“I was over there too,” said the cop. “Beirut. They used to call it ‘the Paris of the Levant.’ Beautiful city. The women.”
“Yes,” said Mac. “I heard it was beautiful once.”
“I guess we never crossed paths,” the man went on. “Too bad. My name is Vincent, by the way. My real name.”
“I’m Robert. Call me Robbie.”
“You were with Special Activities,” said Vincent. “I heard this. Talented with a rifle. You had a partner, Russian name, who went over to them. It was big news for a day or two. So Zinal? That’s where aman goes to die. I’ll have to remember that. The Chalet Ponderosa. Sounds nice.”
“It is,” said Mac.
They regarded one another, Mac sensing that maybe, just maybe, Vincent might grant his words credence. The French authorities knew who he was. The picture on the hit sheet was twenty years old, but there was no mistaking that it was Mac. How long must he continue the charade?
“I wasn’t lying about the bomb,” said Mac. “It’s happening.”
“And the rest? Your name? Hers? Her past?”
Mac looked at Vincent. His silence was enough. The rest was true, but he’d never say it.
Heated voices drifted in from another room. He saw shadows moving on the other side of the opaque glass. Some kind of argument. Then in English: “Goddamn it, he’s ours. We’re taking him now.”
Vincent peered over his shoulder, then back at Mac. “You have friends here?”
“Not that I know,” said Mac.
“Maybe they came from Zinal,” said Vincent, with an unhappy chuckle. “I guess it was only a matter of time. This place is a sieve.”
“Versailles,” whispered Mac, placing a hand on Vincent’s forearm. “Something’s happening there tonight. Am I right? A treaty signing, something like that? If I were you, I’d have a look.”
“Versailles?”
“Yeah,” said Mac, looking Vincent hard in the eye. “I heard it from a guy named Dekker and a retired operative from Mossad.”
The door flew open. The female cop stormed in, followed by three people Mac knew from days past and present. Don Baker; a tall, attractive blond woman who looked much too familiar; and his daughter, Jane.
“We told you to get the hell out of town,” she said. “Don’t you ever listen?”
Chapter 59
Île de la Cité
Paris
“Here we are,” said the cab driver.
The taxi braked forcefully, veering to the left. Tariq’s eyes opened. He lifted his chin from his chest. “What?” he muttered, unaware he’d been dozing.
Tires brushed the curb as the vehicle came to a halt. Tariq stared out the window at a large building, a monolith bathed in light. Despite the short rest, he felt worse than he had before, as queasy as if he were on the deck of a rocking boat. Spots danced at the perimeter of his vision. He touched his side and winced.
“Twenty-eight euros,” said the driver.
Tariq fished a wad of bills from his pocket and handed the driver a €100 note. “Keep it.”
The driver accepted the bill with a concerned look, his eyes on a spot of blood decorating one corner.
Tariq opened the door and hauled himself from the car. He took a step, and his knees buckled. He stumbled, barely catching himself before he fell to the pavement. He gathered himself, squaring his shoulders, drawing a breath. He could do this. A stiff breeze lashed his face. He tasted rain on his lips. The cold, damp air and the bracingscent of the Seine revived him. The nausea left him. His vision cleared. He remembered why he was here.
Vespers. Five forty-five. The codes.
