Mac looked past the soldiers, toward the entry to the restaurant’s private elevator. He saw no one.
“Is there a problem?” asked the soldier.
“No,” said Mac. “Good night, then. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He turned to leave.
“You’re American?” It was another of the soldiers. A young man with a crew cut, stocky, his sleeves rolled up to show off his muscular arms.
“I am,” said Mac. Evidently, his French wasn’t as good as he’d thought.
“San Antonio,” said the young soldier. “I lived there for a year during high school.”
“The Alamo,” said Mac, desperate to make conversation, hoping that the dishwasher might change his mind and show up.
“You are a Texan?”
“Me? No. I’m from Virginia, actually. Near Washington, DC.”
“Okay, Mr. America,” interjected the female soldier, with a withering look to her colleague. “Time to go. That means now.”
Mac raised his hands. A defeated smile showed that he got the message. The police were twenty meters away and closing. One was talking animatedly into his chest mic, staring at him. Either way, it was time to scram.
“Good night, then.” Mac turned and strode purposefully toward the taxi stand, empty at this hour. He threw a last look over his shoulder. There was no way he could get past the security patrol. Even if he did, then what? Climb the Eiffel Tower? Not a chance.
“Monsieur, I’m here!”
Mac spun. A thin man in a white smock, jeans, and clogs stood at the barricades next to the soldiers.
“You still want to look for the bracelet?” he called.
“I do,” said Mac, rushing back to the barricades. “If it’s all right with everyone.”
“Go ahead,” said the female soldier, after giving the dishwasher a good looking over. “I’m not in charge of the restaurant.” She moved the barricade so that Mac could pass. He thanked her and accompanied the dishwasher to the elevator. Instead of climbing the short flight of stairs to the gallery, however, the dishwasher continued around the tented entry to a pair of steel doors standing open in the ground.
“There’s another way in?” said Mac.
“You can’t deliver food through the front door,” said the dishwasher. “That’s for guests.”
Mac regarded the raised steel doors. Of course there was another way in. He’d known it all along.
Someone had been lying.
The dishwasher turned and extended his palm. “S’il vous plaît.”
“Five hundred,” said Mac, handing him the banknote.
The dishwasher stared at the bill, frowning. “Price went up. Throw in another hundred.”
Mac remembered the policeman looking at him, perhaps too closely. Now was not the time to negotiate. He peeled off a €100 note.
“We good?”
Chapter 16
Restaurant Jules Verne
Paris
