“He was convinced he was being followed.”
“And what did you say to him?”
“I told him I was concerned for his safety. I asked him to get on the next plane to Paris.”
“No, Leila, your exact words. This is your final communication with a man you loved,” Dina added, waving a piece of paper that purported to contain the text of the e-mail exchange. “Surely, you remember the last thing you said to Ziad before he was arrested.”
“I said I was sick with worry. I begged him to leave.”
“But that’s not all you said. You told him he could stay with a relative of yours, is that not correct?”
“Yes.”
“Who was this relative?”
“My aunt.”
“Your mother’s sister?”
“Correct.”
“She lives in Amman?”
“In Zarqa.”
“The camp or the town?”
“The town.”
“Did you tell her that Ziad was coming to Jordan?”
“No.”
“Did you tell your mother or father?”
“No.”
“What about the French police?”
“No.”
“And your contact in Jordanian intelligence? Did you tell him, Leila?”
“What?”
“Answer the question,” snapped Dina.
“I don’t have a contact in Jordanian intelligence.”
“Did you betray Ziad to the Jordanians?”
“No.”
“Are you responsible for his death?”
“No.”
“And the night of your first date?” Dina asked, tacking suddenly. “Did you drink wine with dinner?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It is haram,” said Natalie.
That night, when she retired to her room, the volume of Darwish was back on her bedside table. She would be leaving soon, she thought. It was only a question of when.
That same question—the question of when—was the subject of a meeting between Gabriel and Uzi Navot at King Saul Boulevard later that evening. Between them, arrayed upon Navot’s conference table, were the written conclusions of the various trainers, physicians, and psychiatric specialists assigned to the case. All stated that Natalie Mizrahi was of sound mind and body, and more than capable of carrying out the mission for which she had been recruited. None of the reports, however, were as important as the opinions of the chief of the Office and the man who would succeed him. Both were veteran field operatives who had spent much of their careers working under assumed identities. And they alone would suffer the consequences were anything to go wrong.
“It’s only France,” said Navot.
“Yes,” said Gabriel darkly. “Nothing ever happens in France.”
There was a silence.
“Well?” Navot asked finally.
“I’d like to give her one more test.”
“She’s been tested. And she’s passed every one with flying colors.”
“Let’s get her out of her comfort zone.”
“A murder board?”
“A peer review,” offered Gabriel.
“How rough?”
“Rough enough to expose any flaws.”
“Who do you want to handle it?”
“Yaakov.”
“Yaakov would scare me.”
“That’s the point, Uzi.”
“How soon do you want to do it?”
Gabriel looked at his wristwatch. Navot reached for the phone.
They came for her in the hour before dawn, when she was dreaming of the lemon groves of Sumayriyya. There were three of them—or was it four? Natalie couldn’t be sure; the room was in darkness, and her captors wore black. They pulled a hood over her, bound her hands with packing tape, and frog-marched her down the stairs. Outside, the grass of the garden was wet beneath her bare feet, and the air was cold and heavy with the smells of the land and the animals. They forced her into the back of a car. One sat to her left, another to her right, so that she was wedged tightly at the hips and shoulders. Frightened, she called Gabriel’s name but received no reply. Nor did Dina respond to her cry for help. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, and to her surprise she addressed them in Arabic.
Like most physicians she had a good internal clock. The drive, a nausea-inducing high-speed derby, lasted between twenty-five and thirty minutes. No one spoke a word to her, even when, in Arabic, she said she was about to be sick. Finally, the car lurched to a stop. Again, she was frog-marched, this time along a dirt pathway. The air was sweet with pine and colder than in the valley, and she could see a bit of light seeping through the fabric of her hood. She was led across a threshold, into a structure of some sort, and forced into a chair. Her hands were placed upon a tabletop. Lights warmed her.
She sat in silence, trembling slightly. She sensed a presence beyond the lamps. At last, a male voice said in Arabic, “Remove the hood.”
It came off in a flourish, as though she were a prized object to be unveiled to a waiting audience. She blinked several times while growing accustomed to the harsh light. Then her eyes settled upon the man seated on the opposite side of the table. He was dressed entirely in black, and a black keffiyeh obscured everything of his face except his eyes, which were black, too. The figure to his right was identically attired, as was the one to his left.
“Tell me your name,” commanded the figure opposite in Arabic.
“My name is Leila Hadawi.”
“Not the name the Zionists gave you!” he snapped. “Your real name. Your Jewish name.”
“It is my real name. I’m Leila Hadawi. I grew up in France, but I am from Sumayriyya.”
But he would have none of it—not her name, not her professed ethnicity, not her faith, not the story of her childhood in France, at least not all of it. He had in his possession a file, which he said had been prepared by the security department of his organization, though he did not say precisely what organization that was, only that its members emulated the original followers of Muhammad, peace be upon him. The file purported to prove that her real name was Natalie Mizrahi, that she was obviously Jewish, that she was an agent of the Israeli secret intelligence service who had been trained at a farmhouse in the Valley of Jezreel. She told him that she had never, nor would she ever, set foot in Israel—and the only training she had received was at the Université Paris-Sud, where she had studied medicine.
“Lies,” said the man in black.