“And we will find those people and make sure we put an end to their activities. It’s what we do.” Shaka smiled inquisitively. “Riske, tell me, how did you discover my name?”
“It’s not just us. Others are involved. Governments. Intelligence agencies. They know all about Borgia and what he’s planning. There’s still time.”
“Chain of command. First thing you learn in the military. Colonel Tan forgot it. He tried to tell Borgia what to do. Me, I don’t bother with the bigger issues.”
“A loyal soldier.”
“Meine Ehre heisst Treue,” said Kruger, echoing a Nazi slogan. My honor is loyalty.
“I thought the Germans ditched that one after World War Two.”
“We are who we are,” said Kruger.
“Why did you kill Mandy?” asked London.
“She was the only person I could think of who might have had an idea where you were. I couldn’t allow her to inform you. Besides, she’d have written the story in your absence.”
“So will someone else.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“And at the airport?” said Simon.
“Borgia insisted on giving the Swiss a shot at you. He didn’t want you to get a step closer. To your credit, I was confident you would slip through their fingers.”
“Especially since you weren’t there to help them.”
“I owe you, brother.” Shaka shook his head, eyes narrowing, sizing Simon up. “Too bad you can’t come over to our side. Mr. Borgia would like you.”
“The feeling isn’t mutual.”
“Not to worry. I wouldn’t allow it to happen. You might steal my job.”
“Doubtful. I prefer something with a little more security. I’ve got a feeling you’re about to become unemployed.”
“I see things differently.” Shaka tossed Simon a small metallic box with a digital readout on its face. “Radioactive isotope detector. One of our boys painted you at the Zurich airport. Uranium-239. A little spray on your clothing. Done quickly. No smell. Virtually unnoticeable. Extremely rare. We can get a read on its signature at three kilometers. Don’t worry, sweetheart, it won’t kill you. We only use a little bit. And, no, we didn’t follow you from Zurich. Why bother? We knew there were only a few places you might go. We picked you up on the autoroute coming into Nice, then at the port. From there, we didn’t need a damned thing; we could see you from a mile away in that red machine.”
Simon lowered his hands, a sign of capitulation. He needed to distract the man, just for a second. “And now?”
Shaka checked his watch. “Show’s beginning soon. Did you figure it out?”
“I think so.”
“Clever bastards. I’ll give them that. The last people you’d suspect. The actors. Mr. Borgia is convinced all will go smoothly. It’s my job to be on-site in case it doesn’t.” He crossed the room, the pistol hanging at his side. An invitation. “Here’s what happened: You came to confront Samson Sun about his activities working for Hadrian Lester and PetroSaud. Sun broke down. Frightened for his freedom, he pulled a gun to shoot you. You were also armed. It appears that no one survived.” A smile. “Darling, will you move closer to Mr. Riske. I don’t think Samson Sun was that good of a shot.”
“Stay where you are, London,” said Simon.
Shaka raised his pistol, the fat barrel of the noise suppressor pointed at him. “Time to say our farewells.”
A gunshot. An ear-shattering crack.
Shaka fell forward, off-balance, a gaping hole below his shoulder, gore everywhere. In a moment, the blood had drained from his face. A second shot. Plaster exploded from the wall inches from Simon’s head. Simon threw himself to the ground. Kruger fell to a knee, fired a shot into the floor. Slowly, he raised the gun, eyes locked on Simon.
A third shot. Shaka’s head dissolved in an opera of blood, bone, and brain. He fell face down on the carpet.
A tall, fit woman clad in black pants, black T-shirt, hair pulled back, advanced into the room, large-caliber pistol held in both hands. She moved the pistol to all points of the room. “Was he alone?”
“Yes,” said Simon. He hadn’t even cleared the pistol from his waistband.
“Everyone okay? You, there?”
London said she was, then was sick on the floor.
“And you?”
“Still in one piece.” Simon pointed to the hole in the wall inches from his head. “You almost got me.”
“I’ve always been a terrible shot.” She stood above Shaka, appraising his corpse without emotion. She had done this before.