Mac called the restaurant. As expected, the call went to a message stating that the establishment was closed and asking him to leave a message. He hung up. It was his experience that restaurants, like most institutions, had several phone numbers, often with consecutive suffixes. Instead of -87 78, he dialed -87 79. The phone rang and rang. Mac swore under his breath. So much for experience.
“Allo?”
Mac jumped at the voice. “Restaurant Jules Verne?”
“Kitchen. What do you want?”
“This is the Hôtel de Crillon,” said Mac, choosing another of the city’s gilded hostelries. “A guest is convinced she lost a diamond bracelet while dining with you this evening. Can you check for me?”
“Call back tomorrow. If they found something, they will let you know.”
“Our guest is very important,” said Mac. “Between you and me, she’s quite difficult. You know the type. I promised I would come to your premises and check myself.”
“Listen, I’m adishwasher, understand? I can’t help you. The bosses went home ten minutes ago.”
“I just need to look in the dining room,” said Mac. “It will be a quick check. Five minutes. She believes it fell beneath the table. She was sitting in the center of the room.”
“Did you hear me? I’m a dishwasher. The boss has the keys to the safe.”
Mac expected as much. “Five hundred euros if you help me out.”
“Five hundred?”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” said Mac. “Come downstairs and make sure you tell the cops.”
“If I’m there, I’m there.”
The call ended before Mac could get another word in.If he’s there, he’s there.Just how much were they paying dishwashers these days?
Chapter 15
Eiffel Tower
Paris
Operation Sentinel
In 2017, following a series of terrorist attacks across the country, the French military deployed ten thousand soldiers working in concert with local police forces to protect France’s most notable locations: museums, monuments, transport hubs, and places of interest. So-called hard targets. None was harder than the Eiffel Tower.
At 1:05 a.m., a considerable security presence patrolled the esplanade. A team of four soldiers—camouflage uniforms, berets, machine guns strapped to their chests—manned the barricades. There was no way around them.
“Evening,” called Mac as he approached. “How are things?”
One of the soldiers, a tall, formidable dark-skinned woman, answered. “What do you want?”
“I need to go to the restaurant,” said Mac, pointing at the Jules Verne four hundred feet above them, a few lights sparkling from its windows. He’d exchanged the soccer gear for his suit, wrinkled as it might be (the sleeve damp from his efforts to remove the bloodstains), and a pale blue shirt he’d found in a closet. He decided that he just didn’t look like a Paris St.-Germain fan. “A guest lost her bracelet. I was told someone would be down to escort me inside.”
The soldiers formed a casual circle around Mac. “I don’t see anyone,” said the soldier.
“I’ll wait,” said Mac.
“The area is closed. Come back tomorrow.”
“Five minutes,” said Mac. “Let me call to make sure he’s coming down.”
The soldier was firm and not so polite. “Tomorrow. Good night.”
Still Mac didn’t leave. He noticed another group of uniforms moving across the plaza toward them. Not soldiers, but gendarmes. Paris police. The soldiers might not be on the lookout for a six-foot-tall dark-haired man in connection with the murder of two men at the Hotel Bristol, but the police were.
