David Hagberg - End Game

Before he could turn and run away, McGarvey hooked a foot around the man’s leg, bringing him down.

The man was up on his feet in a flash, and McGarvey had to roll left to avoid a kick to his head, and he sprung to his feet.

He pulled his Walther from the holster under his jacket at the small of his back. “That’s enough now.”

The shooter backed up warily.

More people had gathered, but they kept their distance.

Someone had apparently called the police, because a patrol car, its siren blaring, screeched to a halt on the street above.

“For now it’s out of my hands,” McGarvey said.

The shooter glanced up as two uniformed police officers came down the stairs on the run. He turned on his heel and in three steps was at the edge and threw himself into the river.

The cops were shouting. “Arrêtez! Arrêtez!”

McGarvey laid his pistol on the pavement, then backed up to the river’s edge in time to see the shooter swimming very fast downstream with the current, toward the bridge.

The cops were on McGarvey just as the shooter reached the middle arch at the same time a commercial barge came upriver, its horn blaring five warning blasts.

The shooter was swept aside by the bow of the boat, and for several seconds it seemed as if he would get clear, but then he was sucked underwater just forward of the stern. Almost immediately the river turned red, his body caught in the screw and chopped up.

Alex got out of the cab, but instead of immediately going into the hotel, she walked a few doors down to a Godiva chocolate shop, where she dawdled over buying a small box of truffles and having a pleasant chat with one of the clerks.

The place was reasonably busy, mostly with tourists — some of them Brits, and a few Germans and a Russian couple. But no one suspicious. No one was following her now.

Back at the hotel, the uniformed attendant held the door for her and she went down the short corridor directly to the elevators. Again, to her eye, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Presumably, McGarvey had come back here after the shooting, and it was more than likely that Pete Boylan had stayed behind, probably to search her room.

Upstairs, a maid was coming out of her room. “Mademoiselle, your room is ready,” the woman said.

“Merci,” Alex said, and gave the woman the box of chocolates. The woman thanked her, surprised.

Someone other than the maid had been in the room. The attaché case was lying at a different angle on the luggage stand, and the zipper on her overnight bag was completely closed. She had left it unzipped by half an inch.

It was made to look like amateurs had done this. It was possible that the maid or someone else on the hotel’s staff had been looking for something to steal, but it was more likely in her mind that she had been given a message. Hopefully, by McGarvey or Pete Boylan.

She tossed her purse onto the bed and searched the attaché case and the overnight bag, but nothing was missing, though some of the contents had been very slightly rearranged.

Her room looked down on a pleasant courtyard with a small fountain, some trees, and flowering bushes. No way out from there. It left only the front door and presumably a delivery entrance and dock, and possibly a path across the roof to another building.

She had not been the least bit surprised when McGarvey had shown up; in fact, she had expected him. Her only concerns were that she had not detected him behind her, and that she had come into France unarmed.

She got undressed, and took a quick shower, mostly to refresh herself. It was the middle of the night her time, and she was beat, but her adrenaline was pumping hard enough that she was wide-awake. She had come looking for George, and she had sent him the message. She wanted to be awake to find out if he responded, not only to that but to the failed assassination attempt.

She phoned room service and asked for a pot of tea with lemon, and a croissant with butter and raspberry confit.

Paris was already coming to an end for her. If George responded, it would possibly be off to Tel Aviv or wherever he suggested. If not, she would have to go deep, and it would have to be a lot deeper than any of the others had gone.

Roy had changed the fourth panel on Kryptos , which she had to admit was pretty clever, and now McGarvey knew what was probably still buried above Kirkuk, though possibly not the entire reason why, nor who had put it there.

When she was dressed, she called the operator and asked to be connected to McGarvey’s room.

Pete answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” She sounded stressed.

“In my room. Has Kirk returned yet?”

Pete hesitated for just a beat. “Quite a show you put on in the park.”

“You saw it?”

“Yes. And when you took off, Mac followed you on foot. Did you see him?”

“Briefly at a sidewalk café on the Champs-Élysées, where someone tried to kill me. I managed to get out of there, but Mac didn’t follow me. I suspect he went after the shooter.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“Some guy with a rifle in a second-floor window across the avenue. I think it was a Barrett.”

“Hard to miss at that short a range,” Pete said.

“I got lucky.”

“Was it your George?”

“I didn’t get that good a look, but I don’t think it was George.”

“Who else wants you dead?”

Alex managed to laugh. “I can think of a few people. An Iraqi or two, among others. But George could have sent someone. I’ve left word for him.”

“Where?”

“Doesn’t matter. What does is whether or not he answers and what he says.”

“What was your message?”

“Just that I was the last of the team, and did he want to meet with me?” Alex said. “What about Kirk? Have you heard from him?”

“Not yet,” Pete said. “Look, I’m coming to your room. We need to talk.”

“I just got out of the shower. Give me a couple of minutes.”

“Okay.”

Alex went to the window and called the travel agency on her cell phone. “Has there been an answer yet?”

“Yes,” the agent said. “One word: Come .”

“How soon can you get me there?”

“You’re booked business class on Turkish Airlines, flight eighteen twenty-four, leaves de Gaulle this afternoon at five.”

“Any other information?”

“No,” the travel agent said. “Have a good flight, Ms. Wheeler.”

Someone knocked at her door. “Room service,” a man called.

Alex ended the call, tossed the phone onto the bed, got a couple of euros from her purse, and answered the door.

An old man with a barrel chest and thick gray hair stood there, holding up an identification wallet. “I’m Colonel Roland Bete. I’d like to ask you a few questions concerning a shooting at a sidewalk café on the Champs-Élysées.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mr. McGarvey was there. At the moment he is in the custody of the Sûreté. Evidently, he was involved with an incident a few blocks away by the river in which a man was killed in a boating accident. Witnesses said there was a fight.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“It would be for the best if you allowed me to come in, unless you would rather be taken to an interrogation cell, from which point your fate would be completely out of my hands.”

Pete came down the corridor. “I heard,” she said. “What’s the real issue?”

“He was armed,” Bete said.

“Can we have him released?”

“Perhaps, if Mademoiselle cooperates,” Bete said. “But it will have to be soon. Major Lucien has given me one hour to present a proper reason why.” He looked at Alex, his expression completely neutral. He could have been discussing the weather. “We found the documents in your attaché case. And we know a seat has been booked on a Turkish Airlines flight to Tel Aviv for a Lois Wheeler.”