Chapter 21
Rue des Rosiers
Paris
“TNT,” said Rosenfeld. “It was TNT. Everyone knows him.”
“I don’t,” said Mac. “Tell me.”
“Tariq bin Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah. He’s famous.”
“Al-Sabah? From Qatar?” Mac had spent years in the Middle East. The Al-Sabahs were the ruling family of Qatar, the very small, very conservative, very oil-rich state on the western edge of the Persian Gulf.
“The emir’s second son,” said Rosenfeld. “He’s one of the new group. You know, ‘influencers.’ He posts pictures of himself on social media for his followers to view.”
“I don’t do social media,” said Mac.
“They come to the restaurant every day,” explained Rosenfeld. “They take pictures of the food—every course, every glass of wine and champagne. They pose.”
“Who?”
“Influencers.”
Again, that term. Mac knew it vaguely and took it to mean people who didn’t do anything for a living but share pictures of themselves in the hope you find them more interesting than your own life. “But why would I want to see what someone else has for dinner?”
“Because your life is boring and theirs is not,” Rosenfeld explained. “It’s glamorous. It’s sophisticated. It’s better than yours.”
“What does that have to do with Al-Sabah? TNT?” said Mac.
“The prince comes to the restaurant two or three times a year,” said Rosenfeld. “He posts pictures of the view, his meal, his friends, his clothes. Millions of people see them. It’s good for business.”
“Is kidnapping your guests good for business?” demanded Mac.
“He asked me for a favor,” said Rosenfeld. “He said he was playing a prank. Something amusing for his followers.”
“A prank?” Mac wasn’t buying it. Not for a second. “To abduct someone against their will? That’s a crime. You can go to prison.”
“He said it was all right. I shouldn’t worry. He promised me.”
“And you believed him?”
Rosenfeld nodded emphatically, as if any normal person would believe the prince.
“I saw the tape,” said Mac. “You were there. You watched the woman put a syringe into Ava’s neck. You saw her struggle. You helped them bundle her into the kitchen elevator. It was no prank. There was nothing amusing about it. Then you lied to me. Again and again, you lied to me.”
“He told me I must,” said Rosenfeld, near tears.
“TNT?”
“Yes.”
“And you said, ‘Of course.’ It would be your pleasure.”
Rosenfeld swallowed hard, avoiding Mac’s glare.
“Why?”
Rosenfeld dug his chin into his neck, eyes closed.
“How much did he pay you?” asked Mac.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying,” said Mac. “How much?”
“Nothing,” spat Rosenfeld, lifting his face to Mac.
“Then why?”
Rosenfeld looked away.
Mac picked up the pistol off the table and held it on his thigh. “I’m waiting. If not for money, then why?”
“Please,” said Rosenfeld. It was a squeak.
Mac lifted the pistol and pressed the barrel against Rosenfeld’s ribs. The man whimpered.
“No, stop!” It was Rosenfeld’s wife, Laura. She ran from the bathroom. “Tell him, Gerard. Tell him who made you do it.”
“Quiet,” said Rosenfeld. “Not another word.”
“It wasn’t the prince. It was Gerard’s brother,” said Laura Rosenfeld, weeping. “He’s a fanatic.”
Rosenfeld rose suddenly and struck his wife across the face. She fell to the floor, blood darkening her teeth. “It was his brother,” she repeated, through her tears. “Yehudi. In Jerusalem. He’s a fanatic. They all are.”
“Quiet, I told you,” shouted Rosenfeld. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“He put him up to it,” she continued. “Yehudi and his boss. They’re all crazy. Tell him, Gerard.”
Mac grabbed Rosenfeld and yanked him back onto the couch. “What is she talking about? Why are you helping TNT?”
“I don’t know,” said Rosenfeld. “I do as I’m told.”
“Do you know who she is? Ava?”
Rosenfeld nodded. “Mossad.”
“Did your brother tell you that?”
Again, Rosenfeld nodded.
“So why did you help Al-Sabah kidnap her?”
“I was told to,” said Rosenfeld. “That was enough.”
Mac put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pressed the gun against his heart. “Tell me,” he said calmly. “What do they want? Why is your brother helping the prince?”
Rosenfeld shook his head.
“Where is Ava?”
“I don’t know. I swear.”
“Where?”
“Stop,” wailed his wife, Laura, struggling to get to her feet. “Don’t kill him. I called the police. They’ll find you. Don’t kill him!”
It was then that Mac saw the phone in her hand. He ran to the window. He didn’t see any police cars. He couldn’t hear a siren. There was one last thing he needed to know.
“When?” asked Mac. “When did he tell you all this . . . When did your brother tell you to help TNT?”
Rosenfeld closed his eyes. He shook his head, mumbling.
“I asked you, ‘When?’” Suddenly it was very important that Mac knew. “When did TNT tell you that he was planning on kidnapping Ava from the restaurant?”
“A week ago,” said Rosenfeld.
Mac reeled at the news. The trip to Paris had been a last-minute decision. Ava had booked the table five days ago.