Elkins didn’t like the answer, but for the moment there was nothing to be done. “Do we have eyes on the site?” she asked.
“Of course,” said McGee.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded Elkins. “He might be there right now.”
Ten minutes later, Elkins stood next to Baker and McGee in the subterranean ops center. They were staring at a multiplex of screens broadcasting a live feed from every camera inside the safe house at 55 Rue du Bac.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s there presently,” said McGee.
“What about earlier?” said Elkins. “If his daughter reserved it, you can be damned well sure he showed up.”
“The security system shows that someone entered the premises at 12:02 last night,” said McGee. “They left at 12:56, returned at 5:15 this morning, and left an hour ago.”
“That’s him,” said Elkins.
McGee instructed the tech to rewind the images to just before midnight.
At 12:02, a figure entered the apartment. He closed the door, then turned on the lights. Hello, Mac Dekker.
There was a dome camera in every room, and Elkins followed him into the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom. The cameras were color and high-def, and though she didn’t want to watch, she couldn’thelp herself. Damn him. The bastard was in better shape than he was twenty years ago.
“What are you waiting for?” asked McGee, giving her a look. “See if he uses a washcloth?”
“I want to see what he does before he goes out again,” said Elkins, eyes on the screen.
“I’ll bet you do,” said McGee.
Elkins chose to ignore the gibe. Several minutes later, her diligence was rewarded. Mac sat at the kitchen table, a flip phone or “burner” in hand. “Sound?” she asked.
“Negative,” said McGee.
“Wi-Fi?”
“Sure.”
“See if he logged on and, if so, if we can track his browsing.”
A moment later, a tech said that no one had logged on to the Wi-Fi network in question.
“Do better than that,” said Elkins.
“We can geo-source the phone he’s using,” said the tech. “Need to plug in our best GPS coordinates for the address. Run all the numbers we find against location-history data gathered by all our captive search engines. Give me a minute.”
Eliza had a sudden memory of the last time she’d seen Dekker. A week after their tryst, if that was the right word. A chance encounter, Dekker leaving the ambassador’s residence in the Green Zone as she was entering. She blinked and felt as if she were there once again.
“Mac.” His name escaped her mouth before she could stop it.
“Thought you were long gone,” he said, pulling up, putting his hands on his hips to take a good look at her.
“Tonight,” said Eliza. “What happened to you? One day you’re there, the next gone.”
“New assignment,” said Mac. “HVT in Fallujah.”
“HVT?”
“High-value target,” said Mac. “Eight of spades. We use a deck of cards to keep track of ’em. Sorry I didn’t get to hang around.” He gave her a look. “I know you missed me.”
“It wasn’t like that,” said Eliza. “You have more important things to do than babysit an inspector.”
