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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Soldier of God
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“Wait, Emile, please. I beg you,” Liese cried. She hated to do this to him, but driving to Monaco was out of the question, and taking a commercial flight, if one was still available this afternoon, would be far too public. Gertner would be on her before she buckled her seat belt. “I’m asking you as a woman who shares your bed, and your sadnesses. I’ve been there for you. Now I need your help.”
Lescourt hesitated. For a second or two Liese thought he’d hung up.
“Merde,”
he said. “I’ll fly you there, but I will not wait. You will have to return home on your own.”
“Thank you, Emile.”
“And Liese,” he said, solemnly, “this will end it between us.”
McGarvey slowly replaced the telephone on its cradle after listening to Liese’s odd message. She had not traced him to this hotel to talk about Marta, the only mutual friend they’d ever shared. She had called to warn him about something. But that was five hours ago.
The clock was ticking on bin Laden’s message, and he felt as if he was running out of time and running out of options.
He walked back to the balcony and looked out toward La Condamine. It was getting dark, and the prince’s yacht was bathed in lights. Though he couldn’t make out much detail at this distance, it did seem as if there was some activity on the dock. He could make out at least two delivery vans, and the white Mercedes.
His tuxedo had been sponged and pressed, ready for another evening in the casino, where he expected Salman to come for another chance at chemin de fer after his beating last night, and especially after what had happened this morning aboard the yacht.
It’s what a man such as Khalil would do.
Liese had told him that Salman would come to Monaco.
She knew that McGarvey would come here too.
And she had called to warn him about what? Something she might have learned from her surveillance operation in Lucerne? The “old friend” was obviously a reference to Salman, made that way because someone was listening over her shoulder.
Shortly after 2:30, McGarvey had rented a BMW Z3, and he drove down to Nice for drinks and a late lunch at Hotel Negresco, watching his back to see if he was being followed.
But the prince had sent no one.
When he got back to Monte Carlo, he turned the car in, and then took a leisurely stroll over to the Rainier Palace on the Rock. From there he descended through the medieval alleys past the cathedral and finally to the
Musée Océanographique, which at one time had been directed by Jacques Cousteau.
He’d stopped often to study a piece of architecture or to take in the view. Several times he turned around abruptly as if he had suddenly remembered something, or as if he’d suddenly realized that he was lost, and retraced his steps.
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.”
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.
Be detached. It will be your armor. This is a jihad for Allah not for man.
But this now was very much a personal thing for Khalil.
The only man he ever loved and respected was Osama bin Laden.
The only man he truly hated, besides his father, was Kirk McGarvey. Khalil had killed his father more than thirty years ago, and this evening he would kill McGarvey.
He brought up the Web site for the Hotel de Paris, then broke through its pitifully simple security system into the guest registry, which showed not only names, but also passport and credit card numbers. He eliminated
all the European names, reducing the list of 205 guests to thirty-seven. He saved this list to a file, then opened a search engine that found passport numbers and matched them to names, dates, and places of birth.
McGarvey was possibly fifty, and he spoke with a flat midwestern accent, which Khalil placed somewhere in Kansas, Missouri, or Nebraska. He eliminated all the obvious mismatches, reducing the list to nineteen names. Of these he picked five likely possibilities, based mostly on instinct. McGarvey would be traveling under a work name that would be rock solid. Like the man himself.
Khalil connected with the U.S. State Department in Washington and hacked into the main passport database. The security blocks for this system were far more sophisticated than the hotel’s. He had only a few seconds before various telltales would pop up and ask for additional passwords. He quickly ran the five passport numbers, immediately coming up with the information that three of the passports had been applied for at the passport agency in New Orleans, the fourth in New York, and the fifth in Washington.
He backed out of the program and went to the issuing agency in Washington, where he ran the single number. A copy of the actual passport came up, showing the photograph of a slender-faced man with blond hair.
Khalil considered the photo, but rejected it. Even with a good disguise McGarvey could not be made to look like the man in the photo.
Next he entered one of the numbers from the New Orleans agency, and when the record came up he was looking at a photograph of Kirk McGarvey, under the name Richard A. Brewster, Tampa, Florida.
Khalil quickly backed out of that program, and returned to the hotel’s Web site, hacking into the switchboard. Next he used his cell phone to call the front desk.
“Bonsoir
, Hotel de Paris. How may I direct your call?”
“I say, be a doll and connect me with Dick Brewster’s room, would you?”
“Moment, s’il vous plaît,”
the operator said.
A couple of seconds later, the call came up on Khalil’s computer screen at the same time he heard it ring over his cell phone. McGarvey was in suite 204.
The number rang five times, and the operator came back on. “Monsieur Brewster does not answer. Would you care to leave a message?”
“No, that’s okay, darlin’, I’ll try later.” Khalil broke the connection, and brought up the hotel switchboard’s automated message service, which recorded all messages and telephone calls to or from numbers outside the hotel for which charges were levied.
McGarvey had received only one call since noon, and it was from a number in Lucerne.
Khalil brought up the recorded message. It was from a woman. She sounded young, and perhaps even frightened.
Tell him that Liese telephoned and would like to talk to him about an old friend.
Khalil raised his eyes and looked past the gaily lit pool and fountain toward the hotel. Besides the motor traffic, couples were strolling hand in hand in the balmy early evening air. There was always a sense of excitement in Monaco, yet with its grand promenades, the splendid hotels and restaurants, the magnificent palace, and the yacht-filled harbor, this was also a city for lovers. Was it as simple as the possibility that McGarvey had a mistress from Switzerland with whom he was having a rendezvous?
After the events aboard the Alaskan cruise ship, Khalil would have thought that McGarvey was a man singularly dedicated to his wife. He had certainly gone to great lengths to come to her rescue.
The important fact at this moment, however, was that McGarvey was not in his suite.
Khalil shut down his computer, finished his Pernod, and paid the tab with a few coins. Then he got up and started across the Place to rent a room at the hotel, his computer case in one hand and a small leather overnight bag in the other.
No one noticed the tall, somewhat overweight man wearing a poorly cut, dark suit that looked as if it had been slept in, his dark hair mussed and his eyes red behind bottle-thick glasses, even though he moved with the fluid grace of a dancer—or perhaps a jungle animal on the hunt.

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