Ava’s phone rang. She looked at the screen. Her expression hardened. It was important. “Mac, I’m sorry. Can I?”
“Go ahead,” he said. “But I may eat your dessert.”
“Don’t you dare.” Ava stood and came around the table and kissed him. “Be right back.” She walked from the dining room, placing the phone to her ear. “Grüß Gott.”
Mac watched her disappear down the hall. He took out the jewelry box and set it on the table. There. He’d done it. When she returned and sat down, she’d see it. He’d give her a moment, then pop the question.
He drank some more champagne and stared out the window. What a city. It truly was breathtaking. Ava was right. They could go anywhere. Well, almost anywhere. DC was out. For that matter, so were the States. He couldn’t risk running into someone he knew. Baker had been plenty clear. Mac was to keep his head down. He had enemies waiting to pounce. It was a fair bargain—one he’d agreed to when he accepted the US government’s money. Who needed the States?
Ava was originally from France. Why not here? Provence was nice. Maybe Arles or Aix. He could use some more sun. The food was certainly good. It would be onion soup for lunch and duck à l’orange for dinner.
The server brought dessert. Raspberry sorbet and pears. He spied the jewelry box and rushed to refill their champagne. “With compliments of the house,” he said.
“She hasn’t said yes yet,” said Mac. “Wish me luck.”
“Bonne chance,” said the server.
Mac checked his watch. Ava had been gone too long. Ten minutes ... no,twelve, to be exact. He felt a stab between his shoulders. A tinge of unease. Ava wasn’t a gabber; quite the opposite. She was a woman of few words, especially when it came to business. “Brusque” wouldn’t be an inappropriate word to describe her. He wondered who she was speaking with. A native German speaker? “Grüß Gott” was the greeting commonly used in Bavaria and Austria.
Mac looked over his shoulder. The restaurant was emptying out. It was past 3:30 p.m. He noted that only one other table remained occupied. Another couple. Gray haired. Elegantly dressed. They held hands across the table, content to stare into each other’s eyes. A picture of Mac and Ava in fifteen years?
Mac slid the jewelry box back into his pocket. He tapped his fingers on the table. There it was again. A distinct feeling that something was wrong. He picked up the champagne and put it back down. He didn’t want any more alcohol in his system.Not if ...
Mac stopped himself. He laughed. What in the world was he thinking? Ava was out of the game. She’d spent the last twelve months at his side. He couldn’t remember her once mentioning “the Office,” as she referred to Mossad. There was absolutely no reason to think anything was amiss.
And yet . . .
He glanced over his shoulder again, willing Ava to appear. The servers had gathered by the kitchen door. He caught their impatient glances. Please leave. You’ve had your meal. It’s time to start preparing for the evening service.
Mac took out his phone and called Ava. The call went directly to voicemail after a single ring. Odd. That happened only if the phone was off.Not odd. Troubling.Again, he felt the stab between his shoulders.
Mac stood and signaled to the maître d’. “Excuse me, but have you seen the woman who was seated at my table? She took a call about fifteen minutes ago and hasn’t returned.”
“She is wearing a black dress, hair up, very attractive?”
Mac nodded, but he could have done without the last part. The French. “That’s her.”
“I’m sorry,” said the maître d’ with concern. “I have not seen her anywhere.”
Mac looked this way and that. The main dining room was a large rectangular space, windows on three sides, tables spaced evenly. There was a second, smaller room also visible, looking north toward the Trocadéro. That room was empty. “Can you have someone check the ladies’ room?”
“Right away.” The maître d’ dispatched a server to check. “I’m sure everything is fine,” he continued unconvincingly. “Perhaps madame is taking photos. Such a lovely day.”
“Perhaps,” said Mac.
The server returned and reported that there was no one in the women’s restroom.
“Is there anywhere else she could be?” asked Mac.
“There is only the kitchen, and a private dining room above us.”
“Can you show me?”
“Of course.” The maître d’ walked down the hall and opened a paneled door. He was a small man and slight, dressed in an immaculate black suit, his thick gray hair teased like cotton candy. Mac followed him up a flight of stairs to a small dining room. Even with the lights out, it was immediately apparent that the room was empty.
“Let us check the kitchen,” offered the maître d’.
Mac followed him down the stairs and through a pair of swinging doors into the restaurant’s capacious kitchen. Bright lights. Stainless steel. A staff of twenty. The chefs appeared nonplussed as Mac circled the room.
