“Consider your freedom a token of my good faith,” said Vincent Dalin, with an edge. “Questions remain to be answered about the slaying of two Saudi diplomats yesterday afternoon at the Hotel Bristol, as well as the shooting of Mademoiselle Shugar and Sergeant Montcalm. Blood has been spilled. It is our practice to hold the suspects until evidence is found to exonerate them ...or not.”
“I’m grateful,” said Mac. “Merci.”
“De rien.” Dalin held out a hand. Mac shook it. A look passed between them. They were professionals. Dalin would do what he could. But don’t expect anything.
“Hurry,” said Mac. “Please.”
Dalin nodded gravely, said good evening, and reentered the prefecture.
A black Mercedes sedan entered the parking lot and pulled up to the stairs. A tall, bearded man got out of the driver’s seat. “Ready to roll?” he said. “They’re gassing up the plane.”
“This is Sam McGee, our Paris resident,” said Elkins. “He’ll be driving you to the airport.”
“I don’t think we should leave until this plays out,” said Mac.
“Mac, please,” said Ava.
“You need to leave,” said Baker, a hand on his shoulder.
“Get off me,” said Mac.
“Let’s go,” said Ava. “It is out of our hands. We tried.”
Mac looked at Elkins. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find a way to thank her. “Yeah,” he said to Ava. “We tried.”
Together they descended the stairs. McGee held the passenger door open.Tried.Was there any uglier word? Mac wanted to cry.
As he ducked his head, he felt his phone rattle. He pulled it from his pocket. Voicemail from Harry Crooks. He hit Play.
“Goddamn you, Dekker. Call me back. I’ve got him. I’ve got your bloody prince. He just walked into bloody Notre-Dame.”
Mac handed the phone to Ava and replayed the message. Her eyes met his. “A friend?” she whispered.
“A good friend.”
“Well, then,” said Ava.
Mac gazed across the parking lot, through the open gates, and across a broad public square. Two hundred meters away, bathed in white spotlights, stood a massive medieval cathedral whose construction had begun in the year 1163 and was completed in the year 1345. It was a straight shot from the prefecture steps to the front doors of Notre-Dame de Paris.
He grabbed Ava’s hand. “Shall we, my love?”
They ran.
Chapter 62
Salon of Peace
Palace of Versailles
Versailles, France
The Salon of Peace, located at the southern end of the Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versailles, hummed with expectation. Ten rows of chairs bisected by a center aisle seated two hundred guests, including the delegations from the United Arab Emirates, Saudi Arabia, Israel, Qatar, Bahrain, and Jordan. Additionally, sixteen members of the French foreign office, twelve Germans, ten Brits, and two Americans. Paintings of Greek gods, of victories and defeats stared at them from every wall. Flags lined the perimeter of the ornate room. The green, black, and red colors of Islamic states. The blue and white of Israel. Thebleu, blanc, et rougeof France. Television cameras flanked a lectern, behind which stood the president of France.
It was not the first treaty ever signed in the room. In 1783, the Treaty of Paris concluded hostilities between Great Britain and the nascent United States of America. The year 1871 saw the signing of a treaty ending the Franco-Prussian War; in this case, France the ignominious loser. The Treaty of Versailles was signed in 1919 to formally end the First World War, known at the time as the “Great War.” The signatories were too numerous to list but included the United Kingdom, France, Germany, and the United States.
Tonight, another treaty would be signed, not to end a conflict or officially terminate armed hostilities but to create a new alliance that would prevent any such calamity from occurring again. In a region as scarred by turmoil as any in history, the treaty would ensure peace, commerce, and the peaceful exchange of cultures. It was, in short, a miracle.
At 5:40 p.m., the president of France, Jean-Pierre Renaud—a short, vain man with hair dyed shoe-polish black and a bulbous nose that betrayed his lifelong love of wine—took his place behind the lectern.
