The Black Widow

“The dead boyfriend.”

“She’s a black widow, your girl?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Nice touch.”

They rounded the corner into P Street and walked beside a high stone wall bordering a cloistered convent. The redbrick pavements were empty except for Carter’s security detail. Two bodyguards walked before them, two behind.

“You’ll be happy to know,” said Carter, “that your new friend Fareed Barakat didn’t breathe a word of this to me when we spoke last. He never mentioned anything about Saladin, either.” He paused, then added, “I guess ten million dollars in a Swiss bank account only buys so much loyalty these days.”

“Does he exist?”

“Saladin? Without question, or someone like him. And there’s no way he’s Syrian.”

“Is he one of us?”

“A professional intelligence officer?”

“Yes.”

“We think he might be ex-Iraqi Mukhabarat.”

“So did Nabil Awad.”

“May he rest in peace.” Carter frowned. “Is he really dead, or was that shootout a ruse, too?”

With a shrug, Gabriel indicated it was the former.

“I’m glad someone still knows how to play rough. If I so much as say an unkind word to a terrorist, I’ll be indicted. Droning terrorists and their children is fine, though.”

“You know, Adrian, sometimes a live terrorist is better than a dead one. A live terrorist can tell you things, such as where and when the next attack will occur.”

“My president disagrees. He believes detaining terrorists only breeds more of them.”

“Success breeds terrorists, Adrian. And nothing succeeds quite like an attack on the American homeland.”

“Which brings us back to our original point,” said Carter, wiping a trickle of sweat from the side of his neck. “I will prevail upon the Pentagon to take care with their air campaign in Syria. In exchange, you will share anything your girl picks up during her vacation in the caliphate.”

“Agreed,” said Gabriel.

“I assume the French military is on board?”

“And the British,” said Gabriel.

“I’m not sure how I feel being the last to know about this.”

“Welcome to the post-American world.”

Carter said nothing.

“No air strikes on that building,” said Gabriel quietly. “And lay off the training camps until she comes out again.”

“When do you expect her?”

“The end of August, unless Saladin has other plans.”

“We should be so lucky.”

They had arrived back at the N Street safe house. Carter stopped at the foot of the curved front steps.

“How are the children?” he asked suddenly.

“I’m not sure.”

“Don’t blow it with them. You’re too old to have any more.”

Gabriel smiled.

“You know,” said Carter, “for about twelve hours, I actually thought you were dead. That was a profoundly lousy thing to do.”

“I had no other choice.”

“I’m sure,” said Carter. “But next time, don’t keep me in the dark. I’m not the enemy. I’m here to help.”

36 RAQQA, SYRIA

FROM THE OUTSET SHE MADE it clear to Jalal Nasser that she could remain in Syria for a limited period of time. She had to be back at the clinic no later than the thirtieth of August, the end of her summer holiday. If she were delayed, her colleagues and family would assume the worst. After all, she was politically active, she had left footprints on the Internet, she had lost her one and only love to the jihad. Undoubtedly, someone would go to the police, the police would go to the DGSI, and the DGSI would add her name to the long list of European Muslims who had joined the ranks of ISIS. There would be stories in the press, stories about an educated woman, a healer, who had been seduced by ISIS’s cult of death. If that were to happen, she would have no choice but to remain in Syria, which was not her wish, at least not yet. First, she wanted to avenge Ziad’s death by striking a blow against the West. Then, inshallah, she would make her way back to Syria, marry a fighter, and produce many children for the caliphate.

Jalal Nasser had said he wanted the same thing. Therefore, it came as a surprise to Natalie when, for three days and nights after her arrival in Raqqa, no one came for her. Miranda Ward, her travel companion, remained with her at the apartment near al-Rasheed Park to serve as her guide and minder. It was not Miranda’s first visit to Raqqa. She was a Sherpa on the secret ratline that funneled British Muslims from East London and the Midlands to Syria and the Islamic caliphate. She was the decoy, the deception, the pretty clean face. She had escorted both men and women, posing as lovers and friends. She was, she joked, “bi-jihadi.”

It was not really an apartment; it was a small bare room with a sink bolted to the wall and a few blankets on a bare floor. There was a single window, through which dust particles flowed freely, as if by osmosis. The blankets smelled of desert animals, of camels and goats. Sometimes a thread of water leaked from the sink tap, but usually there was none. They received water from an ISIS tanker truck in the street, and when the truck didn’t come they carried water from the Euphrates. In Raqqa, time had receded. It was the seventh century, spiritually and materially.