Elkins gave him a look. Everyone was taller than Don Baker.
“Dark hair,” he continued. “Tall. Athletic. Smart. Motivated. She was banged up pretty badly last year. Mac told me she was concentrating on getting better.”
Elkins put her elbows on the table, fingers steepled. “Question: Was she working with Dekker when all that trouble transpired ten years ago? When one of your operatives double-crossed him ...double-crossed us... and went over to the Russians?”
Baker nodded.
“And she helped him foil an attack in Ukraine last year?”
“She was instrumental in uncovering the SVR plot against Kyiv, yes.”
“So, they’re thick as thieves,” said Elkins.
“They love each other,” said Baker. “If that’s what you’re driving at. They’ve been living together at his place in the Alps for a year. They’re bringing up his granddaughter as their own. She’s four.”
Elkins was no longer listening. She sat, staring out the window, looking as if she were far, far away.
“Ms. Elkins?” said Baker.
“A child,” she muttered beneath her breath. “At that age?”
“Eliza? Ma’am?”
Finally, she looked back at Baker. The color had drained from her face. “Blanched” was the word. “Blanched” fromblanchir. French. To whiten. Something else Baker had picked up in high school. She looked ten years older.
“I’ve got to be honest, Don,” she said. “I’m worried. Two Saudis dead at a Paris hotel. Mac Dekker on the run. Ava Attal unaccounted for. And you believe it was all just some accident. A coincidence, perhaps.”
“I didn’t say that,” Baker protested. “But I know Mac. He said he was out of the game. I believe him.”
“I guess he forgot to tell the Saudis,” said Elkins. “Or were they after her ...Attal?”
Baker said he didn’t know. Elkins asked if he’d reached out to Dekker. He replied that he’d tried the only number he had and that it hadn’t gone through. She didn’t appear to like his answer.
“Is it your opinion,” she asked, “that we should just sit on our hands and wait to see how things play out?”
“I say wait a little longer,” answered Baker. “He may contact us. Tell us what’s up.”
“Would you?”
Baker shook his head reluctantly. “Give me some time,” he said. “We have plenty of resources in Paris. Let me make some calls.”
“Time is one thing we haven’t got,” said Elkins. “Not this weekend.”
“Oh? What’s going down in Paris?” asked Baker, sitting up straighter. Western Europe was his territory. He didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark. “Nothing has come across my desk.”
“For once someone can keep a secret,” said Elkins.
“Eliza, do we have a play running in Paris?”
“Wedon’t have anything running there,” said Elkins.
“Who does? The Saudis?”
“Look who’s the clever boots.” The color had come back to her face, and with it, her convivial manner. “Don Baker. Winner of the Latin prize, scars and all. Whatever ‘it’ is—and I’m neither confirming nor denying—we need to make sure that neither Mac Dekker nor Ava Attal come within a country mile of it. Ironclad. Understand?”
“You’re not thinking . . . ?”
“What? Oh, that?” Elkins laughed, eyes saying he was crazy. “That kind of thing went out with Colby and Webster, the old gunslingers. No, I have something else in mind. Pack your bags, Don. You and I are both of us going to Paris. We’re going to track down Mac Dekker and find out for ourselves just what the hell is going on.”
