“So?” said Eliza. “We don’t have time to hack it. Maybe McGee can get some of his team on it.”
“Step back,” said Baker. “You don’t have to look if you don’t want to.”
Baker circled the sofa to Gerard Rosenfeld’s side. Taking care to avoid the entrails, he took hold of Rosenfeld’s right arm. Using his free hand, Baker selected Rosenfeld’s pointer finger and placed the tip in his mouth. He kept it there for fifteen seconds, then removed it and dried it with his jacket. Next, he took the phone he’d just found, activated the home screen, and pressed Rosenfeld’s now warm finger to the On button.
“Never,” said Eliza, looking on with disgust.
“Sometimes,” said Baker, showing her the phone, “you need a little luck.”
“It worked?” asked Eliza.
“We’re in,” said Baker.
“Son of a bitch,” said Eliza. Then: “Pardon my French.”
They moved into the kitchen and sat at the table, examining the phone’s apps. The call register showed two calls to Yehudi Rosenfeld—Israeli country code, Jerusalem city code. The first, made at 4:16 a.m., was an outgoing call that lasted ninety seconds. The second, at 4:21, was an incoming call that lasted fifteen minutes. A text message to Yehudi Rosenfeld, read by the recipient at 4:14, said simply,They know you are working with Tariq al-Nayan-al Sabah.
“He goes by TNT,” said Baker.
“I know who he is,” said Eliza. “I’ve met him on several occasions. He’s as smooth as they come.”
“If he’s working with Rosenfeld, that means he’s working with Itmar Ben-Gold.”
“Give me a minute to process this.”
“Gerard Rosenfeld texted his brother,” said Baker, “then called him when he didn’t hear back right away. Probably left a message on his machine. Yehudi wakes up, sees the text and the call, and promptly freaks out. He calls Gerard to get the full download. They’re the ones we should be after.”
“All the chatter was right.”
“It usually is,” said Baker. “Now we know what exactly it was all about.”
Eliza picked up the photograph of Itmar Ben-Gold. “He’s minister of defense. That means he has say over Mossad, Shin Bet, all their security apparatus.”
“What if Ava Attal did go to him?” said Baker.
“And he shut her down,” said Eliza. “He’d have to if he’s working with Tariq al-Sabah.”
“So she took matters into her own hands.”
“But why, Don? Tell me why.”
“To do the right thing?” said Baker. “Wouldn’t you?”
Eliza Porter Elkins didn’t have an answer. She hated herself for it. “So what do we do now?”
“We do what Mac’s going to do,” said Baker. “Find TNT.”
Chapter 44
27 Avenue Montaigne
Paris
The door to TNT’s private office was locked. Ava couldn’t have been happier. A locked box held secrets. This was doubly true, given TNT’s devil-may-care personality. Security was the other guy’s problem. But not today. Today, even Prince Tariq al-Sabah was sure to take every precaution to safeguard his plans.
A biometric security system governed entry. Ava ignored it. She pressed the lockpick against the door. A powerful electromagnetic pulse overrode the system and unlocked the door. It was the same device that she had used in Dubai fifteen years earlier when she’d infiltrated the glitzy Gulf city as part of a team to assassinate Mahmoud Al-Mabhouh, the criminal mastermind who had overseen Hamas’s finances. Not a pleasant memory. The lockpick was practically the only thing that had gone right.
Ava slid inside the office. It was a large room, nearly half the size of the fourth floor. Three dormer windows overlooked the Avenue Montaigne. The decor was spare, all earth tones, with Italian furniture and modern art on every wall. Haring, Basquiat, Lichtenstein. The desk was a slab of red Carrara marble the size of an aircraft carrier.
