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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Soldier of God
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A look of wonderment crossed Salman’s face. But the change of expression did not erase his arrogance or his amusement. “You have quite a reputation, but you’re not armed at the moment, so unless you mean to tear me limb from limb with your bare hands, how do you propose doing it?”
“I can think of any number of methods,” McGarvey said, his voice hard and flat. “A bullet in your brain tonight would work.”
“Because you think I’m brokering money for bin Laden?”
“Because I think that you’re the terrorist Khalil.”
Salman turned suddenly and walked a few paces away toward the opposite end of the strip, his movements smooth, almost balletic. He tapped the point of his épée on the floor, making a small menacing noise like a creature scratching to get in, or the warning rattles of a diamondback. “I would have thought the man, if he exists and if he’s still alive, would be in hiding with bin Laden in the Afghan mountains for the moment, considering their warning to America.” He laughed. “But that’s not the real reason you’re here. To find a terrorist. You’re here for revenge, aren’t you?” He turned back. “You might as well admit it, you know. I had you figured out the moment you showed up at the casino last night and challenged my bank, then insulted me in front of my friends.” He shook his head ruefully. “This is all about Washington—what was it, ten or twelve years ago when I made love to your wife?”
“You worked for the Russians then,” McGarvey said, conversationally,
though he wanted to rip the bastard’s throat out. He walked over to the rack of fencing equipment and selected one of the épées. “KGB General Baranov,” he said, over his shoulder. “An interesting man.”
“He made love to your wife too,” Salman said, matter-of-factly.
McGarvey had feared that one thing for a very long time, until he’d come to the conclusion that either it wasn’t true, or if it was, it no longer mattered. “No,” he said, turning back. “Just you and Darby.” He flicked the blade with a strong motion of his wrist, as if the weapon were a steel bullwhip. It had a solid feel. An Olympic-class weapon. He looked up. Salman was watching him warily.
“Are you so sure?”
McGarvey nodded, “Yes. But you got part of why I’m here right.” He walked back to the strip. “Revenge.” He came to attention, his left foot at a ninety-degree angle directly behind his right foot, his left hand at his side, the épée pointed at the floor to his right.
Salman was mildly amused and it showed on his face. “Do you mean to fence me in street shoes?” he asked. He had a slight smile at the corners of his broad mouth. “No masks? Could be a dangerous game, if this is how you mean to kill me. I’m quite a good fencer.”
McGarvey wasn’t surprised that Salman was keeping up his act. He’d have to be good to have eluded detection all these years. “Actually my wife was in love with Darby Yarnell, or thought she was, and I suspect that you took advantage of her like you probably do with all your women. What do you prefer: booze, drugs, intimidation, rape?”
Salman’s face darkened with a sudden anger that passed as quickly as it formed. He laughed. “You’re trying to get me mad by insulting me.” He shrugged. “That’s a valid approach. Some fencers might fall for it. Get mad, make a mistake. But look here, are you sure that you don’t want to at least put on some decent shoes? I’m sure we have your size.”
McGarvey brought his épée straight up, the shiny bell guard just in front of his mouth, and then with a crisp movement snapped it to the right in the traditional salute before a bout. “I’m curious about how much your uncle, the crown prince, knows. The family has to be walking a very fine line between supplying us with oil while funding the terrorists trying to bring us down. If they go too easy on us, their neighbors will hate them,
but they openly support scumbags like bin Laden. Riyadh might become our next Baghdad.”
Salman returned the salute. “What do you have?” he asked. “Where’s your proof?”
McGarvey moved his left foot back a half step, flexed his knees slightly, and brought his épée loosely on guard. “I know you. We faced each other when you tried to kidnap Don Shaw.”
“I’ve never been to Alaska in my life,” Salman said. He too came on guard, his stance relaxed, almost nonchalant.
“You were in Vancouver.” McGarvey moved forward, feinting to the left. Salman moved back easily, not accepting the feint so when McGarvey presented his blade in six, Salman parried it lightly, not bothering to riposte.
“If you know that much, you must also know that all of my time was accounted for.”
“There were gaps,” McGarvey said. He leaped forward explosively in a perfectly executed advance ballestra, taking Salman’s blade in a counter six. When the prince disengaged, he returned with a strong opposition in four in order to open a line of attack, but then retreated out of distance when Salman disengaged again with lightning speed.
Salman didn’t bother to follow up with a counterattack. It was obvious that he was the superior fencer, or thought he was, because he was toying with McGarvey, not really taking the bout seriously.
“When I was in bed asleep,” Salman said.
McGarvey moved to the left edge of the strip and lowered the tip of his blade as if he were angling for an attack to the foot, leaving his own unprotected face open. The épée tips were equipped with buttons that, when pressed against a target would close an electrical circuit, thus registering a score. The tips were not sharp, but they were small enough in area that the blades would easily penetrate an eyeball and stab a fatal wound six inches inside the brain. Or, with enough pressure, the tip could be forced through an unprotected throat.
“There were longer periods than that when you were unaccounted for.”
“What am I accused of doing?” Salman asked mildly. “Sneaking out the back exit of my hotel, flying up to Alaska, perhaps parachuting down
to the boat to face a couple hundred crew and passengers, plus you, and then when it was all over somehow fly back to Vancouver, sneak up to my hotel room, and order breakfast?”
With lightning fast speed, moving nothing but his hand and arm, he thrust his point at McGarvey’s face, leaving his own left flank open, figuring that it wouldn’t matter because even an extremely hard touch there would do him little or no harm.
It was exactly what McGarvey had hoped the superior fencer’s arrogance would lead him to do. At the last possible moment, the épée less than an inch from his right eye, McGarvey reached up with his left hand, slapped the blade away, and drove his own épée upward to Salman’s exposed neck, stopping just short of a penetrating thrust.
For several long moments the two men stood in tableau, neither moving, until finally Salman let his épée drop to the floor and slowly spread his hands. “It would seem that the director of Central Intelligence does not play by the rules. But what now? His hand is stayed. Why?”
McGarvey was back on the stern deck of the Spirit, and he could hear Khalil talking to Katy.
You will look good in black, madam.
He’d been too formal, as if he hadn’t known her, or hadn’t remembered.
His voice had been different.
McGarvey stepped back, studied Salman’s amused expression for a second, then saluted.
He wanted this. For the young mother and infant, for the other passengers and crew, for what had been done to Katy aboard the cruise ship and twelve years ago in Washington.
But he couldn’t be sure.
Salman’s sardonic grin widened. “What is it, Mr. McGarvey? Has your taste for blood left you? Or were the tales of your adventures in the Alaska wilds, coming to the rescue of women and children, mere public relations?”
“I owe you an apology,” McGarvey said.
Salman laughed. “Get off my boat while you’re still able. If ever we meet again, my hand will not be stayed. I will kill you.”
McGarvey tossed his épée aside, and walked out the way he had come in, conscious that Salman had come to the door to watch him leave.
He couldn’t be sure. Not one hundred percent.
Inge Poulsen, now wearing a sarong, a rose in her hair, waltzed down
from the sundeck, her pretty face lit up in a bright smile that immediately faded when she spotted McGarvey at the gangway. “Arrêtez. You can’t leave yet. I must know about the flowers.”
McGarvey could see Salman at the door to the aft passageway, but the young woman could not.
“Je suis désolé, Mademoiselle.
But I must go.”
“Non—”
she protested, but Salman cut her off almost as if he were mildly reprimanding a naughty child.
“The monsieur
is leaving, Inge. Now I want you to return to your cabin, like a good girl, or I’ll have you tossed overboard tonight.”
McGarvey turned slowly to look at Salman standing in the doorway.
Toss the woman and child overboard.
They were Khalil’s words aboard the cruise ship. And now they were Salman’s words. Same inflection, same voice.
Day or night no longer had any significance for Liese, so that even now driving toward the chalet in the bright early afternoon, she was having trouble coming away from the erotic dreams she’d been having about Kirk. She could feel his body next to hers, hear his voice in her ear, feel his breath on her neck. She felt disconnected from reality.
The small boats with their brightly colored spinnakers were back on the lake, and as she came up the gravel driveway she spotted Gertner’s car along with several others parked beside the chalet. It looked as if someone was throwing a party, or a conference, and the worry that something had happened to Kirk spiked.
Gertner’s call had come a few minutes before noon while she has having lunch in her apartment. McGarvey was in Monaco. He and the prince had actually come face-to-face at the casino, where McGarvey publicly insulted the man. And this morning McGarvey was actually aboard the prince’s yacht.
“How do you know this?” Liese had asked.
“The French are keeping an eye on things. As a favor.”
“Then you have what you wanted,” Liese said, tiredly. Gertner had fired her after her warning to Kirk, and she had gone home to try to divorce herself from caring. But that was impossible, and that’s when the erotic dreams had begun in earnest. “It no longer concerns me.”
“But it does,” Gertner cried. “We need your help out here.” He lowered his voice as if he was sharing a secret with her. “
Liebchen
, listen, I know that we’ve had our differences. It’s only natural, with two strongwilled and … I admit it … bull-headed individuals to clash swords. But I need you, Liebchen. Kirk needs you.”
“Has something happened to him?” Liese had demanded, but Gertner would tell her nothing further, except that she was back on the job. She had a second chance, which was a favor Gertner did not hand out every day.
She drove around to the south side of the chalet, out of sight from the Salman compound across the bay, and pulled up behind a Bureau of Technical Services van, the roof of which bristled with high-frequency communications antennae. In the past two days Gertner had called up a lot of support. This was important to him, and as he had explained to her ad nauseam, to Switzerland.
Ziegler was waiting for her at the kitchen door, his thick brown hair disheveled, his eyes red. He looked exhausted. “Thank God you’re here. Maybe you can get him to calm down,” he said, stepping aside for her.
“Has something happened to McGarvey? He wouldn’t say on the phone.”
Ziegler shook his head. “That’s what he wants you to find out. But he keeps saying that we’ve finally got the bastard.”
The kitchen was a filthy mess of dirty dishes and filled garbage bags stacked in a corner. The great room smelled of sweat, schnapps, and sweet pipe tobacco. Besides Gertner, LeFevre, and the translator, there were four other men she didn’t recognize. And there was more electronic equipment stacked on the long table, on top of aluminum carrying cases, and on the odd chair placed here and there. Wires connecting the equipment with several computers crisscrossed the floor.
Gertner sat at one of the computer terminals, intently listening to something on headphones. One of the technicians motioned toward the door. Gertner turned, and when he spotted Liese in the hall, he tore off his headphones and jumped up. “What took you so long? You’re not being followed, for heaven’s sake, are you?”
Liese tried to gauge his mood, which seemed more mercurial than normal. He looked tired, as did Ziegler. They’d all apparently been going at it around the clock since she’d been kicked out two days earlier. But Gertner looked worried too, as if not everything was going his way. He had set himself to go up against Kirk McGarvey, using Prince Salman as bait. What he had not counted on was McGarvey’s strength and the prince’s apparent deviousness.
Gertner had been in over his head from the beginning, and he was finally starting to realize it.
The translator, Sergeant Hoenecker, looked at Liese with a mild smirk, as if he’d known all along that she couldn’t help herself from coming back any time Gertner snapped his fingers, because she was in love with Kirk McGarvey. It was a power that all of them held over her. And the bastards were right: she couldn’t help herself, as stupid as it was.
“No, I’m not being followed,” Liese said, stepping carefully over the wires. “What’s going on here? What’s the TMS van doing out back?”
“That was our big break,” Gertner said. “I can tell you with all modesty that had I not thought of a satellite intercept, we wouldn’t be at this point.” He looked to the others for approval. Hoenecker gave him a nod.
“I’m here, like you asked. What piece of intelligence vital to Swiss national security have you turned up? And has something happened to McGarvey?”
“So far as we know, he and his friend are just dandy,” Gertner said. “But I want you to know that I’m willing to bury the hatchet here. Let bygones be bygones. We have work to do, you and I, and yes, it is vital to Swiss national security.” He shook his head as if he were saddened by the naughtiness of a little girl. “You are a capable police officer,
Liebchen
, but if you don’t mind one piece of advice from an older, more experienced man to a rising, but impetuous star, you need to get in control of your emotions.”
Liese winced inside. He was such a smarmy bastard, she could hardly
stand to be in the same room with him, let alone have him for a boss. But she needed him if she was going to help Kirk. “It’s a feminine thing,” she said.
“Of course it is.” Gertner agreed, wholeheartedly, as if he was relieved that she was finally beginning to see reason. “I’m glad you’re here, because we need your help. It’s a delicate situation.”
Liese looked at the headphones Gertner was holding. “Is it another telephone intercept?”
“Yes, it is,” Gertner said. “The prince is in Monaco, and so is your Mr. McGarvey, which you saw fit to insure. What you might not appreciate is that the prince is staying aboard his quite ostentatious yacht, and McGarvey has been there to visit.”
“The Americans suspect that the prince might be the terrorist Khalil,” Liese said. “McGarvey is there to investigate him.”
Gertner smiled indulgently. “In what capacity? Certainly not as the director of Central Intelligence. Men in that lofty position do not carry on in the field. But of course he resigned or was fired, and yet he’s aboard the prince’s yacht. Curious, no?”
“Kirk is there to kill him.”
Gertner gave her a wary nod, as if that idea had already occurred to him, but he wanted to see where she would take it.
“What about this call?” She asked.
“There were actually two of them from the yacht in the Monaco harbor within one minute of each other. The first was to his chief of security here at the lake house, informing his people that he might be gone longer than he had expected. In fact, he’s sailing tonight for his house in Corsica. On the south shore near the village of Bonifacio. There was mention of his estates in the file I sent you.”
“Did he mention Kirk?” Liese asked.
“Not by name. But he tells his contact that he may be entertaining an interesting guest.” Gertner was perplexed. He shook his head. “The prince was being coy, and for the life of us we cannot fathom why Nor can we fathom his next remarks.” Gertner picked up a printout of the telephone intercept. “‘Have the compound made ready,’” Gertner read. “That’s the prince talking. ‘Have the compound made ready. Fully ready.’”
He looked up. “What do you suppose he meant by that last part?”
Liese’s head was spinning. McGarvey was stalking Salman. He had traveled to Monaco to put a bullet in the man’s brain. Apparently the prince knew about it and was setting up a trap at his Bonifacio compound. “The guest he’s talking about may not be McGarvey.”
“Perhaps not, unless you consider the possibility that McGarvey intends to go to Bonifacio with the prince, where the two of them will hunker down until this bin Laden insanity unfolds itself.”
“He would expose himself as a traitor,” Liese shot back. “Whatever you think of him, he is not stupid.”
“Anything but,” Gertner agreed. “After the attack on America, McGarvey could emerge a lone patriot who valiantly tried to stop the terrorists, but who failed in his mission.”
“But why?” Liese practically screamed.
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.”

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