“This is Yehudi Rosenfeld. I’m glad we have a chance to talk.”
Rosenfeld. Ben-Gold’s deputy and official attack dog.
“I’d like to speak with Zvi,” said Ava.
“That won’t be possible.”
“Where is he?”
“You’re meddling in matters far beyond your grasp,” said Rosenfeld.
“Where’s Zvi?”
“I wouldn’t worry about Zvi Gelber, Colonel. I’d be far more worried about myself, if I were you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“For now, it’s a piece of advice,” said Rosenfeld. “Freely and sincerely given. Your inquiries are not welcome. In fact, you should assume they are regarded as hostile and with intent to harm the State of Israel.”
“What have you done with him?” asked Ava.
“Zvi got what he deserved. Be sure that you will, too, if you continue in your unfounded pursuits. I hear Zinal, Switzerland, is a lovely place. Stay there. Goodbye, Colonel.”
The call came in the middle of the night.
“Please don’t talk. Just listen. I’m a friend of Zvi’s. I worked as his assistant for the past three years. Zvi is dead. He was kidnapped from his home a week ago. His body was found a few days later in Gaza. He’d been tortured then shot in the head. They blame Hamas. It wasn’t. About five of us who worked closely with Zvi were let go the same day. No explanation, but we knew. The others are scared. Two have already left the country. I won’t leave. I want to help. My name is Dahlia Shugar.”
Part III
Chapter 39
Present day
Épernay, France
They had left Paris an hour ago.
It was a speed run on the A4 through Montreuil-aux-Lions and Château-Thierry, following the eastward course of the river Marne. TNT kept his foot on the pedal, passing at every opportunity. Two hundred twenty kilometers per hour and not a tick less. He’d triggered four traffic cams that he knew. At this speed, that was €1,500 a pop. Once more, he caught a flash of light in his rearview. Make that five. Speeding tickets were not his concern. Not today.
“We don’t grow all the grapes ourselves,” said TNT. “We only have a few hundred hectares under cultivation. Hardly enough to make fifty thousand bottles of champagne each year. We buy from all the vineyards in the area.”
“Couldn’t you have asked for the champagne to be delivered?” said Dahlia Shugar. “It’s nice of you to go yourself.”
“We have other business,” said TNT.
“What kind of business?” she asked.
“I could have just had the champagne delivered, you know.”
Dahlia turned toward him, eyes narrowing as she took in the meaning of his words. She was wearing a tan trench coat and a scarf in her hair, with dark sunglasses. She looked very French, very mature. Sobeautiful. But there was something more there. He didn’t know what, and it bothered him. She was smarter than he’d first thought. Not so innocent as she made out to be. There was something behind her eyes. She watched too closely. She listened too intently. Half of him wanted to tell her everything. The other half wanted to send her back to Los Angeles on the first plane. It was too late for that now.
“So, it’s time?” asked Dahlia.
TNT nodded. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
They left the superhighway. The road narrowed to two lanes. They were in the old France, the France of deep, impenetrable forests and rolling meadows and fertile farmland. They passed through the town of Châtillon-sur-Marne and into the province of Champagne. Vineyards stretched as far as the eye could see. The vendage was two weeks past. The vines were barren, their gnarled and twisted branches lonely and at rest.
