“‘Swatting,’” said Mac. “Sending a Special Weapons and Tactics team to a house to respond to a threat.”
“No SWAT here,” said Crooks. “In France, we have RAID. Search, assistance, intervention, and deterrence.”
“Call it ‘raiding’ then,” said Mac. “Same difference.”
Chapter 43
Le Marais
Paris
Eliza Porter Elkins and Don Baker stood at the entry to Gerard Rosenfeld’s building on the Rue des Rosiers. It was cool and dreary, but Eliza was sweating. She could feel the beads of perspiration on her forehead and on the back of her neck. There was no reason to be nervous. She was visiting a French citizen to ask him a few questions. She could walk away anytime. There was no one scouring the city for her. There was no red flag next to her name and work ID. All the same, she was sweating. Now, at this advanced stage of her career, she finally knew how it felt to be an agent. She didn’t like it.
They found Rosenfeld’s name on the directory beside the front door.
“Don’t ring,” said Baker, grabbing her arm as she put her finger to the buzzer.
“Sorry,” said Eliza, ruffled. “I’m new to this. But what if he won’t let us in?”
“Leave that to me,” said Baker.
Just then, a resident exited the building. Baker led Eliza into the foyer before the door could close. They took the lift to the third floor. There were two apartments, one to either side of the landing. Neither door had a nameplate or a number.
“Do we just knock?” asked Eliza.
Baker shook his head. He was looking at something, and whatever it was, he didn’t like it. He took a few deliberate steps toward the door to their right. “Oh boy,” he whispered.
Eliza followed at his shoulder. “What is it?”
Baker crouched and pointed to a dark, gelatinous puddle on the tiled flooring. He tested the gob with a finger, rubbing it as if assaying its composition. “Blood.” He stood. “I’m guessing this is Rosenfeld’s place.”
Baker turned the doorknob. Unlocked. Not a good sign. He shot her a glance, then eased the door open. They listened for a moment. Not a sound. The silence was too much. Eliza couldn’t abide the notion of trespassing. You didn’t just walk into someone’s home unannounced.
“Bonj—”
“Shh!” Baker made a sign to shut up. “Wait here,” he said.
Eliza nodded. She was happy to let Baker go by himself. She put her hand on the doorframe, not that she needed to steady herself.
Baker advanced down the hall, opening a door to his left, another to his right, peering inside each room. She didn’t know someone could move so quietly, especially someone like Don Baker. It came to her that she didn’t know him at all. He glanced back at her and shook his head. No one was there.
Somewhere inside the building, a door slammed. A voice called out a name. A dog barked ferociously, then quieted. Eliza stepped inside the apartment and closed the door.
“Don,” she called, wondering if he was mad at her, if he was keeping quiet to spook her, payback for not having read him in to the situation earlier.
On the drive over, she’d finally given him the details of the conference underway since Wednesday at the Élysée Palace. A gathering of potentates from across the Gulf, with a view to formally enact a diplomatic and mercantile alliance between the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Jordan, and Israel, with Bahrain and Qatar signing a separate nonbinding codicil. (Though Qatar was sponsoring the talks, all parties agreed it had been too close to nearlyall the regional terrorist entities—Hamas, Hezbollah, ISIS, and the Iranian Revolutionary Guards—to be awarded full member status.) The agreement called for the establishment of permanent embassies in all signatory countries, along with the exchange of ambassadors, the relaxing of tariffs across a broad swath of products, and the opening of channels of communication between military commands.
It was a triumph of oil and technology over history and religion. Arab oil and Israeli technology. The Holy Bible and the Quran had yielded to the modern scriptures ofForbesandFortune. This was the twenty-first century. There was no future in enmity. It was time to put aside past grievances and embrace one another, warts and all.
As with all milestones in the region, it was hailed as a victory by some and as blasphemy by others. Eliza was concerned about the latter group. Over the past months, the Agency had picked up significant chatter about the coming conference. Some was couched in language of those seeking to prevent an act of violence. Far more, however, hinted at efforts to prevent an agreement from being signed and urging action to be taken. Violent action.
The president was adamant in his support of an agreement. It was the best chance to bring lasting peace to the region since the establishment of the Israeli state in 1948. Nothing could be permitted to derail the historic efforts.
For “nothing,” Eliza substituted Mac Dekker, and now, Ava Attal.
“Don?” she called out again.
“Eliza,” he answered in a quavering voice. “Get in here.”
