Use of Force

CHAPTER 53

The Le Meurice restaurant was the most beautiful restaurant Tursunov had ever seen.

Inspired by the Salon de la Paix at Versailles, it was beyond opulent. Gold coated the moldings, bifurcated the mirrors, and dripped from the crystal chandeliers. Silver coated the chairs, the lamps, and even the serving buffets.

But the pièce de résistance was the massive fresco painted on the ceiling. Floating above the dining room, it beckoned patrons into a lush spring landscape populated with alluring mothers and rosy-cheeked infants.

The restaurant’s most desirable feature, however, was its view of the Tuileries across the street.

He could have watched the events unfold from his balcony, but he preferred to be here. He wanted to bathe in people’s immediate reaction. He wanted to immerse himself in it.

This would be the closest he had been to any of his bombings, ever. His heart was pounding with excitement. He willed himself to be calm. Being seen was not a problem. Being remembered was.

As he was dining alone, the concierge had booked him a small table in the corner. With apologies for not being able to place him closer to the window, he explained that the hotel was quite full. Tursunov had smiled, thanked the man, and given him a generous tip.

A table near the window would have been excellent, but just being in the restaurant served his needs.

Up in his room, he had showered, shaved, and performed his prayers. After a cigarette on the balcony, he had descended to the lobby, where he’d had a ginger ale with lime in the wood-paneled bar, as he kept to himself.

Then, at the appointed time, he paid his bill and stood up. But instead of going right into the restaurant, he decided to step outside.

He wanted to take in the early evening air; to breathe one last breath of Paris before everything changed. His table wasn’t going anywhere.

Pushing through the revolving door, he descended the short flight of stone steps and walked out onto the pavement.

“Taxi, Monsieur?” a doorman asked politely.

Tursunov shook his head.

The doorman nodded and shifted his attention to the guests behind him.

Across the street was the wrought-iron fencing of the Tuileries with its bright gold points. Through it, he could see and hear the outdoor carnival. It was packed and in full swing, just as he had known it would be.

Savoring the air, he took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. The calm before the storm, he thought to himself.

Exhaling, he stepped away from the front of the hotel, lit a cigarette, and had a quick smoke.

When he was done, he returned inside.

As he was shown to his table, the dining room looked like a sea of ornate ships under crisp, white linen sails.

The maître d’hôtel asked if he cared for a cocktail. Blaming jet lag, Tursunov ordered an espresso. With an understanding smile, the man disappeared to place his order.

For dinner, Tursunov began with scallops from Normandy and chose silk grain veal with smoked eel and olives for his main course. He had his eyes on the iced chestnut delight for dessert.

In his mind’s eye, he envisioned the men preparing to martyr themselves. He envisioned how they had spent their last day, ritually cleansing and preparing themselves to enter Paradise. They would have read from the Qur’an, finding courage, comfort, and strength within its passages.

They would approach from different directions, their large soccer jerseys concealing the vests they wore beneath. Each man would carry a soccer ball. Cleated shoes would be worn over a shoulder or around the neck.

As they entered the garden, they would make their way to their appointed areas — guaranteeing that the force of their explosions and the tsunamis of shrapnel would be spread as widely and as efficiently as possible.

Turning his mind back to his food, he decided that the scallops had been quite good, but they were nothing compared to his first bite of veal. It was like an exquisitely flavored butter that melted in his mouth. He had never eaten like this before. Never. For a moment, he forgot where he was.

Trimming another piece of the delicately cooked meat, he raised the fork and opened his mouth. But the second bite of veal never made it to his lips.

Outside, there was an intense explosion. Its blast wave shattered the restaurant windows and covered many diners in glass.

Tursunov was spared only by virtue of having been seated away from them, farther back in the restaurant.

Some patrons had been knocked to the floor. Those who were not, were now up and running for the door. Many of them were screaming.

None of them could have known for sure what had happened, but instinct had taken over. Get away from the danger.

Tursunov himself didn’t know what had happened. It was too early and the blast too close. Either Abdel had changed the attack, or one of the martyrs had chosen to go early. Perhaps he had been confronted by police, or by French security services.

The one thing he did know was that he couldn’t sit at his table pretending nothing had happened. Calmly, he stood and followed the other patrons out of the dining room.

In the lobby, curious guests were pressing up against the windows and pushing through the doors to get outside, in order to figure out what had happened. Tursunov headed for the stairwell.

He took the stairs two and three at a time, hoping to get to his room and out onto the balcony before anything else happened.

Halfway there, he heard a second explosion, followed by a third, and a fourth.

All of the martyrs were detonating now. It was the protocol. Even if one went early, they were to get to their targets and detonate immediately.

Taking a deep breath at his landing, he opened the stairwell door, stepped out into the hallway, and walked calmly toward his room.

Once inside, he rushed to the balcony, threw open his still-intact French doors, and stepped outside.

As he looked out over the slaughter and destruction below, he excitedly repeated one phrase under his breath.

Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. ALLAHU AKBAR.