“Yes.”
“And you said, ‘Of course.’ It would be your pleasure.”
Rosenfeld swallowed hard, avoiding Mac’s glare.
“Why?”
Rosenfeld dug his chin into his neck, eyes closed.
“How much did he pay you?” asked Mac.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying,” said Mac. “How much?”
“Nothing,” spat Rosenfeld, lifting his face to Mac.
“Then why?”
Rosenfeld looked away.
Mac picked up the pistol off the table and held it on his thigh. “I’m waiting. If not for money, then why?”
“Please,” said Rosenfeld. It was a squeak.
Mac lifted the pistol and pressed the barrel against Rosenfeld’s ribs. The man whimpered.
“No, stop!” It was Rosenfeld’s wife, Laura. She ran from the bathroom. “Tell him, Gerard. Tell him who made you do it.”
“Quiet,” said Rosenfeld. “Not another word.”
“It wasn’t the prince. It was Gerard’s brother,” said Laura Rosenfeld, weeping. “He’s a fanatic.”
Rosenfeld rose suddenly and struck his wife across the face. She fell to the floor, blood darkening her teeth. “It was his brother,” she repeated, through her tears. “Yehudi. In Jerusalem. He’s a fanatic. They all are.”
“Quiet, I told you,” shouted Rosenfeld. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“He put him up to it,” she continued. “Yehudi and his boss. They’re all crazy. Tell him, Gerard.”
Mac grabbed Rosenfeld and yanked him back onto the couch. “What is she talking about? Why are you helping TNT?”
“I don’t know,” said Rosenfeld. “I do as I’m told.”
“Do you know who she is? Ava?”
Rosenfeld nodded. “Mossad.”
“Did your brother tell you that?”
Again, Rosenfeld nodded.
“So why did you help Al-Sabah kidnap her?”
“I was told to,” said Rosenfeld. “That was enough.”
Mac put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pressed the gun against his heart. “Tell me,” he said calmly. “What do they want? Why is your brother helping the prince?”
Rosenfeld shook his head.
