At precisely 1:12 p.m., Mac viewed himself and Ava enter the elevator on the ground floor. Color picture. High def. At 1:15, they were shown to their table. Fast forward two hours and eight coursesto 3:19. Still in the main dining room. He watched the lovey-dovey wealthy Arab couple seated at the table next to them pay their bill, then leave. A minute later, Ava took the phone call, the one she had answered with “Grüß Gott.”
Mac’s eyes shifted to another monitor as Ava entered the hallway, phone to her ear. After a few seconds, she ended the call and slid the phone into her pocket. But instead of returning to the table, she remained where she was, casually peering in both directions. It was evident that she was expecting someone.
Mac checked the time stamp. Two minutes had elapsed since Ava had left the table.
Ten seconds later, Ava turned abruptly. A man approached from the direction of the elevator. Tall, trim, elegantly attired, with thick, immaculately combed hair. Mac recognized him instantly. The handsome young Arab who had been seated beside them. The man he had just observed paying his bill.
To Mac’s astonishment, Ava greeted him in the familiar European manner. Three kisses to the cheek. A handshake. The Arab spoke to Ava with urgency, punctuated by dramatic hand gestures. He motioned for Ava to come closer. He had something sensitive to impart. Of course he did. Why else were they surreptitiously meeting while Mac sat in the dining room barely fifty feet away?
Ava leaned her head closer. And as she did, another figure approached Ava from behind. It was a woman, the man’s wife or girlfriend, the one with the impossibly expensive handbag. Ava turned, sensing her presence ... but too late. The woman plunged a syringe into Ava’s neck. Ava wheeled and took hold of the woman’s wrist, struggling to free the syringe from her neck. She was the woman’s physical superior, and for a moment, it appeared as if Ava would strike the smaller woman. Even from the elevated angle, Mac could read the rage in Ava’s face. Then, in the snap of a finger, Ava folded at the knees. Her chin fell to her chest. The Arab man threw his shoulder under her arm. The woman aided him. Together, they half walked, half dragged Ava to the elevator.Looking on the entire time was the maître d’, the unctuous Frenchman who had personally conducted Mac on a tour of the restaurant and, with impressive sincerity, assured him that no one had seen madame. Liar! The maître d’ exchanged words with the man and woman—the kidnappers—and shepherded all three onto the elevator.
Mac shifted between monitors as the maître d’ returned to the restaurant, flattening his tie and checking his hair, but otherwise unperturbed, and Ava descended to the ground, the hostage of the Arab couple.
That was that.
There was no time to be stunned, no time to process everything he’d seen. Mac rewound the recording and searched for the clearest view of the Arab. He froze the image and snapped a photo with his phone. He repeated the process for the woman. No need for the maître d’. He planned on seeing him face to face soon enough.
Mac left the room as he had found it and returned to the kitchen. Francis was still out. Mac slapped him gently on the face, then not so gently.
“Francis, look at me. There. What is the name of your boss? Not the chef, but the maître d’.”
“Gerard,” said Francis, groggily.
“Last name?”
Francis hesitated, and Mac took hold of his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Rosenfeld,” said Francis. “Gerard Rosenfeld.”
“Rosenfeld . . . you’re sure?”
“Of course.”
Mac considered this. Rosenfeld was more likely than not a Jewish name. If Gerard Rosenfeld was Jewish, why was he conspiring with a man Mac assumed to be Middle Eastern, and therefore Muslim, to kidnap an Israeli woman with deep ties to Mossad, Israeli’s foreign intelligence service?
“Where does he live?” asked Mac.
“Le Marais,” said Francis, sitting up and probing the lump on his forehead. “You know,the Pletzl. The Jewish quarter. Rue des Rosiers. Why?”
The Pletzl... Yiddish for “the small place.” Mac knew the area. “Do you have the address?”
“No.”
“What about his phone number?”
Francis consulted his phone and read it out as Mac typed it into his contacts.
Suddenly, Mac realized, his world had become far more complicated.
“I’m leaving now,” said Mac. “I want you to listen to me. Don’t tell anyone I was here. Don’t go to the police. Don’t mention this to your boss. If someone asks about the bump on your head, make something up. Say you tripped and hit your head on the counter. Or you got drunk and had a fight. Just don’t tell anyone that I was here. This isn’t for my sake. It’s for yours. You don’t want to have anything to do with me. I can’t say anything more, but please,please, Francis, believe me. Are we good?”
Francis nodded, more alert now.
“You never saw me,” Mac said once more for good measure. “This never happened.” He stood. “Oh, I’ll need your phone. I can’t take the chance you’ll do something stupid.”
Francis pulled a face and handed Mac his phone.
“Passcode?”
“Really?” said Francis.
