The Black Widow

Shamron ignited a pair of gas heaters to take the sharp chill off the air. Then, after fending off a halfhearted attack by Gabriel, he ignited one of his Turkish cigarettes, too. They sat in a pair of chairs at the edge of the terrace, Gabriel at Shamron’s right hand, his phone resting on the small table between them. A minaret moon floated above the Golan Heights, shining its benevolent light on the lands of the caliphate. From behind them, through an open door, came the voices of Gilah and Chiara and the chirp and laughter of the children.

“Have you noticed,” asked Shamron, “how much your son looks like Daniel?”

“It’s difficult not to.”

“It’s shocking.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel, his eyes on the moon.

“You’re a lucky man.”

“Am I really?”

“It’s not often we are given a second chance at happiness.”

“But with happiness,” said Gabriel, “comes guilt.”

“You have nothing to feel guilty about. I was the one who recruited you. And I was the one who allowed you to take your wife and child with you to Vienna. If there’s anyone who should feel guilty,” said Shamron gravely, “it’s me. And I’m reminded of my guilt each time I gaze into your son’s face.”

“And every time you put on that old jacket.”

Shamron had torn the left shoulder of the jacket while hastily climbing into the back of his car on the night of the bombing in Vienna. He had never repaired it — it was Daniel’s tear. From behind them came the soft voices of women and the laughter of a child, which one Gabriel could not tell. Yes, he thought, he was happy. But not an hour of a day went by when he did not hold the lifeless body of his son, or pull his wife from behind the wheel of a burning car. Happiness was his punishment for having survived.

“I enjoyed the article about the coming change in leadership at the Office.”

“Did you?” Even Shamron seemed pleased by the change in subject. “I’m glad.”

“That was low, Ari, even by your standards.”

“I’ve never believed in fighting cleanly. That’s why I’m a spy instead of a soldier.”

“It was disruptive,” said Gabriel.

“That’s why I did it.”

“Does the prime minister know you were behind it?”

“Who do you think asked me to do it in the first place?” Shamron raised his cigarette to his lips with a tremulous hand. “This situation,” he said disdainfully, “has gone on long enough.”

“I’m running an operation.”

“You can walk and chew gum at the same time.”

“Your point?”

“I was an operational chief,” answered Shamron, “and I expect you to be an operational chief, too.”

“The minute Saladin’s network makes contact with Natalie, we’ll have to go on a war footing. I can’t be worrying about personnel matters and parking privileges while trying to stop the next attack.”

“If he makes contact with her.” Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette. “Two and a half months is a long time.”

“Two and a half months is nothing, and you know it. Besides, it fits the network’s profile. Safia Bourihane was dormant for many months after her return from Syria. So dormant, in fact, that the French lost interest in her, which is exactly what Saladin wanted to happen.”

“I’m afraid the prime minister isn’t prepared to wait much longer. And neither am I.”

“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.