“Ladies and gentlemen, please.”
All discussion ceased. The room grew quiet.
“On behalf of the French Republic, it is my honor to welcome you here tonight to bear witness to an event of historic significance, an event that will reshape the modern Middle East and, in so doing, reshape the entire world.”
The president paused, bathing in the warmth of the audience’s applause, basking in the international community’s respect. He glanced at his remarks, printed in large letters, for he detested wearing reading glasses. A look to his right and left acknowledging the negotiators from the signatory countries. His eyes continued to the far side of the room, where a long table had been erected and covered by a white damask tablecloth. Standing at the center of the table was a bottle of champagne like no other. A methuselah, no less. A monument to one of France’s greatest creations.
The president continued with his remarks. If he spoke a bit too quickly, he was to be excused. He was counting the minutes until he uncorked the bottle and filled his glass. He was, after all, a connoisseur.
Everyone knew that the Domaine du Roi ’68 was one of the finest vintages in history.
Chapter 63
Notre-Dame de Paris
“Follow me,” said Yehudi Rosenfeld. “There’s someone who’d like to say hello.”
“I hope it isn’t far,” said Tariq.
“Not far at all,” said Rosenfeld. “Just one question.”
“Oh?”
“You’re not scared of heights?”
Tariq couldn’t tell if Rosenfeld was joking or not. He was in no mood to jump through hoops. This was hardly the time. He followed Rosenfeld down the aisle and back toward the entry. Instead of turning left, however, Rosenfelt turned sharply to the right, walking past a table of votive candles. Beyond a stout pillar was a narrow door guarded by a large bearded man wearing a dark blazer two sizes too small. Seeing Rosenfeld, he swiftly opened the door.
“I hope you don’t mind a few steps,” said Rosenfeld. “The minister thought you’d like to share the view.”
“The view,” said Tariq, only then registering the white stone staircase behind the door. “Of what?”
“Versailles, of course,” said Rosenfeld. “If it’s not too cloudy, we should have a front-row seat.”
Tariq didn’t relish the idea of climbing two steps, let alone over two hundred. “I don’t think that is a good idea,” he said. “It may be safer inside.”
“We’re thirteen miles away,” said Rosenfeld. “The blast will peter out less than a mile from the palace. The shock wave shouldn’t get farther than three or four. This is a baby bomb. We’re not barbarians.”
“And after that?” asked Tariq.
“I give us thirty minutes before any fallout reaches us,” said Rosenfeld. “We have our plans in place.”
Rosenfeld started up the stairs. Tariq followed, reluctantly at first, shy of mind and body. The narrow staircase was barely wide enough for one person and spiraled steeply upward. Round and round. To gaze at the steps above him was to risk vertigo. Tariq stopped counting at eighty. By then, he was holding his side, grimacing with every exertion.
Then a strange thing occurred. Instead of weakening his resolve, the pain and fatigue strengthened it. He must continue, he told himself, not for himself, but for his people. The concept of sacrifice was novel, if not alien, and he seized upon it enthusiastically. It was not a matter of fulfilling his own destiny but of giving his all to fulfill his country’s. Jabr was a traitor. He, Tariq, was its savior. What better proof than his willingness to suffer on its behalf? His breathing labored, sweat crowning his brow, Tariq climbed faster and faster, fueled by a messianic fervor.
And then, they were there.
Rosenfeld stepped through an open door and onto a narrow walkway bordered by a chest-high parapet. Below lay the glittering lights of the city of Paris. There was the Eiffel Tower, flashing blue, white, and red in celebration of the city’s role in this latest diplomatic triumph. To the north, shining like a golden bulb, was the dome of Sacré-Cœur. It was windy, a drizzle falling, clouds blanketing the city. Beneath the clouds, visibility was unlimited in every direction.
“Over here.” A short, corpulent man shouted, his English heavily accented. He wore a dark overcoat and open-collared white shirt, a kippah visible on his head. “I had to call in a favor to let us up here.”
“Itmar, hello,” said Tariq, catching his breath.
“My colleagues banned me from the announcement,” said Itmar Ben-Gold. “I told them, fine. What do I care? I won’t go. I think I got the better deal.” He handed Tariq his phone. “Live feed from Versailles. It’s there. You did it.”
Tariq regarded the screen, wiping perspiration from his brow. The camera was trained on the French president, standing behind a lectern while addressing a large audience. Tariq recognized his father and brother seated in the front row, as well as other officials from his own and neighboring countries. On any other day, he might have called them “colleagues”—“friends,” even.
“See it?” said Itmar Ben-Gold. “There. To the right. On the table. You can’t miss it.” He laughed with malice. “In front of their very own eyes.”
