Chapter 33
Grand Hotel Kronenhof
Pontresina, Switzerland
He was, Ava had to admit, a handsome man.
As requested, he had dressed in a suit. Navy blue with the faintest pinstripe.
White shirt with a spread collar. Solid navy tie.
He’d cut his hair short, parted on the side, shiny with pomade.
And the beard—the ever-present two-day stubble, the badge of hipness of every male under forty—it was gone.
He was clean shaven. His face was tan from a day’s skiing.
The color in his cheeks served to better contrast his eyes.
They were not the obsidian black of a descendant of the Gulf, but a sparkling whiskey brown, nearly hazel.
The transformation was startling. Gone was the cocksure Qatari prince. Enter the suave Italian gentleman.
“Be careful,” Zvi Gelber had implored her during a last, furious conversation earlier that day. “He knows someone’s watching.”
She’d taken precautions from the start. Pontresina was eight kilometers away from St. Moritz, a postage-stamp-sized hamlet in its own valley. Neutral ground, in Ava’s mind. She’d insisted on meeting him there. No ride necessary, thank you very much.
Tariq al-Sabah stood by the entrance to the hotel. “You came,” he said, holding the door as she swept into the lobby.
“You dressed,” said Ava.
“It gave me the chance to pick up a new suit.”
“Very smart,” she said, stepping closer to him, violating his private sphere, and running a finger along the lapel. “Shoes too.”
“These?” said Tariq. “John Lobbs. Had them made years ago.” He smelled of sandalwood and something herbaceous, an alluring combination.
Ava turned her back and allowed him to remove her camel overcoat.
Beneath it she wore a black dress with spaghetti straps, tight in the waist, the hem much too high for a woman her age.
It was winter, so she wore black hose and black heels that added three inches to her height.
God save her, she felt as if she were walking on a high wire.
One gust would topple her. Not much jewelry—just around her neck a silver chain that plunged into her décolletage.
You may look, but be discreet. Her hair alone had taken an hour, straightening and combing and smoothing, until it was as sleek and shiny as a raven’s wing.
And makeup, far too much makeup. Scheherazade in the sultan’s harem.
Ava Attal would not be caught dead wearing any of it; not the dress, the heels, the necklace, or the makeup.
But tonight she wasn’t Ava Attal. Tonight she was Ava Marie Mercier, a covert operative working on behalf of the State of Israel.
Her mission (and it was entirely of her own making) was to seduce Tariq al-Sabah of Qatar—minister of the interior, noted influencer, car enthusiast, stinted politician, and nascent terrorist—with the express goal of stealing sophisticated engineering plans he had taken possession of two days earlier from Dr. Reza Abbasi.
“Have you been here before?” she asked.
“First time,” said Tariq. “A little old fashioned for my taste.”
“I like old fashioned,” said Ava.
The Kronenhof was one of Switzerland’s oldest grand hotels. A nineteenth-century wedding cake with turrets and spires and, inside, trompe l’oeil paintings on the ceiling. Even the new furniture looked as if it were from a bygone era.
She led the way downstairs to the Kronenstübli.
Tariq opened the door to the restaurant.
The room was empty save a single table at its center—white tablecloth, sparkling glassware, a sterling ice bucket by its side, a bottle of champagne peeking from beneath a towel.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Tariq, as the captain helped them to their chairs. “I don’t like crowds.”
“Not at all,” said Ava. “Now we can talk about anything we like.”
“And I won’t take a picture of my dish,” said Tariq.
“Torture, I know.”
He smiled, and she smiled back. There was something between them.
He knew it. She knew it. They’d felt it at the clinic, and they hadn’t been mistaken.
She hated it when it was like this: when there was chemistry.
Later, it might make things easier, but now she felt vulnerable and exposed.
It was easier to pretend with a man you despised.
To steel herself, she replayed her conversation with Zvi Gelber from the day before. The one where her entire plan nearly crashed down upon her.
“You’ve been a naughty girl,” said Zvi Gelber.
“You’re in,” said Ava, feeling a rush of excitement.
She was on the train to St. Moritz, a six-hour ride. They rode comfortably alongside the Rhine, hardly more than a turbulent stream. Beyond it, the magnificent Grand Resort Bad Ragaz.
“Don’t thank me,” said Gelber. “Thank Zeus.”
“Zeus?” said Ava. “I thought you used Pegasus.”
“It’s an upgrade,” said Gelber. “Who needs a flying horse when you can have the god of gods?”
Zeus (formerly Pegasus) was the name of the spyware attached to the invoice Dr. Lutz had emailed to TNT.
Once downloaded—Click on the link—Zeus took over a device’s operating system and gave Zvi Gelber and his team of computer geniuses the ability to steal text messages, emails, key logs, and every bit of information from every app on his phone, as well as any other device linked to it.
At the same time, Zeus allowed Gelber to take over the device’s camera and microphone.
He could film videos, snap pictures, and eavesdrop in real time.
“We found Abbasi,” said Gelber. “Don’t ask how.”
Abbasi. The man with whom, according to Gerhard Lutz, TNT had been so urgently speaking.
“You can run, but you can’t hide,” continued Gelber.
“He’s been scrubbed. All mention of him removed from the net.
Reza Abbasi. Professor emeritus of nuclear physics at Tehran University.
Ranking member of Al-Quds Brigade of the Revolutionary Guard, and most recently, and the reason for his public disappearance, reactor group chief at Natanz Nuclear Facility. ”
Natanz Nuclear Facility, where the Iranians were busy enriching uranium with hopes of one day building a nuclear weapon. The most secret facility in all the Middle East. “I had no idea,” said Ava. “I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily.”
“Consider me necessarily alarmed,” said Gelber. “Now tell me everything. Spill.”
Ava relayed all Lutz had told her about TNT’s conversation with Abbasi. When she finished, Gelber was silent. “Zvi? You there?”
“Lutz heard him say the name ‘Samson,’” said Gelber, as if he were questioning her on the stand. “You’re sure?”
“Now you know why I called.”
“Good girl,” said Gelber. “It was smart to come to me.”
“Of course I did,” said Ava. “You’re my rabbi.” “Rabbi” meant the person she trusted above all others. “Did you find anything?”
“First the good news,” said Gelber. “We confirmed the call from Tariq al-Sabah to Reza Abbasi. Thirty-two minutes in length. Date matches what Lutz said. Substantial email correspondence between them followed. Both men were cagey. They know enough not to write anything incriminating. There was no mention of any kind of bomb or device. Abbasi met with Tariq al-Sabah in Doha a week ago and agreed to a fee of one million US to provide plans for a transmitter designed for the one-kiloton device we liked to call ‘Samson.’”
Ava felt her breath catch. Not good news at all. The worst possible news.
“Abbasi traveled to the Samedan airport three days ago,” said Gelber. “TNT insisted he deliver the plans by hand.”
“Why did he insist on hand delivery?”
“Now the bad news,” said Gelber. “Because he’s scared.”
“Of what?”
“He’s concerned he’s being watched.”
“He’s always being watched,” said Ava. “It’s what he does. He wants the whole world to look at him.”
“Not like this,” said Gelber. “We believe that Al-Sabah’s phone is hardened. He has software installed to detect spyware.”
“I thought Zeus was undetectable,” said Ava.
“It is,” said Zvi. “Unless you have the software that tells you you’ve been hacked and then solves the problem.”
“How did he get that?”
“He bought it.”
“Aren’t Zeus and Pegasus made at home? In Israel. By our people. Why are they giving it to him?”
“Money,” said Gelber. “Zeus is made and sold by a private corporation. The NSO Group in Herzliya. They don’t know Al-Sabah’s a bad guy. He’s just a client happy to pay their fees.”
“So he knows he’s been hacked?”
“Operational security demands we assume so.”
“Shit.”
“It’ll take him some time to find out by whom,” said Gelber. “If he even checks.”
He’ll check, thought Ava. I would. “How long?”
“A few days,” said Gelber. “Maybe sooner.”
“And then he’ll be able to see that Zeus was attached to an invoice issued by Lutz’s office.”
“If he looks closely enough,” said Gelber.
“We’re blown.”
“Not necessarily,” said Gelber. “But, Ava, listen to me. I don’t want you to hang around to find out.”
Ava closed her eyes, her neck stiffening. She knew the feeling. Forward or back. Time to decide. “Abbasi delivered the plans,” she said. “You’re sure.”
“There’s a photograph taken in TNT’s office in his chalet. A selfie of the prince with Abbasi. There’s a blueprint tube on his desk that has initials from the Natanz Facility. We think the plans are inside it.”
Decision made. “Good to know, Zvi. No worries. I can look after myself.”
“One more thing,” said Gelber. “Did you talk to anyone else about this? Anyone but me?”
“No.”
“It’s okay if you did. I just need to know.”
“No, Zvi, I didn’t. Why? More friction?”
“I might have found who visited TNT on the tarmac at Ben Gurion,” said Gelber. “Yehudi Rosenfeld.”
“Who’s that?”
“Bad egg,” said Gelber. “Working for an even worse egg. Itmar Ben-Gold.”
Itmar Ben-Gold. Former leader of the Kach Party before it was declared illegal. Hardest of the hardliners. And by some inexplicable disaster, the current minister of defense. “Ben-Gold? What is he doing talking to Tariq al-Sabah?”
“Keep an eye out when you’re looking for the plans,” said Gelber. “We’d love to know.”
Dinner was a Swiss feast. Eierschw?mmli, or spring mushrooms, sautéed in butter.
A leaf salad with her favorite French dressing.
Veal steak with morilles. And, of course, rosti.
All of it washed down by a series of exquisite wines.
TNT took a sip of each. “To taste, not to drink,” he said.
He did, however, drink the champagne. Lots of it.
“It’s ours,” said Tariq, holding his glass high. “Domaine du Roi. We purchased the estate last year. What do you think?”
Ava said she thought it was wonderful.
She asked about him, his childhood, his education, his love of winter sports.
She knew the answers already. She’d spent the past fourteen days digging up everything she could on him.
Eventually, their conversation turned to his brother, Crown Prince Jabr, the man who’d given him the Bugatti.
And by the look in TNT’s eyes, his archrival.
“You seem so calm,” said Ava. “Blissfully detached from it all.”
TNT flushed. “Do I? I suppose I must. Dissent is not tolerated.”
“You sound like a Russian afraid of being thrown in the gulag.”
“Not so different,” said Tariq. “It is just hotter where I live.”
“So?” asked Ava, as she finished her veal. “Dissent, how?”
“They cannot be allowed to win,” said TNT.
“Who?”
“They. Zionists. The Jews. Israel.”
“I thought that was the common view,” said Ava. “Hardly dissent.”
“You would think so,” said TNT. “After the wars, the annexation; after the intifadas and October seventh and the genocide in Gaza. But no. There are those who think differently. Appeasers.”
“Disgusting,” said Ava, with a shake of her head. “After so much suffering and mistreatment.”
“It is not your battle.”
“No, it is not,” said Ava. “But I have eyes. I have ears. I have a heart.”
“So you agree?” TNT reached across the table to take her hand.
“We share the same philosophy,” said Ava.
“My brother . . .” TNT sighed, his eyes narrowing, looking past her, looking at something he disliked.
“What has he done?”
“He does not share the same philosophy,” said TNT. “He is an appeaser. He says the battle is done. The war is over. It’s time to make peace. The Jews won.”
“You’re kidding! Your brother, Jabr . . . the one you mentioned.”
“Our next emir,” said Tariq. “If that can be believed.”
“What will he do?”
“A treaty. He calls it the ‘Greater Gulf Co-Prosperity Sphere.’ The Saudis, the Emiratis, even King Hussein of Jordan is going along with it. A treaty with the Jews. A partnership with Israel. Peace across the region.”
“And you, Qatar?” asked Ava.
“We are insignificant,” said Tariq. “We have natural gas, lots of it, but nothing else. We are negotiators without a mandate of our own. Middlemen. Influencers.” A laugh aimed at himself. “And soon, not even that.”
“What will you do?” asked Ava, playing the affronted, not willing to accept things the way they were.
TNT looked at her, as if weighing her impassioned plea. Real or an act? He suddenly looked older, mature, capable, and, most of all, cunning. For the first time, she felt as if she were looking at the real man. The man behind the mask.
“You will do something,” Ava went on unabashedly. She was ordering him to act, if not for himself, then for her. For all who shared their philosophy.
“Oh yes,” said Tariq. “I will do something. Jabr cannot buy me off . . . buy our country off . . . with an automobile. There are others who think like me. Those with more power. Others who will not tolerate being pushed to one side.” He stopped abruptly.
He stared at her openly. She was unable to gauge his feelings.
Suspicion? Anger? Worse. He knew that she was the enemy.
As quickly, his features softened. He laughed quietly, then wagged a finger at her. “You,” he said.
“What?” asked Ava.
“You are wicked, aren’t you?”
To hear him, it sounded like a compliment. Yet what did he know? He hadn’t even asked her a question about herself yet. That would come.
Ava smiled. “Dessert?”
“At my home.”