He wanted McGarvey to feel the fear of being stalked by a superior enemy.
A police car, lights flashing but no siren, passed by, and Kurshin went back into the hotel.
McGarvey was standing next to Martine, and they were talking as if they were old friends. Kurshin’s anger suddenly spiked, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he smiled as he approached.
“The gentleman with extraordinary luck at chemin de fer,” he said.
“Skill,” McGarvey corrected. He was not drunk.
“M. Arouet was kind enough to buy me a drink,” Martine said.
“Ah, the French philosopher reincarnated.”
“Actually, you might not be too far off the mark. My grandfather was French. As a matter of fact, he taught philosophy at the Sorbonne before coming to the States. But I’ve never bothered to try to find a link.” He stuck out his hand, and Kurshin shook it.
“Nance Kallinger.”
“He’s a Brit,” Martine said. “But a civilized one.”
“Have you known each other long?”
“I met her at Dulles, the day before yesterday,” Kurshin said. “We were on the same flight to Paris, and we struck up a conversation.”
Martine laughed. “Actually, it was I who practically seduced him, not the other way around for a change.”
McGarvey finished his cognac and reached around to place the glass on the bar. “I’ll be saying good evening.”
“Won’t you stay for another drink?” Martine asked.
“It’s late, and I imagine that you two have plenty to talk about, having just met,” McGarvey said. He kissed her hand and nodded to Kurshin and then headed out to the lobby and straight back to the elevators.
“Extraordinary man,” Martine said.
Kurshin sat down next to her. “How so?” he asked, taking great care to keep his voice natural.
“First off, he wasn’t drunk at the casino; it was an act, he admitted, to put the other players off and to excuse his bad manners with his cards. His fault is never wanting to lose, no matter the cost.”
If McGarvey knew or suspected who he really was, he’d just sent a message that he was ready to play the game.
“And?”
“A pair of street hoods tried to rob him not twenty minutes ago. Apparently, they followed him from the casino.”
“He’s none the worse for wear.”
“Oui, extraordinaire. But he said they were amateurs, while he was used to dealing with professionals.”
15
As soon as he opened the door to his suite, he knew that Pete was there; he could smell her scent on the air. Nevertheless, he pulled out the Glock he had taken from the street hood behind the casino. With the Russian and whoever the hell else was with him in the hotel, anything was possible. She might have been kidnapped, a gun pointed to her head at this moment.
He eased the door shut, turned the dead bolt, and, making no noise, walked to the open door of the main bedroom.
A suitcase and overnight bag had been placed on the floor next to the wardrobe, and Pete’s jacket was on the bed.
Checking behind the door to make sure that his six was clear before he crossed to the palatial bathroom, he was in time to see Pete getting out of the shower, and he lowered the gun.
“Trouble?” she asked, not reaching for a towel.
“I knew you were here, but I wasn’t sure about the circumstances. You okay?”
She nodded. “But I didn’t get much from Didenko. He’s old, but he’s still pretty sharp.”
“Our Russian is here.”
“At the casino?”
“Yes, and here at the hotel.”
“Did Otto come up with a name?”
“He’s traveling on a British passport under the name Nance Kallinger, and he’s with a woman who the DGSE think might be MI6 under the work name of Martine Barineau. But that’s as far as Otto has been able to take it for now.”
“Okay, so let’s go to London and have a chat with C; you’ve known him long enough to ask for a favor.” Sir Richard Danville had been appointed head of MI6 last year, with the designation of C. Before then, he had been a longtime career intelligence officer. One of his jobs was as liaison with the CIA when Mac was DCI. They’d formed a trust and friendship based on each other’s professionalism.
“They’re downstairs at the bar. Why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll go have a chat with them.”
Pete grinned. “A little pushback; I like it,” she said. “Give me three minutes.”
On the way down in the elevator, Pete explained that she had not packed any evening clothes for the casino, planning instead on shopping for something in Monaco. She was dressed in high-heel ankle boots, designer jeans, and a white silk blouse with no bra.
The Russian and the woman were just leaving the bar when Mac and Pete reached the lobby.
“My friend from Washington is here,” McGarvey said. “We thought that we’d have that drink with you, after all. Unless it’s too late.”
“Not at all,” Kurshin said.
McGarvey introduced Pete by her work name, Donna Graves.
“Pleased to meet you,” Kurshin said, kissing her hand.
“Actually, we spotted you as you came into the hotel a little while ago,” Martine said, graciously shaking Pete’s hand. “If you’ve come to play chemin de fer dressed like that—très chic, dans le vent—you’ll knock them dead. You look like an American movie star.”
“Actually, I’m just a writer taking a break from the book I’m working on.”
“Fascinating,” Martine said.
They went back into the still mostly full bar, where they found a table for four under one of the tall windows. Kurshin ordered a bottle of Krug for them.
“So, tell us about your book,” he said. “Do you have a title yet?”
“Revenge, but it’s just a work in progress at this point. And maybe it’ll never see the light of day.”
“How so?” Kurshin asked.
“I’m uncovering some pretty sensitive material that the CIA is probably going to object to, and if they edit all the good stuff out, I’ll walk away from the project.”
“You could always have it published elsewhere.”
“That’s what I’ve told her,” McGarvey said. “But she tends to be stubborn sometimes.”
“If you guys mean that I should do a Snowden, I don’t think it’s worth it,” Pete said. “I like freedom more than I like this book. Though it’s hard to give it up.”
Their wine came, and after the waiter had poured for them and left, Martine raised her glass. “To Revenge—and all the interesting forms it sometimes takes.”
“So tell us what your book is about,” Kurshin said.
Pete touched Mac’s foot with the toe of her boot. “Did you ever hear the name Kirk McGarvey?”
The Russian didn’t miss a beat. “I think he was the director of the CIA a number of years ago,” he said. “But then he dropped out of sight.”
“He’s a fascinating subject.”
“I’m sure.”
“Have you fallen in love with him yet?” Martine asked. “Biographers often do with their subjects.”
“I have to admit I have,” Pete said, lowering her head demurely for a moment and then raising it. “But he’s a tough man to get close to. In fact, I just returned from Russia, where I had a chat with a former KGB officer who I thought might be able to help with some details.”
“And did he?”
“In a roundabout way. I’m writing not only about the governments that would like to take their revenge on him but on the people who are carrying a grudge. He told me the number was a large one.”