“Remind us why a prince from Qatar would do these things?” said the male officer, stroking his dapper mustache. “Kidnapping, murder. Come now, isn’t that a bit far fetched?”
And so, the decision to tell or not to tell. To Mac’s mind, he had to give them all the information he possessed, whether they chose to believe him or not.
“Ava believed that he was behind some kind of plot to disrupt a conference taking place here in Paris this weekend,” said Mac. “I imagine he found out that she knew about his plans and took steps to silence her.”
“And you, Mr. Steinhardt—you knew nothing about this?”
“I did not,” said Mac.
“You live with this woman,” the male official continued. “You know her past.”
“She served as Israel’s consul general in Zurich.”
“Her other past.”
“She worked in some capacity for the Israeli government,” said Mac. “At home and overseas.”
“And what capacity might that be?”
“In the diplomatic service,” said Mac. “It wasn’t something we talked about. It was long ago.”
“The diplomatic service?” asked the male official, not bothering to conceal his disbelief.
“Yes.”
“And how did this simple diplomatic worker uncover this heinous plot? A plan to disrupt a major international conference, no less?”
“To bomb it,” said Mac.
“Yes, as you said before. To bomb it.”
“I don’t know,” said Mac. For once, he was telling the truth. Ava had mentioned Zvi Gelber, but apart from that, he was in the dark.
The man dropped into a chair, looking at the ceiling and loosing a breath.
“And you are Robert Steinhardt, retired trader, import/export, blah, blah, blah,” said the woman. “Stop serving us warmed up dog shit. You think I don’t know what this is?” She picked up the “Wanted” paper. “It’s a hit sheet. Someone wants you dead. You, Mackenzie David Dekker. Not Robert Steinhardt. You. Mac Dekker, KIA Lebanon nine years ago. You think we don’t have our own sources?”
“I’m Robert Steinhardt,” responded Mac.
“Maybe it’s you who wants to bomb this conference,” suggested the woman, throwing herself in his face. “What do you think of that?”
“I’d like to see Ava, please,” said Mac, softly.
“You mean Colonel Attal of Mossad?”
“Just Ava.”
“And I’d like to sleep with David Beckham,” shouted the woman. “Neither of us has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting what we want.” She threw up her arms in a gesture of surrender and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
It was an act, Mac knew, as a former practitioner of the craft. Now he could expect the other part: She’s pissed, but her partner ... maybe he and Mac could work something out. Man to man.
The dapper cop looked at Mac. “You want a coffee?”
Mac said no, thank you.
“Sure? No trouble.”
Mac shook his head. The last thing he’d managed to do before being arrested was to swallow his last go pill. Well, his last two, if he was being honest. Despite the fact he’d slept three hours in the last thirty-six, been moving nonstop all that time, and taken a bullet, he felt okay. Better than that. Battle bright. His mind was agile and alert, working all the angles, even if deep down, he knew there weren’t any. He and Ava were locked away and would be for days, no matter what they said. There was no bail in France. No habeas corpus, at least not right away. No one would put stock in anything either of them said. Not if he refused to admit to his real name. Not if Ava was on the outs with her former bosses and a suspect in her own right. A police officer was dead, and they had killed her. Another woman lay dead inside the house. That is where the investigation began and ended.
