Chapter 61
Préfecture de Police, ?le de la Cité
Paris
Mac Dekker stood shivering beneath the portico at the entrance to the Préfecture de Police, encircled by Don Baker, Eliza Porter Elkins, and his daughter, Jane McCall. He looked from face to face, rubbing his shoulder, rocking on his feet, whiplashed by his dramatic reversal of fortune.
Ten minutes earlier he’d been facing an unknown spell in prison—a week, a month, the rest of his life.
He’d been separated once more from the woman he loved.
More importantly, he’d lost any chance to stop what was coming: the detonation of a nuclear device at the Palace of Versailles.
Now, in the blink of an eye, all that was behind him.
He was a free man. All charges against him had been dropped (provisionally, at least).
He’d been told that Ava was to be freed as well.
But he felt no closer to doing what had to be done.
“Can I have a word?” asked Mac, pulling Jane aside before anyone could say no.
“Sure. What is it?”
Jane was nearly as tall as him, blond, blue eyed, and nearly as fit.
She’d dropped twenty pounds since he’d last seen her.
Her cheeks had hollowed, her gaze lost its warmth.
Dressed in a tailored black suit, crisp blouse, she looked every bit the agent on the rise.
He knew her future, and he didn’t like it.
“Spill,” he said. “What are you doing here? I want it all. Please.”
Jane stepped closer, eyeing him warily, as if measuring what to tell him. “Ava contacted me in August.”
“August,” said Mac. “That’s two months ago.”
“It goes back farther than that,” said Jane.
“How far?”
“March, I believe.”
“Ava’s known about this since March?” said Mac.
Jane nodded. “Not all of it, but the beginnings.”
Mac winced. He couldn’t help it. March? His breath left him, and he experienced a wave of dizziness. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: how terribly hurt he felt or how he could have missed it. “She never said anything.”
“She couldn’t,” said Jane. “She knew you.”
“That I’d want to help,” said Mac.
“That you’d jeopardize everything you have together. Your new life. Your freedom. Katya. She thought you’d gotten off light the last time. Odds were against that happening again.”
Mac set aside his feelings—his anger, his humiliation, the damage to his fragile male ego—to consider this. More true than false, he decided. He had gotten off light. Even so . . . “You said ‘the beginnings.’ Give me the rest.”
Jane laid out the story, stating the facts as she knew them. Her words. She told him about Dr. Gerhard Lutz, about Ava’s meeting TNT at the clinic in St. Moritz, and about her subsequent theft of the blueprints for a new transmitter designed by Dr. Abbasi of the Natanz Research Facility.
“She stole them from his house?” asked Mac, interested in clarification.
“Yes.”
Mac felt his stomach clutch. He knew better than to ask how.
“Did you know about Samson?” asked Jane.
Mac shook his head and listened intently as Jane recounted how Ava had lost possession of the tactical nuclear weapon.
“It nearly broke her,” said Jane. “The weight of it, losing something like that. She held herself responsible. And then, after so many years, the chance to retrieve it falls into her lap. What choice did she have?”
Jane continued her narrative, stating that Ava only came to her after her contacts at Mossad had been killed—not just Zvi Gelber, but Dr. Lutz too. And after a man named Rosenfeld, a deputy of Itmar Ben-Gold, the Israeli minister of defense, warned her to back off.
“Yehudi Rosenfeld,” said Mac. “I’ve heard the name.”
Jane said that she had submitted Ava’s information, including the blueprints from Iran, to her superiors at the Agency, in this case colleagues working in the Directorate of Analysis.
The response took longer than such an urgent matter demanded.
A week passed. Then another. Something was up. She could feel it.
Finally, an answer came: The plans were deemed bogus, though how and why, no one specified.
Further, there was nothing in the files about Israel having ever lost a nuclear weapon, one named “Samson” or anything else.
It was Jane’s turn to receive a slap on the hand.
Langley ordered her not to pursue the matter.
Ava Attal, they stated, was considered by Mossad to be compromised.
No other explanation was given, excepting one caveat.
Continued contact with Ava was forbidden and would jeopardize Jane’s current posting, her career, and maybe—one sinister email confided—more than that.
Mossad had a way of dealing with enemies.
“But you didn’t let it go,” said Mac.
Jane pulled a face. As if. Mac felt a surge of pride. Yes, she was still his daughter. “I called Ava the same day to tell her what happened,” she said. “Ava wasn’t compromised; it was Ben-Gold and, evidently, Langley as well that were compromised. I told her I’d do whatever I could to help.”
“You knew about the Jules Verne?” he said.
“Sure.”
“And that she wanted to get kidnapped?”
“That was part of it.”
“Only part?”
“The plan was for Ava to neutralize TNT. First, she needed to obtain proof of his ties to Ben-Gold. It’s what she’s trained to do.”
“Steal documents?”
“No, Dad, the other thing,” said Jane.
“The other thing?” Mac wasn’t trying to be purposefully obtuse. He knew what Jane meant; he just couldn’t get himself to believe it.
“Wet work,” said Jane.
“Ava?”
Jane nodded.
“I see,” said Mac, though he didn’t really. He’d always thought that lies were what you told your enemies.
Wet work. Neutralize. Liquidate. Assassinate. The agency had a hundred words for it except one: kill. Something else Mac hadn’t known about her. He could see that there were going to be a lot of long nights when they got back to the Chalet Ponderosa. “Lucy, you got some splaining to do.”
Black humor, maybe, but, hey, sometimes that was all there was.
“Who told you about the red flag?” asked Mac.
Jane pursed her lips.
“Who?” Mac repeated, looking at the others.
“That would be me,” said Baker, immediately appealing to Elkins. “He’s a friend. I had to.”
“Later, Don,” said Elkins. “And don’t worry, I won’t forget.”
“Not that it helped,” said Mac to his old friend. “I hope it made your conscience feel better.”
“Screw you, Mac.”
“Back at ya, buddy.” Mac returned his attention to his daughter. He nodded and drew her toward him. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
“I did the best I could.”
“I know that,” said Mac. He kissed her on the cheek, then turned to face the others. “So now? Don’t tell me we can’t do a damn thing about it.”
“We’ve taken every measure possible,” said Elkins.
“Then why are we here and not hauling ass to Versailles?” asked Mac.
“Excuse me,” said Elkins. “Remind me when you started working for the French authorities? We’ve given them everything we have; that means all the information your Ava copied from Tariq al-Sabah’s laptop. Vincent Dalin is the deputy chief of the DGSE. I trust him to use it expeditiously.”
“There’s too much for him to process,” said Jane. “This is a live op. He needs to act on the intel real time.”
“Listen to her,” said Mac. “She knows.”
“It’s not our country,” said Elkins.
“How many times are you going to say that?” demanded Mac.
“As many times as necessary,” said Elkins.
“Mac, please,” added Baker. “Chill.”
Mac ran a hand over his mouth. “Chill?” he said.
“Are you kidding me? Do you realize what is about to go down? If that device goes off, you can forget about the couple thousand it will kill right away. That’s the tip of the iceberg.
They’re going to have to evacuate the entire city.
Ten million people or more. And by yesterday.
” Mac raised his left hand above his head, gauging the wind.
“Feel that? Breeze coming out of the west at ten to fifteen miles per hour. I know. It was our job to reckon wind velocity before taking a shot. Versailles is over that way. Due west. All the fallout from that bomb is going to come straight into the center of the city. There will be no getting away, not in time. You’re talking tens of thousands of innocent people dead and tens of thousands more who’ll die from cancer.
Paris will be an exclusion zone for twenty years. ”
“Please,” said Jane. “Talk to Vincent again. Convince him.”
“As far as Deputy Director Dalin is concerned,” said Elkins, “Mac is en route to the airport to catch a flight to the States. How do you think we got you out?”
“Maybe you had your daddy call,” said Mac. “The senator.”
“You SOB,” said Elkins.
“I knew I was in trouble when I heard you’d joined the Agency,” said Mac. “You never forgot about that crazy old man in Iraq. That was a bomb, too, wasn’t it?”
“And I thought I had a long memory,” said Elkins. “Pot meet kettle. On the contrary. You should thank me.”
“For what? Red-flagging me?”
“For believing you. For realizing that I was wrong about you. For getting to the Al-Sabahs’ mansion in time to see you being dragged out in cuffs.
The reason you’re a free man at this instant is because I swore an affidavit that you are a current employee in good standing of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Why else do you think they let you go? Your charm and good looks?
Sorry, Mac, your ass is mine, and you’ll do what I tell you. ”
“You didn’t,” said Mac.
“Dad, she did,” said Jane. “Cut her some slack.”
“That’ll be the day,” said Mac. He pointed an accusing finger at her. “Did you know she wanted me to leave the Agency and go to work for her father, the senator? Now, she kindly gives me my job back. Make up your mind, Lizzie.”
“That’s enough, Dekker,” said Baker, coming between them. “Put a sock in it.”
A uniformed policeman opened the door to the prefecture. Behind him, Vincent Dalin led Ava Attal outside. Someone had provided her a navy peacoat, to cover her dress, and a pair of well-used sneakers. Dalin extended a hand to Elkins. “This concludes matters,” he said.
“Thank you, Vincent,” said Elkins in her most syrupy voice. “If there’s ever anything I can do.”
“Happy to help,” said Dalin, practically bowing and kissing her hand. The French. Blond hair, big boobs, and they melt every time.
“Did you read the files, Vincent?” asked Mac, testily.
Dalin cleared his throat. “Interesting material. Madame Attal made a persuasive case.”
“That means you’re shutting it down,” said Mac. “The conference. You’re evacuating Versailles. You’re going after TNT.”
“I’ve given the dossier to my superiors,” said Dalin.
“And?”
“I believe Madame Attal is telling the truth. I’ve offered my recommendation that we act immediately.”
“Thank God,” said Mac. “Good news.” He looked at Ava, expecting her to share his relief. She kept her eyes cast down, saying nothing. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t be trusted,” said Ava. “I’m a foreign agent acting without permission on French soil. The fruits of my investigation are tainted a priori. I should be lucky I’m not locked away for ten years, isn’t that right?”
“You’re kidding?” said Mac.
“That is not my personal opinion,” said Dalin.
“However, my superiors must look to the larger question. Qatar is a close ally of France and the principal supplier of our natural gas. They are also, alongside the French president, the sponsor of a historic conference, which against all odds has reached a successful conclusion. The idea that Tariq, himself a Qatari, the minister of the interior, no less, would try and sabotage the conference is unimaginable.”
“But you have the proof,” said Mac. “Ava risked her life to get it. What are you waiting for?”
“Consider your freedom a token of my good faith,” said Vincent Dalin, with an edge.
“Questions remain to be answered about the slaying of two Saudi diplomats yesterday afternoon at the Hotel Bristol, as well as the shooting of Mademoiselle Shugar and Sergeant Montcalm. Blood has been spilled. It is our practice to hold the suspects until evidence is found to exonerate them . . . or not.”
“I’m grateful,” said Mac. “Merci.”
“De rien.” Dalin held out a hand. Mac shook it. A look passed between them. They were professionals. Dalin would do what he could. But don’t expect anything.
“Hurry,” said Mac. “Please.”
Dalin nodded gravely, said good evening, and reentered the prefecture.
A black Mercedes sedan entered the parking lot and pulled up to the stairs. A tall, bearded man got out of the driver’s seat. “Ready to roll?” he said. “They’re gassing up the plane.”
“This is Sam McGee, our Paris resident,” said Elkins. “He’ll be driving you to the airport.”
“I don’t think we should leave until this plays out,” said Mac.
“Mac, please,” said Ava.
“You need to leave,” said Baker, a hand on his shoulder.
“Get off me,” said Mac.
“Let’s go,” said Ava. “It is out of our hands. We tried.”
Mac looked at Elkins. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t find a way to thank her. “Yeah,” he said to Ava. “We tried.”
Together they descended the stairs. McGee held the passenger door open. Tried. Was there any uglier word? Mac wanted to cry.
As he ducked his head, he felt his phone rattle. He pulled it from his pocket. Voicemail from Harry Crooks. He hit Play.
“Goddamn you, Dekker. Call me back. I’ve got him. I’ve got your bloody prince. He just walked into bloody Notre-Dame.”
Mac handed the phone to Ava and replayed the message. Her eyes met his. “A friend?” she whispered.
“A good friend.”
“Well, then,” said Ava.
Mac gazed across the parking lot, through the open gates, and across a broad public square.
Two hundred meters away, bathed in white spotlights, stood a massive medieval cathedral whose construction had begun in the year 1163 and was completed in the year 1345.
It was a straight shot from the prefecture steps to the front doors of Notre-Dame de Paris.
He grabbed Ava’s hand. “Shall we, my love?”
They ran.