Chapter 39
Present day
épernay, France
They had left Paris an hour ago.
“We don’t grow all the grapes ourselves,” said TNT. “We only have a few hundred hectares under cultivation. Hardly enough to make fifty thousand bottles of champagne each year. We buy from all the vineyards in the area.”
“Couldn’t you have asked for the champagne to be delivered?” said Dahlia Shugar. “It’s nice of you to go yourself.”
“We have other business,” said TNT.
“What kind of business?” she asked.
“I could have just had the champagne delivered, you know.”
Dahlia turned toward him, eyes narrowing as she took in the meaning of his words.
She was wearing a tan trench coat and a scarf in her hair, with dark sunglasses.
She looked very French, very mature. So beautiful.
But there was something more there. He didn’t know what, and it bothered him.
She was smarter than he’d first thought.
Not so innocent as she made out to be. There was something behind her eyes.
She watched too closely. She listened too intently.
Half of him wanted to tell her everything.
The other half wanted to send her back to Los Angeles on the first plane. It was too late for that now.
“So, it’s time?” asked Dahlia.
TNT nodded. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
They left the superhighway. The road narrowed to two lanes.
They were in the old France, the France of deep, impenetrable forests and rolling meadows and fertile farmland.
They passed through the town of Chatillon-sur-Marne and into the province of Champagne.
Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see.
The vendage was two weeks past. The vines were barren, their gnarled and twisted branches lonely and at rest.
TNT turned his head and met her eye. Suddenly, he was less certain than he’d been.
Not just about her. About everything. Until now, he’d forgotten that he could still turn back.
He was a prince. He was beholden to no one.
Then he thought of all that he’d done, the lives already taken, the other people relying on him.
Others with as much power, perhaps more will.
No, he decided, there was no turning back. Not for Dahlia. And not for him.
“I need your help,” Tariq had said to her one month before.
A trip to LA. Dinner at Mr. Chow. Some fun in his suite at the Beverly Wilshire. That feeling again that she was special.
“For what?” Dahlia sat up in bed, the sheets gathered at her waist, so proud of her body. So unlike women from his country.
“Intrigue,” he said. “Politics. Maybe a coup.”
“I know what the first two mean,” she said. “But a coup? You mean like a takeover.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing,” said TNT.
“I work at Bvlgari,” said Dahlia. “Do you want us to make you a crown?”
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “But not yet.”
“You’re serious?” Her tone said it all. Not mocking. Not disbelief. An honest desire to learn more.
He nodded. He knew then why he could talk to her so freely. She didn’t question him. She didn’t laugh. She treated him as he deserved to be treated. With absolute respect.
He felt as if she knew the real him. “Is it too much to want to lead my people?”
“No,” said Dahlia. “You’re a prince. You should lead them.”
“My brother is in the way. He’s firstborn. He’s the heir—”
“And you’re the spare,” said Dahlia, taking his hand. “How can we change that?”
He loved her for the question. His own Lady Macbeth and they weren’t even married.
He regarded her closely. Until now, he’d told no one about his plans.
He hadn’t realized the burden he was carrying.
He had a sudden, undeniable urge to tell her.
Why not? The fact that he barely knew her made her that much more trustworthy.
No secret alliances to worry about. No ties to his homeland.
No unsavory agendas. She was who she said. Most importantly, she loved him.
“I have an idea,” said Tariq.
And so he told her. About Jabr. About his brother’s plans with Israel. About how Jabr would damn Qatar to a meaningless future. He told her about the upcoming conference in Paris. Israel, Saudi Arabia, the Emirates. An unholy alliance. The death of Arabia as he knew it.
“Someone has to stop him,” he said.
“You,” said Dahlia, as if giving him an order.
“Yes, me.” And saying it to her, he believed it. “There will be blood.”
“A coup,” said Dahlia. “Isn’t there always?”
“I’m offering you a different life,” said Tariq. “Maybe a better one.”
“Is that a promise?” she asked.
“A pledge.”
Dahlia looked at him. “I want a better life; definitely a different life.”
“Do you?” Tariq was caught off guard by her earnestness. He was used to flattery and duplicity and, well, anything but honesty. Her plainspoken appeal frightened him. “Tell me why.”
She stood, taking the sheet with her, wrapping it around herself.
She crossed the room and sat in a chair by the fireplace.
“Look at you. You’re rich. You’re handsome.
You’re smart. You have manners. You are a prince of one of the wealthiest countries in the world.
I ask myself, what interest could this man possibly have in me?
I know why, of course. Well, one reason at least. But all along I’ve wanted to show you that I’m more than this.
” She gestured at the bed, the bottle of champagne upended in the ice bucket, the tin of caviar nearby.
“I don’t know why I care, but I do. I think it’s because I know you’re not just a guy that cares about putting pictures of himself all over social media.
You can’t hide behind your cars and your watches and your vintage kicks forever.
There’s more to you. I know it. Multitudes.
And yes, I want to be there when you discover it too.
That’s the better life I want. A better life for you. ”
It was not the answer Tariq expected. He had expected talk of money and travel and material desires. Pay me this. Give me that. Instead, it was she who offered him something. Confidence. Belief. Destiny.
A different life.
A better life.
A life as emir.
Rain began to fall. A sudden squall, battering the windscreen, essentially blinding them.
Tariq almost missed the turnoff to épernay.
He spun the wheel to the right, losing the back end for a moment.
He heard Dahlia gasp. He accelerated out of the slide, fast enough that the safety belts locked up.
A wheel slipped off the road, but just for an instant. The car jolted violently.
“Don’t worry,” he said, gaining control of the vehicle, slowing dramatically.
She exhaled and gave him a look. Was that a tear in her eye?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I’m not as brave as I appear,” said Dahlia.
“Braver, I think,” said Tariq.
The rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun. One moment the sky was brooding and black, the next they’d left the clouds behind. They passed a sign reading Champagne.
“I need to know something,” said Dahlia.
A dangerous question at any time. “Please,” said Tariq.
“You never told me who the woman was. In the restaurant.”
“Someone who was in the way,” said Tariq.
“The enemy,” said Dahlia. “You already told me that.”
It was the explanation he’d given her before the Jules Verne. “Exactly.”
“I need to know her name.”
“Which one?” said Tariq. “She’s a spy. An Israeli. She has many names, most of them false. ‘The enemy.’ Isn’t that enough?”
Dahlia kept her eyes straight ahead. “How do you know her?”
“Bad luck,” said Tariq. “Our paths crossed a few months ago. I thought she was a friend.”
Dahlia shifted in her seat. “Did you sleep with her?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I saw how she looked at you.”
Tariq knew better than to answer. She could read him like a book. “She stole something from me,” he said, sternly. “Something important. I discovered she’d gone to her old boss and told him.”
“Mossad?”
“How do you know about Mossad?”
“An ‘Israeli spy,’” said Dahlia. “Of course I know about Mossad. I read books. I watched Fauda.”
“Who did you root for?” said Tariq. “The good guys or the bad guys?”
“How did you find out?” asked Dahlia, ignoring his hint to change the subject.
“What?”
“About her going to her bosses.”
Tariq smiled tightly. He’d known it would come to this. He couldn’t begrudge her wanting to know. “We’re not doing this alone, you and I,” said Tariq. “There are others hoping for the same outcome.”
“Israelis,” said Dahlia.
“They’d better be,” said Tariq, with a laugh. Then seriously: “Yes, Israelis. Members of their government. Men who’d prefer that I rule Qatar, not my brother.”
Dahlia nodded, and he could see that the answer pleased her. “What did she want? I mean, why was it so important to meet her at the restaurant?”
“To blackmail me,” said Tariq.
“To sell you back what she’d stolen,” said Dahlia.
“More to convince me not to go ahead,” said Tariq. “Stop or else.”
“So she knew,” said Dahlia. “About what we plan to do.”
“She thought she knew,” said Tariq. “Mostly, she was trying to save herself.”
“Are you worried?” said Dahlia. “You know . . . that she told others?”
“No difference if she did,” said Tariq. “I made sure no one would believe her. We made sure. My friends and I.”
“Did you kill her?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I’d like to know.”
“No, I didn’t,” said Tariq. “Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“We will need someone to blame for my brother’s death,” said Tariq. “It can’t be an Arab killing an Arab. And it certainly can’t be me. She’s a Jew. She will do nicely. Her name is Ava. Ava Marie Mercier Attal.”
“Thank you,” said Dahlia.
“You were right to ask,” said Tariq. “You should know.”
Dahlia put her hand in his and squeezed. “There will be blood,” she said.
“It’s a coup,” said Tariq. “There’s always blood.”