Chapter 3
Paris
Present day
Mac had decided to ask over dessert. The question remained: before or after? Maybe after dessert and before coffee was served.
“What do you want to do?” asked Ava. “It’s been a month since Don visited. Surely, you’ve been thinking.”
“I’ve been trying to decide if I’m happy,” said Mac.
“I spent nine years training myself to forget the world, to forget my old life, to be content doing what I had to do to keep my family and myself safe. It worked. I like it up there. I like being on the alp in the summer, working at the resort in winter. I like being away from the world.”
“But all that’s changed,” said Ava. “You can go anywhere.”
“We can go,” said Mac.
Ava nodded, placing her hand on his. “We can go. We can live anywhere we choose.”
“I’m still getting used to that concept. Somehow it was easier when I couldn’t choose.”
“I understand,” said Ava. “But listen, Mac, darling, we can spend Christmas there, visit every summer.”
Mac read the excitement in her eyes and knew that their time in the mountains had come to an end.
The last twelve months had passed quickly.
There was Ava’s operation. Weeks spent in the hospital.
Once home, she had dedicated herself to her recovery.
Daily walks. Sessions with her physical therapist. Visits to St. Moritz for stem cell therapy.
Mac studied her. This woman he loved. Of course she was right. He couldn’t expect her to live in a town of a thousand souls tucked away at the end of an alpine valley. He tried to picture her on the alp, caring for the cows, cleaning out the barn. He laughed at the thought. Not going to happen.
“What about you?” he asked. “Plans?”
She smiled. “Somehow it was easier when I couldn’t choose.”
“And now?”
“We’ll see,” said Ava, lightly, almost dismissively, but Mac read something behind her eyes.
He knew the look. She was up to something.
Whether that meant returning to Mossad or engaging in other, less opaque work on her country’s behalf, he didn’t know.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about either prospect.
Mac’s hand brushed the box. He had a sudden and terrifying thought. What if marriage wasn’t something she had in mind? They’d never really discussed the future. What if she said no?
Hell, he thought, taking a breath. Get it over with. It wasn’t going to get any easier just thinking about it.
“Before we go any further,” said Mac. “I need to ask you something.”
“That sounds ominous,” said Ava. “Should I be frightened?”
“I hope not,” said Mac. “Then again . . .” He fished in his pocket for the box.
“You’re not going to ask if you can get out of going to Versailles tomorrow?”
“No. You don’t have to worry about that. I want to see Versailles.”
“Good,” said Ava. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
Mac smiled. Suddenly, his throat felt tight, his mouth dry.
“It’s been a tough year,” he began. “The operation. All the work to get better. Both of us taking care of a little girl. On top of that, wondering if and when they were going to come after us . . . well, me, at least. I think we managed pretty well.”
“Very well,” said Ava.
“What I mean to say is that I enjoy being with you.”
“I enjoy being with you,” said Ava.
“We make a good team,” said Mac.
“We do.”
“And we both agree we have to find a new place to live,” he said.
“I’m glad we do,” said Ava.
“What I want to say is that I love you very much.”
“I love you too.”
Mac’s hand tightened on the box. “So, I wanted to ask you . . .”
Ava’s phone rang. She looked at the screen. Her expression hardened. It was important. “Mac, I’m sorry. Can I?”
“Go ahead,” he said. “But I may eat your dessert.”
“Don’t you dare.” Ava stood and came around the table and kissed him. “Be right back.” She walked from the dining room, placing the phone to her ear. “Grü? Gott.”
Mac watched her disappear down the hall. He took out the jewelry box and set it on the table. There. He’d done it. When she returned and sat down, she’d see it. He’d give her a moment, then pop the question.
He drank some more champagne and stared out the window.
What a city. It truly was breathtaking. Ava was right.
They could go anywhere. Well, almost anywhere.
DC was out. For that matter, so were the States.
He couldn’t risk running into someone he knew.
Baker had been plenty clear. Mac was to keep his head down.
He had enemies waiting to pounce. It was a fair bargain—one he’d agreed to when he accepted the US government’s money. Who needed the States?
Ava was originally from France. Why not here? Provence was nice. Maybe Arles or Aix. He could use some more sun. The food was certainly good. It would be onion soup for lunch and duck à l’orange for dinner.
The server brought dessert. Raspberry sorbet and pears. He spied the jewelry box and rushed to refill their champagne. “With compliments of the house,” he said.
“She hasn’t said yes yet,” said Mac. “Wish me luck.”
“Bonne chance,” said the server.
Mac checked his watch. Ava had been gone too long.
Ten minutes . . . no, twelve, to be exact.
He felt a stab between his shoulders. A tinge of unease.
Ava wasn’t a gabber; quite the opposite.
She was a woman of few words, especially when it came to business.
“Brusque” wouldn’t be an inappropriate word to describe her.
He wondered who she was speaking with. A native German speaker?
“Grü? Gott” was the greeting commonly used in Bavaria and Austria.
Mac looked over his shoulder. The restaurant was emptying out.
It was past 3:30 p.m. He noted that only one other table remained occupied.
Another couple. Gray haired. Elegantly dressed.
They held hands across the table, content to stare into each other’s eyes.
A picture of Mac and Ava in fifteen years?
Mac slid the jewelry box back into his pocket. He tapped his fingers on the table. There it was again. A distinct feeling that something was wrong. He picked up the champagne and put it back down. He didn’t want any more alcohol in his system. Not if . . .
Mac stopped himself. He laughed. What in the world was he thinking? Ava was out of the game. She’d spent the last twelve months at his side. He couldn’t remember her once mentioning “the Office,” as she referred to Mossad. There was absolutely no reason to think anything was amiss.
And yet . . .
He glanced over his shoulder again, willing Ava to appear. The servers had gathered by the kitchen door. He caught their impatient glances. Please leave. You’ve had your meal. It’s time to start preparing for the evening service.
Mac took out his phone and called Ava. The call went directly to voicemail after a single ring. Odd. That happened only if the phone was off. Not odd. Troubling. Again, he felt the stab between his shoulders.
Mac stood and signaled to the ma?tre d’. “Excuse me, but have you seen the woman who was seated at my table? She took a call about fifteen minutes ago and hasn’t returned.”
“She is wearing a black dress, hair up, very attractive?”
Mac nodded, but he could have done without the last part. The French. “That’s her.”
“I’m sorry,” said the ma?tre d’ with concern. “I have not seen her anywhere.”
Mac looked this way and that. The main dining room was a large rectangular space, windows on three sides, tables spaced evenly. There was a second, smaller room also visible, looking north toward the Trocadéro. That room was empty. “Can you have someone check the ladies’ room?”
“Right away.” The ma?tre d’ dispatched a server to check. “I’m sure everything is fine,” he continued unconvincingly. “Perhaps madame is taking photos. Such a lovely day.”
“Perhaps,” said Mac.
The server returned and reported that there was no one in the women’s restroom.
“Is there anywhere else she could be?” asked Mac.
“There is only the kitchen, and a private dining room above us.”
“Can you show me?”
“Of course.” The ma?tre d’ walked down the hall and opened a paneled door.
He was a small man and slight, dressed in an immaculate black suit, his thick gray hair teased like cotton candy.
Mac followed him up a flight of stairs to a small dining room.
Even with the lights out, it was immediately apparent that the room was empty.
“Let us check the kitchen,” offered the ma?tre d’.
Mac followed him down the stairs and through a pair of swinging doors into the restaurant’s capacious kitchen. Bright lights. Stainless steel. A staff of twenty. The chefs appeared nonplussed as Mac circled the room.
“Perhaps she took the elevator to the ground?” suggested the ma?tre d’.
“She wouldn’t leave without telling me,” said Mac, rather lamely. “But yes, let’s check.”
Mac followed the ma?tre d’ down the hallway to the dim alcove, where a private elevator delivered diners from the ground floor plaza.
A liveried attendant stood by the doors.
Mac addressed him in French, describing Ava and inquiring if she had recently left the restaurant. The response was an emphatic no.
Where could she be? Mac was no longer troubled; he was flat-out panicked.
He retraced his steps down the hall. Then he saw it. A glimmer of gold on the carpet. He bent to look more closely. An earring. He picked it up. Ava’s earring. It was broken, the post missing, a smidge of blood visible.
“Did you find something?” asked the ma?tre d’.
“An earring,” said Mac. “It belongs to . . . to . . . her.” He stood and studied the corridor. He spotted a camera high in one corner. There had to be others in the restaurant. “You have cameras. Can I see them?”
“Of course we have them, but—”
“But what?” asked Mac.
“This is a legal matter,” said the ma?tre d’. “We are not allowed to share this with . . . well, strangers.”
“I’m asking a favor,” said Mac.
The ma?tre d’ frowned. “I will have to contact the police. We must wait until they arrive.”
The police. They’d want Mac’s name. Passport. From there, who knew? The police were to be avoided at all costs.
“No,” replied Mac. “That won’t be necessary. Is there another way out?”
“An emergency exit to the exterior stairwell.”
“Show me.”
The ma?tre d’ retraced his steps to the opposite side of the dining room and threw open the emergency exit.
An urgent bell pinged several times. There was no way someone could open it without drawing attention to themself.
Mac passed through the door onto a steel grate, through which one could view the stairwell descending to the ground.
Mac bent over the rail, searching. There was no one on the stairs.
He called her phone a second time. Again, the call went directly to voicemail. Ava’s phone was still powered off. “It’s me. I have your earring. What’s going on? I’m worried.”
“Are you certain you don’t wish for me to call the police?” asked the ma?tre d’.
Mac shook his head.
The ma?tre d’ opened his hands. “But where is she? Where can she have gone?”
Mac was unable to provide an answer.
Ava Attal had vanished.