She was hiding behind the door frame, taking only brief glimpses at him and then ducking back. She was obviously a cop or an intelligence officer, and not a prostitute as Khalil had first thought.
It was a stupid mistake on his part, just as shooting the idiot cameraman on the balcony had been a less than ideal move because of the attention it had apparently attracted. But having one of his critical avenues of escape denied him was totally unacceptable.
Khalil was almost sure that McGarvey had spotted the photographer in the windows, mistook him for an assassin, and had gone down to the street to catch him from behind.
Now he was in a bad situation. Unless the woman made her move before the police came up to investigate the shots or surrounded the hotel, he would not be able to make his escape.
His pistol was in his right hand, on the floor between his torso and the side of the chair. He had to raise it only a centimeter or two to have a clear shot at anyone coming through the doorway. Or if she came close enough, he could reach for his belt-buckle knife.
It would give him a great deal of pleasure to watch life leave her eyes as her blood pumped out of her body with each diminishing beat of her fading heart.
Khalil fluttered his eyes and took a big, blubbering breath as if he were gasping for air, fighting for his life. He had seen his victims do the same thing countless times. He was an excellent mimic.
The woman stepped into clear view, her pistol extended in both hands in front of her, her elbows slightly bent.
Khalil could not see her face clearly because she was backlit from the lights in the corridor, but he got the impression that she was probably pretty, and young. She held herself like a cop, though her mistake was exposing herself and not simply waiting for the police to show up. And he thought with amusement, she didn’t know the proper narrow-profile sideways stance for approaching a downed, but possibly dangerous, assailant.
If there was more time, there were so many things that he could teach her. Women needed to be guided with a firm hand. Especially Western women who did not know their place in the historical sense.
She stood in the doorway, hesitating with indecision.
He could see that from the way she held herself. She was waiting for McGarvey to return. But she had enough respect for the man she thought she had shot and wounded to keep her distance.
Khalil raised his pistol very slowly, ready to take a snap shot if she spotted his movement.
But she remained in place, her gun pointed into the room.
Khalil’s finger began to squeeze on the Sig’s trigger.
The stairwell door at the end of the corridor opened with a tremendous bang. Liese turned her head toward the noise as uniformed cops, their guns drawn, burst through the door and immediately began to spread out.
“Mademoiselle, put your weapon down now, and step back!” one of them shouted, in French.
Liese hesitated. She glanced at the figure crumpled against the chair inside the suite. His movements had stopped. In all likelihood he was dead. Kirk was not going to be happy, because he had counted on capturing Khalil. He’d wanted to force the man into telling him about bin Laden’s threat. The Americans were in desperate need of immediate information.
“There will be no further warning!” the cop shouted.
Liese had to wonder how Gertner was going to take the news that she’d been arrested in Monaco for shooting to death a Saudi prince she was supposed to be investigating.
Moving very slowly, she bent down, placed her pistol on the floor, then straightened up. Raising her hands above her head, she stepped away from the doorway.
“Un terroriste du al-Quaida est ici,” she said. She nodded toward the suite. “Là,” she said. “Il est mort.” He’s dead.
More cops emerged from the stairwell as two rushed down the corridor to Liese. One of them kicked her weapon away, his pistol never leaving her, while the other turned her around, brought her hands behind her back, and cuffed her.
She didn’t resist. She knew better than to give them any provocation, even though the one handcuffing her ran a hand over her ass. Anyway, it was finished. Khalil was dead. He wouldn’t provide them any information, but there was one less very bad man on the streets. He would not kill again.
Even more cops had arrived on the scene, and suddenly Kirk came through the door, his hands cuffed behind him.
“He’s dead,” Liese called to him in English. “I shot him.”
The cop, who had handcuffed her, moved her down the corridor, as two other cops, wearing vests, their weapons at the ready, flanked the door to the suite.
On signal, one of them rolled inside the room, sweeping his pistol left to right. A moment later the second cop entered the suite, while two others took up positions on either side of the door.
Someone took the chair away from the elevator, and the car started down. Other cops came from the opposite end of the corridor, guns drawn, but none of the hotel’s guests had dared to open their doors to see what all the commotion was about. The two unsilenced shots had been enough to keep them inside. It was just as well, Liese thought. Khalil had shot the photographer on the balcony, and he would not have hesitated to kill anyone else who got in his way.
“Are you sure he’s down—” McGarvey said, but a slightly built Frenchman in crumpled civilian clothes came through the door at that moment. His long narrow face and dark eyes were a blank slate, as if he were in the middle of a poker game and was hiding his emotions. He took a quick look at the scene in the corridor, then held his ID wallet in front of McGarvey’s face.
“I am Lieutenant of Police Maurice Capretz. Why have you come to Monaco, Monsieur McGarvey? Why aren’t you at home attending to your duties? Basking in the adulation of your countrymen who believe you are a hero?”
“I came to find the man who was responsible for the deaths in Alaska.”
Capretz nodded, as if it was what he knew McGarvey was going to say. “Oui, Prince Salman is your prime suspect.” He glanced at Liese. “And you are Sergeant Fuelm. We were warned about you as well. And here you are in the flesh, apparently having just done mischief.”
One of the uniformed cops appeared at the suite’s doorway. He had holstered his weapon. He shook his head. “Lieutenant, there is no body.”
“But I shot him!” Liese shouted. This was all wrong. She’d seen him react to her two shots. He’d gone down. He was dead.
“No body, no blood,” the cop said. “No one was there, though there are bullet holes in the windows.”
“Perhaps you shot a fantôme, Mademoiselle,” Capretz said. He seemed relieved. “But it is perhaps for the best. Had you actually shot and killed someone, you would not be returning to Switzerland quite as rapidement as you would like.”
McGarvey had a resigned look on his face. Liese shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. She had let him down when he’d counted on her.
“But there is a body,” McGarvey said. “Just below on the street. I think that you’ll discover he was shot with a silenced pistol. Probably a large caliber from the effect of the impact.”
Capretz nodded to one of his men to check it out, but his eyes never left McGarvey’s. “No doubt you are telling the truth. France has always had a great respect for you, though you will never be welcomed back. Would you care to explain to me what you are talking about, because I certainly hope that someone hasn’t shot the prince. There would be no end to the political repercussions.”