Chapter 58
Prefecture de Police
Paris
“So,” said one of the policemen. “Just tell us who you really are. We know anyway. No need to continue lying.”
There were two officials from French law enforcement: a man and a woman.
The man was Mac’s age; tall, barrel chested, with a halo of gray hair and a dapper mustache.
He wore a nice suit, charcoal gray, and a dark necktie with the tie clip identifying him as a former legionnaire, a member of the French Foreign Legion.
He was the fed, probably from the DGSE, the spy service.
The woman was short and skinny, maybe forty, with jeans, a leather jacket, brown hair cut in an unfashionable bob.
A heavy smoker, by the lines crimping her mouth and the pall that came off her every time she leaned across the table.
She was a local, Mac figured—Paris police, one of the shooter’s former colleagues. Neither gave a name.
Mac sat on one side of the desk. They sat on the other.
Ava was in another room, most probably suffering the same treatment.
The clock on the wall read 5:20 p.m. Mac’s arm was in a sling, thanks to a paramedic.
The bullet had creased the ball of his shoulder, digging a shallow canal out of soft tissue and muscle.
Initial treatment was an antiseptic, a shot for the pain, and a bandage.
A doctor had been summoned, but he could wait.
“My name is Robert Steinhardt,” said Mac. “I am a Swiss citizen. I reside in Zinal, Switzerland. The Chalet Ponderosa.” Not exactly name, rank, and serial number, but close enough.
“And this?” said the woman, pounding a finger on a photograph of a much younger Mac Dekker, staring at them from what might be called a modern-day version of a “Wanted” poster.
A sheet with name, alias, physical description, and a disconcertingly accurate summary of his career at the CIA and before.
Neither official said how they’d come upon it, but Mac knew all the same.
The woman Ava had killed on the roof of TNT’s house was a contract assassin.
She had taken the red flag on Mac. She was the same person, he was convinced, who’d shot at him earlier that morning as he fled Gerard Rosenfeld’s apartment.
Twice she’d missed, the second time, just. Mac could consider himself lucky, if not blessed.
Or maybe not so much. The problem was that the shooter was also a police officer.
Her name was Sergeant Cyrille de Montcalm of the DGSI and, he’d been told, a possessor of a spotless record, a longtime veteran of the force held in the highest esteem by her colleagues.
“I’m sorry,” said Mac, barely glancing at the picture. “That’s not me. I’m Robert Steinhardt.”
“Yes, we know,” said the man. “From Zinal. I must say you’re not bad. I almost believe. Almost.”
Mac showed neither joy nor sorrow at the compliment.
In truth, he was more accustomed to being on the opposite side of the table.
His years in Iraq and Afghanistan had involved more talking than killing.
Over time, he had become an expert in eliciting information from the most hostile of adversaries and less of one in the vagaries of human behavior.
“Tell us again what you are doing in Paris,” said the woman. It was the third time through. Standard interrogation policy. Play. Rewind. Play again. Trip ’em up on the small stuff, and eventually they cop to the big stuff. Human behavior 101.
Mac started at the top. A romantic weekend in Paris. A proposal of marriage. When Ava disappeared from the restaurant, he made it his mission to find her. As any man would, he added, appealing to the Gallic male’s sense of chivalry. He loved her. He could do no less.
“And the men in the Hotel Bristol?”
Mac had never seen them before. He had no idea why Saudi diplomats wished to kill him.
He fought back. What choice did he have?
Of course he ran. Otherwise, he never would have found Ava.
Mac wasn’t lying. Not really. He was telling the truth, as seen by a retired CIA operative sworn to never reveal his identity.
In other words, the truth according to Robert Steinhardt.
Yes, he had gone to the restaurant Jules Verne late last night to view its security cameras.
Yes, he had visited Gerard Rosenfeld’s apartment.
Yes, he had broken into Tariq al-Sabah’s home.
Why shouldn’t he have done? He had seen Al-Sabah’s image on the security cameras.
Gerard Rosenfeld had confirmed his identity, as well as admitted to having acted himself as a coconspirator.
It was Tariq al-Sabah who had kidnapped Ava from the restaurant—and, Mac added forcefully, who had killed Dahlia Shugar.
“He’s the man you should be questioning,” Mac added, with righteous indignation.
As for Sergeant Montcalm, it was self-defense. Kill or be killed.
“Remind us why a prince from Qatar would do these things?” said the male officer, stroking his dapper mustache. “Kidnapping, murder. Come now, isn’t that a bit far fetched?”
And so, the decision to tell or not to tell. To Mac’s mind, he had to give them all the information he possessed, whether they chose to believe him or not.
“Ava believed that he was behind some kind of plot to disrupt a conference taking place here in Paris this weekend,” said Mac. “I imagine he found out that she knew about his plans and took steps to silence her.”
“And you, Mr. Steinhardt—you knew nothing about this?”
“I did not,” said Mac.
“You live with this woman,” the male official continued. “You know her past.”
“She served as Israel’s consul general in Zurich.”
“Her other past.”
“She worked in some capacity for the Israeli government,” said Mac. “At home and overseas.”
“And what capacity might that be?”
“In the diplomatic service,” said Mac. “It wasn’t something we talked about. It was long ago.”
“The diplomatic service?” asked the male official, not bothering to conceal his disbelief.
“Yes.”
“And how did this simple diplomatic worker uncover this heinous plot? A plan to disrupt a major international conference, no less?”
“To bomb it,” said Mac.
“Yes, as you said before. To bomb it.”
“I don’t know,” said Mac. For once, he was telling the truth. Ava had mentioned Zvi Gelber, but apart from that, he was in the dark.
The man dropped into a chair, looking at the ceiling and loosing a breath.
“And you are Robert Steinhardt, retired trader, import/export, blah, blah, blah,” said the woman.
“Stop serving us warmed up dog shit. You think I don’t know what this is?
” She picked up the “Wanted” paper. “It’s a hit sheet.
Someone wants you dead. You, Mackenzie David Dekker.
Not Robert Steinhardt. You. Mac Dekker, KIA Lebanon nine years ago.
You think we don’t have our own sources? ”
“I’m Robert Steinhardt,” responded Mac.
“Maybe it’s you who wants to bomb this conference,” suggested the woman, throwing herself in his face. “What do you think of that?”
“I’d like to see Ava, please,” said Mac, softly.
“You mean Colonel Attal of Mossad?”
“Just Ava.”
“And I’d like to sleep with David Beckham,” shouted the woman. “Neither of us has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting what we want.” She threw up her arms in a gesture of surrender and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
It was an act, Mac knew, as a former practitioner of the craft. Now he could expect the other part: She’s pissed, but her partner . . . maybe he and Mac could work something out. Man to man.
The dapper cop looked at Mac. “You want a coffee?”
Mac said no, thank you.
“Sure? No trouble.”
Mac shook his head. The last thing he’d managed to do before being arrested was to swallow his last go pill.
Well, his last two, if he was being honest. Despite the fact he’d slept three hours in the last thirty-six, been moving nonstop all that time, and taken a bullet, he felt okay.
Better than that. Battle bright. His mind was agile and alert, working all the angles, even if deep down, he knew there weren’t any.
He and Ava were locked away and would be for days, no matter what they said.
There was no bail in France. No habeas corpus, at least not right away.
No one would put stock in anything either of them said.
Not if he refused to admit to his real name.
Not if Ava was on the outs with her former bosses and a suspect in her own right.
A police officer was dead, and they had killed her.
Another woman lay dead inside the house.
That is where the investigation began and ended.
“I was over there too,” said the cop. “Beirut. They used to call it ‘the Paris of the Levant.’ Beautiful city. The women.”
“Yes,” said Mac. “I heard it was beautiful once.”
“I guess we never crossed paths,” the man went on. “Too bad. My name is Vincent, by the way. My real name.”
“I’m Robert. Call me Robbie.”
“You were with Special Activities,” said Vincent. “I heard this. Talented with a rifle. You had a partner, Russian name, who went over to them. It was big news for a day or two. So Zinal? That’s where a man goes to die. I’ll have to remember that. The Chalet Ponderosa. Sounds nice.”
“It is,” said Mac.
They regarded one another, Mac sensing that maybe, just maybe, Vincent might grant his words credence. The French authorities knew who he was. The picture on the hit sheet was twenty years old, but there was no mistaking that it was Mac. How long must he continue the charade?
“I wasn’t lying about the bomb,” said Mac. “It’s happening.”
“And the rest? Your name? Hers? Her past?”
Mac looked at Vincent. His silence was enough. The rest was true, but he’d never say it.
Heated voices drifted in from another room. He saw shadows moving on the other side of the opaque glass. Some kind of argument. Then in English: “Goddamn it, he’s ours. We’re taking him now.”
Vincent peered over his shoulder, then back at Mac. “You have friends here?”
“Not that I know,” said Mac.
“Maybe they came from Zinal,” said Vincent, with an unhappy chuckle. “I guess it was only a matter of time. This place is a sieve.”
“Versailles,” whispered Mac, placing a hand on Vincent’s forearm. “Something’s happening there tonight. Am I right? A treaty signing, something like that? If I were you, I’d have a look.”
“Versailles?”
“Yeah,” said Mac, looking Vincent hard in the eye. “I heard it from a guy named Dekker and a retired operative from Mossad.”
The door flew open. The female cop stormed in, followed by three people Mac knew from days past and present. Don Baker; a tall, attractive blond woman who looked much too familiar; and his daughter, Jane.
“We told you to get the hell out of town,” she said. “Don’t you ever listen?”