Either way, it hadn’t worked. A week later Mac Dekker had betrayed her. Eliza Porter Elkins never forgot it.
“NCTC Paris,” said a bland male voice.
“Intervention,” said Eliza.
“One moment.”
“Intervention,” said a new robotic voice, not American, but hard to place. Spanish? Italian? Greek?
“We have a liability outstanding,” said Eliza. “Name: Mackenzie David Dekker. American citizen. Retired company asset. A.k.a. Robert Steinhardt. Swiss national. Last seen in Paris today at four p.m. at or near the Hotel Bristol.”
She set forth the details of the assignment, including Dekker’s description as well as the instructions on apprehension and captivity. She ended with two words: “red flag.”
There was a pause. Static on the line. Someone was being patched in. A supervisor.
“This is Intervention, level two,” came a new voice, older, seasoned. “Please confirm formal issuance of a red flag on Mackenzie David Dekker.”
Eliza hesitated. Past was past. Present was present. And now here she was with Mac Dekker’s life in her hands.
Karma.
“Please confirm,” the older voice repeated. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you there?”
Chapter 13
27 Avenue Montaigne
Paris
Dahlia was waiting for him in the drawing room on the sixth floor.
“A sight for sore eyes,” said Tariq.
“As pretty as a princess?”
“Far prettier,” he said, taking her into his arms. “And not so hairy. Shall I call you Princess Dahlia?”
“Hmm, Princess Dahlia,” she said. “I like the sound of that.”
“Tell me, princess, do you prefer hay or oats with your champagne?”
“Caviar. The real stuff. Beluga from the Caspian Sea.”
“You have royal tastes,” said Tariq.
“Then I’ve come to the right place,” said Dahlia.
Tariq kissed her. She smelled of vanilla and sandalwood. Maybe one day she would be a princess, indeed.
Her name was Dahlia Shugar. She was twenty-eight, tall and blond, the dyed variety, with olive skin, hazel eyes, and a womanly figure. They’d met at the Bvlgari boutique in Beverly Hills earlier that summer. She wasn’t a shop girl. She was the store manager. He’d bought a ruby ring, a diamond Serpenti necklace, and a forty-carat diamond tiara. The bill was something over $4 million. She had not been impressed. His request for a date was politely refused. He returned an hour later witha mocha latte and a red rose. Only then did she agree to have dinner with him. Never once did she ask for whom he’d bought the jewelry.
They’d spent the night in his suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. When she slipped from his bed at dawn, he asked himself if he was in love. To his amazement, he decided he wasn’t sure. He certainly couldn’t say no. For Tariq, that was close enough.
And so, he ordered his people to look into her. Nothing serious. A body frisk, so to speak. They reported that Dahlia had graduated from UCLA with honors, that she’d lived at her present address for three years, that she held $38,560 in her bank account, and that her parents were, as she’d stated, from Italy and Lebanon, the father Catholic, the mother Maronite, both deceased. She wasn’t Muslim; then again, she wasn’t a Jew.
A woman who told the truth. Refreshing.
“Come sit with me.” Tariq picked up the crocodile Birkin bag from the couch and placed it on the table.
