The Black Widow

He removed a laptop computer from his attaché case and connected it to the hotel’s wireless Internet system. Because the Four Seasons was popular with visiting dignitaries, the NSA had undoubtedly penetrated its network. It was no matter; the hard drive of his computer was a blank page. He opened the Internet browser and typed a name into the search box. Several photos appeared on the screen, including one from London’s Telegraph newspaper that showed a man running along a footpath outside Westminster Abbey, a gun in his hand. Linked to the photo was an article by a reporter named Samantha Cooke concerning the man’s violent death. It seemed the reporter was mistaken, because the subject of her article had just crossed the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington.

There was another knock at the door, soft, almost apologetic — the obligatory fruit plate, along with a note addressed to Mr. Omar al-Farouk, promising to fulfill his every wish. At the moment he wanted only a few minutes of uninterrupted solitude. He typed an address for the dark net, picked the lock of a password-protected door, and entered a virtual room where all was encrypted. An old friend was waiting there for him.

The old friend asked, HOW WAS YOUR TRIP?

He typed, FINE BUT YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHO I JUST SAW.

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.