The woman stopped a few feet away and took dead aim.
Mac stared her in the eye.
Like that, her head jerked backward. A spray of blood and brain erupted from the back of her skull, a red vapor, here then gone. She collapsed, falling to one side and landing on the skylight. Glass fractured, then gave way. The woman crashed into the room below.
Ava had already replaced her pistol and taken hold of the rope. “Later,” she said. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
With redoubled effort, she climbed the wall. Mac stood below her, still dazed, unable to think of anything to say. It had begun to rain, the sky growing darker by the minute, a cold snapping wind out of the north.
Ava reached the top of the brick wall. She put a foot on the slate roof, tested it, then pulled off her stockings one at a time. “Almost there,” she said. “Go ahead. Come up.”
“I’m outta here,” said Mac. “Finally.”
Before the words had left his mouth, police stormed onto the roof. A half dozen counterterrorism troops formed a semicircle around him, assault rifles at their shoulders.
“You. Don’t move,” shouted a female officer. “Both of you. You are under arrest.”
Chapter 56
Hôtel Plaza Athénée
Lobby
Paris
It was Vivaldi.The Four Seasons. “Autumn,” which was appropriate given the month and the weather. The French had a word for it, “variable,” which Harry deciphered as “rainy until it isn’t.” He sat at a small two-top adjacent to the Gallerie and as far from the string quartet as possible. He kept his eyes on the entry, through which he glimpsed a police car, blue strobes, a jeep, and a procession of uniformed soldiers coming and going. Harry checked his phone. Mac had promised to text the moment he found Ava. In the meantime, Harry was to act as lookout.
A waiter arrived, carrying espresso and pastry. He set down the plate and cutlery. As he stood to ask if he might bring Monsieur anything else, another man bumped into him. It was enough contact to make the waiter stagger and drop his serving tray. The tray landed noisily. Heads turned. The man stopped to help the waiter regain his balance and, in doing so, nudged Harry. Harry wouldn’t have looked twice except for the man’s smell. So close, Harry could not help but be overwhelmed by it. The man, whoever he was, gave off a sour, rank odor. It was not the smell of sweat from exertion. It was the other kind. A sweat born of fear and anxiety and flight. He carried another scent with him: smoke.More specifically, gunpowder. The combination took Harry back forty years. It was a smell soldiers knew from the battlefield.
The man touched Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, sir. Accept my apologies.”
“It was nothing,” said Harry, smiling, even as the man’s reek stung his nostrils.
The man continued toward the front doors. Harry watched him. He noted his attire: dark trousers, dark sweater, dazzlingly white tennis shoes, and a leather backpack more likely to be seen on a woman. For a moment the man turned and looked over his shoulder. Harry saw his face full on. He was ashamed he had not recognized him earlier. It was the man from the video clip talking to businessmen in Doha. It was Mac’s prince. Tariq al-Sabah.
Harry put down his espresso and followed him across the lobby. He regarded the man’s progress, noting a slight limp, right leg, and saw that he kept his hand pressed to his right hip, as if cramping.
A crowd had gathered by the entry. Doormen stood on the sidewalk outside, shoulder to shoulder, arms outstretched, forming a kind of human barrier. Tariq al-Sabah forded his way through the crowd to the front doors, then onto the sidewalk. No chance Harry could follow. He could only watch. It was evident the doormen knew the prince. A conversation ensued, Al-Sabah no doubt requesting permission to leave the premises. The doormen shook their heads resolutely. Tariq stepped closer and appeared to whisper something. In a snap, the doormen’s attitudes changed. Money. What else? Both dropped their arms and guided Al-Sabah between them and onto the street. A second later, he had disappeared.
“Dammit,” said Harry loud enough to draw several stares.
And then a miracle. Before Harry could return to his table, Al-Sabah was back, forcibly escorted into the hotel at the hands of two policemen and given a shove so he knew to stay there. Harry smiled.
Al-Sabah retraced his steps across the lobby. His limp had grown more noticeable, no doubt as a result of the policemen’s friendlytreatment. He paused near the reception desk, checked his watch, then set off down the corridor adjacent to the Gallerie. Harry followed, conscious of how he stuck out. You didn’t see a Black man in a wheelchair rolling around a hotel like this one every day. Al-Sabah, however, never looked back, not once. He turned down a hall lined with boutiques of one sort or another—nothing Harry would desire in a million years—and, seconds later, exited the hotel through a side door onto the Rue du Boccador.
Harry reached the door in time to see Al-Sabah hailing a taxi. He was grimacing, and Harry knew that he was hurt. It was only natural to assume that Mac was responsible. The thought galvanized him. Al-Sabah was on the run, the bloody kidnapping bastard. There was no sign of Mac; no message whatsoever from him. He refused to assume the worst. It fell to Harry, then, to give chase.
Harry made his way through the exit and onto the sidewalk. Traffic was backed up in both directions due to the road closure, more or less at a standstill. He caught Al-Sabah’s profile in a taxi across the street. Another cab was parked nearby. Harry saw his opportunity. He rapped on the window. The driver helped him into the back seat, folded his chair, and placed it into the trunk.
“See that taxi?” said Harry, pointing at the Renault several cars in front of them. “Please follow it.”
“Any idea where he is going?” asked the driver.
“Just follow it, please,” said Harry. “It’s a family emergency.”
The taxi driver turned on the meter. “Whatever you like,” he said. “But I don’t think we will be going anywhere for a good long while.”
Chapter 57
