Chapter 25
Boulevard du Montparnasse
Paris
TNT honked the horn.
Two lean, dark-eyed men hustled out a steel door.
Both were dressed in black mechanics’ jumpsuits with the name “Exotic European Motorcars” sewn on the breast. One unlocked the padlock securing the retracting door and with an effort rolled it skyward.
The other waved TNT inside, walking backward into the repair bay.
TNT drove the Bugatti into the shop. Bright hexagonal LED lights hung from the ceiling. There were additional bays on either side. Both were empty. As soon as TNT entered, the door was lowered. TNT waited until it slammed shut, then climbed from the car.
The mechanics were Slavs. Ben and Goran from Serbia.
Both had raced cars professionally years earlier.
Ben had won a few Formula 3 races. Goran had made it as a backup driver on the McLaren team for a few years.
Afterward, they’d worked on the Formula 1 circuit, part of one team or another.
It was a hard life, on the road eight months a year, with hell to pay unless you podiumed.
They quit and settled in Paris. With their connections, they built a business selling and servicing exotic motorcars, which meant the priciest vehicles manufactured by the world’s most exclusive automobile companies.
Ferrari, Lamborghini, and Bugatti, among others.
It was exacting work, and that was before dealing with the clients.
Labor costs started at €500 an hour and went up from there.
The old saying held true: “If you have to ask the price, it’s too expensive. ”
TNT greeted both men with a handshake and a hug.
“What . . . no picture?” said Goran. He was around fifty—crew cut, thin as a rail, always chewing gum. “Where’s the camera?”
“Not today,” said TNT. “No camera.”
It was his practice to bring in the car every three months for a full service. This morning, however, he had come for a different reason. The reason he could not allow Customs Inspector LeClerc to take too close a look at the car.
“Something’s wrong with the air filter,” said TNT, after turning down a coffee, a cigarette, and a stick of gum, in that order.
“What you got?” asked Goran. “Too much sand?”
“You hanging around the stables again?” said Ben.
“I tell you, not good for car. Dust, hay, horse shit.” He was as small as a jockey, hunched, a constant smirk twisting his face.
Ben was a horse racing enthusiast and, as such, always on the lookout for tips.
“You here for big race? See you on TV yesterday. Nice horse.”
“Something like that,” said TNT. “Actually, I brought a little something from home. Something I didn’t want the boys in customs to find, and no, it isn’t drugs.”
“Not for horses,” said Ben, disappointed.
“A present,” said TNT.
“In the air filter,” said Goran, matter-of-factly.
“Air intake, actually,” said TNT. “Bolted. It’s fragile.”
“No problem, boss,” said Ben. “You let me know if that horse of yours going to win tomorrow.”
TNT patted the slight man on the shoulder. “I guarantee it,” he said, to the bemusement of both mechanics, who high-fived one another, already counting their winnings.
“You sit in waiting room, boss,” said Goran. “Be done fast.”
“I’ll stay,” said Tariq.
“You nervous, eh?” said Goran. “Think we’re going to break your present.”
“Important present,” said TNT.
“You the boss.” Goran climbed into the Bugatti and drove it forward a few feet. Ben locked down the tires to make sure the vehicle wouldn’t budge.
The Bugatti Chiron was a mid-engine automobile.
Its V-16 quad-turbo engine weighed one thousand pounds alone and was situated behind the passenger compartment on an elevated transverse mount.
Ben removed the transparent plexiglass bonnet and handed it to Goran.
The air intakes were shaped like hollow gourds and sat on top of the engine, one to either side.
Each was thirty inches in length, forged from stainless steel, and painted glossy black.
“Where the present?” asked Goran, plugging in a variable-speed impact wrench and revving it.
“Left air intake,” said TNT.
Goran removed the bolts that attached it to the chassis. He handed the wrench to Ben, then freed the intake valve from its clamps. “Heavy,” he said.
“Thirteen pounds,” said TNT.
“Lot of jewels,” said Goran.
“You a thief?” asked Ben aggressively, which was what they took for humor.
Goran carried the intake to a trestle table.
Bending at the waist, he peered inside. He barked instructions to Ben, who handed him a Phillips screwdriver.
A minute later, Goran withdrew a slim, rectangular item wrapped in black Plasticine.
The “present” was seventeen inches long, three inches wide, and four inches deep, more or less the size and shape of an ingot of gold. “I allowed to ask what is?”
“No,” said TNT.
Goran tossed it halfway across the bay to Ben. “Fragile, eh? What you think?”
Ben shook the package, then put it to his ear. “Candy,” he said.
“You’re right,” said TNT. “Candy.”
The Slavs laughed.
“You promise your horse gonna win?” said Ben, clutching the package to his chest.
“Promise,” said TNT.
“Here you go.” Ben tossed the package to TNT. It was a lousy throw, too short and too low. TNT jumped forward and fell to a knee, getting his hands under it a moment before it hit the floor.
“What are you waiting for?” he said, standing up, smiling uneasily. “Put the car back together.”
He entered the men’s private office and shut the door. After setting the package on the table, he took a seat and leaned back, exhaling, staring at the ceiling.
When did it all begin? This scheme of his. This vision. This bold adventure.
A dinner in Doha. A seasonable night in February, always the nicest month of the year.
Dinner at the restaurant Nobu in the Four Seasons Hotel.
A table overlooking the water on the shore of the Persian Gulf.
A view up the coastline to the business district.
One skyscraper more modern, more daring than the next. A sight to make a Qatari heart proud.
It was his turn to dine the delegation from Hamas. Hamas was the acronym for the Islamic Resistance Movement, which was, more specifically, the Palestinian nationalist Sunni political party that had governed the Gaza Strip since 2006.
It was Hamas that, on October 7, 2023, sent its soldiers rampaging across the Israeli border to kill and capture as many Jews as possible.
The action was viewed as a reprisal by those who ordered it and an act of war by those who had been attacked.
The Israelis took their time to fashion a response.
When it came, it was more thunderous than even the most pessimistic minds had foreseen.
First there was artillery, then the campaign from the air, then the invasion.
The interesting thing about Gaza was that it belonged to no one.
Not to Egypt, which bordered it to the south.
Not to Israel, which surrounded it to the east and north.
It was not even its own sovereign state.
It was just a strip of land twenty-five miles long and four or five miles wide.
One hundred forty square miles in total area and home to two million Palestinians no one wanted.
Nearly as soon as the conflict began, all concerned parties sent representatives to Doha—spies, government officials, business leaders, whatever—though even now Tariq wasn’t sure why.
No one seemed to want an end to the killing, at least at first. Israel was hell bent on massacring every last fighter in Gaza, Hamas or not.
And Hamas was happy to let them try, hoping that as many civilians as possible were killed along the way.
Hamas might lose the military campaign, but would be damned if it lost the public relations campaign.
Besides, Tariq mused, a few thousand more martyrs sent to heaven meant a few thousand fewer mouths to feed on earth. No one said Hamas wasn’t practical.
Doha was like a watering hole in Africa, where at dawn and dusk all the animals—predators and prey—could congregate without fear of being eaten or attacked.
Hamas was camped at the St. Regis. Hezbollah at the Four Seasons.
The Emiratis had taken over the Ritz-Carlton, and the Saudis were at the Mandarin Oriental.
Israel, whose delegation paradoxically was the smallest, housed its people in hostels and guesthouses.
Even if no one was ready to negotiate, they could at least exchange a few words over coffee.
Back to the Nobu. It had been a contentious day.
TNT had no recollection of what had been agreed or refused by whom.
The men he was dining with were in a particularly irascible state, which if one knew anything about Hamas—for which the go-to solution to any problem was to blow it up—was saying something.
“We must kill them. Kill them all.” No need to reveal the man’s name. TNT would call him Abdul. “I know how,” said Abdul, in a fury. “We have one of theirs. A bomb. We can use it. Boom. All gone. The Knesset. King Saul Boulevard. Take your pick.”
“That would end things,” said Tariq, agreeably, though he was wary of any further escalation. He knew better, however, than to talk logic; not with someone with hate oozing from his every pore. “What do you have in mind?”
“They call it ‘Samson,’” said Abdul.
“Like the strong man,” said Tariq, still wondering who “they” were. “A bomb. And you have it?”
Abdul nodded. “It is hidden. We are waiting for the right moment.”
“Samson,” said Tariq. Was this just a rant? Some unhinged revenge fantasy? It was the faraway look of steadfast determination that convinced Tariq that his new friend, Abdul, was telling the truth. He did have something. But what?
“Tell me more,” said Tariq.