Gertner smiled. “That, Liebchen, is exactly what I want you to ask your Mr. McGarvey.”
Ziegeler came over and handed Liese a cell phone. “He’s staying at the Hotel de Paris under the name Robert Brewster. His number will dial automatically if you press one.”
“Call him, Liebchen,” Gertner prompted. “Perhaps you could suggest a visit. You know, old friends talking over old times. He respects you. Trusts you. After all, it was you who tipped him off about the prince coming to Monaco.”
Now that she was clear in her mind about what Kirk was doing, she wasn’t about to hinder him. Yet she was a Swiss federal cop, and she had responsibilities to her family, most of whom still lived down in Morges, near Lausanne. Her mother and sister didn’t understand her, but her father and grandfather did. She was the first woman in the family to do something with her life other than have babies and maintain a household. Watch your tongue scheibelpuf, and you’ll stay out of trouble, her father told her when she went off to the police academy in Bern. He was proud of her. And always remember first and foremost that you are Swiss.
She started to raise the phone when Gertner held her off.
“Understand something, Sergeant Fuelm. Should you take it upon yourself to favor this man over your duties, should you warn him that he is under investigation by this department, you will be subject to immediate arrest and prosecution under the Secrets Act.”
Liese pressed “one” on the keypad, surprised at how frightened Gertner was. Proving Kirk was a traitor to his own country would make Gertner’s career, and would satisfy his revenge for what happened to poor Marta, but if he was wrong he would lose everything. He would be guilty of poor judgment, a characteristic that the Swiss did not admire.
The call went through to the front desk of the hotel, and Liese asked to be connected to Monsieur Brewster’s room. After a few seconds the operator came back.
“I am sorry, Mademoiselle, Monsieur Brewster does not answer his telephone. Would you care to leave a message?”
Gertner held one cup of the headset to an ear. He was monitoring the call. He gave Liese a warning look.
“Tell him that Liese telephoned and would like to talk to him about an old friend.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle.”
Liese disconnected and handed the cell phone to Ziegler, knowing that if Salman were leaving, Kirk would follow him. Monaco was far too public a venue, and the Monegasque police were famed for their ruthless efficiency with anyone breaking the sanctity of the principality. But Corsica was a different story. A man could fall to his death off one of the cliffs, and it might be days before the body was discovered. She turned to leave.
“What was that about an old friend?” Gertner demanded.
Liese turned back. “I was talking about Marta. He was in love with her, you know.”
“Where are you going?”
Liese hoped that Kirk would understand her warning, but it was all she could do for him from here. “I’ll be back in the morning. But for now you know where Kirk is.”
Halfway back to her apartment in Lucerne, Liese used her cell phone to place a call to Emile Lescourt, an old friend in Bern. She had worked with him a few years ago when he was a young detective with the Kantonpolizei doing a brief stint in Lucerne. They were both single, he was good-looking, and they had naturally fallen in together.
They’d had a brief, interesting affair, and some of the best nights she remembered were not spent lovemaking but flying. Lescourt was an excellent pilot. He belonged to the Club Aeronautique Bern and had the use of any of the club’s five lightplanes.
They were still the best of friends, even though he was now a police lieutenant and outranked her. He had married, but he got a nasty divorce after only three years, and from time to time he and Liese got together to fly and afterward make love. There was no longer anything frantic about their relationship, just mutual comfort.
It was his private number, and Lescourt answered on the first ring. “Oui.”
“Emile, c’est moi, Liese,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Bonjour.”
“Ah, Liese, m’petite,” he replied. “I was just thinking about you. I hope this isn’t an official call.” He sounded hopeful, and Liese figured he was going through another one of his lonely stages.
“I called because I need your help. I have to meet a friend of mine in Monaco as soon as possible. Could you fly me to Nice?”
Lescourt’s tone was suddenly guarded. “What, this afternoon?”
“Yes. I could be at the airport in about an hour.”
“Considering what I’ve heard you’re doing up there, I have to ask if this is an official request, Liese. Because if it is, I’ll have to hand it back to Gertner for his approval, but if it’s not, I’ll hang up and forget that you called.”
“Wait, Emile, please. I beg you,” Liese cried. She hated to do this to him, but driving to Monaco was out of the question, and taking a commercial flight, if one was still available this afternoon, would be far too public. Gertner would be on her before she buckled her seat belt. “I’m asking you as a woman who shares your bed, and your sadnesses. I’ve been there for you. Now I need your help.”
Lescourt hesitated. For a second or two Liese thought he’d hung up. “Merde,” he said. “I’ll fly you there, but I will not wait. You will have to return home on your own.”
“Thank you, Emile.”
“And Liese,” he said, solemnly, “this will end it between us.”
FORTY-ONE
McGarvey slowly replaced the telephone on its cradle after listening to Liese’s odd message. She had not traced him to this hotel to talk about Marta, the only mutual friend they’d ever shared. She had called to warn him about something. But that was five hours ago.
The clock was ticking on bin Laden’s message, and he felt as if he was running out of time and running out of options.
He walked back to the balcony and looked out toward La Condamine. It was getting dark, and the prince’s yacht was bathed in lights. Though he couldn’t make out much detail at this distance, it did seem as if there was some activity on the dock. He could make out at least two delivery vans, and the white Mercedes.
His tuxedo had been sponged and pressed, ready for another evening in the casino, where he expected Salman to come for another chance at chemin de fer after his beating last night, and especially after what had happened this morning aboard the yacht.
It’s what a man such as Khalil would do.
Liese had told him that Salman would come to Monaco.
She knew that McGarvey would come here too.
And she had called to warn him about what? Something she might have learned from her surveillance operation in Lucerne? The “old friend” was obviously a reference to Salman, made that way because someone was listening over her shoulder.
Shortly after 2:30, McGarvey had rented a BMW Z3, and he drove down to Nice for drinks and a late lunch at Hotel Negresco, watching his back to see if he was being followed.
But the prince had sent no one.
When he got back to Monte Carlo, he turned the car in, and then took a leisurely stroll over to the Rainier Palace on the Rock. From there he descended through the medieval alleys past the cathedral and finally to the Musée Océanographique, which at one time had been directed by Jacques Cousteau.
He’d stopped often to study a piece of architecture or to take in the view. Several times he turned around abruptly as if he had suddenly remembered something, or as if he’d suddenly realized that he was lost, and retraced his steps.