WHO?
He typed the first and last name—the name of an archangel followed by a rather common Israeli surname. The response was a few seconds longer in coming.
YOU SHOULDN’T JOKE ABOUT THINGS LIKE THAT.
I’M NOT.
WHAT DO YOU THINK IT MEANS?
A very good question indeed. He logged off the Internet, shut down the computer, and limped slowly to the window. He felt as though a dagger were lodged in the thigh of his right leg, his chest throbbed. He watched the traffic moving along the parkway, and for a few seconds the pain seemed to diminish. Then the traffic blurred and in his thoughts he was astride a mighty Arabian horse on a mountaintop near the Sea of Galilee, gazing down at a sunbaked place called Hattin. The vision was not new to him; it came often. Usually, two mighty armies—one Muslim, the other Crusader, the army of Rome—were arrayed for battle. But now only two men were present. One was an Israeli named Gabriel Allon. And the other was Saladin.
Paul Rousseau was still on Paris time, and so they did not linger long over dinner. Gabriel bade him good night at the elevators and, trailed by his bodyguard, headed across the lobby. The same woman was behind the reception desk.
“May I help you?” she asked as Gabriel approached.
“I certainly hope so. Earlier this evening I saw a gentleman checking in. Tall, very well dressed, walked with a cane.”
“Mr. al-Farouk?”
“Yes, that’s him. We used to work together a long time ago.”
“I see.”
“Do you know how long he’s staying?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t apologize. I understand your rules.”
“I’d be happy to give him a message.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll ring him in the morning. But don’t mention any of this to him,” Gabriel added conspiratorially. “I want to surprise him.”
Gabriel went outside into the chill night. He waited until he was in the back of his Suburban before ringing Adrian Carter. Carter was still at his office in Langley.
“I want you to have a look at someone named al-Farouk. He’s about forty-five years old, maybe fifty. I don’t know his first name or the color of his passport.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He’s staying at the Four Seasons.”
“Am I missing something?”
“I got a funny feeling at the back of my neck, Adrian. Find out who he is.”
The connection went dead. Gabriel returned the phone to his coat pocket.
“Back to N Street?” asked the driver.
“No,” answered Gabriel. “Take me to the embassy.”
51
AUBERVILLIERS, FRANCE
THE ALARM ON NATALIE’S MOBILE phone sounded at seven fifteen, which was odd, because she didn’t remember setting it. In fact, she was quite certain she hadn’t. She silenced the phone with an annoyed tap of her finger and tried to sleep a little longer, but five minutes later it rang a second time. “All right,” she said to the spot in the ceiling where she imagined the camera to be hidden. “You win. I’ll get up.”
She threw aside the bedding and swung her feet to the floor. In the kitchen she brewed a pot of oily black Carte Noire in the Mocha stovetop maker and poured it into a bowl of steaming milk. Outside, the night was draining slowly from her drab street. In all likelihood, it was the last Paris morning that Dr. Leila Hadawi would ever see, for if Saladin had his way, she would not be returning to France from her sudden, unexpected trip to America. Natalie’s return was uncertain, too. Standing in her sooty little window, her hands wrapped around the café au lait, she realized she would not miss it. Her life in the banlieues had only reinforced her conviction that there was no future in France for the Jews. Israel was her home—Israel and the Office. Gabriel was right. She was one of them now.
Neither ISIS nor the Office had given her packing instructions, and so instinctively she packed lightly. Her flight was scheduled to depart Charles de Gaulle at 1:45 p.m. She journeyed to the airport on the RER and at half past eleven joined the long line at the economy check-in counter. After a wait of thirty minutes a disagreeable Frenchwoman informed her that she had been upgraded to business class.
“Why?”
“Would you rather stay in economy?”
The woman handed Natalie her boarding pass and returned her passport. She loitered for several minutes in the shops of duty-free, observed by the watchers of the DGSI, before making her way to the departure gate. Because Flight 54 was bound for America, there were special security measures. Her hijab and Arabic name earned her several minutes of additional preflight screening, but eventually she was admitted into the departure lounge. She searched for familiar faces but found none. In a complimentary copy of Le Monde she read about the French president’s upcoming visit to America and, on an inside page, about a new wave of stabbings in Israel. She burned with rage. She rejoiced.
Presently, the crackle of a boarding call brought her to her feet. She had been given a seat on the right side of the aircraft against the window. The seat next to her remained empty long after the economy passengers had boarded, instilling in her the hope she might not have to spend the next seven and half hours with a complete stranger. That hope died when a business-suited man with coal-black hair and matching eyeglasses lowered himself into the seat next to her. He didn’t appear pleased to be sitting next to an Arab woman in a hijab. He stared at his mobile phone, Natalie stared at hers.
After a few seconds a message appeared on her screen.
LONELY?
She typed, YES.
WANT SOME COMPANY?
LOVE SOME.
LOOK TO YOUR LEFT.
She did. The man with coal-black hair and matching eyewear was still staring at his phone, but now he was smiling.
“Is this a good idea?” she asked.
“What’s that?” asked Mikhail.
“You and me together?”
“I’ll tell you after we land.”
“What happens then?”
Before he could answer, an announcement instructed passengers to switch off their mobile devices. Natalie and her seatmate complied. As the plane thundered down the runway, she placed her hand on his.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
“When?” she asked, pulling away her hand.
“Soon,” he said. “Very soon.”
52
HUME, VIRGINIA