“Why the gun?”
The smaller man suddenly grinned.
Mac turned and in one smooth motion threw the ASP at the man sitting against the Dumpster. He had a Glock in his hand. The steel baton hit him in the side of the head, knocking him senseless for just a moment, the pistol firing with a loud pop, the round ricocheting off the corner of the casino.
The smaller man was on McGarvey, who elbowed him in the sternum, pushing him back dazed.
Before the street hood could recover, Mac went to the man by the Dumpster, snatched his pistol, and shot him once in each knee.
“You have a choice now,” he said to the other man. “Either call an ambulance for your friend, or call your driver and get him back to Sergev in Marseilles.”
“I think that you have made a very large mistake here, Mr. McGarvey. One that you won’t live to regret.”
Mac raised the pistol as he walked directly to the man and jammed the muzzle into his forehead. “If I see either of you again, I will kill you. Tell your boss that, and tell him that whoever hired you is a dead man walking.”
The Corsican said nothing.
Mac lowered the pistol and walked out of the service area, stuffing the gun into his belt before he reached the street and headed back the way he had come.
He put on his glasses as the Mercedes passed him without slowing down. Otto was right there in his ear.
“How’d it go?”
“They said that they were sent to rough me up, not kill me, and I believed them,” Mac said, and he told Otto everything.
“Sounds to me like they were ready to shoot you to death.”
“They were just trying to defend themselves. But they knew my real name, which rules out the possibility that someone at the casino sent them.”
“Well, the two guys you took down didn’t show up in the FSB’s personnel file, but from the way you describe them, I think they’re most likely street muscle.”
“What about Sergev Imports?”
“It’s a container-shipping company, registered in Monrovia, owned by Georgi Sliuchenko, one of Putin’s inner circle. I couldn’t find any mention of Sergev, and on the surface, the company seems legitimate.”
“Any links to Didenko or the FSB?”
“None. From where I’m sitting, the bully boys are probably just a sideline business that the managing director—a Frenchman by the name of Mohammed al-Dakheel—set up to make a few extra euros.”
“Is he a Saudi?”
“Born in Jeddah but immigrated to France nine years ago. I can’t find any connection between him and Sliuchenko other than the fact he works for the Russian. But I think it’s a dead end. They were hired to rough you up, nothing more than that. He’s playing with you.”
“I think you’re right.”
“What now?”
“I need a drink.”
“Le Bar Americain?”
“Mais oui.”
14
Kurshin and Martine sat at the end of the bar from where he could watch the lobby when McGarvey showed up. He was curious to see what shape the American was in. His instruction to al-Dakheel was for his people to rough up the man but not kill him. They were to make sure that he would be able to walk away from the encounter. No broken bones other than a rib or two.
“I’m surprised that we left the casino so early,” Martine asked. She was drinking a glass of Cristal, and he was working on a pink gin, a drink he highly detested.
“I wasn’t in the mood to gamble with a drunk American.”
“He might be back tomorrow.”
The lobby wasn’t busy at this hour of the morning, though the bar was nearly full, and the piano player had just returned from a break. Kurshin looked up as a red-haired woman, dressed in a white blouse and khakis, a jacket thrown over her shoulder, crossed to the front desk. She was turned away from him so he couldn’t see her face, but she looked familiar.
A bellman trailed behind her with a suitcase and small bag, and after a few moments, the desk clerk handed her a key card, and she went to the elevators around the corner.
“An old flame of yours?” Martine asked.
The woman was almost certainly Pete Boylan, the one who’d been at Arlington National Cemetery with McGarvey. She’d just arrived from talking to Didenko outside Moscow. And that fact still bothered him. They had already made a connection to the general, but he’d said that she claimed she was writing a book about McGarvey. The most disturbing thing she’d asked about, according to Didenko, was Arkady Kurshin. She’d wanted to know if someone was gunning for McGarvey out of revenge for Arkasha’s assassination.
“A penny,” Martine asked.
“I once knew a girl with red hair, and I thought that it might be her.”
“Lots of girls in England with red hair. I think this one must have been your lover. Is she here searching for you?”
Kurshin looked at her. Something in her eyes and in the way she watched him was odd, out of kilter, out of place for a Frenchwoman. He decided that when this part of his operation was finished, he would kill her.
“Would it bother you?”
“Immensely,” she said, laughing. She motioned to the barman for another glass of champagne. “I don’t know if I want to stay in the same hotel as your old girlfriend.”
“We can always go back to your place.”
“Might be for the best, after all,” she said, looking past him.
He turned in time to see McGarvey heading directly for them. So far as Kurshin could tell, he had not been injured or even roughed up. His shirt, tie, and jacket looked in proper order, the same as they had in the casino.
McGarvey smiled at Martine and nodded but walked past and took a stool near the opposite end of the bar.
“Nice smile for a drunk American,” Martine said.
“Maybe he’s one of your former lovers,” Kurshin said to mask his sudden dark feeling.
She laughed again. “I think that I would have remembered him.”
“He looks old.”
“But then so am I, mon cher.”
Kurshin nodded. “But then only a Frenchwoman ages with grace.”
“Gallant,” she said, raising her glass to him.
“Excuse me for a minute,” he said, and he went out to a spot in the lobby where he couldn’t be seen from the bar and phoned al-Dakheel’s emergency number.
The man answered on the second ring. He was angry. “Oui.”
“What happened?”
“He took my two people down. They said he had a gun. He kneecapped Rene and beat Charles half to death. They’re on their way down here to our doctor, but they’ll be of no further use to me after this night. You should have warned me.”
“You should have sent better men.”
“The next two I send will kill him on sight.”
“No,” Kurshin said, but al-Dakheel had already hung up.
He phoned the man again but only got an answering machine after four rings.
He walked outside and for several minutes just stared at the traffic. A doorman came up to him and asked if he wanted a taxi, but he waved the man off. Actually, the best thing would be to sit back and see what al-Dakheel’s hoods could do with a second chance. The object of the little game was McGarvey’s death. And yet he knew that it wasn’t so simple as that, and it hadn’t been so simple for him from the start.
He wanted to destroy the American, but he didn’t want it to be a bolt out of the blue. Killing McGarvey—or anyone, for that matter—with a sniper rifle from a long distance would be easy. Except that one moment the man would be alive and the next dead, not knowing what had happened.
And knowing was the entire point. It was why Arlington, why tonight. Kurshin wanted McGarvey to know that he was being toyed with. He wanted the man to understand that he was going to die, and he wanted the man to understand at some point not only who his killer was but the why of the thing.
He wanted McGarvey to feel the fear of being stalked by a
superior enemy.
A police car, lights flashing but no siren, passed by, and Kurshin went back into the hotel.
McGarvey was standing next to Martine, and they were talking as if they were old friends. Kurshin’s anger suddenly spiked, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he smiled as he approached.
“The gentleman with extraordinary luck at chemin de fer,” he said.
“Skill,” McGarvey corrected. He was not drunk.
“M. Arouet was kind enough to buy me a drink,” Martine said.
“Ah, the French philosopher reincarnated.”
“Actually, you might not be too far off the mark. My grandfather was French. As a matter of fact, he taught philosophy at the Sorbonne before coming to the States. But I’ve never bothered to try to find a link.” He stuck out his hand, and Kurshin shook it.
“Nance Kallinger.”
“He’s a Brit,” Martine said. “But a civilized one.”
“Have you known each other long?”
“I met her at Dulles, the day before yesterday,” Kurshin said. “We were on the same flight to Paris, and we struck up a conversation.”
Martine laughed. “Actually, it was I who practically seduced him, not the other way around for a change.”
McGarvey finished his cognac and reached around to place the glass on the bar. “I’ll be saying good evening.”
“Won’t you stay for another drink?” Martine asked.
“It’s late, and I imagine that you two have plenty to talk about, having just met,” McGarvey said. He kissed her hand and nodded to Kurshin and then headed out to the lobby and straight back to the elevators.
“Extraordinary man,” Martine said.
Kurshin sat down next to her. “How so?” he asked, taking great care to keep his voice natural.
“First off, he wasn’t drunk at the casino; it was an act, he admitted, to put the other players off and to excuse his bad manners with his cards. His fault is never wanting to lose, no matter the cost.”
If McGarvey knew or suspected who he really was, he’d just sent a message that he was ready to play the game.
“And?”
“A pair of street hoods tried to rob him not twenty minutes ago. Apparently, they followed him from the casino.”
“He’s none the worse for wear.”
“Oui, extraordinaire. But he said they were amateurs, while he was used to dealing with professionals.”
15
As soon as he opened the door to his suite, he knew that Pete was there; he could smell her scent on the air. Nevertheless, he pulled out the Glock he had taken from the street hood behind the casino. With the Russian and whoever the hell else was with him in the hotel, anything was possible. She might have been kidnapped, a gun pointed to her head at this moment.
He eased the door shut, turned the dead bolt, and, making no noise, walked to the open door of the main bedroom.
A suitcase and overnight bag had been placed on the floor next to the wardrobe, and Pete’s jacket was on the bed.
Checking behind the door to make sure that his six was clear before he crossed to the palatial bathroom, he was in time to see Pete getting out of the shower, and he lowered the gun.
“Trouble?” she asked, not reaching for a towel.
“I knew you were here, but I wasn’t sure about the circumstances. You okay?”
She nodded. “But I didn’t get much from Didenko. He’s old, but he’s still pretty sharp.”
“Our Russian is here.”
“At the casino?”
“Yes, and here at the hotel.”
“Did Otto come up with a name?”
“He’s traveling on a British passport under the name Nance Kallinger, and he’s with a woman who the DGSE think might be MI6 under the work name of Martine Barineau. But that’s as far as Otto has been able to take it for now.”
“Okay, so let’s go to London and have a chat with C; you’ve known him long enough to ask for a favor.” Sir Richard Danville had been appointed head of MI6 last year, with the designation of C. Before then, he had been a longtime career intelligence officer. One of his jobs was as liaison with the CIA when Mac was DCI. They’d formed a trust and friendship based on each other’s professionalism.
“They’re downstairs at the bar. Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll go have a chat with them.”
Pete grinned. “A little pushback; I like it,” she said. “Give me three minutes.”
* * *
On the way down in the elevator, Pete explained that she had not packed any evening clothes for the casino, planning instead on shopping for something in Monaco. She was dressed in high-heel ankle boots, designer jeans, and a white silk blouse with no bra.
The Russian and the woman were just leaving the bar when Mac and Pete reached the lobby.
“My friend from Washington is here,” McGarvey said. “We thought that we’d have that drink with you, after all. Unless it’s too late.”
“Not at all,” Kurshin said.
McGarvey introduced Pete by her work name, Donna Graves.
“Pleased to meet you,” Kurshin said, kissing her hand.
“Actually, we spotted you as you came into the hotel a little while ago,” Martine said, graciously shaking Pete’s hand. “If you’ve come to play chemin de fer dressed like that—très chic, dans le vent—you’ll knock them dead. You look like an American movie star.”
“Actually, I’m just a writer taking a break from the book I’m working on.”
“Fascinating,” Martine said.
They went back into the still mostly full bar, where they found a table for four under one of the tall windows. Kurshin ordered a bottle of Krug for them.
“So, tell us about your book,” he said. “Do you have a title yet?”
“Revenge, but it’s just a work in progress at this point. And maybe it’ll never see the light of day.”
“How so?” Kurshin asked.
“I’m uncovering some pretty sensitive material that the CIA is probably going to object to, and if they edit all the good stuff out, I’ll walk away from the project.”
“You could always have it published elsewhere.”
“That’s what I’ve told her,” McGarvey said. “But she tends to be stubborn sometimes.”
“If you guys mean that I should do a Snowden, I don’t think it’s worth it,” Pete said. “I like freedom more than I like this book. Though it’s hard to give it up.”
Their wine came, and after the waiter had poured for them and left, Martine raised her glass. “To Revenge—and all the interesting forms it sometimes takes.”
“So tell us what your book is about,” Kurshin said.
Pete touched Mac’s foot with the toe of her boot. “Did you ever hear the name Kirk McGarvey?”
The Russian didn’t miss a beat. “I think he was the director of the CIA a number of years ago,” he said. “But then he dropped out of sight.”
“He’s a fascinating subject.”
“I’m sure.”
“Have you fallen in love with him yet?” Martine asked. “Biographers often do with their subjects.”
“I have to admit I have,” Pete said, lowering her head demurely for a moment and then raising it. “But he’s a tough man to get close to. In fact, I just returned from Russia, where I had a chat with a former KGB officer who I thought might be able to help with some details.”
“And did he?”
“In a roundabout way. I’m writing not only about the governments that would like to take their revenge on him but on the people who are carrying a grudge. He told me the number was a large one.”
“It would seem that he’s a marked man,” Martine said. “How romantic for you. The fall of the tragic hero and all that.”
“And convenient,” Kurshin said.
“How do you see that?” McGarvey asked. “I’d think that when her marked man was assassinated, she would grieve.”
“On the contrary. If you lose someone yo
u love—say a wife or a family member—you would be free to find someone else. Another conquest, if you will.” He looked at Pete. “After a decent period or mourning, of course.”
“Of course,” Pete said.
“That’s simply too morose a thought for such an interesting story,” Martine said. “Have you actually gotten close to him? I mean close enough for one-on-one interviews?”
“On several occasions.”
“Très bon. Such men in high positions of power have always seemed aloof, too distant to be mortal, to have any tender feelings.”
“He’s anything but that,” Pete said.
“He was married, I think,” Kurshin said. “He had a family—killed in some accident.”
“They were murdered,” Pete said.
“Street muscle, guns for hire,” McGarvey said. “It was in the newspapers. Their paymaster was too much of a coward to do the job himself. Guys like that usually are.”
Kurshin’s lips tightened for just an instant.
“Are you a writer, as well, M. Arouet?” Martine asked.
“No. I deal in futures trading.”
“Wall Street?”
“In the real world. It’s a little messier that way but more satisfying in the end when the future you’ve bet on comes true because of what you’ve done.”
“Then how is it that you two have met?”
“I’m financing the costs of publishing her book,” McGarvey said. “I think it’ll be a bestseller in the end.”
“Why is that?” Kurshin asked.
“Simple. The good guys always win, because the trash they take down don’t realize that they’re nothing more than trash and will never be anything else.”
16
In the morning after a late room-service breakfast on the balcony of their suite, Pete went out to find a dress and accessories for that evening, leaving McGarvey to brood about last night’s meeting with the woman who very well could be a spy for MI6 and the man who could very well be the Russian agent stalking him for some reason.
He phoned Otto in McLean where it was coming up on five in the morning. “Anything new on either of them?”
The Shadowmen Page 7
