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A FEW HOURS later, the jet landed at a private airport on the outskirts of Paris. Leine and Jack made their way through the abbreviated customs and then said their goodbyes, with Jack reminding her to call if she needed anything. She texted Lou that she’d landed, and then sent a text to Chessa, asking her again where she wanted to meet. Lou answered back with the name of her driver, who was waiting for her outside the airfield. Two minutes later, Chessa responded with a text:
Meet me at 32 Rue Cler at noon, next to the flower shop.
She checked her phone—there was just enough time to make it to the 7th arrondissement. Leine found the smoke gray Mercedes Benz sedan, made sure that it was her driver, Manuel, and climbed in the passenger seat.
“How fast can we get to the seventh arrondissement?”
“You understand that this is a religious holiday?” he asked.
Leine had to think before she remembered that it was Good Friday. Spending months in a Muslim country could do that to a person.
“Easter. Right. So how fast?”
Manuel shrugged a shoulder. “With the traffic, I would say maybe one hour.”
“I need to be there in forty-five. Can you do it?”
“We can try.” With a quick glance at his rearview mirror, Manuel changed lanes and stepped on the gas, cutting off a flaming red sports car and generating a cacophony of blaring horns and rude gestures.
Ahh, Paris.
Manuel took every shortcut he could and dropped her off at the Rue Cler in just under forty minutes. Leine made her way through the throng of people shopping the displays of fresh vegetables and souvenirs, checking her phone for messages on the way. The joie de vivre of a holiday weekend was evident. Shoppers and tourists spoke animatedly with each other, arguing about which cheese would go best with which wine—all in massive contrast to the urgency Leine felt.
A few minutes later, she reached the flower shop, but Chessa was nowhere in sight. Leine sent a message to let her know she was waiting for her. Seconds later, Chessa replied.
I couldn’t wait for you. They’re following me. I’ll be at the bridge where all the locks used to be.
She meant the Pont des Arts.
Leine texted Manuel to pick her up at the end of the block. Several minutes later he pulled over near the quai Malaquais, with the promise that he’d tell Lou where she was. She sprinted through the crowd to the famous bridge whose metal fencing once held the groaning weight of the infamous “padlocks of love.” The 46 tons of lovelorn metal had been replaced with Plexiglas panels, clearing up what once was a kitschy anomaly.
Leine scanned the crowd but didn’t see her. She walked from one end of the bridge to the other, thinking she might be hiding out, but still no Chessa. Frustrated, she started to walk back to where Manuel had parked. Her phone vibrated and she glanced at the text message.
Notre Dame.
That was all the text said.
This is getting tiresome. Leine texted Manuel where she was going and took off for the venerable landmark. She’d be lucky to get close to the church today—no doubt it would be a madhouse of tourists and the faithful gathered to celebrate.
She passed the renowned flying buttresses, rounded the front, and ran into a wall of onlookers. Scanning the large square for Chessa, Leine fought her way toward the cathedral through the mass of people. A few moments later, she spotted the young woman standing near the entrance.
Chessa was searching the crowd, obviously looking for someone. When she saw Leine, relief flickered across her face. Leine started forward to meet her, but something didn’t feel right. She slowed her pace, working to assess the situation.
The American teenager was wearing a bright pink, three-quarter-length jacket over black leggings and ankle boots. She had no purse or any kind of bag or backpack that Leine could see, but she held her right hand at an awkward angle as though trying to conceal something.
Leine stopped a few yards from the girl. Her gaze snapped to Chessa’s. The young woman scanned the crowd before bringing her gaze back to Leine.
Slowly, she rotated her palm. In her hand was a dead man’s switch.
Leine shook her head. “Don’t do this,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the din of conversation swirling around them. Her mind churned with probable outcomes, creating and discarding ideas for limiting casualties if Chessa activated the suicide vest that was likely hidden under her jacket. “You don’t want to be known for this, believe me.”
“Oh, but I do,” she replied. “I want Tarik to know that I am worth more than he is.”
“Tarik is the boy who betrayed you, right? Isn’t he dead?” Leine asked, hoping to keep her talking as she manipulated the burner phone in her pocket, blind-texting Manuel the developing situation. She edged closer to the girl, estimating the distance and time between them.
Anger flashed in Chessa’s eyes and she scoffed. “That’s what they told me, but I found him online last night. He never went to Libya to fight the oppressors,” she said, her anger obviously growing. “He’s still in London, the coward!” She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’ll show him I’m the better fighter.” With that, she unzipped her jacket, revealing a dense black vest with pockets. Black wires sprouted from each pocket, feeding into a central detonation device.
There was a sharp intake of breath behind Leine and a woman screamed, “Bomb!”
More screams erupted throughout the square as pandemonium broke out. People ran in every direction, plowing into each other and not caring, their eyes wild with horror. Mothers and fathers seized their children and rushed to safety, some crying in fear, some stone-faced, as though resigned to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A few rushed into the cathedral, shouting about the bomb.
Her features blank, Chessa watched the resulting chaos as though none of it mattered. A couple of worshippers from inside the church slipped out of the entrance behind her and ran for their lives.
“Stay inside,” she shouted at the others crowding the doorway, “or I swear to Allah I’ll detonate this bomb.” The people shrank back from the entrance, no doubt heading as far away from the bomber as they could. Using the diversion, Leine edged closer. Depending on what kind of explosives the girl was wearing, it was possible that she could destroy a section of the gothic cathedral, killing worshippers and tourists inside.
“Chessa! No!” A woman’s voice broke through the din of the panicking crowd.
Chessa whirled around, her eyes wild with fury. Chessa’s mother, Adrienne, broke through the bedlam and calmly walked toward her, hands open in supplication.
How did she get here? Leine scanned the area surrounding the square, searching for Chessa’s father but he wasn’t visible. Instead, she caught a glimpse of Manuel circling the perimeter.
“Please, Chessa. This isn’t you, baby. I know this isn’t you.” Adrienne continued to walk closer, her face dissolving in the grief-filled tears of a mother who couldn’t believe her own child would consider such a heinous act.
Manuel nodded toward Chessa, indicating he would come at her from another direction. Leine lifted her chin, acknowledging his intent.
“Don’t come any closer. I have to do this.” Chessa held the detonation switch above her head, her eyes focused on her mother. “This isn’t your fight.”
Her face filled with anguish, Adrienne continued to place one foot in front of the other as she closed the distance between them. “Baby, please. You don’t want to do this. Come home to your father and me. We love you so much.” She stopped a short distance from her daughter, hands outstretched, tears streaming down her face.
Seconds passed as mother and daughter stood frozen in time, one beseeching the other. Manuel began to close the gap, careful to remain outside of Chessa’s periphery. No longer the focus of the young woman’s attention, Leine edged toward her from the opposite direction. If she could just get close enough to grab the switch ...
At that moment, Chessa’s righteous anger seemed to deflate, and she dissolved into tears to match her mother’s. Her shoulders slumped forward and her expression contorted into a pain-filled grimace as the tension left her body. “Mommy,” she sobbed, lowering the dead man switch halfway, confusion and anguish evident in her tear-filled eyes.
Movement in Leine’s periphery caught her attention and she glanced right. A dark-haired man of Middle Eastern descent wearing sunglasses stood near the edge of the square, holding his phone in front of him as though filming the scene while chaos continued to erupt around him. Memories from a job in Amsterdam years before flashed through her mind, and a cold chill skittered down her back.
Stopping Chessa wouldn’t matter. Not if the bomb was remotely detonated.
As though in slow motion, Leine pivoted and ran, headed toward the man with the phone. Using the panicked crowd fleeing the scene as cover, she launched herself at him. He barely had time to look up as she collided with his midsection and knocked the phone from his grasp. They slammed to the ground, Leine landing on top of him.
“What the hell are you doing?” he yelled and tried to shove her off him. Leine dove for the phone and stared at the screen.
She was looking back at her own face. What the hell? It took her a second to realize that he hadn’t been about to detonate the suicide vest.
He’d been filming a selfie.
A deafening explosion shook the square, followed by a shockwave of heat and screaming and anguish and death.