Chapter 5 #2
A gunshot went off, impossibly loud in the high-ceilinged salon.
A vase to Mac’s right shattered. Mac threw himself onto the carpet as the tall man straightened himself to his full height.
He held Ava’s pistol and stepped forward, arm outstretched, the barrel pointed at Mac’s chest. Less than ten feet separated them.
The man pulled the trigger. Dry fire. The bullet had jammed. He racked the slide, forcing the bullet to return to the chamber, and fired again. Click! Again, the pistol jammed.
Mac yanked the blade from the second man’s jaw and buried it into his chest; a wrench of his wrist to puncture the heart, then a violent motion to free it.
Blood geysered from the mortal wound. Mac stood, adjusting his grip on the knife, right hand balled into a fist, the three-inch blade extending from between his middle and ring fingers.
He advanced on the taller man, who racked and reracked the pistol, vainly trying to clear the jam.
“Who are you?” asked Mac, first in English, then Arabic.
The man stared at Mac with hate, not answering. He spun the pistol in his hand so that he held it by the barrel and could use it to club Mac. He shuffled to his left, toward the center of the salon. Mac mirrored him.
“Tell me what you’re doing here! Did you take Ava?”
The man jumped at Mac, wildly swinging the pistol.
Mac dodged it easily, slashing the assailant’s wrist as he circled to his left. The man glanced down as blood seeped from the rent in his jacket.
“Talk to me,” said Mac. “Who do you work for? The Mukhābarāt? The Revolutionary Guard? Who?” Mac angled his head. “Don’t tell me you’re Mossad.”
“Alawham,” he cursed. Vermin.
Definitely not Mossad.
The man bounded closer, holding the pistol at shoulder height. He jumped at Mac and swung the weapon. Mac stepped backward, slashing his outstretched arm. The man cried out, glancing at the new wound. Mac looked into the man’s eyes. Both of them knew how this would end.
“Why did they take her?” asked Mac. “What is this about? Tell me who you are.”
“Where is it?” said the man. “Give it to me, habibi.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Give it to me, and I will tell you where she is. We trade.”
“Yeah, a trade,” said Mac. “First, you tell me where she is, and then I’ll give it to you.”
The man laughed tiredly. There would be no trade.
“I told him,” said the Arab. “Shafra al Shamun is bullshit. I knew she didn’t have it.”
“Have what?” asked Mac. “Shafra” in Arabic meant “code” or “book.”
A heavy fist pounded at the door. Heated voices. “Monsieur Steinhardt. Open up. Monsieur Steinhardt! S’il vous pla?t!”
The hotel staff had heard the gunshot and tracked down its source.
“It’s over,” said Mac. “You aren’t going anywhere. Tell me. Where’s Ava?”
“Where do you think she is?” The man smiled bitterly and tossed the pistol at Mac’s feet. “We have her.”
“Where?”
“Did you really think you could stop us? Just the two of you alone?”
The door to the room opened, banging loudly against the security clasp. “Monsieur Steinhardt, are you all right?”
The Arab’s eyes went to the French doors leading to the small balcony.
“No,” said Mac.
“Inshallah,” said the man beneath his breath, then darted across the salon and jumped the coffee table.
Arms raised above his head, he crashed through the French doors.
Wood splintered. Glass shattered. The man struck the wrought iron balustrade, flipped head over heels, and disappeared from view.
Seconds later, his body struck the pavement four floors below with a mighty clap.
Mac ran to the balcony and peered down at the lifeless body.
“Mr. Steinhardt. Open the door.”
Mac surveyed the room. What a mess. He picked up Ava’s pistol and secured it in his waistband. He approached the man he’d killed. A check of his jacket yielded a wallet, a hotel key card, and a passport. Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
Mac looked toward the door. It was too soon for police to have arrived.
He imagined it was the hotel’s general manager, the head of security, maybe someone from housekeeping.
Either way, too many people. Too many questions.
There was a dead man in the salon who had quite visibly been murdered.
Another man lay on the street directly below the window.
Also dead. Mac took stock of his own clothing.
Blood stained his shirt and jacket sleeve.
A check of his belly and chest to make sure it was not his own. All good.
He wiped off the knife and slid it into his jacket pocket.
He foresaw the consequences. He would not be permitted to leave the premises.
He would be made to stay. Everyone would be very polite.
Mac would explain what had happened, leaving out the most important details, namely his true identity and former profession.
Any minute, the police would arrive. First, the local gendarmerie, and thereafter, the S?reté, the national police.
Mac would be questioned. The suite would be searched.
More police would arrive . . . then the DGSI, the French FBI.
A gushing fire hose of local and federal law enforcement personnel would flood the premises.
At some point, Ava’s pistol would be discovered.
And not just any pistol, a 3D-manufactured nine-millimeter that had been smuggled into the country.
From there, things would get worse. Arrest. A ride to the Préfecture de Police.
Detention. Questions about his identity.
Was he really Robbie Steinhardt? Was he a true Swiss?
Any hopes of keeping under the radar would be scotched.
So much for his agreement with the Agency.
Don Baker would not be pleased. Neither would Mac’s detractors on the seventh floor.
Far worse than any of that, however, Mac would be prevented from searching for Ava.
Not going to happen.
Mac buttoned his jacket. There, on the carpet next to his shoe, lay the small envelope accompanying the fruit basket.
Two words.
“Get out.”
Mac looked toward the window.
Get out.
Good advice.