“Really? It’s good to know you still have the prime minister’s ear.”
“What makes you think I ever lost it?” Shamron’s old Zippo lighter flared. He touched the end of another cigarette to the flame.
“How long?” asked Gabriel.
“If Saladin’s network hasn’t made contact with Natalie by next Friday, the prime minister will announce your appointment live on television. And next Sunday you will attend your first cabinet meeting as chief of the Office.”
“When was the prime minister planning to tell me this?”
“He’s telling you now,” said Shamron.
“Why now? Why the sudden rush to get me into the job?”
“Politics,” said Shamron. “The prime minister’s coalition is in danger of fracturing. He needs a boost, and he’s confident you’ll give him one.”
“I have no interest in coming to the prime minister’s political rescue, now or ever.”
“May I give you a piece of advice, my son?”
“If you must.”
“One day soon you’re going to make a mistake. There will be a scandal or an operational disaster. And you’ll need the prime minister to save you. Don’t alienate him.”
“I hope to keep the disasters and scandals to a minimum.”
“Please don’t. Remember, a career without scandal—”
“Is not a proper career at all.”
“You were listening after all.”
“To every word.”
Shamron lifted his rheumy gaze toward the Golan Heights. “Where do you suppose he is?”
“Saladin?”
Shamron nodded.
“The Americans think he’s somewhere near Mosul.”
“I wasn’t asking the Americans, I was asking you.”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“I’d avoid using phrases like that when you’re briefing the prime minister.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
There was a brief silence.
“Is it true she saved his life?” asked Shamron.
“I’m afraid so.”
“And for her reward, Saladin will send her to her death.”
“We should be so lucky.”
Just then, Gabriel’s phone flared. The screen lit his face as he read the message. Shamron could see he was smiling.
“Good news?” he asked.
“Very.”
“What is it?”
“It looks as though I’ve been granted another reprieve.”
“By the prime minister?”
“No,” said Gabriel, switching off the phone. “By Saladin.”
47
AMMAN, JORDAN
GABRIEL RETURNED TO NARKISS STREET long enough to throw a few items of clothing into a suitcase. Then he crawled into the backseat of his SUV for a high-speed drive across the West Bank to Amman’s Queen Alia Airport, where one of His Majesty’s Gulfstreams was fueled and ready for takeoff. Fareed Barakat was stretched out on one of the leather seats, his necktie loosened, looking like a busy executive at the end of a long but lucrative day. The plane was taxiing before Gabriel had settled into his own seat, and a moment later it was airborne. It was still climbing as it passed over Jerusalem.
“Look at the settlements,” said Fareed, pointing toward the orderly yellow streetlamps spilling down the ancient hills into the West Bank. “Every year, more and more. At the rate you’re building, Amman will soon be a suburb of Jerusalem.”
Gabriel’s gaze was elsewhere, on the old limestone apartment house near the end of Narkiss Street where his wife and children slept peacefully because of people like him.
“Maybe this was a mistake,” he said quietly.
“Would you rather fly El Al?”
“I can get a kosher meal, and I don’t have to listen to a lecture about the evils of Israel.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have any kosher food on board.”
“Don’t worry, Fareed, I already ate.”
“Something to drink? How about a film? His Majesty gets all the new American movies from his friends in Hollywood.”
“I think I’ll just sleep.”
“Wise decision.”
Fareed switched off his light as the Gulfstream departed Israeli airspace, and soon he was sleeping soundly. Gabriel had never been able to sleep on airplanes, an affliction that not even the fully reclining seat of the Gulfstream could cure. He ordered coffee from the cabin crew and stared distractedly at the inane film that flickered on his private screen. His phone provided him no company. The plane had Wi-Fi, but Gabriel had powered off and dismantled his phone before crossing the Jordanian border. As a rule, it was better not to allow one’s mobile phone to attach itself to the wireless network of a monarch—or an Israeli network, for that matter.
An hour from the eastern seaboard of the United States, Fareed woke gently, as though an invisible butler had tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Rising, he repaired to His Majesty’s private quarters, where he shaved and showered and changed into a fresh suit and tie. The cabin crew brought him a lavish English breakfast. He lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed. The Earl Grey had been brewed to his requested strength.
“Nothing for you?” asked the Jordanian as he poured.
“I had a snack while you were sleeping,” lied Gabriel.
“Feel free to use His Majesty’s facilities.”
“I’ll just steal a towel as a souvenir.”
The plane touched down at Dulles Airport in a steel morning rain and taxied to a distant hangar. Three black SUVs waited there, along with a large all-American detail of security men. Gabriel and Fareed climbed into one of the vehicles and were whisked eastward along the Dulles Access Road toward the Capital Beltway. The Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus, ground zero of Washington’s post–9/11 national security sprawl, occupied several acres of land adjacent to the giant highway interchange. Their destination, however, was located a few miles farther to the east along Route 123. It was the George Bush Center for Intelligence, otherwise known as CIA Headquarters.
After clearing the massive security checkpoint, they proceeded to an underground parking garage and boarded a restricted elevator that bore them to the seventh floor of the Original Headquarters Building. A security detail waited in the wood-paneled foyer to relieve them of their mobile phones. Fareed dutifully surrendered his device, but Gabriel refused. A brief standoff ensued before he was allowed to proceed.
“Why didn’t I ever think of that?” murmured Fareed as they padded silently down a densely carpeted hall.
“What do they think I’m going to do? Bug myself?”
They were led to a conference room with windows overlooking the woods along the Potomac. Adrian Carter waited there alone. He was wearing a blue blazer and a pair of wrinkled chinos, a spymaster’s Saturday-morning attire. He looked decidedly displeased to see his two closest Middle East allies.
“I don’t suppose this is a social call.”
“I’m afraid not,” answered Gabriel.
“What have you got?”
“An airline ticket, a hotel reservation, and a rental car.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means the jayvee team is about to launch a major terrorist attack on the American homeland.”
Carter’s face turned ashen. He said nothing.
“Am I forgiven, Adrian?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you can help me stop it.”
“Which flight is she coming in on?”
“Air France Fifty-four.”
“When?”