Matthieu folded himself into the car. He struggled getting the safety belt over his shoulder.
“Do me a favor,” said Cyrille. “I dropped my lighter down there earlier. By your feet. Take a look, will you?”
Matthieu bent forward, craning his neck. “I don’t see it.”
Cyrille placed the muzzle of her pistol against his skull and pulled the trigger.
Poor kid. He should have taken Dekker’s advice.
Chapter 21
Rue des Rosiers
Paris
“TNT,” said Rosenfeld. “It was TNT. Everyone knows him.”
“I don’t,” said Mac. “Tell me.”
“Tariq bin Nayan bin Tariq al-Sabah. He’s famous.”
“Al-Sabah? From Qatar?” Mac had spent years in the Middle East. The Al-Sabahs were the ruling family of Qatar, the very small, very conservative, very oil-rich state on the western edge of the Persian Gulf.
“The emir’s second son,” said Rosenfeld. “He’s one of the new group. You know, ‘influencers.’ He posts pictures of himself on social media for his followers to view.”
“I don’t do social media,” said Mac.
“They come to the restaurant every day,” explained Rosenfeld. “They take pictures of the food—every course, every glass of wine and champagne. They pose.”
“Who?”
“Influencers.”
Again, that term. Mac knew it vaguely and took it to mean people who didn’t do anything for a living but share pictures of themselves in the hope you find them more interesting than your own life. “But why would I want to see what someone else has for dinner?”
“Because your life is boring and theirs is not,” Rosenfeld explained. “It’s glamorous. It’s sophisticated. It’s better than yours.”
“What does that have to do with Al-Sabah? TNT?” said Mac.
“The prince comes to the restaurant two or three times a year,” said Rosenfeld. “He posts pictures of the view, his meal, his friends, his clothes. Millions of people see them. It’s good for business.”
“Is kidnapping your guests good for business?” demanded Mac.
“He asked me for a favor,” said Rosenfeld. “He said he was playing a prank. Something amusing for his followers.”
“A prank?” Mac wasn’t buying it. Not for a second. “To abduct someone against their will? That’s a crime. You can go to prison.”
“He said it was all right. I shouldn’t worry. He promised me.”
“And you believed him?”
Rosenfeld nodded emphatically, as if any normal person would believe the prince.
“I saw the tape,” said Mac. “You were there. You watched the woman put a syringe into Ava’s neck. You saw her struggle. You helped them bundle her into the kitchen elevator. It was no prank. There was nothing amusing about it. Then you lied to me. Again and again, you lied to me.”
“He told me I must,” said Rosenfeld, near tears.
“TNT?”
