“Only because I beat him at cards last night and then insulted him. According to him, he wanted to find out what the hell I was up to.”
“He was the same guy you faced in Alaska, wasn’t he?” Liese asked. “You did establish that?”
McGarvey had been asking himself the same question ever since he’d walked away from the yacht. He’d been sure then, but now he was having second thoughts. “What makes the Swiss Federal Police think that Salman is Khalil?”
“I’m not sure how it started, but it was one of Gertner’s pet projects. He wants to become the director general someday and he’s trying to make a name for himself. It started right after 9/11. The prince had apparently been traveling all over the place, but then he disappeared, the attacks occurred, and he suddenly showed up at his house in Lucerne and went into seclusion for the next few months.”
It was one of the bits of circumstantial evidence that Otto had come up with. “A lot of Saudis ducked for cover. Osama bin Laden himself had cousins in Florida and Maryland. They went back to Riyadh, where they figured they’d be safe until things cooled down.”
She shook her head. “That’s the same argument I used when he first came to me. But Salman has disappeared just before almost every single act of al-Quaida terrorism. Everything from the first attack on the World Trade Center, to the Cole, to the embassies in Africa, and even the Khobar barracks right there in Riyadh. Gertner has the entire file.”
“How’d he get onto you?”
“He had friends on the team that was keeping track of you.” She looked down, obviously in pain. “It was pretty much an open secret that I was in love with you. Which was fine with Gertner. He figured that if I could seduce you away from Marta, he’d get her.” She shook her head again. “Of course, it didn’t work out that way.”
“He sounds like a charmer,” McGarvey said. They had reached the entrance to the casino just as a stretch Mercedes limo pulled up. A dozen paparazzi were there, roughly jostling into position, their cameras flashing as the driver came around and opened the rear door for a young, very thin, very beautiful blond woman. She waved to the photographers as a man dressed in a tuxedo got out behind her, and the two of them went inside.
It was nothing more than a moment of Riviera glitter, which McGarvey forgot as he and Liese headed back around to the hotel.
“You have to believe me, Kirk. I think he’s convinced a lot of people that you and Salman have a long history. And if he can prove that Salman is Khalil, that would tie you to 9/11. Even the suspicion would be enough to bring you down.”
McGarvey felt sorry for her. She had fallen for a man she could never have, and she was being manipulated because of it. The world was full of bastards. Not just the Osama bin Ladens and the Khalils, but ordinary bastards like Liese’s boss who was willing to ruin her life to further his own ambitions. “All the more reason for you to go home tomorrow before you totally screw up your career.”
She stopped, her eyes narrow, her lips puckered into a stubborn pout. “I’m not going back.”
“If you want to help me, you can go home and keep Gertner busy. And you can keep Otto up to date.” She was digging in her heels, and McGarvey was getting irritated. “Look, Liese, we don’t have a lot of time here. I’m going after Salman in the morning, and it would be a good thing if someone was helping watch my back in case I don’t make it. If he is Khalil, he’ll be expecting me to come down there.”
A look of incredulity came over her face. “If?” she said. “Are you saying that you’re still not sure?”
“Not sure enough to put a bullet in his brain.”
“Merde. What the hell did you talk about aboard his yacht? The weather?”
“I told him I had come to kill him. And he tossed me off his yacht. If he really was Khalil, I figured he would come after me. But so far that hasn’t happened.” McGarvey shrugged. “So I’m left with the same question as before, and less time in which to get it answered.” He took Liese’s arm and they started walking again. “That’s why I’m following him to Corsica and you’re going home.”
They walked the rest of the way across the Place back to the hotel in silence, McGarvey trying to figure out how to insure that Liese actually went back to Switzerland in the morning. He wouldn’t put it past her to follow him down to Corsica, which would all but tie his hands. He’d always tried to work alone, responsible for no one’s safety but his own. With Liese in Corsica he would be looking over his shoulder. Distractions like that could get them both killed.
He didn’t think that Salman would try anything tonight. He’d know by now that McGarvey was aware of his plans, and he would wait in Corsica for the former DCI to show up. Like a spider spinning a web and waiting for its prey to get entangled.
They crossed the street to the front entrance of the hotel and were about to go inside when a small Peugeot pulled up to a screeching halt in the driveway behind them. They turned as a tall, lanky man with several cameras around his neck leaped out of the car and came running toward them.
McGarvey, working on pure instinct, disentangled his arm from Liese’s, shoved her aside, and turned sideways to offer less of a target as he reached for his pistol.
The photographer pulled up short and began furiously snapping pictures, first of McGarvey and then of Liese.
McGarvey stayed his gun hand. He recognized the photographer as one of the paparazzi who had been at the casino entrance just a couple of minutes ago. Any assassin that Khalil might send would not act in such an open, brash manner. Heads were turning because of the commotion, something neither a gunman nor a French cop here to check up on McGarvey would want to happen.
Liese had opened her purse and was reaching for her pistol, but McGarvey turned back and took her arm, and together they started into the hotel.
“Mr. McGarvey,” the cameraman shouted after them. His accent was French. “For the Agence France. What is the director of the CIA doing away from his desk in Washington? Why are you here?”
“Are you sure he’s legitimate?” Liese whispered, urgently, as they entered the hotel.
“He was in the pack in front of the casino,” McGarvey told her.
The photographer was right behind them, snapping pictures. The lobby was fairly busy at this hour of the evening, and everyone was looking at them trying to figure out who they were and what was going on.
“Mr. McGarvey,” the cameraman shouted.
McGarvey and Liese angled directly across the lobby to the elevators. A car had just arrived, and they stepped aboard, the cameraman right on their heels.
McGarvey turned and gave the photographer a stern look. “Stay away from me.”
The man started to say something, but then evidently thought better of it. As the elevator door closed, he raised his camera and snapped several shots.
FORTY-SIX
Khalil, his heart rate up, moved away from the French doors, where he had been watching the Place off and on for the past half hour, and took his position in the dark corner.
He had moved an easy chair one meter to the left and had unplugged the floor lamp. It gave him a perfectly dark spot with an excellent sight line to the door from which to make the kill.
His attention had been drawn to the casino entrance directly across from the hotel, where a commotion had erupted with the arrival of someone in a limousine. Cameras flashed, and for thirty seconds or so a mob of paparazzi flitted like flies around carrion. He’d almost turned away, but there was something about a couple walking away from the casino that piqued his curiosity.