When he passed shop windows, he watched for the reflection of someone behind him, or across the street. It was old tradecraft — cold war stuff — but effective.
He saw no one out of place in the fairly crowded streets and sidewalks. Even if he was being double- or triple-teamed, with shadows in vehicles as well as on foot, there would have been patterns. The same colored shirt, the same taxi or delivery van or plain dark sedan.
But there was nothing.
Nor could he spot anyone with binoculars or perhaps a small scope watching from any of the apartment balconies. All the rooflines he scanned as he walked through the principality were free of movement.
There should have been someone. After McGarvey’s threat, Salman should have done something more than toss him off the yacht.
After the museum he even hiked over to the marina and walked out to where Salman’s yacht was tied to the largest of the docks.
Here I am. What are you going to do about it?
The gangway was still down, but the white Mercedes was gone, and there didn’t seem to be any activity on deck, nor could he see anyone topside on the bridge. No one came out to tell him to leave.
Not only that, but something was out of place. It was only a feeling, but looking at the yacht McGarvey thought he was missing something that was right there in front of him.
Now, coming back to the hotel and hearing Liese’s warning, he suddenly knew what he’d missed.
The helicopter’s air intake vents had been blocked, and the windshield and side windows covered. The yacht was being prepared for departure. Salman wasn’t coming to the casino; he was leaving tonight.
McGarvey had pushed, but the prince had not pushed back.
Yet.
Now it appeared as if he was leaving town.
McGarvey turned, his gray-green eyes narrowed in thought. Liese was part of a Swiss investigation of Prince Salman. But she had been included on the case because of her connection with the director of the CIA. Whatever they were investigating was so explosive, so sensitive, that an official request for information through diplomatic channels could not be made.
The Swiss might suspect that because of his tenuous connection with Salman a dozen years ago, there might still be a connection. It wasn’t that farfetched to believe that the director of the CIA was working with Saudi intelligence, and through them he was possibly working with al-Quaida in a roundabout way. In the eighties the CIA had supplied money and weapons, most notably Stinger handheld missiles, to bin Laden and his mujahideen, who were fighting to kick the Russians out of Afghanistan.
There were even a small number of political analysts who believed the Israeli Mossad had engineered 9/11 in order to mobilize America against Islam. And the CIA and Mossad had a very close relationship.
There were all sorts of theories.
From the Swiss point of view, McGarvey’s actions in Alaska could have been a diversion, turning the CIA’s attention away from bin Laden’s announcement. Then McGarvey had come to Monaco and had made contact with Salman.
And Liese had called McGarvey to warn him about something. But her superiors would be watching over her shoulder, listening to her conversations, analyzing every word, depending on her emotions to control her, so he could not return her call to find out more.
She was in love with McGarvey, but she would not have taken the risk unless she felt that he was in grave danger. Which possibly meant that Salman was planning on hitting back sometime tonight and then sailing away aboard his yacht.
A narrow, cruel smile played at the corners of McGarvey’s mouth. If that were the case, maybe he would make it easier for the prince by going back to the yacht and somehow getting aboard. If there was to be a fight, taking it out to sea would be much cleaner, with less backlash. Fifty miles off shore there would be no witnesses if the prince were to meet with an unfortunate accident. After all, he seemed to be fond of tossing people overboard. Maybe it was time for him to see how it felt.
He took his Walther out and checked the action, then slipped it back in the slim profile holster at the small of his back. He made certain that he had an extra magazine of ammunition, and donning the gray tweed jacket he’d worn on his tour this afternoon, he was headed for the door when the telephone rang.
The only people who knew that he was here under a work name were Liese and her people, and the prince. To everyone else he was Robert Brewster, a rich, ill-mannered American who was lucky at cards and who tipped to excess.
He went back and picked up the phone on the third ring. “Oui?”
“Kirk, thank God I’m in time. Has the prince invited you back to his yacht tonight?”
McGarvey’s fingers tightened on the phone. It was Liese. She sounded out of breath, as if she had just run up a flight of stairs. But she was probably taking a very big risk calling him again, unless she was using a clean line. “Are you sure that you’re not being monitored?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “I’m calling from a house phone downstairs. Has the prince invited you back to his yacht tonight?”
It had taken no feat of rocket science to trace him here, but for her to leave Switzerland to come here in person could only mean that she was convinced he was in grave danger. He didn’t think that she was setting him up. The Liese he’d known didn’t operate that way. “No. As a matter of fact I think he’s getting ready to sail.”
“Yes, he is — to his compound on Corsica. I think he’s going to invite you to go with him, and he’ll kill you down there. Maybe make it look like an accident.”
“How do you know all this?”
“We’ve been watching this guy for a couple of years. Even before 9/11. Kirk, he’s Khalil; we’re sure of it. May I come up?”
For now McGarvey wanted to maintain an arm’s-length distance from Liese, if for no other reason than to reduce the trouble she was probably already in with her people. “No, stay where you are; I’ll be right down. Better yet, there’s a sidewalk café just to the left as you walk out the front doors. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
Liese’s voice was suddenly guarded. “Bring your pistol. I think that you are in a great deal of danger here in Monaco, and right now. He might not wait to take you in Corsica.”
FORTY-TWO
Khalil sat in the shadows at a sidewalk café across from the Hotel de Paris, sipping a milky Pernod et eau minérale as he watched the passersby. The Place de Casino was particularly busy this evening, even as the European holiday season wound down. Limousines, taxis, and tour buses came in a steady stream.
The lights and glitter were worlds apart from the calm serenity of the desert, but Monte Carlo, which was actually one of his favorite small towns, was as good a place for a righteous kill as any other place on earth. The British had discovered oil in Saudi Arabia, the Americans had exploited it, and as a result the Arabs had discovered and were exploiting the principality.
In time the oil would be pumped dry, the money would disappear, and the time of true Dar el Islam would return. In the meantime, there was the jihad.
Insha’allah.
Opening his laptop on the table, he switched it on and calmly waited until it booted up; then he established a wireless Internet connection. He wanted to be finished with his business and gone from the principality sometime tonight, preferably before midnight, which was less than four hours from now. And he felt a rising excitement even though Osama had taught him never to take his work personally.