’re booked business class on Turkish Airlines, flight eighteen twenty-four, leaves de Gaulle this afternoon at five.”
“Any other information?”
“No,” the travel agent said. “Have a good flight, Ms. Wheeler.”
Someone knocked at her door. “Room service,” a man called.
Alex ended the call, tossed the phone onto the bed, got a couple of euros from her purse, and answered the door.
An old man with a barrel chest and thick gray hair stood there, holding up an identification wallet. “I’m Colonel Roland Bete. I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning a shooting at a sidewalk café on the Champs-Élysées.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. McGarvey was there. At the moment he is in the custody of the Sûreté. Evidently, he was involved with an incident a few blocks away by the river in which a man was killed in a boating accident. Witnesses said there was a fight.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“It would be for the best if you allowed me to come in, unless you would rather be taken to an interrogation cell, from which point your fate would be completely out of my hands.”
Pete came down the corridor. “I heard,” she said. “What’s the real issue?”
“He was armed,” Bete said.
“Can we have him released?”
“Perhaps, if Mademoiselle cooperates,” Bete said. “But it will have to be soon. Major Lucien has given me one hour to present a proper reason why.” He looked at Alex, his expression completely neutral. He could have been discussing the weather. “We found the documents in your attaché case. And we know a seat has been booked on a Turkish Airlines flight to Tel Aviv for a Lois Wheeler.”
Alex stepped aside to let them in. “It was you who tossed my room? Very unprofessional.”
“It was suggested we let you know. And Monsieu
r McGarvey is a very persuasive man. He was allowed one call, and it was to me. Your life is in danger.”
Alex laughed. “I got lucky in the café.”
“The shooter was a professional. Perhaps Mossad? What do you hope to gain by going to Tel Aviv? Is it to meet with this person you have only identified as George?”
“Yes.”
“And what would stop him from merely having you killed? Perhaps a random shooting. Incidents like that happen all the time. Israel is a violent country.”
“McGarvey,” Alex said, and watched for a reaction in Pete’s eyes. And she saw exactly what she expected to see.
FIFTY-TWO
McGarvey looked up from where he was seated at a small metal table across from the two Sûreté officers who had been interviewing him, when a whip-thin man with a large Gallic nose and dark complexion came in.
“Monsieur McGarvey is cooperating, but we’ve got nothing of any use so far,” one of the interrogators said.
“I’ve been listening,” the dark man said. He was jacketless, his tie loose, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up above the elbows. “Leave us.”
The two interrogators left the room, and the dark man sat down. “I’m Major Lucien.”
“Colonel Bete mentioned you. He said you were aware I came into France with a weapon. Do you know if he’s made contact with the woman I was seated with at the café?”
“I just spoke to him on the telephone. She is at the hotel with him and the CIA officer you arrived with this morning.”
It was the first piece of good news this morning. “Then she’s corroborated my story.”
“That she was the target of an assassination attempt in which an innocent bystander was killed instead. And that both of you left the scene before the police could arrive.”
“She ran to save her life, and I ran to catch the killer.”
“Neither of you stayed to offer assistance to the man who had been shot.”
“It was a sniper rifle. Little hole in, big hole out. He never had a chance, something I told your people.”
“And the man you confronted by the river—do you think he was the shooter?”
“Yes. Did you recover his body?”
“What there was left of it. But he carried no identification, nor were there any traces of blowback from the Barrett—which we found in the upstairs office across the avenue.”
“Let me guess,” McGarvey said. “You found a pair of rubber gloves.”
“In the gutter around the corner. But we haven’t been able to find any usable prints or DNA; the insides of the gloves had been coated with Vaseline or some substance like it.”
The shooter hadn’t learned that from the IDF. “I need to get out of here before someone else makes another attempt.”
The major shook his head, and McGarvey knew what was coming next.
“I’ve never been an enemy of France.”
“No, but each time you have been here, people have died. This time the death toll is two. So far. How many more will it be if I release you?”
“Did Colonel Bete tell you why we came to France?”
“Something about a serial killer in the CIA. It’s not France’s problem.”
McGarvey leaned forward. “It might be, the next time the DGSE needs some help preventing another terrorist attack. France is crawling with Muslims. Mosques on just about every corner in all the poor districts of Paris and every other city. Breeding grounds for Islamic dissidents.”
Lucien said nothing, but he was steaming.
“The Sûreté has a problem. You have a problem.”
“My job is to deal with current problems. And at this moment you and the woman you followed here are it.”
“She’s committed no crime here.”
“But you have, by carrying an undeclared firearm into France.”
“Check with Colonel Bete.”
Lucien rapped a knuckle on the table. “Salopard. The service is not in charge of internal affairs. That falls to the Sûreté. In Paris, to me.”
McGarvey’s sat phone, which was lying on the table, chimed.
“There can be no signal in this building,” Lucien said, staring at it as if it were a dangerous bug.
The phone chimed again.
Lucien picked it up and answered it. Otto’s voice came over the speaker.
“Major Pierre Lucien of the Sûreté, Paris homicides, if I’m not mistaken.”
“There can be no telephone calls in here,” the Sûreté major said.
“To your switchboard, and then through the building’s wiring,” Otto said. “Easy shit, actually. But we have a problem you need to solve before more bodies start to pile up in Paris. Wouldn’t do much for your nearly spotless record. And with less than eight years until retirement, you wouldn’t want to be dismissed. What would your wife, Pauline, say?”
“You son of a bitch,” Lucien said, and reached to turn off the phone.
“Technically, you’re right, but let’s leave my mother out of this. The point is, we have a serial killer on the loose in Langley, and in order to find out who it is, we followed Ms. Wheeler to Paris so she could attempt to make contact with someone she thought could help with the investigation. Instead someone tried to kill her. You can’t take her into custody, because she’s broken no laws there. So she should be free to go.”
“That’ll be up to Colonel Bete.”
“Yes. She has a flight to Tel Aviv this afternoon. We think she will be killed when she arrives. We want to prevent that.”
“I don’t care.”
“But you must,” Otto said. “Mr. McGarvey and his partner, Ms. Boylan, must be allowed to leave Paris this afternoon.”
“Monsieur McGarvey will be brought before a magistrate this afternoon, where he will be formally charged with accessory to murder and entering France with an illegal firearm. We have strict laws.”
“But that would be a mistake.”
Lucien tried to switch the phone off.
“Hang in there, Mac,” Otto said. “I’ve recorded everything from the moment you were arrested. Your aircrew has refueled the Gulfstream and is ready to leave as soon as you and Pete get to the airport.”
“Is Pete okay?”
“She’s with Bete right now.”
Lucien tried to switch off the phone again.
“I’ll spring you in about five minutes,” Otto said, and was gone, but the phone would not power off.
“Who was that?” Lucien demanded.
“Otto Rencke. He’s director of special projects for the Company, and he, too, lived here a number of years ago, but you probably won’t find anything in your databases. He’s pretty good with stuff like that.”
“We’re past that point,” Lucien said. “The rest will come out at your trial.” He got up and, not bothering with the sat phone—it was something he couldn’t control—left the room
“You still there?” he asked.
“Yes, but pick up. They’re recording everything,” Otto replied.
The speaker function shut off when McGarvey picked up. “What do you have in mind?”
“Do you know the name Andre Tousseul?”
“He used to be the director general of the Sûreté.”
“Still is. He was listening in on your interview—especially with Lucien. I had Walt explain the situation to him earlier, and he understood perfectly. Mostly because he wants all this to go away. The sooner you and Pete and Alex are out of France, the happier he’ll be, though he promised Walt any assistance he could give to the CIA.”
“Her flight leaves in less than three hours. She takes it, there’s a good chance she’ll be killed when she gets there.”
“I think Pete should go in her stead. You and Alex can fly over in the Gulfstream. I’ll have your clearance to land within the next thirty minutes.”
One of the officers who had conducted their initial interview came in. “If you will come with me, sir, I’ll have you signed out and your belongings r
eturned to you.”
“On my way. Thanks, kemo sabe,” McGarvey said. He switched off the phone, and this time it stayed off.
“Sir.”
“Where is Major Lucien?”
“He’s been called away.”
FIFTY-THREE
Room service had brought up a cheese plate with mousse and pâté de foie gras, along with a good bottle of ice-cold Pinot Grigio. Pete and Alex sat at a small marble-topped table in front of the open window. That she had a minder wasn’t lost on Alex, but she made no bones about it, for which Pete was grateful.
She didn’t like the woman, but she felt sorry for her. Being an NOC had been the only possible profession for her, and yet the years of service in the field, and since Iraq, the constant looking over her shoulder, had taken its toll. She could see it around the corners of her eyes, the sometimes firm set of her mouth, and the tilt of her head, as if she were listening for something gaining on her.
Bete was waiting downstairs for McGarvey to arrive, and when he got there, they would head to de Gaulle, where Pete would take Alex’s place on the Turkish Airlines flight, and Alex would go with Mac on the CIA’s Gulfstream. They would leave as soon as possible in order to get to Tel Aviv before Pete’s flight arrived. He wanted to be at immigration first to see who showed up to meet the flight.
“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” Pete said.
“You, too, going in my place.”
“I don’t get it. Someone tries to kill you here, and yet you’ve sent a message to George and he’s told you to come to Tel Aviv. Right into the hornets’ nest. What do you think you’ll achieve?”
Alex shrugged. “If he kills me, then I guess it’ll prove he still has something to hide after all these years. But you have to know he isn’t your serial killer.”
“How did you send him the message that you wanted to meet? I mean, did you call some number direct? Maybe an Israel country code?”
Alex told her about the Mossad-backed travel agency, but Otto had already traced the Turkish Airlines booking to the agency on the Champs-Élysées not far from the sidewalk café.
End Game Page 23
