After our dessert course is cleared away—a roasted fig-infused sweet pudding called a blancmange, and a molten chocolate “blackout” cake so gooey it makes my teeth stick together—I say to her, “All right, now I’ll give you what you came for.”

With a dramatic flourish, I remove my masquerade mask.

“Oh, my God, you’re hideous!” she exclaims, cringing and shielding her eyes. “This dinner is ruined. I think I’m going to be sick!”

I pretend to be crushed. “Sorry,” I say. “That’s the way God made me. Can you forgive me?”

I reach over and stroke her forearm. I shamelessly make puppy-dog eyes at her, too.

She does not, however, have my undivided attention.

All night, I’ve also been keeping an eye on a muscular, suit-clad man with vaguely Middle Eastern features slowly pacing around the dining room.

And it looks like, now with the mask off he’s spotted me.

He’s speaking into his wrist mic now. Probably alerting the rest of his security team—likely made of fellow ex-Mossad agents—to my presence.

At least I hope he is.

Oh, I forgot to mention: Soûlard is one of the restaurants run by David Needham.

The man I’m desperate to talk to again in connection with the pending attack.

Right now, I just need to sit back, wait, and let him come to me.

While keeping my date none the wiser.

CHAPTER 44

Our waiter sets the check down on our table. I reach for it, but Vanessa whisks it away so fast, I feel a small breeze.

“Nuh-uh,” she teases. “A deal’s a deal, Caleb. Think of all the delicious food you’ve been treating me to lately.”

“Not fair,” I say. “That was a couple sandwiches and a few scoops of grits. This is an expensive three-course extravaganza.”

But she insists. She puts down a credit card and says, “Anyway, I’m expensing this. I’m going to make my husband pay.”

As the waiter returns with her receipt, I notice the security guard is now standing by the swinging kitchen doors. He’s watching me carefully, like a sniper lining up a shot.

I recognize the stone-faced man next to him, too, whispering into his ear. It’s David Needham’s chauffeur. The same Israeli asshole that stuck a pistol in my face in the backseat of his Town Car two days ago.

This means David has recently arrived.

Excellent. Just as I’d hoped.

“I have to run to the little boys’ for a minute,” I tell her. “Meet you out front?”

We stand and part ways. I head toward the restrooms, until I see her exit the restaurant. Then I change course for David’s bodyguards.

“Hello, gentlemen,” I say. “I believe your boss is expecting … ”

Oooohhfff! With one swift move, the chauffeur sucker-punches me in the gut.

I hunch over. Gasping for breath. Anticipating another strike.