David Hagberg - End Game

McGarvey had followed her to Paris, which had been no real feat of tradecraft, not with Otto Rencke’s wizardry. And she’d known he would be right behind her, so she’d put on the little show for him in the Tuileries, and then had gone to the sidewalk café, figuring he would want to talk.

What she hadn’t counted on was the shooter also tracing her to Paris and to the specific restaurant. Whoever it was, they had information from inside the CIA.

It came back to George. If he was the killer, he had help this morning from the shooter across from the sidewalk café. And if it was him, he also had help inside the CIA. Someone on campus, doing his dirty work. But whoever it was had to be insane not only to kill the Alpha Seven team one by one but to mutilate those who’d been on campus.

That last bit was the sticking point for her. George had done horrible things in Iraq — and so had she — but those had been done as acts of war. Acts to demoralize the enemy, which in fact had happened.

This now, over the past few days, made no sense from her perspective.

And the last bit that gave her some pause was the hotel. She’d been traced here by McGarvey and by the shooter. The hotel was no longer her safe haven. Yet she decided it was the only place for her to be. If the shooter came after her again, she would be on familiar ground, McGarvey as her backup.

McGarvey got to the river in time to see the shooter reach the bottom of the stairs from street level and head to the right, toward the Pont de l’Alma. He recognized the guy from the dark jacket and yellow shirt he wore, and the fact that his haircut was military.

The Barrett had been left where the sniper abandoned it: leaning against the wall next to the window of what was a two-room office being remodeled. Painters’ drop cloths covered the wooden floors, and plasterwork around the crown moldings was drying. The walls had been stripped, in some places down to the bare laths, and even the light fixtures and wall outlets were still missing.

The shooter’s intel had been spot-on. So much so that he had even picked the one empty room within shooting range of a sidewalk café where he somehow knew Alex would be. Even if he had insider information from the CIA, more was going on here than made sense.

But from Schermerhorn’s and Alex’s descriptions of George, the shooter was too big and too young to be the same man. Either someone else was gunning for her, or George had help — damned good help.

Some of it pointed to the Mossad, and that made a certain kind of logic to McGarvey’s thinking. But other bits didn’t fit. They were still missing something, because it made no sense that Schermerhorn and Alex had both been so circumspect about who was coming after them and why, even though their lives were on the line.

McGarvey reached the bottom of the stairs at river level, and started after the shooter. A fair number of people, many of them couples, hand in hand, strolled along the river walk. A Bateaux-Mouches less than half full passed, going downriver, and McGarvey could still hear sirens in the distance, up toward the Champs-Élysées.

The man was taking his time, and McGarvey easily came up behind him before he reached the bridge. He was a head taller and perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, with a military bearing and stride to match his haircut.

It did not appear he was carrying a pistol. His jacket was snug fitting, and there was no telltale bulge at his waist or under his arm.

“You left your rifle behind,” McGarvey said.

If the man was startled, he didn’t show it. He merely glanced over his shoulder. “Beg your pardon?”

“The Barrett. Though how you could miss at that range is beyond understanding for a man of your training. I’m sure George will be disappointed when you get back to Tel Aviv.”

The shooter stopped and faced McGarvey. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Monsieur. Shall I call the police?”

“If you’d like, although the DGSE has taken an interest in this business.”

The man’s eyes were dark, a five-o’clock shadow on his broad chin. He looked dangerous. “Stay out of this, Mr. McGarvey. We have no ill will toward you.”

“By we, do you mean the Mossad?”

The man glanced up as a couple pushing a baby carriage passed by. They were laughing and talking. The morning was perfect, nothing to worry about.

“Was it you in Piraeus? The Greeks found the Barrett where it was left. No fingerprints of course. And that shot was a good one. Fifteen hundred meters. But then Coffin’s head was framed by the open porthole. Made a good sight pattern.”

“You’re not here officially,” the shooter said, and the comment didn’t really come as a surprise to McGarvey. “You followed Alex from Langley and actually sat down to have a cup of coffee and a friendly chat with her. Strange.”

“She’s looking for George. She thought he’d be here. And until you took the shot, he was our best suspect in the killings. But if he and you are Mossad, the problem becomes even more interesting.”

“I suggest you stop right now and go home. Perhaps it’s time you visit with your granddaughter. We understand she’s a lovely child.”

“I think the DGSE will be interested in having a word. You killed an innocent civilian this morning.”

The shooter backed up a step, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes narrowed, his legs slightly bent at the knees. “No way to prove it.”

“I think there might be. The French don’t have the same aversion to waterboarding as my people do. Who knows what information you might be willing to give up if a deal were put on the table?”

There were more sirens in the distance, but none of them were getting any closer.

“Or you can talk to me,” McGarvey said.

“Get away from here while you still can, old man.”

“Whatever happened to interservice cooperation, or just plain politeness?

The shooter came at him, swinging a roundhouse punch, but McGarvey sidestepped it at the last instant, grabbed the shooter’s wrist and arm, and levered the man forward to his knees.

He bounded up and came back again, moving fast, swiveling to the left and taking two karate chops, which Mac easily deflected.

The shooter moved like a ballet dancer, up on the toes of his left foot as he swung his right leg in a long arc.

McGarvey caught the leg and flipped the man onto his back.

A couple of young guys had stopped to watch, and they applauded and said something McGarvey couldn’t quite catch. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that several people, including the couple with the baby carriage, had turned around to watch the spectacle.

The shooter was on his feet in an instant, charging and swinging blow after blow that McGarvey batted aside as he retreated a few meters.

Suddenly the man bent down and pulled a small pistol, almost certainly a subcompact carry-and-conceal Glock, from an ankle holster under his khaki trousers.

McGarvey stepped forward and a little to the left, and snatched the pistol out of the man’s hand. “You’ve already done enough collateral damage for the day, you stupid bastard.”

The growing crowd all applauded. They thought they were watching a couple of street entertainers doing a skit. It was common on the river walk.

McGarvey ejected the magazine and tossed it into the river, levered the round out of the firing chamber and field-stripped the pistol, tossing the pieces over the edge.

“You’re unarmed now — no Barrett, no Glock. You’re obviously not much of a street fighter, though you’ve been trained somewhere — by the IDF, I suspect.”

The shooter came in, head down, butting McGarvey in the chest, and knocking him backward on his ass.