Chapter 9
Goutte d’Or
Paris
Mac Dekker had left Paris. He had left France. He had left the European continent altogether.
Walking along the Rue Custine on this chill, drizzly evening, he was in the heart of French West Africa. Senegal, C?te d’Ivoire, Benin. Take your pick. The farther away, the better.
Mac passed a boutique selling dashikis, an open-air market offering fried okra, and a street vendor hawking loose cigarettes. Music poured from storefronts. Fela Kuti, Sunny Adé, others Mac didn’t recognize.
The neighborhood of the Goutte d’Or was situated in the eighteenth arrondissement, three miles from the Hotel Bristol, a little east of Montmartre and a stone’s throw from Porte de la Chapelle.
It was home to many sub-Saharan immigrants who had come to France from the countries it had once colonized.
It was, in his estimation, the last place the police would search for a wealthy Swiss tourist wanted for murder.
The restaurant was named La Goulue—not African exactly, but it would do.
He took a table in the back and ordered a Gazelle lager, chicken tagine and dirty rice, and a bowl of plantain chips.
Waiting for his food, he set up a burner phone.
He dialed a number in Germany—Berlin area code.
The call went directly to voicemail. A woman asked him to leave a name and number.
Her voice was about as welcoming as Ava’s.
Then again, they were in the same business.
“Hey, Jaycee, it’s me,” said Mac, as coolly as he could manage. “Call me on this number. No hurry. Everything’s copacetic.”
The beer arrived. Mac gulped half of it down, hand cupped around the cold bottle. The phone rang. He had it to his ear in a flash. “Hey.”
“Give me ten,” said his daughter, Jane McCall, acting chief of station, Berlin, for the Central Intelligence Agency. “This a good number?”
“For a little bit,” said Mac.
“Jesus.”
The call ended.
Mac finished his beer and ordered another. His food arrived. He ate quickly, not knowing where and when he’d have time for another meal. He drained his second beer. The phone rang the moment he set down the bottle.
“Jaycee.”
“Dad,” said his daughter, Jane McCall. “‘Copacetic,’ really?”
It was their code word. “Copacetic,” not meaning “all in order, nothing’s the matter,” but the opposite: “Everything is beyond f-ed up.” The worst of all possible situations.
“They’ve got Ava,” said Mac.
“What? Who?” asked Jane.
“I don’t know for sure. Maybe the Saudis. Maybe someone else.”
“Jesus, Dad. I thought this was supposed to be a romantic getaway.”
“I thought so too.”
“Did you pop the—” said Jane, then: “Dad, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Please. Okay, go ahead. I’m listening.”
It hit Mac at once. The tight throat. The warmth in his chest. The welling of his eyes.
Everything had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, so violently, he hadn’t had a moment to process it.
Ava was missing. His Ava. The woman he loved more than any other.
His everything. In his world—in their world—“missing” meant one thing. “Give me a second,” he said.
“You’re scaring me.”
‘“Honey, I’m scared too.”
“I’m here, Dad. It’s going to be okay. We’ll get her back. Just calm down.”
Mac wiped at his eyes. “That is not what you’re supposed to say.”
Jane laughed. “I think I was the one who taught you that.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Man up, Dekker,” said Jane, with authority. “It’s not going to get any easier just looking at it.”
“That’s my line,” said Mac, laughing despite himself. He noticed a few diners eyeing him—the old guy with tears streaming down his face. He lowered his head.
“Will loved it,” said Jane. “It was his line too.”
The mention of his son, Will, bucked up Mac’s spirits. His son, who had sacrificed his life to expose a terrorist plot to kill thousands. A hero.
“Here’s what went down,” said Mac, gathering himself.
He needed ten minutes to narrate the afternoon’s events.
Ava’s abduction from the restaurant, his futile search for her and the earring he found on the carpet, the Saudis breaking into his room with the intent of killing him, and his subsequent escape.
“You have their names?”
“Just one,” said Mac, consulting the passport. “Abdul Al-Hassan. Born 1988 in Buraydah.”
“Buraydah,” said Jane. “Really?”
“That’s what it says. Why?”
“That’s where they all came from,” said Jane. “I mean originally, like in 1850.”
“Who?”
“The Al Saud, the family that’s ruled the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia for the past hundred years or so.”
“These guys weren’t royalty,” said Mac. “I can tell you that much.”
“Doesn’t matter. If that’s his tribal home, he’s one of them. Old Wahhabi.”
It was not what Mac wanted to hear. Old Wahhabi meant extremism, and extremism was never good. “And you know this how?”
“I spent two years in Riyadh,” said Jane. “During your sabbatical.”
“Ha ha,” said Mac. “Very funny.”
“I’ll check him out,” said Jane.
“Carefully,” said Mac. “Remember what Don Baker told me. I’m not allowed to ask you to fix any parking tickets.”
“I can manage. So, what now? Who are the police looking for? Robbie Steinhardt or Mac Dekker?”
“Steinhardt.”
“Will your identity hold up?”
“It should. No reason to do a deep dive unless they catch me.”
“It’s going to come up on our radar,” said Jane. “Two dead Saudis in a Paris hotel room. Front-page news on every analyst’s screen.”
“I’ll worry about that later,” said Mac. “Right now, I need a bolt-hole.”
“I figured,” said Jane. “Tout de suite, I presume.”
“Ten minutes ago,” said Mac.
“Where are you now?”
“At a Senegalese restaurant in the eighteenth.”
“You must stick out like a sore thumb,” said Jane.
“Actually, I feel safer here than on the street.”
“I need some time,” said Jane. “Can’t leave any tracks that might piss off your old buddies in Langley.”
“Hurry,” said Mac.
“And you have no idea what this is all about?”
“None,” said Mac, then: “Maybe one thing. The guy said something about a code of Shamun. Shafra al Shamun. My Arabic’s lousy. I didn’t quite get it.”
“‘Shamun’ is ‘Samson,’” said Jane. “Like from the Bible. Samson and Delilah.”
“‘Code of Samson,’” said Mac. “What does that mean? I probably misheard.”
“Let me think about it,” said Jane. “Maybe it will ring a bell. Can you sit tight for an hour?”
“Think so,” said Mac.
“Dad, I need to ask. You have something planned, don’t you?”
“An idea,” said Mac. “Something went down in that restaurant. Ava didn’t just vanish. Someone took her. It’s gotta be on their cameras.”
“You’re going back?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No, Dad, I wouldn’t,” said Jane. “But I’d send some guy like you. Be careful.”
“Just check on the Saudis,” said Mac. “And, Jane, let me know if you have a show running in Paris.”
“We always have a show running in Paris.”
“You know what I mean,” said Mac. “It could be with our brethren in Tel Aviv.”
“Mossad? Why do you ask?”
“Come on, Jane. You know Ava. This didn’t happen out of the blue.”
“I guess it didn’t.”
“But, Jane, softly.”
“Church mice,” said Jane.
“Church mice,” said Mac. “That’s it for now. Gotta run.”
“Dad,” she said, before he could hang up.
“Yeah, Jaycee.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”