“Armand, there has been a shooting,” the Frenchman who’d led McGarvey in, sputtered excitedly. “It’s Ghislane.”
McGarvey went directly across to a door at the rear of the Chef de Service’s office, and just eased it open so that he could look out into the long corridor. A door to the right, at the far end of the corridor, one hundred fifty feet or more away, slammed shut.
McGarvey looked back. “Which boarding gate does the door at the end serve?”
“E17… Coteau said, suddenly realizing the significance. “My God… the Swissair flight.”
“Call Security. Tell them that the man who shot down that flight just entered the VIP lounge down there. He’s blond, but he’s wearing a dark cap and green jacket. Hurry.”
McGarvey stepped into the corridor and raced down to the far end, aware that once again he was presenting himself as a perfect target. By now the gunman would have to suspect that his pursuer was not armed. McGarvey only hoped that the man would be so intent on making his escape that he wouldn’t take the time to wait in ambush.
It was also possible that he didn’t know that there was an alternate way into this service corridor, other than through security. He might not be expecting company this soon.
At the end of the corridor McGarvey hesitated only long enough to listen at the door.
There were no clear sounds from within.
Stepping to one side, out of the line of fire, he turned the knob and carefully opened the door.
He got a brief glimpse of the gunman, his green jacket off, holding his pistol on a policeman who was taking off his uniform. The cop looked up in surprise, and the terrorist turned and snapped off a shot as McGarvey ducked back.
Someone shouted something, and there was a crash and another silenced pistol shot.
McGarvey looked through the door again as the cop, his arms wrapped around the gunman, blood streaming down his face, started to fall backward.
Someone was coming down the corridor in a great rush behind McGarvey as he leaped into the room.
The terrorist, knowing what was about to happen, was desperately trying to free himself from the already dead cop when McGarvey reached him, batted the pistol out of his hand, and hauled him off his feet, slamming him against the wall.
Boorsch. Karl Boorsch. McGarvey knew the man! Until a few years ago he’d worked in East Berlin as a STASI hitman. McGarvey had had a brief encounter with him about eight years ago. It had been a situation in which neither of them had had a clear shot, but McGarvey never forgot a face.
Boorsch whipped out a switchblade knife, flicked the blade open and lunged. McGarvey managed to sidestep the thrust, but the ex-STASI triggerman was younger and faster, and ducked McGarvey’s swing.
Suddenly recognition dawned in his eyes. “You,” he said, and an instant later a man in civilian clothes a big pistol in his hand appeared in the doorway.
“Put it down!” he shouted.
Boorsch stepped back and started to toss the knife underhanded, when Bellus fired three times, all three shots catching the East German in the chest, destroying his heart and left lung.
McGarvey stood perfectly still. His back was toward the door so he could not see what was going on in the corridor, but there were definitely several people out there now. Undoubtedly airport security; all of them armed, all of them jumpy because of what was happening. He wanted no mistakes.
“Are you carrying a weapon, Monsieur?” the cop in the doorway asked.
McGarvey recognized his voice from the telephone before Marta had boarded the plane.
“No, I am not, Monsieur Bellus.”
“Who are you?”
“Kirk McGarvey. We spoke on the telephone earlier.”
“Search him,” Bellus ordered. “And get the medics in here to see to Allain.”
McGarvey moved his arms away from his body as a uniformed cop came up behind him and quickly patted him down.
“Nothing,” the cop said.
Another uniformed cop came over and was feeling for a pulse at the downed cop’s neck.
But it was clear that the man was either already dead or soon would be. His head wound from the large-caliber pistol Boorsch had used was massive.
“You may put your arms down,” Bellus said coming the rest of the way into the lounge.
McGarvey turned to him. “This is the one who shot down that plane, I think.”
“You led me to believe that you were on the flight.”
“No,” McGarvey said. “I came to see a friend off.”
“Who?”
“A Swiss Federal Police officer named Marta Fredricks.”
“Did she board?”
McGarvey nodded.
“Then I am truly sorry. You must know that there is little possibility of any survivors.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What are you doing here, Monsieur? Exactly?”
McGarvey told the security supervisor everything from the moment the cabbie had suddenly pulled over to the side of the highway, until now, leaving nothing out except the fact he’d recognized Boorsch.
“Are you a police officer?” Bellus asked. A young, attractive woman in a police uniform stood at his elbow taking everything in with wide eyes.
“No.”
“American Central Intelligence Agency?”
McGarvey shook his head.
“Do not toy with me, Monsieur. A great many people have died this morning. I will not play a guessing game here. You telephoned asking about two men who worked for the Agency, and minutes later the flight they boarded was shot out of the sky.”
“I used to work for the Agency,” McGarvey said. “Some years ago.”
“Yes?” Bellus prompted.
“I spotted their car out front and I wanted to speak to them.”
“About what?”
“Why they were here at the airport.”
Bellus looked at him through lidded eyes. “A curious question from a man who no longer is in their employ.”
“He is dead,” the doctor said looking up.
Bellus nodded. “What about the other one?”
“Also.”
“Then there is nothing here for you,” Bellus said. “Go back out on the field. Maybe there will be a miracle today after all.”
The doctor left.
“I was asking a question, Monsieur McGarvey.”
“One which I don’t think I could ever adequately answer for you.”
“But you will try.”
McGarvey hesitated, looked down at Boorsch and the French cop who had died fighting…
what? The Cold War was over. The two Germanies were reunited. The STASI had been completely dismantled. What the hell was this one doing here?
He looked back up at Bellus and the young girl at his side. “Old habits die hard,” he said.
“That’s no answer,” Bellus countered.
“I didn’t think you’d believe it was.”
It was noon before the French authorities allowed McGarvey to speak with a representative from the U.S. Embassy. A special investigative team from La Surete had taken over the opening moves, and they had been anything but friendly or gentle.
They cleared out from the small room adjacent to the airport’s Security Operations center where McGarvey had been held, and an older, balding man in a well-cut suit came in. He had career diplomat written all over him.
“I’m Greer Adams, Mr. McGarvey. Deputy consular officer from the embassy.”
They shook hands. “Can you get me out of here, Mr. Adams?”
“Yes, of course. You merely have to sign two statements for the French authorities.
The first is your sworn statement that you had no involvement nor any prior knowledge of the terrorist attack on Swissair flight 145. And the second is that you promise to show up at a preliminary hearing in Paris at a time and place to be announced.”