Ava turned the handle. The bolt slid home. A smile, but only for a second. She cracked the door, listening for activity. Nothing. She opened it a little more and peered outside. She neither heard nor saw anyone.
Whispering a prayer, she stepped into the hallway. Just as she had memorized the layout of the Chesa Grischuna, TNT’s chalet in St. Moritz, she had committed to memory the layout of 27 Avenue Montaigne, his home in Paris. It was easy enough. She’d found several articles in architectural and design magazines, both current and from years past, showcasing the building’s various incarnations. Tariq wasn’t the first public figure who’d owned the house. Before him was a British rock star, and before the rock star, a flamboyant Italian industrialist. Each in turn had redecorated the home, top to bottom, and each had invited magazines to chronicle their impeccable taste. Ava had studied numerous photographs of the primary bedroom, the kitchen, the living areas. In addition, she had benefited from a private resource, if one of her own devising. Dahlia Shugar.
It was Dahlia who had drawn up the exact floor plan of themaison particulier.
It was Dahlia who’d told her that TNT’s security was cloistered on the first floor, most likely watching a soccer match on the billion-inch screen their master had provided for their entertainment. Tariq had a rule: no security personnel allowed in living quarters, which meant floors two through six.
It was Dahlia who’d told Ava that there were no cameras inside the residence. TNT liked his privacy. It was his custom to have sex in unorthodox places. The floor of his office was one of his favorites, followed by the bathroom, where he liked to watch himself in the mirror.
And it was Dahlia who’d texted her that she and Tariq had left the premises and were en route to his vineyard, the Domaine du Roi. But why? Ava wanted to know the purpose of the visit. Had he taken Samson with them, or was the weapon here someplace where she might find it? She didn’t dare text Dahlia to ask.
From the beginning they’d known it would be a honey trap. They’d studied TNT’s posts, searching for the right place to engineer a meeting. Dahlia held both US and Israeli passports. Going back over the years, they noted that TNT had close ties to Southern California, Beverly Hills in particular. It ended up being a choice between the Soho House, a private-membership social club in West Hollywood, and the Bvlgari boutique on Rodeo Drive. They chose Bvlgari.
TNT never failed to visit the store on each trip. Sources confirmed he spent hours in the boutique deciding among the offerings, often dropping a million dollars or more. The intimate atmosphere combined with the likelihood of an extended encounter gave Dahlia the opportunity to use her every feminine wile to win him over.
By comparison, the Soho House was simply too busy, too filled with distraction. Hundreds of men and women wandered in and out every day. Worse still, it was what Dahlia, who had served two years in the Israeli Air Force, termed a “target-rich environment.” She would hardly be the only attractive woman present.
Bvlgari it was.
The right choice, as it turned out.
Ava walked down the hall to the paneled doors that led to the primary bedroom—and that Dahlia had promised were always open. Ava pressed the lever.Et voilà.A woman true to her word.
The bedroom was smaller than she’d imagined, but more opulent. A king-size bed suited for the Sun King himself. Gold-and-ivory bedspread, frilly pillows, a canopy and four posts gilded in eighteen-karat gold.
The door to TNT’s closet stood ajar. A peek inside revealed it to be as large as the bedroom itself. Enough clothing for a Baltic army. Boxes and boxes of shoes stacked floor to ceiling. Fifty? One hundred?
“Look at the ceiling,” Dahlia had commanded a week before. Ava lifted her eyes. A magnificent reimagining of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the most famous panel—The Creation of Adam, God reaching out to Adam. In this case, however, Adam was Tariq al-Sabah in all his glory. Top marks for accuracy from a woman who’d been there.
Ava made her way to the guest closet on the opposite side of the room. Dahlia’s things hung on the rack, hardly enough to notice ... not that she’d needed to bring her entire wardrobe. The floor was cluttered with a slew of boxes and bags, fruits of their daily assaults on Paris’s finest boutiques. Chanel. Fendi. Prada. Handbags. Belts. Scarves. And shoes, nearly all of them with fire-engine red soles. Just saying the designers’ names made her feel overworked and underpaid.
But Ava hadn’t come to gawk.
She located the orange chamois bag she’d come for, high on the top shelf. She loosened its strings and removed a brown crocodile handbag with a gold buckle in the shape of an “H.” She unsnapped the bag and rooted around inside of it. She found what she was looking for tucked into the side pocket. A compact Glock 25 the size of her palm. Only six shots, but if she did her job properly, she’d have four left over. The term was “double tap.” Saying it made her feel glad to be overworked and underpaid.
There was something else in the bag. Slim, rectangular, a bit bigger than a cigarette lighter. A magnetic lockpick that Dahlia had stolen from the Office her last day on the job.
Ava heard the door to the bedroom open. Voices. The maids. She shut the closet door and slid around the tower of bags and boxes, squatting behind them so as not to be seen. A second later, someone opened the door. A hand turned on the light. Ava kept her head down, face buried in her thighs. She heard clothing being hung on the racks. Soft whistling. The smell of fresh-milled soap. She sensed a presence withdraw. One woman called for fresh towels. Another laughed about the sheets being disheveled.
Minutes passed. The closet door remained open, the light above her head illuminated. Ava’s thighs began to ache. Her knees begged to stand. She didn’t dare move. With growing anger, she listened as the maids cleaned the bathroom just feet away, chatting among themselves, clearly in no haste. Ava lifted herself a few inches and raised her head. A maid walked past, and Ava ducked, resuming her squat. Her muscles caught fire. She couldn’t stay this way much longer. Count to ten, she told herself. Anyone can make it to ten. And when she had, she counted to ten once more. Tears came to her eyes. Her legs began to shake. Please, she pleaded with them fervently. Go. Finish and go.
And then, just like that, the light above her went off. The closet door was shut. She heard the door to the bedroom close. Blessed silence.
Ava rose slowly. For a moment, the pain worsened as blood flowed back into her muscles. Then, relief. Ava stood tall. She gasped. Nothing had ever felt so good.
She waited a minute before opening the door and venturing into the bathroom, then back into the bedroom. With patience, she opened the door and peered into the hall.
The coast was clear.
Time to go to work.
Chapter 41
Épernay
The headquarters and historic home of the Domaine du Roi were located on the Avenue de Champagne in the town of Épernay.“Domaine du Roi”meant “the king’s domain,” and the main building suited the name nicely. Not quite a palace, but not far from one. A tall, rectangular stone tower flanked by two long wings, the buildings newly painted a pale mint green, maroon shutters at every window and wrought iron Juliet balconies.
TNT passed through imposing gates into a cobblestone courtyard and stopped the car. A slim, energetic woman dressed in tight jeans and a khaki twill jacket bounded down the stairs of the main administration building. Tariq recognized her as the cellar master but for the life of him could not remember her name.
