Chapter 10
Langley, Virginia, United States
“It was my understanding that you advised Mac Dekker to keep his head down,” said Eliza Porter Elkins.
“I did,” said Don Baker.
Elkins licked her finger and turned a page in the dossier open on her desk. “Two Saudi diplomats killed at the Hotel Bristol,” she said. “One defenestrated, the other stabbed to death.” She glanced up, amused. “I didn’t know people still used that word.”
“Ma’am?”
“‘Defenestrated.’ It means ‘thrown from a window.’”
“I figured,” said Baker. “Fenestra is Latin for ‘window.’”
“Very good, Mr. Baker,” said Elkins, graciously. “I’m impressed.”
“Benefits of a Catholic school education,” said Baker. “I have the scars to prove it. And ‘Don,’ please.”
“Very good, Don. Sorry about those scars.”
Elkins smiled. She was a pretty lady, very pretty and very much a lady.
He guessed she was sixty, though given her looks that was hard to believe.
She was tall and blond and curvaceous, if that was a word you were allowed to use anymore.
She was dressed in a dark skirt and a blazer with a cream-colored V-neck blouse that dove a little low for government standards.
Not that anyone would ever say anything.
Not to Eliza Porter Elkins. Not to a woman whose grandfather helped found not only the OSS but also the Agency itself.
Not to a woman whose father was, at age eighty-five, the sitting senior senator from West Virginia.
Not to a woman whose family owned exactly 51 percent of the land of that same state, including most of its coal mines.
The woman was impressive in her own right.
Annapolis honor graduate. Helicopter pilot.
She’d come to the Agency after running Consular Affairs at the State Department and before that serving as deputy director of the DIA, the Defense Intelligence Agency.
Three weeks ago, she’d stepped into her new office on the seventh floor of the CIA headquarters.
“Robert Steinhardt . . . that’s what he goes by?” she asked. “I’m sorry, I’m only just getting up to speed on all this.”
“For the past nine years or so,” said Baker. It was his first one-on-one interaction with his new boss, and he was eager to oblige. “I told him he should keep it.”
“Keep the name,” said Elkins. “And lay low.”
“Exactly.”
“He took the money, correct?” said Elkins, perusing the dossier. “A million and a half.”
“We pretty much ruined his life,” said Baker. “We had a bounty on his head for nine years, and that’s after we failed to take him out in Beirut.”
“Excuse me,” she said. “‘Failed to take him out?’ That’s not official diplomatic language.”
“Red-flagged him,” said Baker.
The blue eyes narrowed. A toss of the head. Her long, manicured fingers played with the gold chains around her neck. He was a sucker for fire-engine red nail polish.
“We, uh, tried to kill him,” said Baker. “We missed.”
“Thank you, Don. I appreciate the clarification.” She closed the dossier and gave him her full attention. “Some say we shouldn’t have rescinded the order.”
“He was innocent,” said Baker. “True blue. We know that now.”
“You’re sure? You, Don?”
“I am.”
“Good,” said Elkins, happy to be on solid ground. “I can rely on that.”
“You can.”
Elkins rose from her desk and walked to a sideboard.
An array of crystal decanters stood filled with various amber-colored spirits.
She consulted her watch. “Four p.m.,” she said.
“Are we allowed? I’m feeling a little naughty.
Bourbon all right?” She picked up one of the decanters and he noticed it was only a quarter full. “Say when.”
“That’s fine,” said Baker when she’d poured two fingers.
Elkins emptied the rest into her own glass. She handed him his, then sat down on the visitors’ couch. She had lovely legs. “How long do you think it will hold up?” she asked. “The whole Swiss-identity thing.”
“It’s lasted this long,” said Baker. “They’d have to catch him first. After that I don’t know.”
“Is the passport real?”
“Real enough.”
“From our shop, or did he work a deal with the Swiss?” asked Elkins. She shook her head and said wistfully: “He can be quite persuasive.”
“You know him?” asked Baker. News to him.
“I’ve heard,” said Elkins, fast as a whip.
“I guess he handled it himself,” said Baker. “He has his own contacts.”
“‘He’ being Mac Dekker?”
“That’s correct,” said Baker.
Elkins sipped and nodded. “Just wanted to make sure that the Robert Steinhardt who the entire Paris police department is looking for in connection with the murder of two Saudi nationals is, in fact, Mackenzie David Dekker. Mac for short.”
“It’s him,” said Baker. “It’s our Mac.”
“Your Mac,” said Elkins. “I only just got here.” She finished her drink. “Have you talked to him lately?”
“You mean after I visited him in Switzerland? No.”
“You’re sure,” said Elkins, looking at him from beneath her brow. Gone was the polite, self-effacing banter. This was business now. “We can find out.”
“I’m sure,” said Baker, holding his ground.
“I’d like you to tell me, then, Don, as Mac’s oldest friend—his champion, I’m made to believe—exactly what you believe is going on?”
“I can’t say offhand. But if Mac killed anyone, he had a reason. I’d say he was provoked.”
“Provoked? Out of the blue . . . just like that. In his hotel room.” She pulled a face. She wasn’t having it. “Remind me, do the Saudis have anything against the Swiss we don’t know about?”
Baker shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Me neither,” said Elkins. “Here’s the rub: When a coin drops with Saudi Arabia on one side, guess who I see on the other?”
“Israel,” said Baker.
“Ten points, Don. Israel. Our staunchest ally in the Middle East; some say the fifty-first state. You see, if the report is correct, it says that Mr. Dekker was at the hotel with a woman.”
“Ava Attal.”
“Ava Marie Attal. Full colonel. Mossad. Before that, Shin Bet. Tell me about her.”
“That’s all I know,” said Baker. “She was at the Farm a while back for a refresher course. I met her once, maybe twice. That’s it.”
“What does she look like? Attractive?”
“Depends on your type.”
“Is she yours?”
“She’s taller than me,” said Baker.
Elkins gave him a look. Everyone was taller than Don Baker.
“Dark hair,” he continued. “Tall. Athletic. Smart. Motivated. She was banged up pretty badly last year. Mac told me she was concentrating on getting better.”
Elkins put her elbows on the table, fingers steepled. “Question: Was she working with Dekker when all that trouble transpired ten years ago? When one of your operatives double-crossed him . . . double-crossed us . . . and went over to the Russians?”
Baker nodded.
“And she helped him foil an attack in Ukraine last year?”
“She was instrumental in uncovering the SVR plot against Kyiv, yes.”
“So, they’re thick as thieves,” said Elkins.
“They love each other,” said Baker. “If that’s what you’re driving at. They’ve been living together at his place in the Alps for a year. They’re bringing up his granddaughter as their own. She’s four.”
Elkins was no longer listening. She sat, staring out the window, looking as if she were far, far away.
“Ms. Elkins?” said Baker.
“A child,” she muttered beneath her breath. “At that age?”
“Eliza? Ma’am?”
Finally, she looked back at Baker. The color had drained from her face. “Blanched” was the word. “Blanched” from blanchir. French. To whiten. Something else Baker had picked up in high school. She looked ten years older.
“I’ve got to be honest, Don,” she said. “I’m worried. Two Saudis dead at a Paris hotel. Mac Dekker on the run. Ava Attal unaccounted for. And you believe it was all just some accident. A coincidence, perhaps.”
“I didn’t say that,” Baker protested. “But I know Mac. He said he was out of the game. I believe him.”
“I guess he forgot to tell the Saudis,” said Elkins. “Or were they after her . . . Attal?”
Baker said he didn’t know. Elkins asked if he’d reached out to Dekker. He replied that he’d tried the only number he had and that it hadn’t gone through. She didn’t appear to like his answer.
“Is it your opinion,” she asked, “that we should just sit on our hands and wait to see how things play out?”
“I say wait a little longer,” answered Baker. “He may contact us. Tell us what’s up.”
“Would you?”
Baker shook his head reluctantly. “Give me some time,” he said. “We have plenty of resources in Paris. Let me make some calls.”
“Time is one thing we haven’t got,” said Elkins. “Not this weekend.”
“Oh? What’s going down in Paris?” asked Baker, sitting up straighter. Western Europe was his territory. He didn’t appreciate being kept in the dark. “Nothing has come across my desk.”
“For once someone can keep a secret,” said Elkins.
“Eliza, do we have a play running in Paris?”
“We don’t have anything running there,” said Elkins.
“Who does? The Saudis?”
“Look who’s the clever boots.” The color had come back to her face, and with it, her convivial manner.
“Don Baker. Winner of the Latin prize, scars and all. Whatever ‘it’ is—and I’m neither confirming nor denying—we need to make sure that neither Mac Dekker nor Ava Attal come within a country mile of it. Ironclad. Understand?”
“You’re not thinking . . . ?”
“What? Oh, that?” Elkins laughed, eyes saying he was crazy.
“That kind of thing went out with Colby and Webster, the old gunslingers. No, I have something else in mind. Pack your bags, Don. You and I are both of us going to Paris. We’re going to track down Mac Dekker and find out for ourselves just what the hell is going on. ”
“Tonight?” asked Baker.
“We’ll swing by your place and pick you up,” said Elkins. “How does an hour sound?”
“I’ll be ready.” Baker smiled compliantly, but beneath the smile lay a hard-earned mantle of distrust. “One thing, Eliza.”
“What is it?”
“Remember . . . he’s still Mac Dekker.”
“Is that a threat, Don?” said Elkins.
“It’s whatever you want it to be,” said Baker.