“I tried, but they insist. You see, they say it was you who called.”
“Me? How can that be?”
“The call came from your number.”
The urge to laugh left Tariq as quickly as it had come. He had no time to consider how such a call could have been made. That was for later. Right now, he had another priority. He couldn’t allow the police to find Ava Attal. She was inside somewhere, hiding who knew where, doing who knew what. He’d exchanged one danger for another.
A new voice came over the line. “This is Captain Chardin, RAID. Is this Tariq al-Sabah? You have two minutes to come to the door. We are initiating a search of your home. Any action taken against us will be considered hostile.”
“Wait ... there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Two minutes.” The call ended.
Tariq took the pistol from his waistband. It felt different from just a minute ago. It was no longer an instrument to threaten. Something alien, something he did not want to use. He clutched the grip welcomingly. You and I are friends, and we’re going to do what we should have done a long time ago.
Tariq ran out of the room and down the hallway. Which way had she gone? Upstairs or downstairs? Down. There was no way out from the top floor unless you considered the roof. And where would she go from there? Jump?
No. Ava Attal was inside, and he would find her.
Chapter 52
27 Avenue Montaigne
Rooftop
Paris
Mac turned his head into the wind. A siren; then, a second. He checked his watch. Fourteen minutes. God bless you, Harry. He caught sight of a police car tearing around the corner a few blocks away. A fleet of law enforcement vehicles followed. Pulling up the rear was an armored personal carrier with a battering ram attached and giant tires that belonged on a tractor.
“You’re going to know when they get there,” Crooks had promised. “They come in heavy.”
Mac walked to the parapet and put one foot over the top. It was a short slide down the steep mansard roof, and from there, a ten-foot drop onto the roof of TNT’s home. There was a narrow band of empty roof directly below him, and just past that, a broad glass skylight. Beware. Farther along, the flower beds, all covered by tarps. Mac made sure the pistol fit snugly in his waistband. He tested the mansard roof with the toe of his shoe. It was as slick as a chalkboard.
Mac looped the rope around an old chimney, nearly as tall as himself, and tied a bowline to secure it. He returned to the parapet and tossed the rope over. Any other time he’d fashion a saddle and clip in. Today it was old-fashioned hand-over-hand climbing.
A deep breath. He threw his left foot onto the roof, grabbed the rope with both hands, and began to descend. He made it three steps before slipping, landing hard on his hip. He caught himself and found his footing. Another few steps and he touched the gutter. Up and over. The rest of the way was a redbrick wall. Easy enough. He dropped the last few feet and landed softly.
Mac hurried to the rooftop door. He was relieved to discover that the lock had not been changed: an old-fashioned single-key Schlage. He studied the door’s perimeter for contacts indicating the presence of an alarm system. He found none. He gave the doorknob a twist. Locked. Can’t win ’em all.
The sirens stopped. From the street below rose the brutish hollow thuds of doors slamming, then orders being shouted. Mac stepped to the front of the building. A careful look over the side. The RAID team had pulled up across the street. A dozen officers—all clad in dark battle dress—gathered near the command vehicle. At either end of the block, barricades were put in place. Mac went to the far side of the roof and checked the courtyard. TNT’s car was still there.
He returned to the rooftop door. There was no time to bother with a pick, even if he had one. He freed Crooks’s pistol from his waistband, turned it around to hold by the muzzle, and brought the butt down on the doorknob. The knob held fast. It was stronger than it looked. Mac struck it once more, to the same effect. He stepped away, scouring the roof for something to pry open the door. He spotted a garden hoe half buried in a dormant bed. Maybe, he thought.
He yanked the hoe out of the dirt and wiped the blade on his trousers, cleaning away the moist soil. Lifting the hoe so that it was parallel to the doorknob, he jimmied the blade into the doorjamb. He placed his left hand at the top of the pole and gave a quick, violent wrench. Wood splintered. The door flung open, banging against the wall. Another anxious moment waiting for an alarm to sound. Nothing.
Mac dropped the hoe and entered TNT’s house.
Six floors below, Cyrille de Montcalm heard the sirens and knew at once that it was him. This was Mac Dekker’s doing.
The RAID vehicles sped along the Avenue Montaigne, the command car coming to a halt across the street from the entrance to the prince’s home. A tall, black-haired man got out. No helmet. No weapon. A Kevlar vest over his uniform. A profile to rival de Gaulle’s. She knew him. Luc Chardin, deputy commander of the RAID battalion stationed at Neuilly.
Cyrille hung back, biding her time. She allowed the other vehicles to arrive and the men to take up position. The first job, she knew, was to clear the sidewalks, get all bystanders out of harm’s way. Only then would they go in.
A young officer barely old enough to have his first shave approached her, waving his arms and shouting for her to scram.
“What’s going on?” said Cyrille, showing him her badge, holding it at eye level so he’d be sure to read her identification.
“Leave it to us,” said the soldier.
