Free The Shadowmen by David Hagberg

king. She lost.
    The banker was given his share, minus the house cut, and he announced he would remain the banker, this time at fifty thousand euros.
    â€œBanco,” McGarvey said loudly, his voice slurred, the single word mispronounced.
    â€œThe man is drunk,” Martine said.
    Kurshin said nothing. McGarvey would not have come here drunk, and from what he’d been told, the American was fluent in French.
    The cards were dealt, and McGarvey flipped his over immediately, a nine and a jack. “Neuf,” he said savagely. “Nine.”
    The banker checked his cards, asked for a third—which was an ace—and he turned over his down cards, which were a queen and three. A loss.
    â€œHow about them apples,” McGarvey mumbled.

12
    â€œThe man standing behind the player at the far end of the table to your left is a possibility,” Otto said in McGarvey’s ear.
    Mac put his hand to his mouth as if he were about to cough. “The one with the woman in white?”
    â€œYes. I’m running both of their photos.”
    The glasses that Otto had designed were a riff on Google Glass, except they were not so obvious. Mac’s view of the built-in camera and the Internet came up as a head-up display on the inside of both lenses. No one looking at him, not even close up, could spot the display, but the images were transmitted in real time to one of Otto’s monitors back at Langley or to his laptop wherever he was.
    The woman who’d lost got the bank for one hundred thousand euros.
    â€œBanco,” McGarvey said, excluding the other players around the table from making any bets.
    The two young Arabs got up and sauntered off, but one of them came back and looked at McGarvey, a smirk on his lips.
    Four cards were dealt down. Mac’s were a seven and king.
    The woman turned her cards over. A two and six.
    â€œHuit,” the croupier announced.
    McGarvey took a long time to apparently make a decision. The croupier was about to say something when Mac motioned for another card.
    The woman dealt the card facedown, and the croupier deposited it faceup in front of Mac. A two.
    Mac turned his cards over.
    â€œNeuf,” the croupier said, and a sigh went around the table. Hoping with the ace to win was not only highly unlikely, it went against the polite conventions of the game, once again proving the American was crude. Lucky, but crude.
    â€œHow about them goddamn apples,” McGarvey said loudly enough for everyone in the salon to hear.
    â€œI’m coming up with nothing on the man, but the woman seems interesting,” Otto said in his ear.
    Mac glanced toward the end of the table, but the man and woman weren’t there. He raised a hand to his mouth. “They’re gone.”
    â€œWhat do you want to do?”
    â€œFollow them.”
    â€œMight not be our man,” Otto said.
    â€œWe’ll see.”
    When the accounts were settled, McGarvey passed a five thousand–euro plaque to the croupier and got up, making a show of being unsteady. “Place my winnings in my account, and don’t shortchange me.”
    He turned, knocking his chair over, and left the salon. One of the casino managers intercepted him just at the front doors.
    â€œPardon, Monsieur Arouet,” he said politely. “There is the matter of your winnings.”
    â€œHold them; I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” McGarvey said.
    The manager hesitated.
    McGarvey patted the man on the arm. “Sober,” he said, half under his breath.
    Once he was outside and out of earshot from the doormen and valet parkers, he talked to Otto. “I’m clear.”
    â€œYou made quite an impression,” Otto said.
    Traffic was picking up, and a lot of partygoers on foot crowded the Place du Casino. A police car flashed by, lights blinking but no siren. Down in the harbor, the deep-throated horn of an obviously large boat sounded a long blast, which meant it was backing