“I told him,” said the Arab. “Shafra al Shamunis bullshit. I knew she didn’t have it.”
“Have what?” asked Mac. “Shafra” in Arabic meant “code” or “book.”
A heavy fist pounded at the door. Heated voices. “Monsieur Steinhardt. Open up. Monsieur Steinhardt! S’il vous plaît!”
The hotel staff had heard the gunshot and tracked down its source.
“It’s over,” said Mac. “You aren’t going anywhere. Tell me. Where’s Ava?”
“Where do you think she is?” The man smiled bitterly and tossed the pistol at Mac’s feet. “We have her.”
“Where?”
“Did you really think you could stop us? Just the two of you alone?”
The door to the room opened, banging loudly against the security clasp. “Monsieur Steinhardt, are you all right?”
The Arab’s eyes went to the French doors leading to the small balcony.
“No,” said Mac.
“Inshallah,” said the man beneath his breath, then darted across the salon and jumped the coffee table. Arms raised above his head, he crashed through the French doors. Wood splintered. Glass shattered. The man struck the wrought iron balustrade, flipped head over heels,and disappeared from view. Seconds later, his body struck the pavement four floors below with a mighty clap.
Mac ran to the balcony and peered down at the lifeless body.
“Mr. Steinhardt. Open the door.”
Mac surveyed the room. What a mess. He picked up Ava’s pistol and secured it in his waistband. He approached the man he’d killed. A check of his jacket yielded a wallet, a hotel key card, and a passport. Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
Mac looked toward the door. It was too soon for police to have arrived. He imagined it was the hotel’s general manager, the head of security, maybe someone from housekeeping. Either way, too many people. Too many questions. There was a dead man in the salon who had quite visibly been murdered. Another man lay on the street directly below the window. Also dead. Mac took stock of his own clothing. Blood stained his shirt and jacket sleeve. A check of his belly and chest to make sure it was not his own. All good.
He wiped off the knife and slid it into his jacket pocket. He foresaw the consequences. He would not be permitted to leave the premises. He would be made to stay. Everyone would be very polite. Mac would explain what had happened, leaving out the most important details, namely his true identity and former profession. Any minute, the police would arrive. First, the local gendarmerie, and thereafter, the Sûreté, the national police. Mac would be questioned. The suite would be searched. More police would arrive ... then the DGSI, the French FBI. A gushing fire hose of local and federal law enforcement personnel would flood the premises. At some point, Ava’s pistol would be discovered. And not just any pistol, a 3D-manufactured nine-millimeter that had been smuggled into the country.
From there, things would get worse. Arrest. A ride to the Préfecture de Police. Detention. Questions about his identity. Was he really Robbie Steinhardt? Was he a true Swiss? Any hopes of keeping under the radar would be scotched. So much for his agreement with the Agency. DonBaker would not be pleased. Neither would Mac’s detractors on the seventh floor.
Far worse than any of that, however, Mac would be prevented from searching for Ava.
Not going to happen.
Mac buttoned his jacket. There, on the carpet next to his shoe, lay the small envelope accompanying the fruit basket.
Two words.
“Get out.”
Mac looked toward the window.
Get out.
Good advice.
Chapter 6
Orly Airfield
Paris
At Orly Airport, ten miles south of the Paris city center, beneath a bleak sky, a small, energetic crowd congregated on the apron of runway 3A. All eyes gazed intently and with bubbling excitement at a large aircraft descending majestically. The Airbus A330 touched down. A puff of smoke from the tires. The whine of the aircraft’s reverse thrusters. A cheer went up from the assembly.
