Chapter 41
épernay
The headquarters and historic home of the Domaine du Roi were located on the Avenue de Champagne in the town of épernay.
“Domaine du Roi” meant “the king’s domain,” and the main building suited the name nicely.
Not quite a palace, but not far from one.
A tall, rectangular stone tower flanked by two long wings, the buildings newly painted a pale mint green, maroon shutters at every window and wrought iron Juliet balconies.
TNT passed through imposing gates into a cobblestone courtyard and stopped the car.
A slim, energetic woman dressed in tight jeans and a khaki twill jacket bounded down the stairs of the main administration building.
Tariq recognized her as the cellar master but for the life of him could not remember her name.
“And the methuselah,” said Tariq.
“And the methuselah,” said Claire, referring to the name given a six-liter bottle of champagne. “In the cavern. As you requested.”
“I’ll be giving Mademoiselle Shugar a tour,” said Tariq.
“Allow me,” said the woman, affronted. “It would be a pleasure.”
“Thank you, but no,” said Tariq. “I can manage.”
Tariq took his backpack from the rear seat. “Follow me.”
He circled the main building, snaking between stacks of empty picking crates twenty feet high, and opened the door to an old stone outbuilding.
Dahlia followed close behind. He led the way down a flight of stairs, deeper and deeper underground.
With each step the air grew damper, more chill, more redolent of earth and stone.
They arrived at a domed cavern hewn from limestone. Tunnels stemmed in all four directions.
“Fifteen miles of these things under the town,” said Tariq. “Been there for hundreds of years. Who knows where they all lead?”
The cavern was dim and musty, with torch lights bolted to the walls. He turned left and headed down a narrow tunnel, passing room after room filled floor to ceiling with racks of champagne. Thousands of bottles.
After a few minutes, they came to an intersection of sorts. A man waited for them, dressed in work clothes, a cloth cap tilted rakishly on his head. “Everything you requested is inside,” he said.
Tariq palmed him €1,000, the notes rolled tightly and bound by a rubber band. “Merci, Charles.”
“I am happy to help,” said Charles. “Whatever you need.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Tariq.
He opened the door to a large, high-ceilinged room lit by fluorescent lights. To the right was an old, worn wooden table with some tools on it. Tariq shut the door and locked it. He placed his backpack on the table and removed the package. “This is Samson.”
Dahlia looked at it, then back at Tariq. “It has a name.”
“It does,” said Tariq. “But not from me.”
“And so?” asked Dahlia, approaching the table with caution. “What is Samson . . . exactly?”
Tariq had thought long and hard about what to tell Dahlia. The truth was out of the question. A half truth would do nicely. “An explosive,” he said.
“It doesn’t look very big.”
“Just big enough,” said Tariq. “Plastic. Enough to destroy a room. Maybe two.”
“Your brother will be in the room,” said Dahlia.
“I hope so,” said Tariq. “Otherwise, we’re wasting our time.” He saw the worry in her eyes. Suddenly, everything they’d talked about was real. Her new and better life. The meaning of the word “coup.”
“When will this happen? Where?”
“Soon,” said Tariq. “Maybe tomorrow. I will tell you when I know.”
“I think you know already,” said Dahlia.
Tariq stared at her, offering her a deceptive smile, nothing more. “We have work to do.”
The methuselah sat on a table. It was a giant bottle of champagne, six liters to be exact, or eight normal bottles, and packed in a coffin of sorts: a pale wooden crate shaped more like a triangle than a box, broad at the bottom, slim at the top, not quite tapering to a point.
Tariq removed the bottle and stood it on the table.
It was heavy, nearly twenty pounds. Charles had not only provided the champagne but also the large professional bottle cutter TNT needed for his work.
Using the tools, TNT removed the bottom of the bottle and drained the champagne.
He set aside the bottle and turned his attention to Samson.
He opened its protective casing and, with exquisite attention, freed it.
Naked, the nuclear device resembled a stainless steel ingot, a little longer than a shoebox, half as wide and deep, with several pin lights on the top.
“Is it on?” asked Dahlia.
“It’s on,” said Tariq.
Nearby sat a block of black polyethylene foam: four feet long, three feet wide, and ten inches in depth.
After setting Samson in the center of the block, he drew an outline of the device and with an X-Acto knife carved out a depression into which Samson might snugly fit.
Next, he reshaped the foam block until it matched the dimensions of the bottle.
He was no Michelangelo, but with care, he achieved the desired specifications.
“Hold it still,” he said, laying the bottle on its side.
Dahlia held the neck of the bottle as Tariq slid the foam creation inside of it.
It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do.
He slid a few pieces of foam here and there until it was immobile.
Using both hands, he picked up the bottle and shook it.
Satisfied it was in place, he applied a coat of industrial glue and reattached the bottom, pressing the two pieces together as hard as he could for as long as he could.
He waited a few minutes, then set it upright. He examined the bottle from all sides, shining the light from his phone at it. No matter how he tried, he could not see inside the dark, opaque glass.
“I think we did it,” he said, admiring his achievement. “Can you see anything?”
Dahlia looked at the bottle from several angles. “It looks like a bottle of champagne.”
“An f-ing big one,” said Tariq, and they laughed. He kissed her, then slid a hand beneath her blouse, cupping her breast. “Proud of me?”
“Immensely,” said Dahlia, pressing herself against him.
He kissed her again. All this manual labor had him feeling like a working man. He took her hand and put it on him.
“Not here,” said Dahlia, recognizing at once his intentions.
“Yes here. It’s my vineyard. I can act how I please.”
He lifted her and set her on the table, spreading her legs. He unbuckled his pants and pulled them to his knees.
“Be quick,” said Dahlia, slipping off her panties.
He lifted himself on his tiptoes and touched her. Dahlia gasped.
At that moment, his phone rang. It was a ringtone reserved for one person. He looked at the screen. Not now. He gave Dahlia a look. Be quiet.
“Yes, Father.”
“Where is the champagne?” demanded the emir.
“What do you mean, ‘Where is the champagne?’ It’s here. At the vineyard.”
“We need it. Now.”
“I’m in épernay,” said Tariq. “I’m picking it up myself.”
Dahlia slid herself onto him, both hands behind his back. If he wouldn’t thrust, she would do her best.
“When can you be back?”
“Two hours,” said Tariq.
“Pardon me,” said the emir. “I didn’t get that.”
“Two hours,” repeated Tariq, as Dahlia bit his ear. “Stop it.”
“What’s that?”
“No, I mean, why are you so concerned? We do not need it until tomorrow.”
“Your brother just phoned,” said the emir. “They are to make the announcement tonight.”
“What? Tonight?” The news hit Tariq like a blow to the stomach. He withdrew and turned away. “What happened to all the talking?”
“Everything has been agreed,” said the emir. “The French president wishes to address the country. He wants to make sure no one can change their mind.”
Tariq struggled to pull up his pants with one hand. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Just bring the champagne.”
“Of course, Father. I’m on my way. One thing: Did Jabr tell you where the announcement is to be made?”
“Where do you think?” said the emir. “The Palace of Versailles.”