The Shadowmen by David Hagberg Page A

standards.”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œRight or left handed?” the girl asked.
    â€œRight. French grip.”
    â€œYou’re fencing at épée?”
    â€œOui.”
    â€œI’ll leave while you get dressed.”
    â€œIt’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?”
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œHow long has it been since you were in competition?”
    â€œA while.”
    â€œA word of advice, M. Arouet?”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œThis 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.”
    â€œMaybe 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.
    â€œWho do you have me paired with?” McGarvey asked the girl at the registration table.
    â€œWith M. Kallinger, at his request, if you agree,” she said.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œYes?” said the maestro.
    â€œM. Arouet asks if he could fence first with either Pierre or Tomas.”
    â€œI’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?”
    â€œ 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.
    â€œThis 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.
    â€œEn 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.
    â€œPrêt,” the maestro announced.