The Black Widow

“The one about how we overreacted to nine-eleven. The one about how terrorism is a nuisance, not a threat. The one about how we can absorb another strike like the one that brought our economy and transportation system to its knees, and be stronger as a result. And let us not forget,” Carter added, “the president’s unfortunate remarks about ISIS being the jayvee team. Presidents don’t like being proved wrong.”

“Neither do spies, for that matter.”

“I don’t make policy,” Carter repeated. “I produce intelligence. And at the moment, that intelligence is painting a dire picture of what we’re up against. The attacks in Paris and Amsterdam were but a preview of coming attractions. The movie is coming to theaters everywhere, including here in America.”

“If I had to guess,” said Gabriel, “it’s going to be a blockbuster.”

“The president’s closest advisers agree. They’re concerned an attack on the homeland so late in his second term will leave an indelible stain on his legacy. They’ve told the Agency in no uncertain terms to keep the beast at bay, at least until the president gets on Marine One for the last time.”

“Then I suggest you get busy, Adrian, because the beast is already at the gates.”

“We’re aware of that. But unfortunately the beast is largely immune to our dominance in cyberspace, and we have no human assets in ISIS to speak of.” Carter paused, then added, “Until now.”

Gabriel was silent.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were trying to get inside?”

“Because it’s our operation.”

“You’re working alone?”

“We have partners.”

“Where?”

“Western Europe and the region.”

“The French and the Jordanians?”

“The British crashed the party, too.”

“They’re a lot of fun, the British.” Carter paused, then asked, “So why are you coming to us now?”

“Because I’d like you to avoid dropping a bomb or firing a missile into an apartment building near al-Rasheed Park in downtown Raqqa.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“How much?”

Carter smiled. “It’s good to have you back in town, Gabriel. It’s been too long since your last visit.”

35 N STREET, GEORGETOWN

IT WAS DEEP SUMMER in Washington, that inhospitable time of year when most well-heeled residents of Georgetown flee their little village for second homes in Maine or Martha’s Vineyard or the mountains of Sun Valley and Aspen. With good reason, thought Gabriel; the heat was equatorial. As always, he wondered why America’s founders had willingly placed their capital in the middle of a malarial swamp. Jerusalem had chosen the Jews. The Americans had only themselves to blame.

“Why are we walking, Adrian? Why can’t we sit in the air conditioning and drink mint juleps like everyone else?”

“I needed to stretch my legs. Besides, I would have thought you’d be accustomed to the heat. This is nothing compared to the Jezreel Valley.”

“There’s a reason why I love Cornwall. It isn’t hot there.”

“It will be soon. Langley estimates that because of global warming, the south of England will one day be among the world’s largest producers of premium wine.”

“If Langley believes that,” said Gabriel, “then I’m sure it won’t happen.”

They had reached the edge of Georgetown University, educator of future American diplomats, retirement home of many grounded spies. After leaving the safe house, Gabriel had told Carter about his unlikely partnership with Paul Rousseau and Fareed Barakat, and about an ISIS project manager in London named Jalal Nasser, and about an ISIS talent spotter in Brussels named Nabil Awad. Now, as they walked along Thirty-seventh Street, clinging to the thin shadows for cool, Gabriel told Carter the rest of it — that he and his team had made Nabil Awad disappear from the streets of Molenbeek without a trace, that they had kept him alive in the minds of ISIS in the tradition of the great wartime deceivers, that they had used him to feed Jalal Nasser the name of a promising recruit, a woman from a banlieue north of Paris. ISIS had sent her on an all-expenses-paid trip to Santorini and then spirited her to Turkey and across the border into Syria. Gabriel did not mention the woman’s name — not her cover name and certainly not her real name — and Carter had the professional good manners not to ask.

“She’s Jewish, this girl of yours?”

“Not so you’d know.”

“God help you, Gabriel.”

“He usually does.”

Carter smiled. “I don’t suppose this girl of yours referred to herself as Umm Ziad online, did she?”

Gabriel was silent.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Turbulence,” said Carter.

Gabriel knew the code name. Turbulence was an ultra-secret NSA computer surveillance program that constantly swept the Internet for militant Web sites and jihadist chat rooms.

“NSA identified her as a potential extremist not long after she popped up on the Web,” Carter explained. “They tried to plant surveillance software inside her computer, but it proved resistant to all forms of assault. They couldn’t even figure out where she was operating. Now we know why.” With a sidelong glance at Gabriel, he asked, “Who’s Ziad, by the way?”