Chapter 32
Institut Alpinuum für Sport, Physiotherapie, und Zellleistung
St. Moritz
Ava arrived late for her appointment.
But rules were for another day. And as for cardinals . . . well, Ava was Jewish. In the end, she’d decided on another dictum.
When in Rome . . .
A nurse led her to a padded chair with armrests.
She offered her a glass of orange juice, and Ava made a joke about preferring champagne.
If she sounded as awkward to others’ ears as she did to her own, she was in big trouble.
She only half listened as the nurse outlined the procedure for her stem cell infusion.
She kept one eye on the handsome younger man seated a few chairs to her right.
Dr. Lutz, it seemed, had managed for them to be the only two patients that morning. What a coincidence.
TNT was a few minutes ahead of her. He sat comfortably with tubes running into both arms, earbuds in, reading a pink newspaper. The Financial Times. How endearingly old school. For someone constantly on the move, he looked remarkably well rested.
Zvi Gelber had moved his tuchus, indeed. He did not disappoint.
“He’s singlehandedly doing more for global warming than a Chinese coal-fired plant,” Gelber told her the day before, during her train ride from Zinal.
“The Office tracks him 24/7. In the last three months, TNT and his private jet have touched down in Damascus and Tehran four times. Paris five times. We’re talking round trip from Doha, Qatar.
Los Angeles, New York, Zurich, and some place called Samedan, wherever that is. ”
Samedan was the airstrip Ava could see with her own eyes, whose lone runway either began or ended a stone’s throw from the St. Moritzersee. There was no sign of TNT’s jet, but that was probably because he kept it in a hangar.
“But what concerns me more,” continued Gelber, “are the trips to Jerusalem. Four times in the past sixty days.”
“What’s he doing visiting Jerusalem so often?” asked Ava. “Converting?”
“That’s the thing, my dear. He never actually set foot in Jerusalem. Not in the city, anyway. He stayed at the airport. David Ben-Gurion International. Immigration has no record of his naturalization. I checked. TNT never left the plane.”
“Refueling?”
“Refueling doesn’t take three hours. Besides, fuel costs in Israel are five times higher than in Qatar. He flies a Gulfstream G700. The plane has a range of seven thousand nautical miles. He didn’t land there to refuel.”
“He landed to speak with someone,” said Ava.
“Agreed,” said Gelber. “Someone who couldn’t risk being seen in public with a Qatari royal.”
“Someone who couldn’t risk talking to him on the phone either,” said Ava. “Government.”
“Ah, Ava, always one step ahead.”
But, of course, it was Zvi Gelber who was one step ahead. “You checked?” Ava asked.
“Some toes even I can’t step on,” said Gelber.
“Zvi, be serious. What happened?”
“Your boy has friends in high places,” said Gelber. “Eyes, ears, who knows what else.”
“In the Office?” she asked, meaning inside Mossad.
“Just a little friction,” said Gelber. “Queries not answered quickly enough or at all. Funny glances. People suddenly interested in what I have going. You know, ‘friction.’ Remember, sweetheart, we’re not the only ones with spies in every capital.”
“And Abbasi?”
“Nothing off the bat. Common name. About five thousand of them in Tehran alone. Don’t worry, I haven’t given up. Let’s just say I’m being a little more careful about my inquiries than usual. What’s the old saying? ‘Just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not watching you.’”
“Be careful,” said Ava.
“Always,” said Gelber.
That was yesterday.
Ava opened her purse—an ice-blue Fendi Peekaboo, another acquisition that had nearly drained her retirement account—and took out a tablet.
She’d spent an hour on the train queuing up her reading material.
Tatler, OK!, Vogue. She was aware of the newspaper coming down, being carefully folded.
A look her way. A polite cough. She was too busy reading her gossip rags to notice.
“You,” the voice was soft, urgent, and somehow conspiratorial.
Ava pretended not to hear.
“You,” Tariq repeated. She glanced in his direction. “What did you hurt?”
“Shoulder,” said Ava, needing a moment to size him up and decide if he were worth the effort.
She returned her attention to the tablet.
David Beckham had thrown an outlandish surprise party for Victoria at Covent Garden.
The guest list was impressive. Elton John and David Furnish, Jennifer Lawrence. Music by Brandi Carlile.
“Knee,” said Tariq.
“You’re going to live forever,” said Ava, eyes glued to her tablet. “You and your knee.”
“As long as I make it to fifty,” said Tariq.
“Fifty? You’ll be ancient.”
“Practically fermenting.” A laugh. Much too warm. Much too friendly. “My name’s Tariq.”
American English without a trace of an accent. All those years in California had paid off. Ava lowered the tablet and for the first time gave him her full attention. “I know who you are. I saw the car outside.” She inclined the tablet so he could see it. “You’re not in this week’s issue.”
“I’ve been busy,” said Tariq. “Travel.”
“Anywhere exciting?” she asked, holding his gaze. Who did you meet in Israel? All those stops at David Ben-Gurion Airport. And what about Damascus? Tehran? Not a playboy’s usual itinerary.
“Here and there,” said Tariq. “Mostly business.”
“I expected Rome or Ibiza.”
“Much closer to home, I’m afraid.”
Ava feigned a pout. “No time for pleasure? I’m disappointed.”
“Maybe a little,” he said, eyes flashing. “But shhh . . . don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Ava knew better than to press him on the subject. Another day. “By the way, I prefer the Ferrari.”
“It was a gift, the Bugatti. From my brother.”
Jabr al-Sabah. Age thirty-nine. Heir to the throne. Impediment to his brother’s ambition. And from the look in Tariq’s eyes: enemy. “Generous of him,” said Ava.
“Not exactly,” said Tariq. “But I took it all the same.”
“You’re not close?”
“Who said that?” asked Tariq.
“You wanted something else,” said Ava. “That’s it. A Porsche, maybe.”
“Maybe,” said Tariq, staring at her a little too hard.
“This your first time?” asked Ava, pleasantly, deflecting the hard gaze. “Stem cells, I mean.”
“I had surgery a month ago,” said Tariq. “Ripped my meniscus to shreds. Silly accident. Bobsledding . . .” No, Ava wasn’t interested. “Anyway, Dr. Lutz suggested the stem cells to speed up the recovery. And you?”
Ava touched her shoulder. “My second infusion. Soon I’ll be as young as you.”
“Shame,” said Tariq, leaning over the arm of his chair. “Pity to waste all that experience.”
“Be careful,” said Ava. “I’m practically fermenting.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Tariq.
“Believe it,” said Ava.
“Well, then so much the better.”
“You’re a cheeky one.”
“I appreciate the finer things.”
“Like the Bugatti?” said Ava.
“Not just automobiles,” said Tariq, eyes not leaving her. “I know quality when I see it.”
“Anything that is fast and flashy,” said Ava, refusing to take him seriously.
“Flashy is overrated.”
“Says the man in the Vuitton sweatsuit and Patek Philippe Nautilus—diamond encrusted, of course.”
Tariq sighed, defeated for the moment. He sat back in his chair. “To be honest, I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a trap,” he said, ruminatively. “All these posts and pictures. The fans are insatiable. They want three, four, five interactions a day or they’ll find someone else.”
“Let them,” said Ava. “Why should you care?”
“It’s who I am,” said Tariq. “TNT. I have a reputation to live up to. Do you want to know a secret? It’s a mask. The whole thing. I have other ambitions. Politics. Service. It’s complicated.”
“The gift from your brother?”
Again, Tariq grew testy at the mention of his brother. “How did you know?”
“I’m a woman,” said Ava. “I know a thing or two about jealousy. I’m guessing he bought you the car to buy you off. He knows you’re smarter, more popular . . . better looking. He’s scared.”
“He should be,” said Tariq. “Bloody bastard can’t just—” He bit his tongue as the nurse came into the room.
She checked their drip bags, then removed the needle from Ava’s arm.
After swabbing the puncture, she then applied a bandage and instructed her not to remove it for several hours.
“Dr. Lutz will see you when you’re ready. ”
Ava stood and took a moment to slide the tablet into her purse and gather her belongings. “Goodbye, then,” she said. “Don’t keep your mask on too long. You look rather nice without it.”
Tariq rose from his chair, guiding his IV bag alongside him. “You will have dinner with me this evening,” he said. “Chesa Veglia. Palace Hotel. Eight o’clock.”
Ava slid her purse onto her arm. For a few minutes, she’d forgotten that he was a real prince of a real country. A man accustomed to getting his way and having the money to pay for it. A man who rarely heard the word “no.” “You don’t even know my name.”
“What is your name?”
Ava studied him for long enough to make him squirm. “Ava Mercier.”
“Madame Mercier,” said Tariq, with a bow of the head. “I am Tariq bin Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah.”
“Your Excellency,” she replied, her eyes skirting the floor. “Dinner in two weeks, when I return to see Dr. Lutz. I prefer the Grand Hotel Kronenhof in Pontresina. You will wear a proper suit and proper shoes. I know quality too.”
“As you wish.”
She touched his sleeve. “Who knows? By then, the stem cells may kick in.”
“Yours or mine?” he asked.
Ava lowered her face to his, her lips nearly brushing his ear. “Both of ours.”
Afterward, she sat with Gerhard Lutz in his office.
“How often do you send out bills?” she asked.
“Monthly.”
“By email?”
“And hard copy letter,” said Lutz.
“This month, you will send me his invoice first. Only after I return it to you will you send it to Tariq al-Sabah.”
“What will you do?”
“Please, Gerd. We never had this discussion.”