The Black Widow

“I’m worried that he’s going to drive her to a secluded location, brutally interrogate her, and then cut her head off. Other than that, I have no concerns at all.”

Another silence, longer than the first.

“What are you going to do?” Lavon asked finally.

Gabriel stared at the computer screen, one hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. Then he reached down, reset the time code, and pressed PLAY.

“Leila? Is that really you? It’s Jalal. Jalal Nasser from London. .”

30 LA COURNEUVE, FRANCE

THE CLEAR SKIES WERE BY that evening a pleasant memory. A cold, damp wind plucked at Natalie’s hijab as she made her way along the Avenue Leclerc, and above her head a blanket of thick clouds obscured the moon and stars. The raw weather was more typical of the northern banlieues; a trick of the prevailing southwesterly winds gave them a distinctly gloomier climate than the center of Paris. It only added to the air of dystopian misery that hung like a gray shroud over the looming concrete towers of the cités.

One of the largest housing estates in the entire department rose before Natalie now, two enormous slabs in the brutalist style, one tall and rectangular, like a giant deck of playing cards, the other lower and longer, as if to provide architectural balance. Between the two structures was a broad esplanade planted with many youthful trees in green leaf. A flock of veiled women, some wearing full facial veils, conversed quietly in Arabic while a few feet away a quartet of teenage boys openly passed a joint, knowing that a patrol by the French police was exceedingly unlikely. Natalie slipped past the women, returning their greeting of peace, and headed toward the parade of shops at the base of the tower. A supermarket, a hair salon, a small carryout restaurant, an optician, a pharmacy — all of life’s needs met in one convenient location. That was the goal of the central planners, to create self-contained utopias for the working classes. Few residents of the banlieues ventured into the center of Paris unless they were lucky enough to have jobs there. Even then, they joked that the short journey, ten minutes on the RER, required a passport and proof of vaccination.

Natalie made her way to the entrance of the pharmacy. Outside was a pair of modular concrete benches, upon which sat several Africans in traditional flowing dress. She reckoned it was a few minutes before nine o’clock, but couldn’t be sure; as instructed she had come without electronic devices, including her battery-powered wristwatch. One of the Africans, a tall thin man with skin like ebony, offered Natalie his seat, but with only a polite smile she indicated she preferred to stand. She watched the evening traffic moving in the avenue, and the hidden women chattering softly in Arabic, and the now-stoned teenage boys, who in turn were eyeing her malevolently, as though they could see the truth beneath her veil. She drew a deep breath to slow the beat of her heart. I’m in France, she told herself. Nothing can happen to me here.

Several minutes elapsed, long enough for Natalie to wonder whether Jalal Nasser had decided to abort the meeting. Behind her, the pharmacy door opened and from inside emerged a Frenchman who might have been mistaken for a North African. Natalie recognized him; he was one of her watchers from the French security service. He slipped past without a word and climbed into the backseat of a battered Renault. Approaching the car from behind was a motor scooter, black in color, large enough to accommodate two passengers. It stopped outside the pharmacy, a few feet from where Natalie stood. The driver lifted the visor of his helmet and smiled.

“You’re late,” said Natalie, annoyed.

“Actually,” said Jalal Nasser, “you were early.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I followed you.”

He removed a second helmet from the rear storage compartment. Warily, Natalie accepted it. This was something they hadn’t covered during her training at the farm in Nahalal, how to wear a helmet over a hijab. She slipped it on carefully, buckled the strap beneath her chin, and climbed onto the back of the bike. Instantly, it lurched forward into the traffic. As they shot through the canyons of the cités in a blur, Natalie wrapped her arms around Jalal Nasser’s waist and held on for her life. I’m in France, she reassured herself. Nothing can happen to me here. Then she realized her mistake. She wasn’t in France, not anymore.