“It would seem that he’s a marked man,” Martine said. “How romantic for you. The fall of the tragic hero and all that.”
“And convenient,” Kurshin said.
“How do you see that?” McGarvey asked. “I’d think that when her marked man was assassinated, she would grieve.”
“On the contrary. If you lose someone you love — say a wife or a family member — you would be free to find someone else. Another conquest, if you will.” He looked at Pete. “After a decent period or mourning, of course.”
“Of course,” Pete said.
“That’s simply too morose a thought for such an interesting story,” Martine said. “Have you actually gotten close to him? I mean close enough for one-on-one interviews?”
“On several occasions.”
“Très bon. Such men in high positions of power have always seemed aloof, too distant to be mortal, to have any tender feelings.”
“He’s anything but that,” Pete said.
“He was married, I think,” Kurshin said. “He had a family — killed in some accident.”
“They were murdered,” Pete said.
“Street muscle, guns for hire,” McGarvey said. “It was in the newspapers. Their paymaster was too much of a coward to do the job himself. Guys like that usually are.”
Kurshin’s lips tightened for just an instant.
“Are you a writer, as well, M. Arouet?” Martine asked.
“No. I deal in futures trading.”
“Wall Street?”
“In the real world. It’s a little messier that way but more satisfying in the end when the future you’ve bet on comes true because of what you’ve done.”
“Then how is it that you two have met?”
“I’m financing the costs of publishing her book,” McGarvey said. “I think it’ll be a bestseller in the end.”
“Why is that?” Kurshin asked.
“Simple. The good guys always win, because the trash they take down don’t realize that they’re nothing more than trash and will never be anything else.”
16
In the morning after a late room-service breakfast on the balcony of their suite, Pete went out to find a dress and accessories for that evening, leaving McGarvey to brood about last night’s meeting with the woman who very well could be a spy for MI6 and the man who could very well be the Russian agent stalking him for some reason.
He phoned Otto in McLean where it was coming up on five in the morning. “Anything new on either of them?”
“The guy’s most likely Spetsnaz, and those bastards are even crazier than our SEAL Team Six operators.”
“And deadly.”
“That too. Could be that he’s coming after you simply as a training exercise. You’re still considered a fairly high-value target. He could be looking for a way out of sleeper duty in England. If he bags you, he might figure he’d get a promotion to something more interesting.”
“Why the bit with Katy’s grave?”
Otto’s tone softened. “To get your attention, kemo sabe. Which he did. And maybe piss you off so that you wouldn’t be thinking straight. And maybe because he wanted to start a pas de deux that would prove who was actually leading. Impress his boss.”
The SEAL Team Six operators who had managed to find and take out bin Laden underwent some of the toughest training in just about any special forces in the world. In fact, they were picked from the best of the best in the navy’s regular cadre of SEALs and went through a very rigorous training evolution during which many of the recruits dropped out.
A lot of them tended to be a little crazy around the edges — it was the nature of the job. But they were never out of control, and they never purposely hurt or killed anyone except for bad guys on specific missions. Bin Laden was the most famous example.
A lot of the Russian Spetsnaz operators, on the other hand, were way over the top. In one famous training exercise, if the operator failed, he would be out, but if he succeeded — at any cost — he would be promoted to lieutenant. The man was imprisoned in a gulag in the middle of the desert in western Kazakhstan more than one hundred kilometers from any decent-sized town or any source of water. The guards were never told his true identity, and in all cases, their orders were to shoot to kill anyone trying to escape.
The mission was to cross the desert, carrying no water, and reach the town of Atyrau on the Caspian Sea. The method, not taught beforehand to the trainees, was to escape with a prisoner; it didn’t matter who. Halfway across the desert, when something to drink made the difference between life or death, the trainee slit the throat of the prisoner and drank his blood.
For that piece of desperate brutality, the operator became an officer.
“Okay, let’s assume for the moment that guy from the casino and the bar is a Spetsnaz sleeper and did Arlington to get my attention. He’s playing with me. So let’s play back. What’s going on here or somewhere nearby that I might draw him into? Maybe water-skiing, motor sports, something where accidents could happen.”
“I’ve been toying with the same idea for the past hour, and I think I’ve come up with something that could put you and him together one-on-one. Chances are neither of you would actually get hurt, unless there was an accident, but if you still have your edge, it might teach him a lesson.”
“My edge at what?”
“Fencing.”
“Épée,” McGarvey said.
Of the three disciplines in modern fencing — foil, saber, and épée — the latter was the closest to actual dueling. People had gotten hurt, and in fact not many years ago, someone in a competition in Poland or perhaps the Czech Republic had been killed when the tip of the épée blade penetrated his mask and plunged deeply into his brain through an eye socket. It was found that he had lightened his mask by filing down the protective mesh covering his face so that he could see better. But broken ribs, even ripped rotator cuffs were fairly common.
“Prince Albert is holding a small international competition in September, but as it turns out, the local fencing and pistol club is putting on a demonstration this afternoon at three.”
“Where?”
“In the atrium of the casino. I can get you a last-minute invitation under your work name based on your membership in the U.S. Government Employees’ Fencing Club. The French are snobbish enough to let you in, hoping to make a fool of you. Just their style.”
“How do we get Kallinger to take the bait?”
“Have Pete phone Didenko and tell him that she’s traced you to Monte-Carlo, where
you’re in the fencing demonstration this afternoon. Ask him if he knows of any Russians who might be there, as well.”
“He’ll say he has no idea, of course. But if Kallinger does show it, it’ll nail who he really is, and it’ll nail his relationship with Didenko.”
“And possibly a connection to Arkady Kurshin, though I haven’t got that one figured out yet. The guy had no surviving relatives. He was a loner.”
Pete got back an hour later all excited about the Givenchy black, low-cut cocktail dress and matching shoes she’d found. McGarvey filled her in on the latest plan of action that he and Otto had hatched.
“He’d be stupid to show up this afternoon,” she said. “Baccarat I can understand, but not this.”
“Kallinger is young, probably late twenties. If he’s the Russian, it won’t matter if he’s smart; he’s probably rash.”
“The kid against the old man,” Pete said. “He’ll be certain that his agility will trump your experience. Could be interesting.”
Using her satellite phone, she called Didenko. It was around four in the afternoon, Moscow time. She put it on speakerphone. “General, it’s Donna Graves. I’m in Monaco.”