Chapter 34
Chesa Grischuna
St. Moritz
They drove home in the Bugatti.
The road back to St. Moritz was narrow, two lanes, and at this time of night deserted.
No music to get her in the mood—just the throaty rumble of the engine to accompany them.
For his part, Tariq didn’t spend time telling her what a magnificent automobile it was.
This horsepower, that many valves, this kind of steering.
She didn’t ask. To her, it was a car like any other.
To his credit, Tariq resisted the opportunity to show off.
Or so she thought. The car drove so smoothly; how fast could they be going?
Then she looked at the speedometer and saw he’d been doing two hundred kilometers all along.
The road began a series of twists and turns.
Now she felt it, the rapid acceleration and deceleration, gravity forcing her derriere to get to know every inch of her bucket seat, then propelling her against her shoulder belt.
She could sense him smiling, enjoying her unease, daring her to ask him, “Slower, please.” Ava kept her eyes straight ahead and made sure she smiled herself.
She’d spent too much time in far more uncomfortable vehicles in far more dangerous environs.
Tariq, go ahead. Drive as fast as you desire.
They arrived at the chalet at the stroke of midnight.
The garage door was open. First, they descended a driveway so steep it reminded her of a ride at an amusement park.
The lights were on. She counted four cars parked in their stalls.
Tariq stopped the car on a dime. If there was a dignified way of climbing out of a sports car six inches off the ground, Ava didn’t know it.
Tariq, ever the gentleman, dashed to her side and offered a hand to help her out.
“Welcome to the Chesa Grischuna,” he said.
A man stood at the elevator, holding the door.
Not a Swiss; security flown in from the Gulf.
Tariq didn’t address him. He merely extended an arm for Ava to go first. They rode to the top floor.
Seven floors, just like the newspaper had reported.
It was a room from a dream. Twenty-foot ceilings.
Exposed rafters. A floor-to-ceiling window facing south and inviting the mountains inside to join them.
Tariq motioned for her to sit on a sofa of tanned leather. Another man brought dessert. Peach Melba, he announced, placing the bowls on a marble coffee table. A juvenile choice, thought Ava. She took a bite. Heaven.
“I’ve been terribly rude,” said Tariq, studiously ignoring the dessert. “Only talking about me and my family and politics. Excuse me. I know nothing of you.”
“Not my favorite subject,” said Ava.
A laugh. “You are the first woman in history to say that.”
“I’m private.”
“Family? Husband? Children? Dogs? Cats?”
And so the interrogation begins, thought Ava.
She was surprised he’d waited this long.
She was beginning to realize that he was not like other Arab men.
He rejected the chauvinism and inbred egotism prevalent in the men of his culture: You are a male.
You must act this way. But if his manners were more refined, they didn’t camouflage his unquestioned superiority or unapologetic entitlement: I am a prince.
“Never married,” said Ava. “No children. Parents in Dijon. Papa is a chef. He runs a restaurant. The Lion d’Or. Not the one in Geneva. Quite good. Traditional cuisine, obviously. And yes, a dog. A Bernese mountain dog. Fritz.”
“Where’s home?” he asked.
“Zinal,” she said. “Do you know it?”
“Someplace high in the mountains. Population a hundred fifty and a few goats.”
“Ah, you’ve been.”
“Live there all alone, do you?”
“No,” said Ava, forthrightly. There. Care to know more? Ask.
“Long way to come for physical therapy.”
“I like Dr. Lutz,” said Ava. “Three days every other week. I think of it as a short vacation.”
“Did you know he’s a Jew?” he asked, as if a “Jew” were some kind of curiosity.
“Why should I care?”
“Wise to know something about those you spend time with,” said Tariq.
“Dr. Lutz is treating me,” said Ava. “I spend time with people I care about.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” said Tariq.
“No, I didn’t know,” said Ava, unbothered. If he was trying to bait her, he had failed.
“And you?” he asked, his voice harder. She noticed that his posture had stiffened. The real interrogation had begun.
“Yes?” said Ava, meeting his gaze. Me what?
“Are you a Jew?” European history’s most important question.
“Catholic,” she answered. “Ava Marie Mercier. Named after the prayer.”
He studied her, running a finger along her inner arm. “Practicing?”
“Now you are getting personal,” she said, scooting closer to him. “You are allowed one more question.”
“What would you like for breakfast?”
Ava gave him a moment to savor his wit. “I don’t do this kind of thing,” she said.
“And yet here you are.”
“Perhaps I got carried away,” she said. “I was so happy to see a grown man not wearing tennis shoes.”
“At least you know I won’t fall in love with you,” said Tariq.
“Is that a compliment?”
“What I meant was that I won’t disturb your relationship with Herr Steinhardt.”
“He allows me to do as I please,” said Ava, not missing a beat.
“I wouldn’t.”
Tariq ran a finger across the nape of her neck, teasing her hair.
“Tell me, Prince Tariq, what else do you know about me?”
“Don’t call me that,” he said. “Not you.”
“Why not?” said Ava. “You’re looking into me as if I were one of your subjects.”
“A man in my position can’t afford to be ignorant,” he said.
“Do you think I want something from you?” asked Ava.
“Everyone wants something from a prince,” said Tariq. “Believe me, it’s tiresome.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Ava. She slid her arm from his. “But there must be some price for being given everything in the world.” She picked up her purse. “Maybe we’ll see each other again at the clinic.”
“You’re angry,” said Tariq.
“Not at all,” said Ava. “I’m experienced. Remember?”
“Tell me you are who you say,” said Tariq. “Ava Marie Mercier, living far from the world in Zinal. Give me your word, and I will believe you.”
“Who else would I be?” said Ava.
“I apologize,” said Tariq.
She stared at him for a long moment. The moon had come out from the clouds. It hung high above the mountains and cast a faint light into the room. She stepped forward and kissed him. “Coffee and toast,” she said. “For breakfast.”
“Here,” said Tariq, sliding his hand around Ava’s waist, pulling her close, kissing her.
“Here?” Ava peered over his shoulder. No sign of the man who’d brought dessert. “What about . . .”
“Jerry,” said Tariq. “He knows better.”
“I think you do like people watching you all the time,” said Ava.
Tariq bit her lower lip. “Beds are so boring.”
“You prefer?”
“Anywhere else.” He kissed her deeply, and she reacted as any other woman might.
She allowed her private passions to run wild.
She pressed her loins against his. She ran a hand up his back, then lower, cupping his buttocks.
He’d made his intentions clear. He had no intention of falling in love with her.
He wanted her once. A princely conquest. It was her job to fan his desires, not satisfy them, not entirely.
She must persuade him that experience was something to be savored, not once, but time and again.
Zvi Gelber’s warning, not only about TNT and his sinister dealings with Dr. Abbasi but also that others at home in Israel might be party to his machinations, served to heighten her performance, if, indeed, it was that.
Somewhere in her mind, a voice commanded her not to fail.
Did she think of Mac? Yes, but only in passing. Did her actions compromise her love for him? No. Did they betray the trust between them? No, she refused to believe so. She didn’t write the rules of the game. Sometimes she believed there weren’t any. There were just ends. Objectives.
A man, an agent like her, might beat someone with his bare fists to get what he needed.
Another might lie. Another kill. Sex, violence, deceit, bribery, extortion: all were the agent’s tools.
When she swore an oath to her country and accepted her commission, it was with full knowledge that one day she might be called upon to use them, one and all.
Over the years, she had. She’d screwed, bribed, extorted, and killed for her country.
What was a spy but an expert in the exploitation of weakness?
Human, political, technological. Tonight, here, at this minute, TNT’s lust was such a weakness.
And Ava would exploit it as best she could without reservation or remorse.
Gently, she pushed him away. She stepped back so that her figure might be silhouetted against the midnight sky, so that the moon’s beams would dance upon her skin.
She unzipped her dress and eased it over her hips, allowing it to drop to the floor.
Beneath it she wore lace undergarments, porte-jarretelles to hold her stockings.
Tariq unbuttoned his shirt with care and pulled his arms from his sleeves. His chest was hairless, well-muscled, his shoulders rounded, his stomach rigid. It was impossible not to feel something.
“Touch yourself,” he said, and waited until she did, studying her hungrily.
He removed his shoes and his pants, eyes never leaving her. He slid his briefs over his feet. He stepped closer to her and stroked himself, preening, watching Ava as she watched him. She moaned and moved a hand toward him. He shook his head. “Just watch.”
“I want you,” she whispered.
“Watch,” he said.
“But—”
“Take off your brassiere,” he said.
Ava unclasped her bra and slowly pulled it off. She followed his eyes and heard him sigh. She dropped the bra at his feet and caressed herself, feeling her nipples grow taut.
Tariq intensified his efforts. His breaths grew ragged. “Take me,” he commanded.
Ava fell to her knees and put him inside her mouth. He came violently. His back arched. He cried out. Ava continued to pleasure him, pressing her face into his nether regions, holding it there until his spasms ended.
“Please,” he said.
She held him in her mouth a moment longer. He stumbled backward, a hand on the couch to steady himself.
“You,” he said after a moment.
“You’re right,” said Ava. “I am wicked.”