“Go,” she said to the last man in line. “Keep moving.”
The man looked at her badge, her gun, mostly her face. He saw what he needed to convince him. “Stay close,” he said.
And just like that, she was in.
Chapter 54
27 Avenue Montaigne
Paris
Tariq bounded down the stairs as if he were a teenager all over again. He threw open the door to the study, arm outstretched, the pistol carving an arc from bookshelves to the globe to the couch where he’d sat with Paul Sassoon in the first hours of this morning. The room was dim and gloomy, shades drawn, silent. He knew at once she was not here. The air was too still, like a storage room that had been padlocked for years.
He crossed the hall. A peek into the guest water closet. Empty. Next to it, a linen closet. Nowhere to hide, but he opened it all the same, threatening the five-hundred-thread-count Frette sheets with a wave of his pistol. He slammed the door and continued down the corridor. His office to the right; the light on the biometric lock burned red. He tried the door anyway. Locked. At least one place he didn’t need to look. He ran to the end of the hall. Burnished oak doors led to the media room. Above the doors was an old-fashioned cinema marquee advertisingCasablanca, starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.He nudged the door with his shoulder. The room was pitch dark. He hit the light switch while calling out Ava’s name. He trained the gun on the rows of recliners, the projection booth—of course, there wasn’t a real projector; everything was digital—then swung it to the screen. He checked every row to make sure she wasn’t lying flat.
Tariq paused and drew a breath. Where might she hide on the fourth floor? he asked himself. Or had he been mistaken? Had she, in fact, gone to a higher floor? Might she be searching for something in his bedroom? Who knew what she might think he was hiding there? Another set of plans from Dr. Abbasi? He grunted with dissatisfaction. And in that instant, he heard a voice. Muffled, distant, escaping from behind a wall, but there was no doubting it. Tariq retraced his steps to his office. The pin light burned red. The door was locked. Only the retina from his left eye could open it. He put his ear to the door and heard a thump, as if a book had dropped to the floor. Apparently not.
He laid his hand on the door lever. If Ava Attal could cut off her flex-cuffs and escape a locked room, who knew what else she was capable of, what tools she might possess, or who might be helping her? A terrible thought entered his mind. For a moment he wasn’t sure what troubled him more: that until this instant he’d never entertained it or that deep down in the core of his being he knew that it was true. It was Dahlia. Dahlia Shugar was abetting Ava Attal. Dahlia, whose love and adoration he had accepted as his due, like one more thumbs-up on IG or a heart on TikTok. Of course Dahlia loved him. Didn’t everyone?
A rage took hold of him, an anger he had never in his thirty-three years known: an all-consuming will to do harm no matter the cost. Tariq put his eye to the retinal scanner. The pin light turned green. He raised his gun to his cheek, his finger brushing the trigger, trembling with anticipation. And like that he was in action. He threw open the door and burst into the room. One giant step. Ava sat at his desk, folding his laptop closed. Dahlia stood beside her.
“No,” cried Dahlia, lifting her hand, gesturing for him to stop.
Tariq shot her before he knew what he was doing. Then he shot her again because the trigger was so light, and a third time. She fell without uttering a sound, but there was a splat of gore on the wall behind her: bright red and looking remarkably like a hand, its fingers splayed.
Ears ringing, he turned the pistol on Ava. She had a gun herself, and in the instant before she fired, he saw that it was very small, almost likea toy. He didn’t feel the bullet; at least not as he’d imagined. There was a moment of intense heat in his side. A sharp, brief pinprick above his hip. He fired at her and missed, though barely ten feet separated them. The bullet hit the laptop, sending it spinning off the desk. Ava toppled out of the chair and onto the floor. A pall of cordite filled the room. To his ear, the weapons’ reports continued undiminished, growing louder even, unbearably painful.
Tariq’s feet had developed a mind of their own. Before he could take charge of his actions, he was in the corridor, head spinning, vision blurry, and yes, he had definitely been shot, because something just didn’t feel right.
“Al-Sabah!”
Tariq turned toward the strident male voice, firing repeatedly, wildly. He glimpsed a tall, broad-shouldered man, graying black hair—not a policeman, at least not one of those he’d seen on the street, dressed in their assault uniforms. No, it was Steinhardt, the man dining with Ava Attal yesterday at the Jules Verne. One moment Steinhardt was there, the next he was gone, taking cover behind the corner.
Tariq retreated, firing again and again, the bullets blasting gobs of plaster out of the walls, shattering a sconce. A last look. No sign of Steinhardt. Tariq ran down the hall, turned a corner, ran some more. He opened a narrow door painted the same ecru as the walls, its outline barely visible. A back staircase for the help. He flipped the light switch and slowed for a moment. He touched his side. His fingers came away moist. A little blood, but not a lot. Amazingly, there was no pain. Not even a twinge. Even so, the sight made him queasy.
He ran down the spiral staircase, one hand on the railing just in case. He reached the basement and bent double, gasping for breath. Above his head, he heard the martialtom-tom-tomof boots pounding into the entryway.
Tariq crossed the cement floor, threading his way around unwanted furniture, steamer trunks, a bicycle, until he came to a door painted bright white with gold trim and the wordsPlaza Athénéeinscribed inswirling script. He stopped to gather himself. He checked his clothing, tucking in his shirt. A small stain on his sweater, dark on dark, hardly noticeable. He ran his fingers through his hair and blew a blast of wind through his lips. He felt light headed, giddy with the rush of having made a narrow escape ... or, perhaps, of having cheated death.
Tariq tilted his head, catching from afar the strains of classical music. The violin quartet in the Gallerie. He opened the door, and the music was clearer. Vivaldi. One of the seasons; no idea which. It was high tea. Not today, thought Tariq, but soon. Maybe next week.
Right now, he had an appointment to keep.
Vespers. Five forty-five. The St. Genevieve chapel.
Chapter 55
27 Avenue Montaigne
Paris
Mac peeked around the corner.
The corridor was empty. TNT was gone.
Mac rose from a crouch and advanced down the hallway. He stopped a few inches from the doorway.
“Ava,” he called. “Are you in there?”
