They saw him for a second time at seven that evening and again at half past eight, as dusk was darkening the image like a painting being slowly devoured by surface grime and yellowed varnish. On both occasions he swept across the screen from left to right. And both times, upon slow-motion reexamination, his head turned almost imperceptibly toward the gorse bush at the base of the concrete power pole. When he returned for a third time it was long past dark, and the image was black as pitch. This time, he stopped and killed the bike’s lights. Mordecai switched the camera from optical to infrared, and a moment later Gabriel and Eli Lavon watched as a yellow-and-red man-shaped blob slipped quickly in and out of the gorse at the edge of the Kerselaarstraat.
The USB flash drive was identical to the model used by Nabil Awad for previous communications, with one critical additional feature: its printed circuit board had been fitted with a tracking device that allowed the team to monitor its movements. From Dilbeek it moved to the city center of Brussels, where it spent a restful evening in a rather good hotel. Then, in the morning, it boarded the 8:52 Eurostar at Brussels Midi, and by ten o’clock it was moving along a platform at St. Pancras International in London. Yaakov Rossman managed to snap a photo of the courier as he crossed the arrivals hall. Later, they would identity him as an Egyptian national who lived off the Edgware Road and worked as a production assistant for Al Jazeera television.
The flash drive made the journey to East London on foot and at noon changed hands with admirable discretion on the pavements of Brick Lane. A few minutes later, in a bachelor flat in Chilton Street, it was inserted into a computer with no connection to the Internet, or so believed its owner. At which point a new wait commenced, the wait for Jalal Nasser, Saladin’s man in Europe, to come to Paris to meet his new girl.
28
PARIS
NATALIE TOOK CONSCIOUS NOTE OF him for the first time on Saturday, at half past two o’clock, as she was crossing the Luxembourg Gardens. At that instant she realized she had seen him on several prior occasions, including the previous afternoon, at the café across the street from her flat in Aubervilliers. Shaded by a Pernod umbrella, he had nipped at a glass of white wine, feigned absorption in a worn paperback, and stared at her without reservation. She had mistaken his attentions for lust and had left the café earlier than intended. In retrospect, she supposed her actions had made a positive impression.
But it was not until that perfect sun-dappled Saturday that Natalie was certain the man was following her. She had intended to take the entire day off from work, but a pandemic of strep throat in the cités had compelled her to spend the morning at the clinic. She had left at noon and ridden an RER into the city center. And while pretending to window-shop in the rue Vavin she had seen him on the opposite side of the street, pretending to do the same. A few minutes later, on the footpaths of the Luxembourg Gardens, she had employed another one of the techniques she had learned at the farm in Nahalal—a sudden stop, a turn, a hasty retracing of her steps. And there he was again. She walked past him with her eyes averted. Even so, she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her face. A few paces behind him, dressed like an aging revolutionary poet, was the blurry-faced watcher from the Office, and behind him were two French surveillance men. Natalie returned quickly to the rue Vavin and entered a boutique she had visited a few minutes earlier. Instantly, her phone rang.
“Have you forgotten that we’re having coffee today?”
Natalie recognized the voice. “Of course not,” she answered quickly. “I’m just running a few minutes late. Where are you?”
“Café de Flore. It’s on—”
“I know where it is,” she interrupted with a flash of French superiority. “I’m on my way.”
The connection went dead. Natalie dropped the phone into her bag and went into the street. Her pursuer was not there, but on the opposite pavement was one of the French surveillance men. He followed her through the Luxembourg Quarter to the boulevard Saint-Germain, where Dina Sarid was waving to her from a sidewalk table of one of Paris’s most famous coffeehouses. She was brightly veiled and wearing a pair of large movie starlet sunglasses.
“Even with that getup,” said Natalie softly as she kissed Dina’s cheek, “you still look like an Ashkenazi Jew in a hijab.”
“The ma?tre d’ doesn’t agree. I was lucky to get a table.”
Natalie laid a napkin across her lap. “I think I’m being followed.”
“You are.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
Dina only smiled.
“Is he the one we want?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you want me to play it?”
“Hard to get. And remember,” added Dina, “no kissing on the first date.”
Natalie opened her menu and sighed. “I need a drink.”
29
AUBERVILLIERS, FRANCE
LEILA? IS THAT REALLY YOU? It’s Jalal. Jalal Nasser from London. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago. May I join you? I was just going to have a coffee myself.”
He blurted all this in classical Jordanian Arabic while hovering over Natalie’s usual table at the café opposite her apartment. It was late the following morning, a Sunday, the air cool and soft, the sun adrift in a cloudless sky. The traffic in the street was light; consequently, Natalie had seen him walking along the pavement from a long way off. Passing her table, he had stopped abruptly—as Natalie had stopped on the footpaths of the Luxembourg Gardens—and spun around as though his shoulder had been tapped. He approached her slowly and established himself so that the sun was at his back and his long shadow fell upon Natalie’s open newspaper. Looking up, she shaded her eyes and regarded him coolly, as if for the first time. His hair was tightly curled and neatly styled, his jawline was square and strong, his smile was restrained but warm. Women found him attractive, and he knew it.
“You’re blocking the light,” she said.
He grasped the back of an empty chair. “May I?”
Before Natalie could object, he pulled the chair away from the table and settled himself proprietarily into it. And there it was, she thought. All the preparation, all the training—and now he sat before her, the one they wanted, the one who would place her in the hands of Saladin. All at once she realized her heart was tolling like an iron bell. Her discomfort must have been apparent, because he placed a hand on the sleeve of her modest silk blouse. Met by her reproachful glare, he hastily removed it.
“Forgive me. I don’t want you to be nervous.”
But she wasn’t nervous, she told herself. And why should she be? She was in her usual café across the street from her apartment. She was a respected member of the community, a healer who cared for the residents of the cités and spoke to them in their native language, though with a distinct Palestinian accent. She was Dr. Leila Hadawi, graduate of the Université Paris-Sud, fully accredited and licensed to practice medicine by the government of France. She was Leila from Sumayriyya, Leila who loved Ziad. And the handsome creature who had just intruded on her Sunday-morning coffee, who had dared to touch the hem of her sleeve, was of no consequence.
“I’m sorry,” she said, folding her newspaper absently, “but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jalal,” he repeated. “Jalal Nasser.”
“Jalal from London?”
“Yes.”
“And you say we’ve met before?”
“Briefly.”
“That would explain why I don’t remember you.”
“It might.”
“And where exactly did we meet?”