Tariq brought the phone closer. The methuselah of champagne stood prominently on a side table, a few dozen crystal flutes neatly lined up to either side. He noted the bottles of apple cider, as well, for those who refused to raise a glass filled with an alcoholic beverage. His father would not be one of them. A hundred euros to one, the emir would sneak a sip.
“Ready when you are,” said Ben-Gold.
Tariq took off his backpack. “Let me get it.” He unzipped a pouch and removed the transmitter.
“That’s it?” said Rosenfeld skeptically.
“What did you expect?” said Tariq.
Ben-Gold pointed to his phone. “Your brother is speaking.”
Tariq peered at Jabr, despising him. How the tables had turned. “I’m ready.”
“Twelve ... ten.” Ben-Gold slowly recited the sixteen-digit code that deactivated Samson’s safety. “Three ... seven.”
Tariq entered the numbers dutifully.
“. . . and one.”
Tariq hit send. A moment passed. He kept his eyes on the screen.
“Well?” said Ben-Gold.
A light glowed green on the transmitter’s screen. “Samson is primed,” said Tariq. His hand was shaking. Not nerves. Fatigue. He was just tired. He looked to his left at the profile of the Chimera, the gargoyle-like statue perched on the ledge as it looked over the city, casting away evil spirits. It seemed to be looking at him too. Mocking him.
“The second code,” said Tariq.
“Wait,” said Ben-Gold. “I want to see them all together, shaking hands and smiling like Sadat and Begin. Filthy bastards.” He looked up from his phone and stared hatefully at Tariq. “We will never be friends with your kind.”
“The detonation code, please,” said Tariq.
“Wait, I said.”
“Itmar, now.”
But Ben-Gold didn’t take orders from anyone, especially an Arab. “What? Are you nervous? No one knows we are here. Is it the man downstairs? He works here. He was doing me a favor. A question of interfaith kindness.” Ben-Gold approached him. “Is there something I should know?”
“This isn’t the time to gloat,” said Tariq. “Let us do what we came for.”
“You look unwell,” said Ben-Gold. “What is it? Something’s wrong. I can tell. Look, you’re bleeding.”
Tariq felt something warm at the corner of his mouth, tasted salt and iron. He was bleeding internally. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “The code, minister,” he said, banishing his pain, towering over the smaller man. “Now, Itmar.”
Ben-Gold stared at him a moment longer. “Four . . . seven . . . nineteen . . .”
Mac found Harry Crooks just inside the cathedral, positioned by the nearest pillar. “You missed him,” said Harry. “He was here. He met another man. They spoke for a minute, then left through another exit.”
“What did the man look like?” asked Ava.
Harry glanced at Mac, who nodded.Yes, that’s Ava. Go ahead. You can tell us.“Red hair,” said Harry. “Beard, three-piece suit.”
“Rosenfeld,” said Ava.
“They went through that door over there,” said Harry, rolling his chair past the central portal, then pointing to a door cut into the far corner of the cathedral. “And Mac, he’s hurt. He isn’t walking correctly.”
“You hit him,” said Mac, remembering Jane’s words about Ava’s training. Wet work. Of course she hit him.
Ava frowned. “Maybe.”
