27 Avenue Montaigne
Paris
And so, Ava Attal, mused Tariq as he exited the lift on the sixth floor, walking slower than he might. Retired colonel of Mossad. She’d fooled him once. He would admit it. He didn’t blame himself. An attractive woman. Maybe more than that. Available. Clearly attracted to him, but old enough to know better. How could he resist? He remembered their first meeting at the clinic, their dinner in Pontresina, her admirable skills. Hindsight confirmed his every action. There was no way he could have acted differently.
Yehudi Rosenfeld was insistent he learn how much she knew about his and his master’s involvement. Who besides Zvi Gelber had she told? The Americans? The Brits? The French? Or had she kept everything to herself? It was up to TNT to find out. Interrogation and all that went with it was not something that came naturally. He was a persuader, a cajoler, a dealmaker: “You give me this, I’ll give you that.”
And if she refused?
Simple enough. He’d threaten to kill Steinhardt, her Swiss lover. She had no choice but to believe he’d been captured. It was just a question of how much she cared for him. Steinhardt or Samson? A dubious proposition. What was in it for her? After all, Ava knew aboutGelber and Lutz. She was not a person to delude herself. She knew what awaited her.
No loose ends.
And then? He’d do what was required of him.
Tariq entered his bedroom, a slightly sour feeling in his stomach. From his nightstand he retrieved his service weapon. An officer in the Qatari Armed Forces carried a Beretta M9 similar to his counterpart in the US Army. He chambered a round, set the safety, and slid it into his waistband. It had been a while since he’d fired his pistol. He hoped his skills hadn’t deserted him. A bullet to the heart. Quick, painless, and, fingers crossed, not too bloody. The carpets in that room had cost a fortune.
Tariq arrived at the guest room. He placed his eye to the biometric lock. The pin light turned from red to green.
“Hello, again,” he said, entering the room with élan, the genial host. He looked around. One more step, a pit growing in his stomach. The room was empty. “Ava?”
He rushed to the bathroom, opened the closets, then dropped to his knees and checked under the bed. Infantile, he knew, but what else was he to do? He got to his feet, his heart hammering his ribs. Another look around the room to confirm his worst nightmare.
Ava Attal was not there.
Before he could ask how or when, or what now, Tariq heard a siren wailing from the street below. Two notes. High, low. Then a second siren, and a third. He rushed to the window. A line of police cars approached from the direction of the Champs-Élysées. Not just police cars—military vehicles too. Jeeps, a truck, some kind of armored car. The last in line stopped to block off traffic. Troops spilled from the back of the truck. Dark uniforms, helmets, machine guns. He recognized them. The counterterrorism brigade.
Tariq watched, wondering what might have happened in his neighborhood. Had there been a shooting he hadn’t heard about? Some kind of attack?
Barricades were erected. Soldiers closed off the street. Similar efforts were made on the west side of the Avenue Montaigne. He followed the lead police car, light bar flashing, as it pulled up directly in front of his carriageway. He watched with growing interest as the officer climbed out and looked up at his house.
Tariq forgot about Ava Attal.
The counterterrorism brigade had come for him.
They knew.
It was over before it had even begun. Ava had told them about Samson. Tariq could think of no other reason for their heated presence.
For a few moments, he was unable to move. He had difficulty breathing. A voice in his head rang out: This isn’t possible. This cannot be happening.
Only the buzzing of his phone interrupted his wild panic. “Yes,” he managed, after answering.
“The police want to see you.” It was his houseman, Mohammed, and he sounded rattled.
“What is it about?”
“Someone phoned them and reported that we are under attack.”
“What?”
“A terrorist attack,” said Mohammed. “Here in the house. They claimed one person was dead and that there was shooting inside.”
“What? An attack? Nonsense.” The message was so bizarre, so unexpected, that for a moment it didn’t register.
“And something about a female hostage,” said Mohammed. “They wish to search the house.”
Finally, the words sank in. It was all a mistake. Some kind of crank call. Tariq had an overwhelming desire to laugh. It wasn’t about Samson at all. “But why? Tell them no one’s in the house, just us. It’s a prank.”
