“For God’s sake, we’re off duty; you can call me by my Christian name,” Gertner blustered. “But you’re wrong about your assignment. The good prince is much more than a simple man. In an offhand way, you have a connection with him. It’s one of the reasons you were selected, though it’s a surprise to all of us at District that your woman’s intuition didn’t ferret out the clue off the bat.”
Liese was confused. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never met Prince Salman. He’s a very rich man. We don’t run in the same circles, I can assure you.”
Gertner chuckled at her little joke. He waggled a finger at her. “But you do have a connection nonetheless, which you might have divined had you done the same homework as I did. I read your file. Your complete file.” He rolled his eyes, as if he were a schoolmaster exasperated by the antics of a naughty student. “I’m surprised.”
In Liese’s estimation Gertner was a smarmy, sexist bastard; many Swiss males were, but at least he was a capable administrator even if he had forgotten what it was like to be in the field. He had four brutish children and a fat wife who worshipped the ground he walked on, giving him the confidence to actually think that he was dashing with the ladies. “Then I’ve evidently missed something; please fill me in.”
So far as Liese knew, the assignment she’d been handed — to conduct an in-detail and in situ surveillance of Prince Abdul Hasim ibn Salman, a Saudi Arabian national — had to do with politics and Swiss banking laws. The man was a multibillionaire playboy who as often as not left his wife and staff at their palatial lakeside compound while he jetted off to London, Paris, Monaco, even Las Vegas to play games with his royal-family oil money and with his many mistresses, all supposedly forbidden by the Saudi adherence to the Muslim fundamentalist sect of Wahhabism.
Her initial brief, which had been handed to her along with the order of personnel and equipment and her budget lines, suggested the possibility of a financial connection between the prince and Osama bin Laden’s al-Quaida. Normally a blind eye would have been turned to such financial dealings, as long as no banking laws were being violated. But since 9/11, and the second Gulf War waged by the U.S. and Britain against Iraq, and the “New World Order,” many formerly aloof countries such as Switzerland had taken a more cautious attitude about doing business with organizations and individuals who might have terrorist ambitions.
The prince had been born in the tiny settlement of Bi’r Fardan in the vast Ar Rub’ al-Khali desert south of Riyadh, and had been educated primarily at King Abdul Aziz University in the Saudi coastal city of jeddah. Since he was a member of the royal family, he’d gotten his start in business the easy way, with a great deal of money and all the right connections. But he was a brilliant and ruthless businessman and a savvy politician, so as soon as his education was completed he’d been sent to Saudi embassies, first in London, then Mexico City, Moscow, Beijing, and finally Washington.
Suddenly, ten years ago, he had all but dropped out of active Saudi politics and turned his talents to deal-making. Like the legendary Adnan Khashoggi before him, Prince Salman seemed to be in the middle of every hundred-million-dollar-plus deal between the Saudis and the rest of the world. He’d been a frequent guest at the White House, at 10 Downing Street, at the most palatial estates, and aboard the yachts of every influential, wealthy player in the world, and he seemed to be connected with nearly every beautiful woman at the height of her desirability.
“The prince was involved with Kirk McGarvey eleven years ago when you were beginning your career with the service,” Gertner said, and his words hit her like a ton of bricks. “Fascinating reading, I must say.”
She was floating a couple of centimeters off her seat in the Gasthaus, the sounds of the conversations around her fading as if she were hearing them from the end of a long tunnel.
“We thought perhaps McGarvey might have mentioned the name to you at the time. Or perhaps later,” Gertner said.
His words flowed over and around Liese. But she was brought back so completely that she could see every line on Kirk’s face, hear his laugh, smell his clean, masculine, American odors. Verdammt. Had it been all that long since she had first fallen in love with him?
“Or might Marta have said something to you?” Gertner was asking. “Just anything at all, some little phrase, or little word that might give us a clue?”
Kirk, who had been a CIA assassin, had suddenly quit the agency under a cloud of some sort that was never adequately explained to the Swiss police. But he had been allowed to settle in Lucerne providing he never went active. As long as he never picked up his gun and never made contact with anyone in the business, he was welcome in Switzerland. Marta Fredericks had been sent to his bed to keep a close watch on him. And Liese Fuelm and a few other Swiss police officers were also assigned to keep an eye on him. No one ever considered that first Marta and then Liese would fall in love with him.
But they had. And Liese could still remember some of the erotic dreams she had about Kirk: tasting him, feeling his body on top of hers, inside of her, kissing her breasts, her thighs.
But then Kirk had gone for his gun, and he had left Switzerland for good. A year or so later Marta quit the force and chased him to Paris, where she was killed in the destruction of a Swiss Air flight, leaving Liese with nothing other than her bitter memories. She and Marta had not only been rivals; they had been close friends.
But Prince Salman’s name had never come up, and Liese told Gertner as much. “I think I would have remembered.”
“It’s been a long time, and you were young and impressionable.” Gertner let the comment hang.
Liese shook her head, still off balance.
“Well, for goodness sake, you were in love with the man. Certainly you must have talked.”
Gertner had nothing; he was on a fishing expedition, but Liese resigned herself to stick out the assignment. There was no way she would be pulled off. “I was in love with Mr. McGarvey, as was Marta, but if you will look at the record you will see that he wasn’t in love with either of us.”
“It must have hurt,” Gertner observed mildly, almost fatherly. “Does it still, Liese? Hurt, I mean? Carrying any old torches, are we? Perhaps even a grudge or two? Just the tiniest bit of resentment? It could have been you, the wife of the director of Central Intelligence.”
“Fond memories, no grudges,” Liese said. “What was the connection between the prince and Kirk — Mr. McGarvey?”
“It was a tenuous one, but we have to consider all the aspects, don’t we?” Gertner said. He fiddled with his glass of wine, a characteristic gesture of his when he felt he was skating on thin ice. He smoked a pipe, and when he was unsure of himself he cleaned it, or filled it to draw attention away from what he was saying. “The prince, as a young man, was one of Darby Yarnell’s hangers-on. The same Yarnell who had an affair with McGarvey’s then ex-wife, and the same Yarnell whom your Mr. McGarvey shot to death in the CIA director’s driveway.” Gertner couldn’t contain himself. “They’re all cowboys over there. The lot of them are raving lunatics, in my book.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of the prince’s involvement,” Liese said. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how much help I can be.”
Gertner dismissed her objections with a wave of his hand. “The point quite simply is that you know more about Kirk McGarvey than does anyone else in Switzerland. We would very much like to know if there continues to be a connection between Mr. McGarvey and the prince and therefore the Saudi royal family.”