The Shadowmen Page 8

  “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.”

  “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.

  “Touché,” the maestro announced.

  Bienot tore off his mask. “His knee touched the mat!” he shouted in French. If true, it was an infraction that would have voided the touch.

  “Non,” the maestro said. “Deux, zero.”

  McGarvey took off his mask as the boy came close. “You might win on the piste, son, eventually, if you learn to control your attacks. But you won’t win the fight you want to pick.”

  Bienot was on the verge of exploding.

  “I’m going to score on your left knee as you score on my mask. There is no other choice.”

  “En garde,” the maestro said. He had to repeat it before the boy put on his mask and took his position.

  “Prêt. Allez.”

  The boy lunged forward again, but this time, Mac backed up, and near the end of the piste, he suddenly hunched down again and thrust against the kid’s toe, the same as the last time. The boy leaped into the air, his blade arched over the top of McGarvey’s head, coming down and smacking into the top of Mac’s mask at the same time McGarvey caught the kid in the leg just below the knee. Both lights came on. It was a tie; both touches counted.

  “Coup double,” the maestro announced.

  McGarvey had won, three to one. The audience applauded as he took off his mask and saluted, but the boy turned and stalked off the piste.

  Pete and Martine were applauding and grinning, but Kurshin did not look happy.

  18

  McGarvey walked around to the other side of the piste where Martine and Kurshin were waiting with Pete, who handed him a towel and a bottle of Evian. He was breathing heavily out of his mouth but making a show of trying to hide it.

  “Are you okay?” Pete asked.

  “The kid was pretty fast,” Mac said.

  “He had good technique and plenty of wind, but he was dismissing you out of hand,” Kurshin said. He glanced across as the maestro was finishing his short explanation of why McGarvey and not the younger fencer had won.

  “Sounds like he’s making excuses,” Martine said.

  “The kid’s probably one of his star pupils, and he’s embarrassed. Losing the bout was a testimony to how good or bad an instructor he is,” Pete said.

  Mac wiped his face and took a drink of water. “What do you think?” he asked Kurshin.

  “He’s probably a B-rated fencer. In another year of seasoning, he might be ready for a crack at the world finals for a spot on the French Olympic team, but he underestimated you, and it was only a three-touch match.” A rated was the top designation for elite fencers.

  “You’re right, of course. I wouldn’t have made it through a fifteen-touch championship bout.”

  Kurshin said nothing.

  Two fencers came onto the piste. The maestro introduced them, one from a club in Paris and the other from Monaco. They were both young, still in their late teens, and arrogant, especially the Parisian, who strutted like a peacock. He towered a good six inches over the local kid.

  This match was at foil, a much lighter blade with more
stringent rules of engagement. In épée, a touch anywhere on the body, even the mask or the bare hand, counted as a score. Simultaneous touches counted. At foil, only the part of the fencer’s torso covered by a wire mesh vest that was hooked into the electronic scoring system counted. And only touches from the fencer who had established right of way—essentially, the first one to attack—scored.

  This match lasted a little longer than the first. The fencers were fairly evenly experienced, and they attacked, parried, and gave and took ground at tremendous speed.

  At one point, the Parisian flicked his sword hand with a very strong, very quick action that caused the tip of the blade to arch in midair, almost like a bullwhip, the point cracking decisively on the right shoulder, the scoring light coming on.

  “Touché,” the maestro said.

  “It’s not fair; he has the height advantage,” Martine said.

  “No handicaps in this sport,” McGarvey said.

  “Except for age,” Kurshin countered.

  “Didn’t seem to matter in M. Arouet’s bout,” Martine said.

  The round lasted only a couple of minutes longer, the Parisian making the same flicking attack twice more for which the local fencer seemed to have no effective defense.

  “That has to hurt,” Martine said.

  “It does,” Kurshin agreed.

  The maestro came over. “Are you gentlemen ready?”

  “Sure.” McGarvey nodded. He wiped his face again, took a drink of water, and handed the towel and bottle back to Pete.

  “Knock him dead,” she said.

  “Only three touches,” Mac mumbled, and he turned his head so that Kurshin couldn’t see his face, and he winked.

  * * *

  On the piste, the maestro introduced McGarvey again, to a light applause, and Kurshin as the gentleman from London.

  They saluted each other, the maestro, and the audience, donned their masks, and at the command, “Allez,” began.

  Kurshin was cautious at first, presenting his blade against Mac’s, stepping forward in a false attack and then retreating a few steps as Mac pressed the counterattack.

  They were testing each other, probing defenses, testing blade control and speed. In épée, landing the point on a precise spot at the precise moment was everything. Épée fencers spent countless hours training touch accuracy against an AAA battery hanging from a string at what would be the opponent’s midtorso height. The battery was swung so that it moved back and forth fairly quickly in an erratic orbit. The object was for the fencer to move forward and then retreat as the battery swung farther or nearer. At the right moment, the fencer would attempt to touch the battery with the point of his épée. It wasn’t easy, but it taught precision point control.