“Your call is unexpected,” the general said, but he was polite. “How may I help you?”
“McGarvey is here. The people at the casino said he was there last night, drunk.”
“I find that hard to believe. But then perhaps he’ll be open to some of your questions.”
“There’s to be a fencing demonstration in a couple of hours at the casino atrium. McGarvey’s signed up for it.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if you knew of any Russians who might be here now.”
Didenko laughed. “Believe me, Ms. Graves, I have no vendetta against Mr. McGarvey, nor do I know of anyone specifically who might, though as I told you when you were here, the number must be a large one.”
“Thanks, anyway, sir,” Pete said. “I thought it might be worth a try.” She hung up. “The ball’s in his court. Let’s get you to the atrium and warmed up.”
“Do you think I need it?”
“Of course you do. You’re an old man, and Kallinger, if he shows up, is a kid, full of energy.”
“Just the point,” McGarvey said. “But we have two hours before the demonstration starts, so there’s no point in rushing.”
“Goddamn it, Kirk, if you’re not properly warmed up, he’ll eat you for toast.”
“Yes, he will,” McGarvey said. He called room service and ordered a cognac.
While he waited for it to arrive, he changed into a pair of jeans, a white polo shirt, and boat shoes.
Pete brought the drink into him. He took it to the bathroom, swizzled a fair amount of it in his mouth, and spit it out.
The atrium entrance at the casino had been set up with a single piste that was a conductive mat two meters wide and fourteen meters long, on which the fencers would face off. They were connected wirelessly to the mat, so any touches would be electronically registered. It was only up to the judge to determine if the touch was valid or if any rule had been broken.
They were five minutes early, and the long, ornately laid-out and decorated hall was mostly full with spectators as were the balconies above.
McGarvey was introducing himself to the club’s fencing master when Kurshin, already wearing his fencing garb, an épée held loosely in his left hand, and a mask under his right arm, came out of a room at the rear, which was used as the dressing area.
The Russian raised the guard of his weapon to his lips and saluted.
17
McGarvey signed in as a guest at the registration table, and the fencing master came over and offered his hand.
“Good afternoon, M. Arouet,” he said. His attitude was cool.
“Thanks for allowing me to compete today.”
“No competition. This is merely a demonstration. And if you do not mind, I will introduce you as a senior.”
“Experienced,” Mac said.
The maestro smiled. “But your techniques perhaps are not up to modern standards. Modern Olympic standards.”
“A touch is a touch.”
The maestro nodded. “My assistant will provide you with the proper equipment.”
The assistant was a young woman in fencing garb, her long blond hair done up in a bun at the back. She seemed amused.
“Your shoe size?”
He told her.
She found him a pair of fencing shoes and socks from a trunk. A roll-about rack was half filled with fencing knickers and jackets. On the bottom shelves were a variety of masks.
“Right or left handed?” the girl asked.
“Right. French grip.”
“You’re fencing at épée?”
“Oui.”
“I’ll leave while you get dressed.”
“It’s not necessary, mademoiselle,” Mac said. He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his polo shirt. His torso was marked with nearly a dozen scars — most of them bullet wounds, but two of them kidney operations.
The girl was impressed. “Were you a solider?”
“In another lifetime,” Mac said.
He found the right-sized knickers and jacket, but he didn’t bother with a plastron — which was a thick fabric under jacket that provided an extra layer of protection.
The girl didn’t say anything, though her attitude had changed. She was no longer disdainfully amused.
When he was suited up, a glove on his right hand, his mask under his left arm, and his épée in hand, he saluted the girl.
“How long has it been since you were in competition?”
“A while.”
“A word of advice, M. Arouet?”
“Please.”
“This is to be a demonstration only today, but some of the fencers will be amused to go up against a senior, perhaps to demonstrate their techniques. And the maestro has no love for Americans, so he’ll not interfere.”
“Maybe I’ll teach them some old techniques.”
The first bout had already begun between two very young, very tall men, probably still in their late teens, with flashing speed. The bout was for only three touches to win, and it was over in under a minute. The maestro, who was the judge, held the pair on the piste as he explained to the audience of about one hundred people what they had just witnessed.
Pete and Martine stood together on the opposite side of the piste just off the centerline with Kurshin. Martine smiled and nodded as she spotted McGarvey.
“Who do you have me paired with?” McGarvey asked the girl at the registration table.
“With M. Kallinger, at his request, if you agree,” she said.
“We’re old friends. But first, would it be possible for me to fence one of those gentlemen?”
The girl was surprised, but she motioned to the maestro, who came over.
“Yes?” said the maestro.
“M. Arouet asks if he could fence first with either Pierre or Tomas.”
“I’m sure Tomas wouldn’t mind the demonstration,” the maestro said with a slight smirk. Tomas was the fencer who had won the bout, three-two. “Now, monsieur?”
“Oui, unless the lad is tired.”
The maestro had a word with one of the fencers still on the piste. The boy glanced at Mac and nodded, a thin smile on his lips.
Mac walked over and shook hands with the boy as the maestro and other fencer moved off.
Kurshin, Martine, and Pete were watching.
“This will be a brief demonstration of the difference between modern technique and an older style of combat,” the maestro announced. “M. Bienot from here in Monaco on my left, and M. Arouet from the United States on my right.”
McGarvey stepped onto the piste and saluted his opponent, the maestro, and the audience and then donned his mask.
“En garde,” the maestro said.
McGarvey and Bienot came to the en garde position, their épées forty-five degrees above level, but only Mac held his left hand curved over the side of his head.
“Prêt,” the maestro announced. “Allez.”
The boy immediately lunged forward with fantastic speed. Mac stood his ground, flat footed, and at the last instant slapped the boy’s blade aside and touched his glove. The light came on.
A low murmur passed through the audience.
“Touché,” the maestro announced as if it hurt.
Bienot pulled off his helmet and glared at the maestro, but Mac just smiled and took his position.
“Prêt,” the maestro said. “En garde. Allez.”
Again the boy came in with amazing speed.
This time, Mac moved his head slightly forward, presenting his mask as the target. The boy took the bait, but at the last possible instant, Mac ducked almost on his haunches and touched the toe of his opponent’s right shoe.