“It was in the Place de la République, two months ago. Or maybe it was three. There was a demonstration against—”
“I remember it.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “But I don’t remember you.”
“We spoke afterward. I told you that I admired your passion and commitment to the issue of Palestine. I said I wanted to discuss it with you further. I wrote down my contact information on the back of a leaflet and gave it to you.”
“If you say so.” Feigning boredom, she gazed into the street. “Do you use this tired approach on all the women you see sitting alone in cafés?”
“Are you accusing me of making this entire thing up?”
“I might be.”
“How did I know you were at the demonstration in the Place de la République if I wasn’t there?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“I know you were there,” he said, “because I was there, too.”
“So you say.”
He flagged down the waiter and ordered a café crème. Natalie turned her head and smiled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your French is atrocious.”
“I live in London.”
“We’ve established that.”
“I’m a student at King’s College,” he explained.
“Aren’t you a bit old to still be a student?”
“My father tells me the same thing.”
“Your father sounds like a wise man. Does he live in London, too?”
“Amman.” He fell silent as the waiter placed a coffee before him. Then, casually, he asked, “Your mother is from Jordan, is she not?”
This time, the silence was Leila’s. It was the silence of suspicion, the silence of an exile. “How do you know my mother is from Jordan?” she asked at last.
“You told me.”
“When?”
“After the demonstration, of course. You told me your mother’s family lived in Nablus. You said they fled to Jordan and were forced to live in the refugee camp at Zarqa. I know this camp, by the way. I have many friends from this camp. I used to pray in the mosque there. Do you know the mosque in Zarqa camp?”
“Are you referring to the al-Falah Mosque?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“I know it well,” she said. “But I’m quite certain I never mentioned any of this to you.”
“How could I know about your mother if you didn’t tell me?”
Again, she was silent.
“You also told me about your father.”
“Not possible.”
He ignored her objection. “He wasn’t from Nablus like your mother. He was from the Western Galilee.” He paused, then added, “From Sumayriyya.”
Her expression darkened and she engaged in a series of tiny gestures that interrogators refer to as displacement activity. She adjusted her hijab, she tapped a nail against the rim of her coffee cup, she glanced nervously around the quiet Sunday street—anywhere but into the face of the man seated on the other side of the table, the man who would place her in the hands of Saladin.
“I don’t know who you are,” she said finally, “but I’ve never told you anything about my parents. In fact, I’m quite certain I’ve never seen you until this moment.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Then how do I know these things about you?”
“Maybe you’re from the DGSI?”
“Me? French intelligence? My French is dreadful. You said so yourself.”
“Then maybe you’re American. Or Israeli,” she added.
“You’re paranoid.”
“That’s because I’m a Palestinian. And if you don’t tell me who you really are and what you want, I’m leaving. And there’s a very good chance I might find the nearest gendarme and tell him about the strange man who knows things about me he shouldn’t.”
“It’s never a good idea for Muslims to get involved with the French police, Leila. There’s a good chance they’ll open an S file on you. And if they do, they’ll learn things that could prove detrimental to someone in your position.”
She placed a five-euro note next to her coffee and started to rise, but once again he placed his hand on her arm—not lightly but with a grip that was shockingly firm. And all the while he was smiling for the benefit of the waiter and the passersby, immigrants and native French, filing past through the soft sunlight.
“Who are you?” she murmured through clenched teeth.
“My name is Jalal Nasser.”
“Jalal from London?”
“Correct.”
“Have we ever met before?”
“No.”
“You lied to me.”
“I had to.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was asked to come.”
“By whom?”
“You, of course.” He relaxed his grip. “Don’t be nervous, Leila,” he said calmly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m only here to help. I’m going to give you the chance you’ve been waiting for. I’m going to make your dreams come true.”
Paul Rousseau’s observation post was located directly above the café, and the sharp downward angle of the surveillance camera was such that Natalie and Jalal seemed like characters in an avant-garde French film. Audio coverage was supplied by Natalie’s mobile phone, which meant that, when viewed live, there was a maddening two-second audio delay. But afterward, in the safe house at Seraincourt, Mordecai produced an edited version of the encounter in which sound and video were synchronized. With Eli Lavon at his side, Gabriel watched it three times from beginning to end. Then he adjusted the time code to 11:17:38 and clicked on the play icon.
“Why are you here?”
“I was asked to come.”
“By whom?”
“You, of course.”
Gabriel clicked PAUSE.
“Impressive performance,” said Eli Lavon.
“His or hers?”
“Both, actually.”
Gabriel clicked PLAY.
“I’m going to give you the chance you’ve been waiting for. I’m going to make your dreams come true.”
“Who told you about these dreams of mine?”
“My friend Nabil. Perhaps you remember him.”
“Very well.”
“Nabil told me about the conversation you had after the demonstration in the Place de la République.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because Nabil and I work for the same organization.”
“Which organization?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Not here. Not now.”
Gabriel clicked PAUSE and looked at Lavon. “Why not here?” he asked. “Why not now?”
“You didn’t really think he would make his move in the café, did you?”
Gabriel frowned and pressed PLAY.
“Perhaps we can meet somewhere more private to talk at length.”
“Perhaps.”
“Are you free this evening?”
“I might be.”
“Do you know La Courneuve?”
“Of course.”
“Can you make your way there?”
“It’s not far. I can walk.”
“There’s a large housing estate on the Avenue Leclerc.”
“I know it.”
“Be outside the pharmacy at nine. Don’t bring your mobile phone or anything electronic. And dress warmly.”
Gabriel paused the recording. “Sounds to me like they’re going to be traveling by motorbike.”
“Brilliant,” said Lavon.
“Jalal or me?”
A silence fell between them. It was Lavon who finally broke it.
“What are you worried about?”
“I’m worried that he’s going to drive her to a secluded location, brutally interrogate her, and then cut her head off. Other than that, I have no concerns at all.”
Another silence, longer than the first.