Chapter 29
Paris
If this was her jail cell, she should have engineered her capture long ago.
Ava Attal stood at the window of her room on the fifth floor of Tariq al-Sabah’s grand townhome. The windows were locked. She was certain the glass was bulletproof. Even if she could get out, it was a long way down. She didn’t bother about the door. Locked, of course.
The room was the size of her old apartment in Tel Aviv.
Walls cardinal red. Gilded moldings. A bed big enough for a family of four.
The furniture was traditional French—she didn’t know which king—one of the Louis’s.
Chairs, sofas, inlaid tables. The floor was parquet, with Oriental throw rugs positioned here and there.
More paintings on the walls than in the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay combined.
There was a domed camera in the ceiling, and probably others she couldn’t see.
She didn’t know if she was the first “guest” or if others had been imprisoned here as well.
Ava did her best to act as if she were at home on a Saturday morning.
If, that is, she didn’t have her phone or laptop and couldn’t call her parents or Mac.
Or if she couldn’t go outside for a run in the forest or take Katya into town for a pain au chocolat and some stale bread to feed the ducks.
Or if, more immediately, her hands weren’t bound by flex-cuffs tightly enough to cut into her flesh if she moved too quickly.
Ava was not someone who could do nothing.
Even with her constraints, she managed to browse several magazines on the dresser.
TNT had been so nice as to make sure the Gulf Architectural Digest featuring this very property sat on top of the stack.
She thumbed through it and laughed when she saw that her private prison was featured.
“The VIP Guest Room,” it was called. “Perfect for even the most demanding visitor.” Ava didn’t agree.
Most visitors preferred doors to be unlocked and to come and go as they pleased.
A knock on the door. The turn of a key. A heavy tumbler retreated.
Ava turned. Ah, breakfast. One man brought the tray to the table, the other stayed at the door.
She waited until they’d left. Croissants, butter, and jam.
Orange juice. A rasher of bacon. Urns of hot chocolate and coffee.
A teapot with a choice of Earl Grey, Lapsang souchong, or English breakfast. All served on crockery from the H?tel Plaza Athénée next door and with a note to call extension 211 to schedule a pickup when finished.
There was room service and then there was room service.
It all looked marvelous. She picked up a croissant. The thought of eating, however, made her gag. It was the ketamine they’d pumped into her neck. A nibble. No, she couldn’t.
A minute later the door opened. No knock this time. A flutter of black and white and there he was. Tariq al-Sabah. “Greetings, Colonel Attal, or should I say, ‘Shalom’?”
“How about ‘I’m sorry for kidnapping you and holding you against your will’?”
Tariq stared at her, not one to be told what to do.
“Well?” said Ava.
Seven months had passed since she’d seen him in St. Moritz, her midnight visit to the Chesa Grischuna, his postmodern chalet in the Alps.
He’d changed. He looked older, fatigued, a little wary.
Not like his old self at all. His beard had come back.
He wore it like his father—a thick, well-manicured goatee.
No suit today. Back to jeans, a black turtleneck, and a blazer. This was Paris TNT.
“You,” he said, his smile charming. “My wicked girl.”
“Not wicked,” said Ava. “Not a girl. And not yours.”
“For one night you were all those.”
“You were a mark,” said Ava. “Don’t fool yourself.”
“I had my suspicions,” said Tariq. “One win for you. And now, a win for me. I think we will find that I came out on top.”
“You killed them,” said Ava.
“I’d rather think it was you,” said Tariq. “Getting involved where you don’t belong. How did you expect us to react? Or did you think we wouldn’t find out? You and that old warhorse. How old is he? Eighty? Ninety? Some people should really know when to hang it up.”
“You can’t make the world go back,” said Ava. “Not you. Not Ben-Gold.”
“Who’s talking about the world?” said Tariq. “I’m concerned about my country. Nothing else.”
“You’re concerned about yourself,” said Ava.
“That too,” said Tariq. He looked over the breakfast tray, picked up a croissant, and took a bite. “What? No likee? On a diet?” He dropped the uneaten bit onto the plate. “I’m curious. What exactly did you think you could do?”
Stop you, thought Ava. That was the glib answer—perhaps one she should have thought through before embarking on her course of action.
Save innocent lives. Help your brother succeed.
They all sounded naive, given how things had turned out.
Anyway, it no longer mattered what she’d believed she could do.
What mattered was what she could do. Concretely. Now. And so, here she was. A prisoner.
“Jabr will be disappointed,” said Tariq.
“He really was close to pulling it off. His grand plan. They’re all here, you know.
Over at the élysée Palace with the president.
All the great families under one roof. The Maktoums, the Sauds, the Al-Sabahs.
Your coreligionists are there too. What does one call a gathering of Zionists?
A “drove”? Oh, I’m sorry. That’s the word for a sty full of swine. Same difference, I suppose.”
“What scares you so much?” asked Ava.
“You tell me,” said TNT, arms spread open. The rising influencer eager to take his role on a bigger stage.
“Insignificance,” said Ava.
“Hardly as simple as that,” said Tariq. “But not altogether wrong. I like to think it’s more self-realization. You know. Be all that you can be.”
“We can still change things,” said Ava. “Call off the match. Shake hands and go home.”
“And the upside?” asked TNT. “For me? For my country?”
“It won’t work,” said Ava. “Others know.”
“What others?” asked TNT. “I don’t see anyone coming to your rescue.
Your own people have given you up. Your warnings have fallen on deaf ears, or rather, dead ears.
You’re persona non grata. And by the way, we have him.
Steinhardt. Your better half. My Saudi friends went to look for him at your hotel.
He put up a fight, but he’s not a young man, is he? ”
Ava looked at him, at his eyes, his disposition. Looked into him. Was he lying? It was impossible to tell. People like him lied so often they gave no thought to whether their words were true or false. “I don’t believe you,” she said.
“You didn’t really think we’d stop with you,” said Tariq. “Not when we’ve come this far.”
“Then why?”
“Leverage,” said Tariq. “In case you decide not to cooperate.”
Ava walked to the window. She’d tried to leave word for Mac to leave, but since when was he someone to take advice?
She thought of Katya and for a moment was overwhelmed.
No, she didn’t believe it. Tariq was lying.
She’d sent a message this morning to let Mac know that she was alive. Bad tradecraft, but still.
“I’ll never cooperate,” said Ava.
“Famous last words,” said Tariq. “So, I must ask you. Who else have you told?”