The Black Widow

They saw him for a second time at seven that evening and again at half past eight, as dusk was darkening the image like a painting being slowly devoured by surface grime and yellowed varnish. On both occasions he swept across the screen from left to right. And both times, upon slow-motion reexamination, his head turned almost imperceptibly toward the gorse bush at the base of the concrete power pole. When he returned for a third time it was long past dark, and the image was black as pitch. This time, he stopped and killed the bike’s lights. Mordecai switched the camera from optical to infrared, and a moment later Gabriel and Eli Lavon watched as a yellow-and-red man-shaped blob slipped quickly in and out of the gorse at the edge of the Kerselaarstraat.

The USB flash drive was identical to the model used by Nabil Awad for previous communications, with one critical additional feature: its printed circuit board had been fitted with a tracking device that allowed the team to monitor its movements. From Dilbeek it moved to the city center of Brussels, where it spent a restful evening in a rather good hotel. Then, in the morning, it boarded the 8:52 Eurostar at Brussels Midi, and by ten o’clock it was moving along a platform at St. Pancras International in London. Yaakov Rossman managed to snap a photo of the courier as he crossed the arrivals hall. Later, they would identity him as an Egyptian national who lived off the Edgware Road and worked as a production assistant for Al Jazeera television.

The flash drive made the journey to East London on foot and at noon changed hands with admirable discretion on the pavements of Brick Lane. A few minutes later, in a bachelor flat in Chilton Street, it was inserted into a computer with no connection to the Internet, or so believed its owner. At which point a new wait commenced, the wait for Jalal Nasser, Saladin’s man in Europe, to come to Paris to meet his new girl.

28 PARIS

NATALIE TOOK CONSCIOUS NOTE OF him for the first time on Saturday, at half past two o’clock, as she was crossing the Luxembourg Gardens. At that instant she realized she had seen him on several prior occasions, including the previous afternoon, at the café across the street from her flat in Aubervilliers. Shaded by a Pernod umbrella, he had nipped at a glass of white wine, feigned absorption in a worn paperback, and stared at her without reservation. She had mistaken his attentions for lust and had left the café earlier than intended. In retrospect, she supposed her actions had made a positive impression.

But it was not until that perfect sun-dappled Saturday that Natalie was certain the man was following her. She had intended to take the entire day off from work, but a pandemic of strep throat in the cités had compelled her to spend the morning at the clinic. She had left at noon and ridden an RER into the city center. And while pretending to window-shop in the rue Vavin she had seen him on the opposite side of the street, pretending to do the same. A few minutes later, on the footpaths of the Luxembourg Gardens, she had employed another one of the techniques she had learned at the farm in Nahalal — a sudden stop, a turn, a hasty retracing of her steps. And there he was again. She walked past him with her eyes averted. Even so, she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her face. A few paces behind him, dressed like an aging revolutionary poet, was the blurry-faced watcher from the Office, and behind him were two French surveillance men. Natalie returned quickly to the rue Vavin and entered a boutique she had visited a few minutes earlier. Instantly, her phone rang.

“Have you forgotten that we’re having coffee today?”

Natalie recognized the voice. “Of course not,” she answered quickly. “I’m just running a few minutes late. Where are you?”

“Café de Flore. It’s on—”

“I know where it is,” she interrupted with a flash of French superiority. “I’m on my way.”

The connection went dead. Natalie dropped the phone into her bag and went into the street. Her pursuer was not there, but on the opposite pavement was one of the French surveillance men. He followed her through the Luxembourg Quarter to the boulevard Saint-Germain, where Dina Sarid was waving to her from a sidewalk table of one of Paris’s most famous coffeehouses. She was brightly veiled and wearing a pair of large movie starlet sunglasses.

“Even with that getup,” said Natalie softly as she kissed Dina’s cheek, “you still look like an Ashkenazi Jew in a hijab.”

“The maître d’ doesn’t agree. I was lucky to get a table.”

Natalie laid a napkin across her lap. “I think I’m being followed.”

“You are.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Dina only smiled.

“Is he the one we want?”

“Absolutely.”

“How do you want me to play it?”

“Hard to get. And remember,” added Dina, “no kissing on the first date.”

Natalie opened her menu and sighed. “I need a drink.”

29 AUBERVILLIERS, FRANCE