Chapter 9
Goutte d’Or
Paris
Mac Dekker had left Paris. He had left France. He had left the European continent altogether.
Walking along the Rue Custine on this chill, drizzly evening, he was in the heart of French West Africa. Senegal, Côte d’Ivoire, Benin. Take your pick. The farther away, the better.
Mac passed a boutique selling dashikis, an open-air market offering fried okra, and a street vendor hawking loose cigarettes. Music poured from storefronts. Fela Kuti, Sunny Adé, others Mac didn’t recognize.
The neighborhood of the Goutte d’Or was situated in the eighteenth arrondissement, three miles from the Hotel Bristol, a little east of Montmartre and a stone’s throw from Porte de la Chapelle. It was home to many sub-Saharan immigrants who had come to France from the countries it had once colonized. It was, in his estimation, the last place the police would search for a wealthy Swiss tourist wanted for murder.
The restaurant was named La Goulue—not African exactly, but it would do. He took a table in the back and ordered a Gazelle lager, chicken tagine and dirty rice, and a bowl of plantain chips. Waiting for his food, he set up a burner phone. He dialed a number in Germany—Berlin area code. The call went directly to voicemail. A woman askedhim to leave a name and number. Her voice was about as welcoming as Ava’s. Then again, they were in the same business.
“Hey, Jaycee, it’s me,” said Mac, as coolly as he could manage. “Call me on this number. No hurry. Everything’s copacetic.”
The beer arrived. Mac gulped half of it down, hand cupped around the cold bottle. The phone rang. He had it to his ear in a flash. “Hey.”
“Give me ten,” said his daughter, Jane McCall, acting chief of station, Berlin, for the Central Intelligence Agency. “This a good number?”
“For a little bit,” said Mac.
“Jesus.”
The call ended.
Mac finished his beer and ordered another. His food arrived. He ate quickly, not knowing where and when he’d have time for another meal. He drained his second beer. The phone rang the moment he set down the bottle.
“Jaycee.”
“Dad,” said his daughter, Jane McCall. “‘Copacetic,’ really?”
It was their code word. “Copacetic,” not meaning “all in order, nothing’s the matter,” but the opposite: “Everything is beyond f-ed up.” The worst of all possible situations.
“They’ve got Ava,” said Mac.
“What? Who?” asked Jane.
“I don’t know for sure. Maybe the Saudis. Maybe someone else.”
“Jesus, Dad. I thought this was supposed to be a romantic getaway.”
“I thought so too.”
“Did you pop the—” said Jane, then: “Dad, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Please. Okay, go ahead. I’m listening.”
It hit Mac at once. The tight throat. The warmth in his chest. The welling of his eyes. Everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, so violently, he hadn’t had a moment to process it. Ava was missing. His Ava. The woman he loved more than any other. His everything. In his world—in their world—“missing” meant one thing. “Give me a second,” he said.
“You’re scaring me.”
‘“Honey, I’m scared too.”
“I’m here, Dad. It’s going to be okay. We’ll get her back. Just calm down.”
Mac wiped at his eyes. “That is not what you’re supposed to say.”
Jane laughed. “I think I was the one who taught you that.”
