Chapter 8
27 Avenue Montaigne
Paris
TNT’s home in Paris was a grand six-story townhome on the Avenue Montaigne. Built in 1911 and designed, like most buildings in the Golden Triangle—the area bordered by the Champs-Élysées, Avenue George V, and Avenue Montaigne—in the Haussmannian style, it was constructed ofpierre de taille, or cut stone, with dormer windows, terraces on higher floors, and a mansard roof, the second slope laid at a forty-five-degree angle to reflect sunlight onto the streets below. Marlene Dietrich had lived down the street. St. Laurent’s first studio was across the street. One day, TNT wanted the world to say that Prince Tariq al-Sabah had lived here.
He guided the Bugatti through the carriageway and into the inner courtyard. He climbed out and threw the keys to his valet. “Keep it close,” he said. “No one gets near it.”
“Wash and wax?”
“No,” snapped Tariq. “Just watch it.”
Security men flanked the rear entrance. One held the door as Tariq entered. “Welcome back, Excellency.”
He found his father lounging on the couch in the media room watching television. It was nearly six, which meant his day had not officially begun. He wore boxer shorts and a baggy T-shirt from the lastRolling Stones tour. His hair fell to his shoulders and was a ratty mess. His stomach, Tariq remarked, was regal.
“Who’s screwing who, Papa?” he asked, kissing his father on the cheek.
“Promise me you’ll never marry a woman from the OC,” said his father, His Excellency Sheikh Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah, the emir of Qatar.
Tariq studied the screen. A group of blond women argued with one another in a fancy kitchen. “Orange County?” he said. “What happened to New York?”
“They’re too tough even for me,” said his father.
Tariq laughed dutifully. If it ever got out that the emir of Qatar was addicted to reality television, they would have to abdicate the throne. “Can I get you anything?”
“A beer would be nice. Nonalcoholic.”
“Right away.” It was their joke. Tariq fetched a Heineken from the fridge. Alcohol content 5 percent.
“And Princess Anouschka?” asked the emir.
“She’s fine. Ready to race Sunday.”
“Let’s hope so,” said the emir. “The Dauphin Stakes is the biggest race of the season. We will go together.”
“With pleasure.”
“My son, the movie star.”
“Not movies, Father. Social media.”
The emir sat up, his dark, disapproving eyes taking note of his son’s attire. “This is how you go out? With a baseball cap?”
“It wasn’t an official occasion,” said Tariq.
“You’re a government minister. Every occasion is official.”
“I’m confused,” said Tariq. “We wish to modernize our country, yet I am to dress like my ancestors.”
“Do you not respect them?”
“It is not a question of respect,” said Tariq, “but of presenting a modern image. We are not Bedouin.”
“You mean a ‘Western’ image,” said the emir.
Tariq smiled. It was always like this. One step forward, two steps back. The last thing the world needed was another swarthy Arab in athobeand keffiyeh. Alas, it was not an argument he could win.
