Ava recalled their troubling conversation, Zvi doing his best to warn her off. By then, he must have learned that Ben-Gold was involved. Ben-Gold, his nominal master. She had heard the fear in his voice. Zvi Gelber was nobody’s fool. He knew what was coming.
I’m sorry, Zvi. I had no one else to go to.
A day later, a reply from TNT to Rosenfeld:Run check on Ava Marie Mercier. Swiss resident, French national. Dangerous?
The response from Israel was a week in coming:Refrain from all further contact. Mercier real name: Attal, Ava. Colonel (Retired). Mossad.
A succinct reply followed. TNT to Rosenfeld:Shit.
And then radio silence. No further communication between the two. Ava would wager that Rosenfeld had done his best to delete all record of their digital epistolary relationship. TNT, however, was of a more lax mindset.
Ava returned to the main mailbox. There was more. Hundreds of messages between TNT and various government officials from nearly every country in the region. Too many to read. One, however, caught her eye.
Jabr al-Sabah to TNT:Paris Peace Conference. Location and Times.
Ava had no choice but to read it.
Location: The Élysée Palace, Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré. Time: Wednesday through Sunday. Ten a.m. A list of participants from Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Jordan, Israel, France, and of course, Qatar. Several notable names were missing. Itmar Ben-Gold, Israel’s minister of defense; Yehudi Rosenfeld, his deputy; and Tariq al-Sabah, Qatar’s minister of the interior. A brotherly note followed:Your presence is not required or requested. Stay the hell away.
Ava shook her head. The history of the Middle East writ small. Brother vs. brother. Tribe vs. tribe. People vs. people.
Just then, the miniature phone rattled. Incoming message from Dahlia Shugar.Home. TNT talking to father. Be safe.
Ava slid the phone back into her pocket. She returned her attention to the laptop.
Be safe.
Not just yet.
Chapter 49
27 Avenue Montaigne
Paris
“Father, I came as quickly as I could.”
Tariq al-Sabah kissed his father on both cheeks.
“Always the car,” said the emir. “You should have ordered the champagne delivered. Instead, you are spending time speeding here and there in the company of a woman—an infidel, I see—no doubt showing off. When will you grow up and be more like your brother?”
They stood in the courtyard of hismaisonparticulier. A slew of attendants milled nearby. Tariq took Dahlia by the arm. “Go inside,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll be right up.”
“Of course, darling.” Dahlia kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t be long.”
Tariq nodded, knowing she was making a show of herself, before returning his attention to his father.
The emir was dressed in his finest ceremonial robes. Tariq noted that he was wearing a girdle to disguise his waistline and that he’d applied some eyeliner to make his gaze fiercer than it already was. The Real Housewives would approve.
“I have the champagne as Jabr requested,” said Tariq. “Also a present for the French president.”
He barked a few commands to his father’s retainers. One man retrieved the case of champagne. Another hefted the crate containing the methuselah of Domaine du Roi.
“What’s this?” said the emir, throwing his arms in the air.
“Something uniquely French,” said Tariq. “I doubt the president has seen anything quite like it.”
For a moment the emir studied the crate. “You’re sure?” There was no mistaking the interest in his father’s eye.
