Two figures dressed in white jackets and knickers, mesh masks covering their faces, were fencing in the large gymnasium that was located directly beneath the helipad. The port, starboard, and forward bulkheads were mirrored floor-to-ceiling, but the aft bulkhead was a solid sheet of floor-to-ceiling tinted glass that curved across the entire stern. Fencing blades and masks and other equipment were lined up on a rack against one wall, and state-of-the-art exercise equipment trimmed in gold was scattered here and there around the room, except for on the fencing strip that was two meters wide and ran the length of the gym. The effect was stunning; it was a hedonist’s pleasure palace, like the yacht’s exterior, very expensively done, but gaudy and without taste.
The taller, much bulkier fencer, who McGarvey took to be Salman, was much better than his opponent; his footwork was superior, his hand speed dazzling, and his technique of the blade very strong, very aggressive.
Twice the smaller fencer was forced backward under Salman’s onslaught, the second time stumbling and almost falling to the deck when Salman moved in with a counter six, viciously disarming his opponent and sending the épée clattering into a stationary bike.
Salman ripped off his mask and tossed it aside. His face was screwed up into a state of extreme disdain and anger, as if the person he’d just beaten was nothing more than an insignificant insect who’d had the audacity to challenge him. He said something sharp and harsh in Arabic.
His opponent stumbled back another step under the verbal onslaught, then slowly removed her mask to reveal that she was just a round-faced girl, probably no more than fifteen or sixteen. Her eyes filled with tears. She spotted McGarvey, and immediately turned away in embarrassment. She said something to Salman that sounded like an apology, then hurried away through a door on the opposite side of the gym.
The prince studied McGarvey’s reflection in the mirrors, then turned, a wry smile on his handsome face, the épée held loosely in his right hand. “I expected you sooner.”
McGarvey shrugged. “I was engaged, doing my sums.”
The prince’s smile widened. “It was only money.”
Khalil wasn’t a man who expected to lose, and McGarvey figured that was another point of similarity between the two men — if they were two. “There was that too.” He nodded toward the door the young girl had left by. “Do you treat all your women that way?”
Salman’s eyes narrowed. “What are you doing in Monaco undercover, Mr. McGarvey?”
McGarvey shrugged again. “Looking for some action, like last night.”
Salman was amused. “Your luck would have turned, and you would have lost your million dollars.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not some young girl you can slap around and intimidate.” McGarvey grinned, trying to goad the man. “I fight back.”
Salman was like a chameleon; none of the anger directed at the girl remained. His color had returned to normal, and his composure was nearly perfect, except that his fingers tightened on the épée handle. “If you must know, Sofia is my daughter. I am raising her to be strong.”
McGarvey knew Salman had no daughter that age. “The Bedouin way with their girls, is that it? Raise them to be strong, or else leave them exposed in the desert to die. Better six weakling sons than one daughter, no matter how able.”
Salman’s jaw clenched very slightly. “I would have thought that a man of your position … and talents … would have remained on the job in Washington after what happened in Alaska, and then bin Laden’s warning to your country.”
“Perhaps I’m still on the job.”
The prince snorted derisively. “You’re desperate for our oil, and yet you continue to accuse us of financing terrorism. I’ve heard it all before, and frankly little men like you are becoming tiresome. I can understand why Haynes fired you.”
For just a second McGarvey could almost believe that Salman was innocent. A man didn’t have to be a gentleman to be not guilty. But all of the evidence that Otto had collected on Khalil and Salman’s movements was too much to be nothing more than a fantastic run of coincidences. And looking into the man’s eyes, talking to him now, seeing the slip in his self-control when he’d been angry with the young girl, his bearing and conceit, the way he held himself, the way he spoke, his words, his tone of voice — all of it was Khalil.
Yet McGarvey could not be certain his belief that Salman was Khalil was not just the product of his wishing it to be so.
Alaska weighed heavily on his mind. He could not erase the images of the young mother and her infant dying in the water, and of Khalil’s hands on Katy.
“Actually I resigned,” McGarvey said, realizing that he would have to push the prince into making a mistake before he could be sure.
Salman’s expression darkened. He seemed to be on edge, his mood brittle. “You think that bin Laden is getting his money from Saudi Arabia, and that I’m brokering his connections?”
“He’s run through his own fortune, and his family has cut him off. He’s getting money from someone.”
Salman nodded. “There are a lot of wealthy Arabs who aren’t in love with America. Bin Laden has no lack of admirers. If he’s still alive. But then your FBI has already identified many of his banking connections. So that can’t be the real reason you’ve targeted me. So what could it be? Why are you here?”
“I’d have thought you would have figured that out by now,” McGarvey said easily. “I’m here to kill you.”
THIRTY-NINE
A look of wonderment crossed Salman’s face. But the change of expression did not erase his arrogance or his amusement. “You have quite a reputation, but you’re not armed at the moment, so unless you mean to tear me limb from limb with your bare hands, how do you propose doing it?”
“I can think of any number of methods,” McGarvey said, his voice hard and flat. “A bullet in your brain tonight would work.”
“Because you think I’m brokering money for bin Laden?”
“Because I think that you’re the terrorist Khalil.”
Salman turned suddenly and walked a few paces away toward the opposite end of the strip, his movements smooth, almost balletic. He tapped the point of his épée on the floor, making a small menacing noise like a creature scratching to get in, or the warning rattles of a diamondback. “I would have thought the man, if he exists and if he’s still alive, would be in hiding with bin Laden in the Afghan mountains for the moment, considering their warning to America.” He laughed. “But that’s not the real reason you’re here. To find a terrorist. You’re here for revenge, aren’t you?” He turned back. “You might as well admit it, you know. I had you figured out the moment you showed up at the casino last night and challenged my bank, then insulted me in front of my friends.” He shook his head ruefully. “This is all about Washington — what was it, ten or twelve years ago when I made love to your wife?”
“You worked for the Russians then,” McGarvey said, conversationally, though he wanted to rip the bastard’s throat out. He walked over to the rack of fencing equipment and selected one of the épées. “KGB General Baranov,” he said, over his shoulder. “An interesting man.”
“He made love to your wife too,” Salman said, matter-of-factly.
McGarvey had feared that one thing for a very long time, until he’d come to the conclusion that either it wasn’t true, or if it was, it no longer mattered. “No,” he said, turning back. “Just you and Darby.” He flicked the blade with a strong motion of his wrist, as if the weapon were a steel bullwhip. It had a solid feel. An Olympic-class weapon. He looked up. Salman was watching him warily.