Élysée Palace
Paris
The limousine bearing the emir of Qatar, His Excellency Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah, and his son, Prince Jabr, departed the Élysée Palace at 4:00 p.m. under a steady rain. Father and son sat side by side in the back seat. Neither spoke. The emir maintained a fractious relationship with his oldest son and heir to the throne. Whereas he could be light and frivolous with Tariq, he was always the taciturn martinet to Jabr. Perhaps it was because he expected different things from them. Jabr had been groomed his entire life to one day rule the country. He required more discipline, less humor; more scolding, less forgiveness. A head of state had few friends. Cultivating an outgoing, gregarious personality was a liability. Let Tariq be the smiling, handsome face of Qatar. Jabr must be its strong, stoic face.
The emir’s choices had paid off. Jabr had excelled his entire life. Top boy at Eton. A gifted athlete. Instrumental in securing the 2022 FIFA World Cup. In a sense, he’d always been a visionary.
It was Jabr who had come up with the idea of a Greater Gulf Co-Prosperity Sphere. And Jabr who had convinced the countries of the Gulf to sign the treaty. It was Jabr who had faced down the Jews and the Saudis—both intractable, unreasonable, and contentious to the bone—and forced concessions from each. It was Jabr who had persuaded theFrench president to serve as host to the conference. The UK was out of the question, as was the United States; their histories in the region had left too many scars. When all was said and done, the treaty was Jabr’s and Jabr’s alone.
The limousine made slow, fitful progress across the city. Evening traffic was as snarled as ever. Thank God they’d left when they did, as they needed a full hour to reach Versailles on the western outskirts of the city.
It was his first time visiting the magnificent palace, and he couldn’t help but lean forward to take in its immense grandeur. It wasn’t especially tall or especially showy, but he was awed by its sheer size, its weight, and its elegance. This, then, was civilization. This was majesty.
The limousine passed through a cordon of security and stopped at the grand entry.
“It looks like the entire French Army is here,” said the emir, half in admiration.
“Good,” said Jabr. “There are many people who would like to stop our progress. Haters.”
As they left the car, a dozen soldiers surrounded them, forming a protective phalanx and guiding them inside. They had taken only ten steps when Jabr suddenly stopped. He turned to his deputy. “Go get the champagne,” he commanded. “The big bottle. The methuselah.”
The deputy returned to the limousine and fetched the large crate. Jabr took it from him. He turned to his father. “Wouldn’t do to forget this,” he said. “It’s the only good idea Tariq has ever had.”
Chapter 58
Prefecture de Police
Paris
“So,” said one of the policemen. “Just tell us who you really are. We know anyway. No need to continue lying.”
There were two officials from French law enforcement: a man and a woman. The man was Mac’s age; tall, barrel chested, with a halo of gray hair and a dapper mustache. He wore a nice suit, charcoal gray, and a dark necktie with the tie clip identifying him as a former legionnaire, a member of the French Foreign Legion. He was the fed, probably from the DGSE, the spy service. The woman was short and skinny, maybe forty, with jeans, a leather jacket, brown hair cut in an unfashionable bob. A heavy smoker, by the lines crimping her mouth and the pall that came off her every time she leaned across the table. She was a local, Mac figured—Paris police, one of the shooter’s former colleagues. Neither gave a name.
Mac sat on one side of the desk. They sat on the other. Ava was in another room, most probably suffering the same treatment. The clock on the wall read 5:20 p.m. Mac’s arm was in a sling, thanks to a paramedic. The bullet had creased the ball of his shoulder, digging a shallow canal out of soft tissue and muscle. Initial treatment was an antiseptic, a shot for the pain, and a bandage. A doctor had been summoned, but he could wait.
“My name is Robert Steinhardt,” said Mac. “I am a Swiss citizen. I reside in Zinal, Switzerland. The Chalet Ponderosa.” Not exactly name, rank, and serial number, but close enough.
“And this?” said the woman, pounding a finger on a photograph of a much younger Mac Dekker, staring at them from what might be called a modern-day version of a “Wanted” poster. A sheet with name, alias, physical description, and a disconcertingly accurate summary of his career at the CIA and before. Neither official said how they’d come upon it, but Mac knew all the same. The woman Ava had killed on the roof of TNT’s house was a contract assassin. She had taken the red flag on Mac. She was the same person, he was convinced, who’d shot at him earlier that morning as he fled Gerard Rosenfeld’s apartment. Twice she’d missed, the second time, just. Mac could consider himself lucky, if not blessed. Or maybe not so much. The problem was that the shooter was also a police officer. Her name was Sergeant Cyrille de Montcalm of the DGSI and, he’d been told, a possessor of a spotless record, a longtime veteran of the force held in the highest esteem by her colleagues.
“I’m sorry,” said Mac, barely glancing at the picture. “That’s not me. I’m Robert Steinhardt.”
“Yes, we know,” said the man. “From Zinal. I must say you’re not bad. I almost believe. Almost.”
Mac showed neither joy nor sorrow at the compliment. In truth, he was more accustomed to being on the opposite side of the table. His years in Iraq and Afghanistan had involved more talking than killing. Over time, he had become an expert in eliciting information from the most hostile of adversaries and less of one in the vagaries of human behavior.
“Tell us again what you are doing in Paris,” said the woman. It was the third time through. Standard interrogation policy. Play. Rewind. Play again. Trip ’em up on the small stuff, and eventually they cop to the big stuff. Human behavior 101.
Mac started at the top. A romantic weekend in Paris. A proposal of marriage. When Ava disappeared from the restaurant, he made it his mission to find her. As any man would, he added, appealing to the Gallic male’s sense of chivalry. He loved her. He could do no less.
“And the men in the Hotel Bristol?”
Mac had never seen them before. He had no idea why Saudi diplomats wished to kill him. He fought back. What choice did he have? Of course he ran. Otherwise, he never would have found Ava. Mac wasn’t lying. Not really. He was telling the truth, as seen by a retired CIA operative sworn to never reveal his identity. In other words, the truth according to Robert Steinhardt.
Yes, he had gone to the restaurant Jules Verne late last night to view its security cameras. Yes, he had visited Gerard Rosenfeld’s apartment. Yes, he had broken into Tariq al-Sabah’s home. Why shouldn’t he have done? He had seen Al-Sabah’s image on the security cameras. Gerard Rosenfeld had confirmed his identity, as well as admitted to having acted himself as a coconspirator. It was Tariq al-Sabah who had kidnapped Ava from the restaurant—and, Mac added forcefully, who had killed Dahlia Shugar.
“He’s the man you should be questioning,” Mac added, with righteous indignation.
As for Sergeant Montcalm, it was self-defense. Kill or be killed.
