Hotel Bristol
Paris
A keen energy gripped Mac. Minutes ago, he had been acting out of fear, thinking defensively, maneuvering off his back foot. No longer. He was angry, a man affronted. A wronged man seeking redress.
He opened the armoire and removed her backpack, a black leather Tumi that she carried everywhere. He sat on the bed and opened it, then removed the contents item by item. Compact, lipstick, sunglasses, scarf. A rain jacket folded into a pouch. And there at the bottom, her Moleskine agenda.
He opened the journal and skimmed the pages. A few notes on each day. Lunch with so and so. Physical therapy at 1:00 p.m. And, more cryptically, abbreviations. “D.S.” “TNT.” “Call Z.G.” Who was Z.G.? Who was TNT?
Just then, the door to the suite opened. Mac raised his head. Footsteps. A man speaking softly, his voice deep, gravelly. “Just got into their room. No, I don’t see anyone. Just wait ... I’ll find it.”
Mac set down the journal, moved to the doorway, and placed his back against the wall. He had no weapons. Next to him, on a side table, sat a decorative statuette. Napoleon on his rearing horse, his hand raised in victory. Mac picked it up and spun it in his hand to hold it like a billy club.
“Don’t worry,” said the man. “I’ll take care of everything.”
French with a Middle Eastern accent. Libyan, Egyptian, Lebanese.
Mac peeked around the door and caught a glimpse of a dark jacket, close-cropped hair. A tall man, broad shouldered, stood in the center of the sitting room, his back turned to him.
Mac drew a breath, raised the statuette, and charged through the door. “You!”
The man spun. Seeing Mac, he cried out and raised an arm to protect himself. “Please, no!”
Mac noted his uniform. Blue blazer, gray trousers, name tag. “Pierre.” The fruit basket he was carrying fell to the floor.
Mac stopped in his tracks. He lowered the statuette. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were ...”
“Concierge service,” said Pierre. He gestured at the fruit strewn across the carpet. “May I?”
Mac set the statuette on a table. “Yes, of course, go ahead.”
Pierre kneeled to gather the fruit.
“I didn’t order anything,” said Mac.
“A delivery.” Pierre placed the fruit basket on the table. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Wait.” Mac dug a ten-euro note from his pocket. “Again, I’m sorry.”
Pierre accepted the banknote. With haste, he left the room.
Mac went to the bar and poured himself a glass of water. He drew a breath, willing his heart to slow. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window. A wide-eyed, desperate man stared back.
Mac really was out of practice. His memory might still be sharp, but his instincts were shot to hell. He didn’t want his legacy to include scaring a bellman to death, or worse, braining an innocent man with a statue of Napoleon Bonaparte.
He returned to the bedroom, moving with greater urgency. He checked Ava’s nightstand. Cough drops. Tissue. Nothing else.
To the bathroom. He opened Ava’s leather medicine bag. Antacid. Codeine. Xanax. The intelligence officer’s holy trinity. Tucked into apouch was a foil vacuum pack with twelve round, chalky white tablets; three were missing. Aspirin? Painkillers? Vitamins? The only marking on the packet was a minuscule twelve-digit alphanumeric code. Not an expiration date. Something else. He turned the packet toward the light. Only then could he see it. A large Hebrew letter stamped onto the pack. Resh. The letter “R.” It meant nothing to him, which was odd in and of itself. Ava packed only what she needed. He popped out a tablet and dropped it into his pocket. To investigate further.
Mac returned to the bedroom and opened the closet, then zeroed in on Ava’s stainless steel carry-on. He picked it up and slung it onto the bed. He thumbed the fasteners. The case was locked. He retrieved a nail file from his own medicine kit. He required less than a minute to pick both locks and open the carry-on. Tennis shoes, shorts, socks, tank top. Someone hadn’t consulted the weather forecast. He shook the case. Nothing else was inside. So why lock it?
Mac ran his fingers along the inside of the suitcase, prodding the material. He completed the perimeter, then attacked the bottom. He felt nothing but the smooth, hard shell. He spun the case so that the top faced him. Immediately, his fingers touched something hard and angular. His fingers traced a rectangular form, maybe one inch in height. He guided his hand left to right. Again, he tripped over a blunt object concealed by the opaque plastic lining, this one rounded, the length of a ballpoint pen. A third object was concealed in the upper corner. There were several more.
Mac ran a fingernail along the edge of the lining, separating it from the case. He gave a tug. It came free, exposing the hidden objects. All were colored a drab green. All were held in place by clamps. He pulled each free. All were fabricated from high-density plastic. A total of five pieces.
Mac knew what he was looking at. He’d trained with long guns, rifles, high-caliber machine guns, but his expertise included weapons of a smaller caliber, handguns included. Here, lying harmlessly on thebedspread, were the components of a pistol: barrel, magazine, stock, and frame. And separately, a container holding six bullets.
Mac put it together in a minute. It looked like a nine-millimeter semiautomatic. There was no serial number, no brand engraved anywhere. The pistol had been manufactured by a 3D printer. Taken apart, it would escape detection at any airport, train station, or hub where luggage might be passed through an x-ray machine. The bullets, however, were not plastic. They were hollow points designed to mushroom on impact. Conclusion: Ava had purchased them once they’d arrived in Paris.
