“Quick now,” said Crooks. “Don’t waste your time talking to me.”
Mac put a hand on Crooks’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
He hurried across the church, past the table of votive candles, winding his way through the mill of visitors. He found the door Crooks had mentioned. “North stairs,” read a sign on the wall next to it. He tried the handle. Locked.
“Sir, please, the tower is closed.” A tall, burly man in a docent’s blazer rushed toward them. “No entry is permitted.”
“I need to speak with the men who just went upstairs,” said Mac.
“That’s not possible,” said the man. “Their visit was by private arrangement.”
“May I have a word,” said Ava, offering an intimate smile, a hand on his arm. “We’re close friends of Mr. Rosenfeld and Prince Al-Sabah.”
“A prince? He told me he was from Israel. Mr. Ben-Gold. He is an important man.”
“We work with Mr. Ben-Gold,” said Ava. “The three of them are expecting us. I’m sure we won’t be long.”
The guard studied them. An older couple—she, an attractive woman in a lovely dress; he, a respectable man with a steady gaze. He pulled a key from his belt and unlocked the door. “A quarter of an hour at most,” he said. “Shalom.”
Ava took off up the narrow, pale steps, running as fast as she could. Mac did his best to keep up, one hand brushing the interior wall to keephis balance. Round and round. They passed several small windows cut high into the stone wall, the view affording them a peek over the square below, each time higher and higher.
A torrent of cold air flooded the staircase from above. Ava stopped dead and bent close to the steps above her. Mac followed her lead. A doorway several steps above her opened onto a walkway. He could just make out the silhouettes of the gargoyles perched on the parapet.
“I see them,” said Ava. “Ben-Gold is there.”
“Just the three?” asked Mac.
“As far as I can tell.”
“You don’t happen to have a gun,” he said.
“I’d prefer a grenade,” said Ava. “But I suppose we’d damage the building.”
“Forgot mine back at the hotel,” said Mac. “Or was it in your suitcase next to your pistol?”
“Get the transmitter,” said Ava. “My guess is that TNT has it. He has to enter a code to set off the bomb.”
“Samson?” said Mac.
“Jane told you.”
Mac nodded. “How big?”
“One kiloton,” said Ava.
Mac swore.
“You go first,” said Ava. “And Mac ... no mercy.”
“No mercy,” said Mac.
He scooted past her. He peeked around the doorway, saw the men bathed in shadow. A short, fat man was closest, back to him. Behind him, a tall, thin, bearded man; and next to him, TNT, looking his way, holding something in his left hand and tapping on its screen. The transmitter.
Mac drew a breath and rushed through the doorway. No mercy.
“Fifteen,” pronounced the short man as Mac slugged him in the solar plexus, then clutched his overcoat and threw him to the ground. It was Itmar Ben-Gold. Mac jumped over the prostrate body, takingYehudi Rosenfeld by the lapels and slamming him into the tower wall. Rosenfeld’s head struck the stone with a sickening thud. Mac took his face in his hand and bashed his head into the wall again. Instead of dropping, however, Rosenfeld grabbed onto Mac’s shoulders, fingers digging into him like an eagle’s talons.
“Twelve,” gasped Ben-Gold, rolling onto his side. “Twelve! The last one.”
