The Black Widow

In the old central Jerusalem neighborhood of Nachlaot, there had been doubts about the circumstances surrounding Allon’s death for some time, especially on leafy Narkiss Street, where he was known to reside in a limestone apartment house with a drooping eucalyptus tree in the front garden. On the evening the story appeared on the Post’s Web site, he and his family were seen dining at Focaccia on Rabbi Akiva Street — or so claimed the couple who had been seated at the next table. Allon, they said, had ordered the chicken livers and mashed potatoes, while his wife, an Italian by birth, had opted for pasta. The children, a few weeks shy of their first birthday, had displayed exemplary behavior. Mother and father appeared relaxed and happy, though their bodyguards were clearly on edge. The entire city was. Earlier that afternoon, near Damascus Gate, three Jews had been stabbed to death. Their killer, a young Palestinian from East Jerusalem, had been shot several times by police. He had died in the trauma center at Hadassah Medical Center, despite heroic efforts to preserve his life.

The following afternoon Allon was seen lunching with an old friend, the noted biblical archaeologist Eli Lavon, in a café along the Mamilla Mall, and at four o’clock he was spotted on the tarmac at Ben Gurion Airport, where he met the daily Air France flight from Paris. Documents were signed, and a large wooden crate, flat and rectangular, was placed carefully in the back of his personal armored SUV. Inside the crate was payment in full for an unfinished job: Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, oil on canvas, by Vincent van Gogh. One hour later, after a high-speed journey up the Bab al-Wad, the canvas was propped upon an easel in the conservation lab of the Israel Museum. Gabriel stood before it, one hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. Ephraim Cohen stood next to him. For a long time, neither spoke.

“You know,” said Cohen at last, “it’s not too late to change your mind.”

“Why would I want to do something like that?”

“Because she wanted you to have it.” After a pause, Cohen added, “And it’s worth more than a hundred million dollars.”

“Give me the papers, Ephraim.”

They were contained in a formal leather folio case, embossed with the museum’s logo. The agreement was brief and straightforward. Henceforth, Gabriel Allon renounced any and all claim to the van Gogh; it was now the property of the Israel Museum. There was, however, one inviolable proviso. The painting could never, under any circumstances, be sold or lent to another institution. As long as there was an Israel Museum — indeed, as long as there was an Israel—Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table would hang there.

Gabriel signed the document with an indecipherable flourish and resumed his contemplation of the painting. At length, he reached out and trailed a forefinger lightly across the face of Marguerite. She required no additional restoration; she was ready for her coming-out party. He only wished he could say the same for Natalie. Natalie required a bit of retouching. Natalie was a work in progress.

76 NAHALAL, ISRAEL

THEY RETURNED HER TO THE place where it all began, to the farmhouse in the old moshav of Nahalal. Her room was as she had left it, save for the volume of Darwish poetry, which had vanished. So, too, had the outsize photographs of Palestinian suffering. The walls of the sitting room were now hung with paintings.

“Yours?” she asked on the evening of her arrival.

“Some,” answered Gabriel.

“Which ones?”

“The ones with no signatures.”

“And the others?”

“My mother.”

Her eyes moved across the canvases. “She was obviously a great influence on you.”

“Actually, we influenced each other.”

“You were competitive?”

“Very.”

She went to the French doors and gazed across the darkened valley, toward the lights of the Arab village atop the hillock.

“How long can I stay here?”

“As long as you like.”

“And then?”

“That,” said Gabriel, “is entirely up to you.”

She was the farmhouse’s only occupant, but she was never truly alone. A security detail monitored her every move, as did the cameras and the microphones, which recorded the awful sounds of her night terrors. Saladin appeared often in her dreams. Sometimes he was the wounded, helpless man whom she had encountered in the house near Mosul. And sometimes he was the strong, elegantly dressed figure who had so gleefully sentenced her to die in a cottage at the edge of the Shenandoah. Safia came to Natalie in her dreams, too. She never wore a hijab or abaya, only the gray five-button jacket she had worn the night of her death, and her hair was always blond. She was Safia as she might have been if radical Islam hadn’t sunk its hooks into her. She was Safia the impressionable girl.