Chapter 45
H?tel Plaza Athénée
Paris
At two o’clock on this autumn Saturday afternoon, the lobby of the H?tel Plaza Athénée, one of the oldest and most revered hotels in all Paris, was a symphony of elegant chaos.
A party of a dozen Saudis—a sheikh, his wives, their children—milled around the reception desk as keys were handed out and the children morosely argued about who would sleep in what room.
Elsewhere, two older European women dressed in matching black dresses walked their matching white poodles across the marble floor and toward the gallery.
A look between them made clear they did not care for the Saudi contingent.
In a far corner, the concierge was going over the evening’s offerings at the opera.
Mac caught the words “misanthrope” and “Molière.” A bellman dressed in the same uniform one might have seen a hundred years earlier guided a trolley piled high with Louis Vuitton steamer trunks toward the elevators.
The strains from a string quartet playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons drifted from the Gallerie.
In the splendid, perfumed confusion, no one paid Mac Dekker and Harry Crooks the least attention as they crossed the marble floor. A hotelier waved Mac and Crooks to the reception desk. “Welcome,” he said. “Will you be checking in?”
Mac wheeled Harry closer. Crooks gave his name. “I believe it’s a suite.”
“Just the one night?”
“Just the one,” said Crooks.
“Passports and credit card,” said the hotelier.
“My assistant won’t be staying,” said Crooks.
Mac looked on stone faced as the hotelier took Crooks’s passport and credit card.
Mac had ditched his suit and borrowed from Crook’s closet.
The black cable-knit sweater fit perfectly.
The trousers, also black, were two inches short, but who was looking?
For his part, Crooks was dressed in a blazer and slacks with a silver silk ascot to make sure everyone knew he was the boss.
The hotelier gave them a suite on the fifth floor, with a view onto the rear courtyard. There were better rooms, and one from which Mac might have climbed onto the roof, but they were too expensive, and besides, Mac couldn’t risk being seen from the street.
Once in the room, Mac opened his travel bag. Inside was a coil of climbing rope and Harry’s Browning pistol. Mac threw the rope over a shoulder, then palmed the pistol. He chambered a round and slid it into his waistband.
“If it misfires,” he said, “you’re in trouble.”
“Actually, the opposite,” said Crooks. They shared a laugh. “But Mac. Trust me. I’ve never sent a man into a battle with a dodgy firearm. I’m not going to start today.”
The room grew quiet. It was that moment before the green light.
The moment when the atmosphere hardened and it became difficult to smile or really to say anything at all.
It was time for a prayer and for Mac to remind himself why he was there.
To recall all that had led to this moment; to take a breath and commit.
I’m here to do a job.
I am here to save the woman who is my life.
Mac withdrew one of the phones and a slim executive tape recorder. “Give it to me again.”
“Play the message once and hang up,” said Crooks. “It’s more effective that way. It leaves them uneasy. They won’t want to take a chance. They record everything anyway. If they want to listen again, they can.”
“Fifteen minutes,” said Mac.
“Give or take,” said Crooks. “Don’t go in until they arrive. Believe me, you’re going to know when they get there. More importantly, everyone in that house will know it. Police here don’t mess about. They come in heavy.”
Mac didn’t need reminding. Jo Goldenberg. Charlie Hebdo. The Bataclan. Too much blood had been spilled in the city.
“See you for dinner,” he said.
“Bring Ava,” said Crooks. “Can’t wait to meet her.”
“Deal.”
Mac left the room. He took the elevator to the top floor.
He couldn’t spend too much time patrolling the hallways.
There were cameras everywhere. Someone would see him, either staff or security.
On cue, a bellman emerged from an unmarked door, pushing a luggage trolley.
Mac stopped in his tracks and pressed his back against the wall.
The bellman never gave him a look. Mac stuck his foot against the doorjamb in the nick of time.
He peered inside. A service elevator. The bellman rounded a corner.
Mac slid inside the room and pressed the Call button.
The elevator doors opened immediately. There was only one button higher than six.
“R” for “roof.” His destination. The car jerked and briefly climbed.
When the doors opened, Mac was in a different world.
No carpeted hallways, no flowered wallpaper.
Instead, concrete, chipped paint, and a stuttering fluorescent light.
He opened a door that gave onto a long hallway.
The ceiling was low, made lower by exposed pipes.
Ducking his head, he walked to the end of the corridor and spotted a sign marked Accès au Toit.
“Access to the roof.” The door was locked.
He had no pick. He tried the doorknob again, and it rattled loosely, its screws barely holding.
He retraced his steps. There was a fire extinguisher in a recessed case built into the wall.
He took it out. Decent weight. Solid. He returned to the rooftop door.
A look over his shoulder. No one in sight.
He brought the bottom of the extinguisher down onto the doorknob.
Wood splintered. The brass knob clattered onto the floor. He pushed the door open.
A short flight of stairs led to a second door with a push bar.
He depressed it, and the door swung open.
A blast of fresh air, a drop of rain on his cheek.
The door closed behind him. The roof was flat and barren, covered with old, beat-up tar paper.
A dozen satellite dishes of varying sizes huddled in one corner.
No missing the Eiffel Tower about a half a mile away.
He proceeded to the roof’s western boundary.
A steep slate mansard roof fell to the adjacent building.
From there, a drop of ten feet to the rooftop garden he had looked at in so many magazines. The red door hadn’t changed a bit.
Mac jogged to the northern corner of the roof.
Standing on his tiptoes, he enjoyed an unobstructed view into the courtyard of TNT’s mansion.
A half dozen men stood near a pair of black SUVs.
A few of the men were dressed in traditional Arab clothing, a few in business suits, all milling about.
No sign of the Bugatti or any of the cars the prince was famous for.
It was then that he heard it. The magnificent whine. The rugged, mellifluous song of a perfectly tuned internal combustion engine. He hurried to the southern side of the roof and gazed down on the Avenue Montaigne. He wasn’t mistaken. It was him. It was TNT in his Bugatti Chiron.
Mac followed the car into the courtyard. A woman got out of the passenger side, then TNT. They joined the others. Something was transferred from the Bugatti into an SUV. He couldn’t see what exactly, except that it was a large rectangular box.
It was time.
Mac called 112. The answer was immediate. “Service d’urgence.”
Mac placed the tape recorder next to the phone and pressed Play.
“Hello, police. I need your help, please. Right away. My name is Prince Tariq bin Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah. There are armed men in my house. They have guns, rifles, machine guns. Terrorists. They have already killed one of my bodyguards. They are shooting again. Can you hear? It is the woman they want. I know it. Please. I am at 27 Avenue Montaigne. I can’t talk anymore.
I can hear them coming.” And here, in a flash of inspiration, Harry Crooks had instructed the AI clone to speak in Tariq’s native Arabic and say, “Please Lord, come quickly. My life depends on it. Inshallah.”
Mac lowered the recorder. The operator said in a calm voice, “Stay on the line. Do you know how many men are inside? Sir, are you there? Are you there? Sir?”
Mac ended the call. He looked at his watch.
Fifteen minutes.