Barely a second had passed before Sophie patched in her superior, Sergeant Diallo. “I have a code one. Paris. Eighth arrondissement.”
Code one was the Emergency Response Grading System’s highest level of alert. It required credible mention of a violent act, past, present, or future.
Sophie replayed the call.
“Run a trace,” said Sergeant Diallo.
“The handset is registered to the Embassy of Qatar. 1 Rue de Tilsitt.”
“Triangulate location,” said Diallo.
“27 Avenue Montaigne. The residence is owned by Tariq bin Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah.”
“Corroboration with the caller established,” said Diallo. “Call the number back. Try and reestablish communication.”
“No answer,” said Sophie.
“I’ll take it from here,” said Sergeant Diallo. “Good work.”
The call from Sergeant Diallo reached RAID headquarters in Bièvres, Essonne—twelve miles southwest of Paris—at 2:14. “RAID” stood for “search, assistance, intervention, and deterrence,” and it was the elite tactical unit of the French National Police. RAID’s primary responsibilities included hostage recovery, protection of VIPs, and counterterrorism.
“Possible attack in progress,” said Diallo, upon reaching the incident commander. He replayed the message, simultaneously transferring it and all accompanying data.
The incident commander listened to the message, ended the call, and immediately punched a button on his console markedBRI—PAR. Security and Intervention Brigade / Paris Prefecture. He verbally relayed the contents of the call, along with the address and the instructions “Go in hard. We can’t risk anything. Not this weekend.”
Two minutes later, a tactical attack squad rolled out of a complex of buildings in Neuilly. The squad numbered sixteen officers and six vehicles. The officers were armed to the teeth, each carrying a machine gun, a pistol, grenades, and sufficient ammunition to last hours.
“Time to location: twelve minutes.”
Chapter 47
Avenue Montaigne
Paris
Sooner or later, Dekker had to show.
Cyrille de Montcalm resumed her trajet of the Avenue Montaigne. She’d been on her feet seven hours. Back and forth. Back and forth. Maybe two hundred meters in each direction, two city blocks. She was on the parade ground all over again. “Attention, les soldats! Marchez!” Past Dior. Past Gucci. Past the law offices of Yvan Merlotti. Past the medical clinic of Dr. Henri Bernard. To distract herself from her aching feet, she’d memorized them all.
Sooner or later, Dekker had to show.
Cyrille felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She didn’t bother checking. Another message from the lieutenant. “I don’t care how ill you are, get in here.” “This is your tenth sick day this year. Unacceptable.” Or “If you’re not here by three, don’t bother coming in tomorrow either!”
Go ahead, she retorted silently, jabbing her finger into his imaginary chest. Fire me. Just go and try.
The benefits of being good at the job. The ability to tell your boss to jump in the lake. But only so often.
It was then she noted the splotch of blood on her boot, just there on the toe cap. Gerard Rosenfeld’s blood. She bent and rubbed it offwith a fingernail. How could she have been so careless? A cop with the DNA of her victim on her shoe.
Rosenfeld had told her more than she’d wanted to know. It was her policy not to get mixed up in her client’s affairs. She didn’t need to understand the whys and wherefores. It only made the job more difficult. Why would she want to know anything about Israel or Mossad? Her thinking changed once Rosenfeld mentioned that it was a Middle Eastern prince who had kidnapped Dekker’s woman. At that instant, she decided she needed to know as much as possible. She was pleased with her decision. It was amazing what someone would tell you if you provided the proper motivation. She had no doubt that Tariq al-Sabah would be eminently grateful for her efforts to rid him of Mac Dekker. It was worth missing a day of work.
Behind Cyrille came the noise of a loud, high-pitched engine downshifting—third to second—then the squeal of brakes. She spun. What kind of car was that? She couldn’t take her eyes off the vehicle as it slowed and turned sharply into the carriageway of 27 Avenue Montaigne.
She stepped forward, craning her neck for a closer look. It was him. It was the man Rosenfeld called TNT. The prince. No mistaking him, though Cyrille’s eyes were drawn to the woman in the passenger seat. Now that ... that was something.
The car swung into the courtyard and disappeared from view.
Cyrille looked up and down the sidewalk. Her instincts told her that Dekker was somewhere nearby. If she’d seen the prince come home, so had he. But no, she didn’t spot him. She’d had her bit of luck, and she’d blown it.
