“Except these aren’t the old days for any of us. Le Carré’s George Smiley was the man for his day — intelligent, patient, and sure that he was going to win in the end. But we’re in more ruthless times now — murder has become vastly more important than counterintel.”
Pete had called down to the front desk on the house phone. “They checked out several hours ago — right after they left the casino.”
McGarvey knew exactly what had already happened, and Otto had overheard what she’d said.
“I’m trying her cell phone and house phone,” he said.
McGarvey waited.
“Do you think he killed her?” Pete asked.
“Yes. And the maid.”
Otto came back. “No answer.”
“Call MI6, but don’t mention Portugal; they’ll have their hands full with the DGSE,” McGarvey said. “In the meantime, Pete and I can be at the airport in Nice within the hour. Get us a private jet direct to Lisbon.”
“I’m on it,” Otto said. “Luck.”
Thirty-six Hours Later
McGarvey, the Beretta he’d taken off the men who had tried to mug him in Monte-Carlo in hand, stood at the open door of the caretaker’s apartment outside the Castelo de Oro. Pete, her subcompact Glock semiautomatic also out, was two steps behind him, making sure Kallinger wasn’t somewhere in the darkness at their six.
The old man lay on his side in his sitting room, his head at a loose angle to the left. His neck had been broken.
McGarvey stepped inside, bent down over the body, and felt for a pulse in the carotid artery. There was none, but the old man’s skin was still pliable and warm.
“How long?” Pete asked.
“Maybe a few minutes, but less than an hour.”
“He was waiting until we showed up at the bottom of the hill.”
They had arrived in Lisbon early yesterday afternoon when Pete phoned Didenko to tell him where they were, and they’d holed up in a suite at the Hotel Avenida Palace to wait for Kallinger to show up.
Martine’s car had been found abandoned in Marseille, but Otto had been unable to find any trace of Kallinger after that — no last-minute bookings that matched his profile on any train or airline that day. The only reasonable assumption was that he’d rented a car — stealing another one would have been too risky — and had driven the thousand miles or so to Ponte de Sor northeast of Lisbon.
“What if he doesn’t come to you?” Pete asked, and Otto had asked the same thing.
“He probably won’t,” McGarvey said. “But he had the general tell me that he was heading to Portugal, and I told him, ‘Here I am. Come get me.’”
“But he wants you to go to the castle where you killed the man he thought was his brother,” Pete had pressed.
They were seated at a sidewalk café overlooking the busy Tagus River, the day pleasantly bright and breezy.
“He wanted me to come to Arlington to see his handiwork, and he wanted me to come to Monte-Carlo. Now I want him to come to me.”
Pete watched a large, two-masted sailboat work its way past. “What was so important about the castle?”
“The Nazis had hidden gold they’d taken from Jews in the crypts underground. It’s a long story, but we ended up together there, and he drowned when he set off a gas explosion and the tunnels flooded. They didn’t find his body until they recovered the gold when the water was finally pumped out and the crypts were repaired. That was fifteen years ago.”
McGarvey could feel the darkness all around him and the water rising over his head. It had been one of the most horrible experiences in his life — other than witnessing the murders of his wife and daughter. He’d felt a sense of helplessness and panic both times, because he’d not been able to fight back.
“Call the military intelligence people; let them go out there and arrest him,” Pete said. “He’ll be charged with two murders.”
“No.”
“Why, goddamn it? Can you tell me that much? You could get yourself — both of us — killed. At least let me know why we’re doing this.”
“Why I’m doing this.”
“All right — you!”
“Katy and Liz.”
Pete had looked away. “Shit,” she’d said softly.
Now that the gold had been found and taken away, there was no need for security. During the day, there would be employees tending to the tourists, but at night, after the castle was closed to the public, it was only the old man. There was no reason for Kallinger to have killed him except to send another message.
McGarvey left the body where it lay and brushed past Pete. Otto had found out that of the three openings into the crypts, two were blocked by heavy steel bars, leaving only one way in or out. The entrance was just beyond an inner gate to the west of the caretaker’s house and halfway along what remained of one the walls on the side of the castle facing out across the countryside, mostly filed with olive groves.
The gate was open, and moving low and fast, Mac and Pete made their way to the entrance to the crypt, its steel gate also open. Stairs led down to the first chamber of what had originally been part of the castle’s keep about fifty feet below. From there, low tunnels lined with coffins or remains wrapped in linen sloped back under the hill, in some places to a depth of two hundred feet. Small electric lights illuminated the stairs, but the bottom was lost in darkness.
They were crouched on the right side of the open gate, out of the dim illumination from inside.
Pete put a hand on Mac’s arm. “This is crazy. He’s not going to let himself be cornered down there.”
“He’s found another way out,” McGarvey said. “In his mind, it was his brother I killed in the tunnels, and he wants to re-create the scenario.”
“The other two gates are blocked.”
“Then he’s gone ahead and stuck a quarter kilo of Semtex on one of them.”
“Or he’s stuck a few kilos of it on the ceiling just at the bottom, and like saps, we go inside, and he pulls the trigger.”
In his head McGarvey was down there again, fifteen years ago in the total darkness. Kurshin had been a driven man, insane with so much hate that all could think about was lashing back at the only man in his career who’d bested him. He’d been willing to give his life if it was the only way he could kill McGarvey, and he had almost succeeded.
But the Russian at the casino was a different breed. He was moved more by ambition than revenge. He was Spetsnaz trained and tough, but he was young and inexperienced. It was why he’d not been promoted to field officer.
“You’re right. Now go,” he said, and he ducked inside.
Kurshin, waiting below the crest of the hill about thirty meters away at the edge of the first rows of olive trees, watched through a night-vision monocular as McGarvey went into the crypt. The woman said something to him but then looked around frantically as if she were trying to decide whether to follow him inside or run away.
Suddenly, she turned and sprinted along the ruins of the castle wall back toward the gatehouse, beyond which was the parking lot where they’d left their rental Fusion.
He pocketed the scope and entered four sixes on his cell phone, his thumbed poised over the Send icon on the screen.
In his experience, when it came down to a matter of life or death, loyalty and almost always love lost out to survival. It was simple in his mind. If you had to choose a partner or your own life, you had to choose the latter. Die and it was over. But live and you could find another lover.
He waited another full five seconds to make certain that McGarvey, no matter how cautious he might be, had reached the bottom of the stairs, and then he pushed Send.
A flash of light in the stairwell was followed a moment later by the explosion, and a vast plume of dust and some rock debris blew up out of the doorway.