“The champagne you requested is inside,” said the woman. Was it Claire? “Cuvée 1968. One case.”
“And the methuselah,” said Tariq.
“And the methuselah,” said Claire, referring to the name given a six-liter bottle of champagne. “In the cavern. As you requested.”
“I’ll be giving Mademoiselle Shugar a tour,” said Tariq.
“Allow me,” said the woman, affronted. “It would be a pleasure.”
“Thank you, but no,” said Tariq. “I can manage.”
Tariq took his backpack from the rear seat. “Follow me.”
He circled the main building, snaking between stacks of empty picking crates twenty feet high, and opened the door to an old stone outbuilding. Dahlia followed close behind. He led the way down a flight of stairs, deeper and deeper underground. With each step the air grew damper, more chill, more redolent of earth and stone. They arrived at a domed cavern hewn from limestone. Tunnels stemmed in all four directions.
“Fifteen miles of these things under the town,” said Tariq. “Been there for hundreds of years. Who knows where they all lead?”
The cavern was dim and musty, with torch lights bolted to the walls. He turned left and headed down a narrow tunnel, passing room after room filled floor to ceiling with racks of champagne. Thousands of bottles.
After a few minutes, they came to an intersection of sorts. A man waited for them, dressed in work clothes, a cloth cap tilted rakishly on his head. “Everything you requested is inside,” he said.
Tariq palmed him €1,000, the notes rolled tightly and bound by a rubber band. “Merci, Charles.”
“I am happy to help,” said Charles. “Whatever you need.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Tariq.
He opened the door to a large, high-ceilinged room lit by fluorescent lights. To the right was an old, worn wooden table with some tools on it. Tariq shut the door and locked it. He placed his backpack on the table and removed the package. “This is Samson.”
Dahlia looked at it, then back at Tariq. “It has a name.”
“It does,” said Tariq. “But not from me.”
“And so?” asked Dahlia, approaching the table with caution. “What is Samson ... exactly?”
Tariq had thought long and hard about what to tell Dahlia. The truth was out of the question. A half truth would do nicely. “An explosive,” he said.
“It doesn’t look very big.”
“Just big enough,” said Tariq. “Plastic. Enough to destroy a room. Maybe two.”
“Your brother will be in the room,” said Dahlia.
“I hope so,” said Tariq. “Otherwise, we’re wasting our time.” He saw the worry in her eyes. Suddenly, everything they’d talked about was real. Her new and better life. The meaning of the word “coup.”
“When will this happen? Where?”
“Soon,” said Tariq. “Maybe tomorrow. I will tell you when I know.”
“I think you know already,” said Dahlia.
Tariq stared at her, offering her a deceptive smile, nothing more. “We have work to do.”
The methuselah sat on a table. It was a giant bottle of champagne, six liters to be exact, or eight normal bottles, and packed in a coffin of sorts: a pale wooden crate shaped more like a triangle than a box, broad at the bottom, slim at the top, not quite tapering to a point.
Tariq removed the bottle and stood it on the table. It was heavy, nearly twenty pounds. Charles had not only provided the champagne but also the large professional bottle cutter TNT needed for his work. Using the tools, TNT removed the bottom of the bottle and drained the champagne. He set aside the bottle and turned his attention to Samson. He opened its protective casing and, with exquisite attention, freed it. Naked, the nuclear device resembled a stainless steel ingot, a little longer than a shoebox, half as wide and deep, with several pin lights on the top.
“Is it on?” asked Dahlia.
