Even as the interrogation continued, the Gabriel home in Neuilly was raided and found deserted, picked as clean as if a swarm of locusts had been through the place. A team of Leclerc’s colleagues was currently examining the phone records to determine if Gabriel had slipped and phoned one of his coconspirators on the landline. Chapel doubted that he had.
The offices of Richemond Holdings, likewise, were discovered to be empty. It would take months, if not years, to track down the firm’s investments. A corporation was a different beast than an individual. Financial institutions were less likely to succumb to the type of arm-twisting that had opened the door for Chapel and Sarah earlier in the week when it was a fellow investment house being investigated.
One of Leclerc’s buddies was with George Gabriel now. Another man who taped his knuckles and got them bloody before he began asking questions. Did Gabriel know more? Chapel wasn’t the one to answer. It was a serious game they were playing. He didn’t think any of his friends’ widows would object if things got rough. In the end, they simply had to know whether George Gabriel was holding anything back. Chapel had learned the cardinal rule of interrogation. No one finished talking until they told you what you wanted to hear.
In the absence of hard facts, they had Marc Gabriel’s actions to console them.
He was in Paris. His decision to kill his son rather than risk his exposing what he knew spoke volumes about the immediacy of the plan. Or had he, as George claimed, tried to kill him to exact his own brand of justice? If nothing else, George Gabriel had been able to confirm that his father’s plan was under way-that he had gone tactical.
Hijira was happening now.
“Here we are,” said Sarah, pulling the car to the curb. “Sixteen Boulevard des Italiens. It’s the house two up.”
On the sidewalk, Chapel, Sarah, and Leclerc formed a tight circle. “Follow my lead,” she said. “My guess is Kahn wants to be as anonymous as the other clients. That’s the way I’d play it.” She shook her head. “Thousand to one he’s not even there.”
“What do you think he got the membership for?” Chapel asked.
“A sex club’s a private place,” said Sarah, who had assumed the leader’s role. “Not a lot of room to carry a piece if you’re starkers. Perfect spot for a handover.”
“Doesn’t sound like he trusts Gabriel.”
“Smart of him,” said Sarah. “Kahn’s way out there on the political fringe, as far right as right will go. A former officer. Lost both his children to the Intifada. I don’t see him selling anything to an Arab.”
“Neither do I,” said Leclerc. “It’s probably a false flag operation. Gabriel made himself out to be someone he wasn’t. A South African. An American. Most likely, a Jew.”
Chapel felt the presence of others nearby, but when he looked behind Leclerc he caught only shadows. The street was too quiet. It bothered Chapel. It was the still before an earthquake.
“Shall we, gentlemen?” said Sarah. “And, boys, remember, we’re a jolly trio. No squabbling.”
“I take it we exchange keys,” Gabriel said.
“Simple, but effective,” replied Kahn.
Gabriel had forgotten how haunted the man looked, how frightened by his chosen responsibility, how serious. He had aged ten years in the months since they’d last met. “You must learn to trust,” he said in a voice suggesting sincerity and good fellowship.
“I have the rest of my life for that.”
Gabriel slid the elastic band off his wrist and handed it to Mordecai Kahn. “You’ll find it all there. I think it best if we retrieve our goods separately.”
Kahn stepped uncomfortably close to Gabriel, given their state of undress and the establishment. At this distance, the man smelled rancid. It was obvious that he had not bathed since leaving Tel Aviv.
“The device can be detonated in four ways,” said Kahn. “A proximity fuse, a velocity switch, a timer, or manually. It is not my business to pry, but it would be better if you let me know which method you find the most interesting.”
“A patriot will deliver the weapon.”
“It would be best if I showed you personally, however, I do not think either of us can take the risk. I can only explain.” Kahn set out three precise steps how to access the bomb’s CPU and detonate the device. “Rather simple, actually.”
“So then,” said Gabriel, extending an open palm. He’d been in the club too long. Years of survival had taught him that his presence in foreign environments was to be limited. He noticed an odd man eyeing them from the next room. He was pale and slender, with ginger hair and girlish hips, and-Gabriel could not help but notice-an insignificant manhood.
“There is one more thing,” said Kahn.
“Oh?” Gabriel sensed a wrench tumbling into the works.
“You will need a code to unlock the CPU.”
“What is it?”
Kahn smiled regretfully. “You will have to wait until tomorrow to receive it. Think of it as my fail-safe.”
Gabriel stood rooted to the spot. He thought of the satchel in his locker, the neatly bunched packets of hundred-dollar bills sitting atop a half kilo of Semtex. There would be no tomorrow for Mr. Kahn. The thought crossed his mind that the Israeli had outsmarted him. A code. Gabriel should have imagined as much. He would have done the same.
“The deal is off,” he said, snatching the key out of Kahn’s hand. He brushed past Kahn and found the stairs, never once looking back. There was only one way to play this game. Full-throttle or not at all.
He made it down three stairs before he heard the scientist padding next to him. “Please, stop,” Kahn panted. “I was wrong. It was foolish of me. Stop. Please!”
Gabriel ignored the entreaties a few seconds longer. “It was worse than foolish!” he spat, pushing Kahn against the staircase wall. A passing couple recoiled in fear. “It was dishonest. Ask someone else to strike freedom’s blow on your behalf. My people can wait.”
“Really, I apologize. It is difficult to trust in this day and age.”
Gabriel huffed angrily, then relented. “The code?”
“One, twenty-two, two thousand and one. The day my David was killed.”
At the entry, Sarah spoke for the three of them. “Good evening. Is a girl permitted to bring two boyfriends?”
A washed-out brunette replied with brittle alacrity, “But, of course. You are members?”
“Not yet.”
“One hundred fifty euros for a couple. One hundred for single men.”
“But we’re an extended family,” pleaded Sarah in a loopy voice. She was playing the drunken slut, a personality the club couldn’t get enough of. Always too many pegs and not enough slots.
“All right, then. Two hundred euros for all of you. And no more bargaining, or you can get lost.”
Chapel set the money on the transom.
“Actually, we’re looking for a friend,” confided Sarah, leaning into the smoky cubby as she suppressed a giggle. “A foreign gentleman. Tall, grayish hair, very serious.” She had a picture with her, but to show it was as good as announcing themselves as the police.
And Gabriel? Chapel wanted to remind her. Ask if he’s here, too. George’s description of his father would do nicely: forty-five years old, black hair worn short, brown eyes, handsome. But the woman answered before Chapel could protest.
“You’re late, honey,” she rasped. “He came in an hour ago. A vieux like him. He’s already exhausted.” Standing, she raised a hand in the air and snapped her fingers. “Véronique will show you the way.”