It had been a quick flight. Six hours instead of the usual seven. The onboard flight map had indicated an average altitude of 41,000 feet, well above normal. The airspeed of 630 miles per hour was likewise above normal. The CIA was as cost conscious as any commercial airline. Someone had given the pilot the order to floor it.
Fields, a tall, cadaverous man from the embassy, stood by the car. Saturday morning and he was dressed in a black suit, sunglasses covering his eyes.
“Give me the news,” said Elkins.
“We have a sighting,” said Fields. “A private contractor tracked him to an apartment in the fourth arrondissement. The Marais.”
“Isn’t that the Jewish neighborhood?” asked Elkins.
“It is,” said Fields.
Elkins gave Baker a look. Another nail in Mac’s coffin. “What else do we know?”
“Dekker was spotted leaving the address of Gerard Rosenfeld, the maître d’ of the restaurant Jules Verne, at four a.m. The contractor learned that Dekker was looking for his wife, who had somehow vanished from the restaurant the day before. He forced his way back into the restaurant to view the security tapes.”
“What did he see?”
“Unknown,” said Fields. “But whatever it was led him to Rosenfeld.”
“Is Rosenfeld an agent too?”
“Just a restauranteur, as far as we know.”
“Excuse me,” said Baker, addressing Fields. “But aren’t our own people looking for Dekker?”
“They are,” said Fields, “but we’ve called in some assistance from local sources.”
“I know what a private contractor is,” said Baker. “A hitter.” He turned to Elkins. “Eliza, you said we were coming to find Mac and talk to him. Did you red-flag him?”
“Watch your tone,” said Elkins, drawing him aside. “Things are more complicated than they appear. It’s a question of risk mitigation.”
“Mac doesn’t need mitigating,” said Baker.
“We are in no position to take anything for granted. You yourself informed Dekker that were he to involve himself in any overtly political activities, he’d risk the ire of the agency, did you not?”
“Yes, but—”
“And how would you classify his actions over the past twenty-four hours? Killing two diplomats, running from the police, and now forcing his way into a restaurant to look at security tapes. Who knows what he was doing inside that apartment at four a.m. talking to this man, Rosenfeld.”
“I agree that it might appear suspicious,” said Baker.
“Mac Dekker is an agent running in the field,” said Elkins. “He broke his promise to us. He knows what he’s bringing down on himself.”
Baker took a breath. “Look, Eliza, the contractor said Mac was looking for Ava. It doesn’t sound like they’re working together.”
“We can’t assume that.”
“Mac’s not stupid,” said Baker. “He wouldn’t hang around if it wasn’t for something vital. He knows what he’s risking.”
“Stop apologizing for Mac Dekker,” said Elkins. “That ship has sailed. Yes, I red-flagged him. Believe me, it’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
As she brushed past him, Baker placed a firm hand on her shoulder, arresting her progress. “It’s time you told me exactly what we’re doing in Paris.”
“Mr. Baker, if you please.”
Baker lowered his hand.
Elkins snapped her head toward Fields. “Take us to the embassy. Now.”
