Presumably, McGarvey had come back here after the shooting, and it was more than likely that Pete Boylan had stayed behind, probably to search her room.
Upstairs, a maid was coming out of her room. “Mademoiselle, your room is ready,” the woman said.
“Merci,” Alex said, and gave the woman the box of chocolates. The woman thanked her, surprised.
Someone other than the maid had been in the room. The attaché case was lying at a different angle on the luggage stand, and the zipper on her overnight bag was completely closed. She had left it unzipped by half an inch.
It was made to look like amateurs had done this. It was possible that the maid or someone else on the hotel’s staff had been looking for something to steal, but it was more likely in her mind that she had been given a message. Hopefully, by McGarvey or Pete Boylan.
She tossed her purse onto the bed and searched the attaché case and the overnight bag, but nothing was missing, though some of the contents had been very slightly rearranged.
Her room looked down on a pleasant courtyard with a small fountain, some trees, and flowering bushes. No way out from there. It left only the front door and presumably a delivery entrance and dock, and possibly a path across the roof to another building.
She had not been the least bit surprised when McGarvey had shown up; in fact, she had expected him. Her only concerns were that she had not detected him behind her, and that she had come into France unarmed.
She got undressed, and took a quick shower, mostly to refresh herself. It was the middle of the night her time, and she was beat, but her adrenaline was pumping hard enough that she was wide-awake. She had come looking for George, and she had sent him the message. She wanted to be awake to find out if he responded, not only to that but to the failed assassination attempt.
She phoned room service and asked for a pot of tea with lemon, and a croissant with butter and raspberry confit.
Paris was already coming to an end for her. If George responded, it would possibly be off to Tel Aviv or wherever he suggested. If not, she would have to go deep, and it would have to be a lot deeper than any of the others had gone.
Roy had changed the fourth panel on Kryptos, which she had to admit was pretty clever, and now McGarvey knew what was probably still buried above Kirkuk, though possibly not the entire reason why, nor who had put it there.
When she was dressed, she called the operator and asked to be connected to McGarvey’s room.
Pete answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” She sounded stressed.
“In my room. Has Kirk returned yet?”
Pete hesitated for just a beat. “Quite a show you put on in the park.”
“You saw it?”
“Yes. And when you took off, Mac followed you on foot. Did you see him?”
“Briefly at a sidewalk café on the Champs-Élysées, where someone tried to kill me. I managed to get out of there, but Mac didn’t follow me. I suspect he went after the shooter.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“Some guy with a rifle in a second-floor window across the avenue. I think it was a Barrett.”
“Hard to miss at that short a range,” Pete said.
“I got lucky.”
“Was it your George?”
“I didn’t get that good a look, but I don’t think it was George.”
“Who else wants you dead?”
Alex managed to laugh. “I can think of a few people. An Iraqi or two, among others. But George could have sent someone. I’ve left word for him.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does is whether or not he answers and what he says.”
“What was your message?”
“Just that I was the last of the team, and did he want to meet with me?” Alex said. “What about Kirk? Have you heard from him?”
“Not yet,” Pete said. “Look, I’m coming to your room. We need to talk.”
“I just got out of the shower. Give me a couple of minutes.”
“Okay.”
Alex went to the window and called the travel agency on her cell phone. “Has there been an answer yet?”
“Yes,” the agent said. “One word: Come.”
“How soon can you get me there?”
“You’re booked business class on Turkish Airlines, flight eighteen twenty-four, leaves de Gaulle this afternoon at five.”
“Any other information?”
“No,” the travel agent said. “Have a good flight, Ms. Wheeler.”
Someone knocked at her door. “Room service,” a man called.
Alex ended the call, tossed the phone onto the bed, got a couple of euros from her purse, and answered the door.
An old man with a barrel chest and thick gray hair stood there, holding up an identification wallet. “I’m Colonel Roland Bete. I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning a shooting at a sidewalk café on the Champs-Élysées.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mr. McGarvey was there. At the moment he is in the custody of the Sûreté. Evidently, he was involved with an incident a few blocks away by the river in which a man was killed in a boating accident. Witnesses said there was a fight.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“It would be for the best if you allowed me to come in, unless you would rather be taken to an interrogation cell, from which point your fate would be completely out of my hands.”
Pete came down the corridor. “I heard,” she said. “What’s the real issue?”
“He was armed,” Bete said.
“Can we have him released?”
“Perhaps, if Mademoiselle cooperates,” Bete said. “But it will have to be soon. Major Lucien has given me one hour to present a proper reason why.” He looked at Alex, his expression completely neutral. He could have been discussing the weather. “We found the documents in your attaché case. And we know a seat has been booked on a Turkish Airlines flight to Tel Aviv for a Lois Wheeler.”
Alex stepped aside to let them in. “It was you who tossed my room? Very unprofessional.”
“It was suggested we let you know. And Monsieur McGarvey is a very persuasive man. He was allowed one call, and it was to me. Your life is in danger.”
Alex laughed. “I got lucky in the café.”
“The shooter was a professional. Perhaps Mossad? What do you hope to gain by going to Tel Aviv? Is it to meet with this person you have only identified as George?”
“Yes.”
“And what would stop him from merely having you killed? Perhaps a random shooting. Incidents like that happen all the time. Israel is a violent country.”
“McGarvey,” Alex said, and watched for a reaction in Pete’s eyes. And she saw exactly what she expected to see.
FIFTY-TWO
McGarvey looked up from where he was seated at a small metal table across from the two Sûreté officers who had been interviewing him, when a whip-thin man with a large Gallic nose and dark complexion came in.
“Monsieur McGarvey is cooperating, but we’ve got nothing of any use so far,” one of the interrogators said.
“I’ve been listening,” the dark man said. He was jacketless, his tie loose, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up above the elbows. “Leave us.”
The two interrogators left the room, and the dark man sat down. “I’m Major Lucien.”
“Colonel Bete mentioned you. He said you were aware I came into France with a weapon. Do you know if he’s made contact with the woman I was seated with at the café?”
“I just spoke to him on the telephone. She is at the hotel with him and the CIA officer you arrived with this morning.”