The Black Widow

“And the other two files?”

“A choice,” he answered obliquely.

“What kind of choice?”

“It concerns your future.”

She pointed to one of the files. “What’s in that one?”

“A termination agreement.”

“And the other?”

“The exact opposite.”

A silence fell between them. It was Gabriel who broke it.

“I assume you’ve heard the rumors about my pending promotion.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“It seems the reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated.”

“Mine, too.”

He smiled warmly. Then his expression turned serious. “Some chiefs are fortunate enough to serve during relatively quiet times. They serve their term, they collect their accolades, and then they go forth into the world to make money. I’m confident I won’t be so lucky. The next few years promise to be tumultuous for the Middle East and for Israel. It will be up to the Office to help determine whether we survive in this land.” He looked out at the valley, the valley of his youth. “It would be a dereliction of duty if I were to let someone of your obvious gifts slip through my fingers.”

He said nothing more. Natalie made a show of thought.

“What is it?” he asked. “More money?”

“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “I was wondering about the Office policy regarding relationships between coworkers.”

“Officially, we discourage it.”

“And unofficially?”

“We’re Jewish, Natalie. We’re natural matchmakers.”

“How well do you know Mikhail?”

“I know him in ways only you could understand.”

“He told me about Russia.”

“Did he?” Gabriel frowned. “That was insecure on his part.”

“It was in service of a good cause.”

“And what cause was that?”

Natalie picked up the third file, the one with the employment contract.

“Did you bring a pen?” she asked.

77 PETAH TIKVA, ISRAEL

THE END WAS NEAR, IT was plain to see. On the Thursday, Uzi Navot was seen lugging several cardboard boxes from his office suite, including a lifetime supply of his beloved butter cookies, a parting gift from the Vienna station chief. The next morning, during the nine a.m. senior staff meeting, he acted as though a great weight had been lifted from his sturdy shoulders. And that afternoon, before departing for the weekend, he made a slow tour of King Saul Boulevard from the top floor to the underground recesses of Registry, shaking hands, patting shoulders, and kissing a few damp cheeks. Curiously, he avoided the dark, forbidding lair occupied by Personnel, the place where careers went to die.

Navot spent the Saturday behind the walls of his residence in the Tel Aviv suburb of Petah Tikva. Gabriel knew this because the movements of the ramsad, the official abbreviation for the head of the Office, were monitored constantly by the operations desk, as were his own. He decided it was better to show up unannounced, thus preserving the element of surprise. He slid from the back of his official SUV into a pouring rain and pressed the call button of the intercom at the front gate. Twenty long wet seconds elapsed before a voice answered. Unfortunately, it was Bella’s.

“What do you want?”

“I need to have a word with Uzi.”

“Haven’t you done enough already?”

“Please, Bella. It’s important.”

“It always is.”

Another prolonged delay ensued before the locks opened with an inhospitable snap. Gabriel opened the gate and hurried up the garden walk to the front entrance, where Bella awaited him. She wore an elaborate flowing pantsuit of embroidered crushed silk and gold sandals. Her hair was newly coiffed, her face was discreetly but thoroughly made up. She looked as though she were entertaining. She always did. Appearances had always mattered to Bella, which is why Gabriel had never understood her decision to marry a man like Uzi Navot. Perhaps, he thought, she had done it simply out of cruelty. Bella always struck Gabriel as the sort who enjoyed pulling the wings off flies.

Coldly, she shook Gabriel’s hand. Her nails were blood red.

“You’re looking well, Bella.”

“You, too. But then I suppose that’s to be expected.”

She gestured toward the sitting room, where Navot was working his way through the latest edition of the Economist. The room was a showpiece of contemporary Asian design, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the waterworks and manicured shrubbery in the garden. Navot looked like one of the workmen whom Bella had so terrorized during the long renovation. He wore wrinkled chinos and a stretched-out cotton pullover, and the gray stubble of his hair had encroached on his cheeks and chin. His disheveled appearance surprised Gabriel. Bella had never been one to permit weekend negligence when it came to grooming and dress.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

“Hemlock,” answered Gabriel.