“Yes, you were.”
“Man up, Dekker,” said Jane, with authority. “It’s not going to get any easier just looking at it.”
“That’s my line,” said Mac, laughing despite himself. He noticed a few diners eyeing him—the old guy with tears streaming down his face. He lowered his head.
“Will loved it,” said Jane. “It was his line too.”
The mention of his son, Will, bucked up Mac’s spirits. His son, who had sacrificed his life to expose a terrorist plot to kill thousands. A hero.
“Here’s what went down,” said Mac, gathering himself. He needed ten minutes to narrate the afternoon’s events. Ava’s abduction from the restaurant, his futile search for her and the earring he found on the carpet, the Saudis breaking into his room with the intent of killing him, and his subsequent escape.
“You have their names?”
“Just one,” said Mac, consulting the passport. “Abdul Al-Hassan. Born 1988 in Buraydah.”
“Buraydah,” said Jane. “Really?”
“That’s what it says. Why?”
“That’s where they all came from,” said Jane. “I mean originally, like in 1850.”
“Who?”
“The Al Saud, the family that’s ruled the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia for the past hundred years or so.”
“These guys weren’t royalty,” said Mac. “I can tell you that much.”
“Doesn’t matter. If that’s his tribal home, he’s one of them. Old Wahhabi.”
It was not what Mac wanted to hear. Old Wahhabi meant extremism, and extremism was never good. “And you know this how?”
“I spent two years in Riyadh,” said Jane. “During your sabbatical.”
“Ha ha,” said Mac. “Very funny.”
“I’ll check him out,” said Jane.
“Carefully,” said Mac. “Remember what Don Baker told me. I’m not allowed to ask you to fix any parking tickets.”
“I can manage. So, what now? Who are the police looking for? Robbie Steinhardt or Mac Dekker?”
“Steinhardt.”
“Will your identity hold up?”
“It should. No reason to do a deep dive unless they catch me.”
“It’s going to come up on our radar,” said Jane. “Two dead Saudis in a Paris hotel room. Front-page news on every analyst’s screen.”
“I’ll worry about that later,” said Mac. “Right now, I need a bolt-hole.”
“I figured,” said Jane. “Tout de suite, I presume.”
“Ten minutes ago,” said Mac.
“Where are you now?”
“At a Senegalese restaurant in the eighteenth.”
