by Daniel Silva
NAHALAL, ISRAEL
BUT FIRST, BEFORE GOING ANY FURTHER, Gabriel gave Natalie another chance to leave. She could go back to Jerusalem, back to her work at Hadassah, back to the overt world. Her file—yes, Gabriel admitted, she already had a file—would be shredded and burned. They would not blame her for turning her back on them; they would only blame themselves for having failed to close the deal. They would speak of her well, if at all. They would always think of her as the one who got away.
He said all this not in Hebrew but in French. And when she gave him her answer, after only a moment’s deliberation, it was in the same language, the language of her dreams. She would stay, she said, but only if he told her why she was being asked to join their exclusive club.
“Shwaya, shwaya,” said Gabriel. It was an Arabic expression that, in this context, meant little by little. Then, without providing Natalie an opening to object, he told her about the man called Saladin. Not the son of a Kurdish soldier of fortune who united the Arab world and reclaimed Jerusalem from the Crusaders, but the Saladin who in the span of a few days had shed infidel and apostate blood in Paris and Amsterdam. They did not know his real name, they did not know his nationality, though his nom de guerre surely was no accident. It suggested he was a man of ambition, a man of history who had visions of using mass murder as a means of unifying the Arab and Islamic world under the black flag of ISIS and the caliphate. His ultimate goals notwithstanding, he was clearly a terrorist mastermind of considerable skill. Under the noses of Western intelligence, he had built a network capable of delivering powerful vehicle-borne explosive devices to carefully chosen targets. Perhaps his tactics would remain the same, or perhaps he had bigger plans. Either way, they had to kill the network.
“And nothing kills a network faster,” said Gabriel, “than to offer its leader a buyout.”
“A buyout?” asked Natalie.
Gabriel was silent.
“Kill him? Is that what you mean?”
“Kill, eliminate, assassinate, liquidate—you choose the word. I’m afraid they’ve never mattered much to me. I’m in the business of saving innocent lives.”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
“Kill someone? Don’t worry, we’re not asking you to become a soldier or a special operative. We have plenty of men in black who are trained to do that sort of work.”
“Like you.”
“That was a long time ago. These days I wage war against our enemies from the comfort of a desk. I am a boardroom hero now.”
“That’s not what they wrote about you in Haaretz.”
“Even the respectable Haaretz gets it wrong every now and then.”
“So do the spies.”
“You object to the business of espionage?”
“Only when spies do reprehensible things.”
“Such as?”
“Torture,” she answered.
“We don’t torture anyone.”
“What about the Americans?”
“Let’s leave the Americans out of this for now. But I’m wondering,” he added, “whether you would have any philosophical or moral objection to taking part in an operation that would result in someone’s death.”
“This might come as a shock to you, Mr. Allon, but I’ve never pondered that question before.”
“You’re a doctor, Natalie. You’re trained to save lives. You swear an oath. Do no harm. Just yesterday, for example, you treated a young man who was responsible for the deaths of two people. Surely, that must have been difficult.”
“Not at all.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my job.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“The answer is no,” she said. “I would not have any philosophical or moral objection to taking part in an operation that results in the death of the man responsible for the attacks in Paris and Amsterdam, as long as no innocent lives are lost in the process.”
“It sounds to me, Natalie, as though you’re referring to the American drone program.”
“Israel uses air strikes, too.”
“And some of us disagree with that strategy. We prefer special operations to air power whenever possible. But our politicians have fallen in love with the idea of so-called clean warfare. Drones make that possible.”
“Not for the people on the receiving end.”
“That’s true. Far too many innocent lives have been lost. But the best way to ensure that doesn’t happen is good intelligence.” He paused, then added, “Which is where you come in.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
He smiled. Shwaya, shwaya . . .
She had not touched her food, none of them had, so before going any further Gabriel insisted they eat. He did not heed his own counsel, for truth be told he had never been much of a lunch person. And so while the others partook of the buffet, courtesy of an Office-approved caterer in Tel Aviv, he spoke of his childhood in the valley—of the Arab raids from the hills of the West Bank, of the Israeli reprisals, of the Six-Day War, which took his father, of the Yom Kippur War, which took his belief that Israel was invulnerable. The founding generation believed that a Jewish state in the historical land of Palestine would bring progress and stability to the Middle East. Yet all around Israel, in the frontline states and in the Arab periphery, anger and resentment burned long after the state came into existence, and societies stagnated under the thumbs of monarchs and dictators. While the rest of the world advanced, the Arabs, despite their massive petrowealth, went backward. Arab radio raged against the Jews while Arab children went barefoot and hungry. Arab newspapers printed blood libels that few Arabs could even read. Arab rulers grew rich while the Arab people had nothing but their humiliation and resentment—and Islam.
“Am I somehow to blame for their dysfunction?” asked Gabriel of no one in particular, and no one responded. “Did it happen because I lived here in this valley? Do they hate me because I drained it and killed the mosquitos and made it bloom? If I were not here, would the Arabs be free, prosperous, and stable?”
For a brief moment, he continued, it seemed peace might actually be possible. There was an historic handshake on the South Lawn of the White House. Arafat set up shop in Ramallah, Israelis were suddenly cool. And yet all the while the son of a Saudi construction billionaire was building an organization known as al-Qaeda, or the Base. For all its Islamic fervor, Osama bin Laden’s creation was a highly bureaucratic enterprise. Its bylaws and workplace regulations resembled those of any modern company. They governed everything from vacation days to medical benefits to airline travel and furniture allowances. There were even rules for disability payments and a process by which a member’s employment could be terminated. Those wishing to enter one of Bin Laden’s Afghan training camps had to fill out a lengthy questionnaire. No corner of a potential recruit’s life was spared scrutiny.
“But ISIS is different. Yes, it has its questionnaire, but it’s nowhere near as thorough as al-Qaeda’s. And with good reason. You see, Natalie, a caliphate without people is not a caliphate. It is a patch of empty desert between Aleppo and the Sunni Triangle of Iraq.” He paused. Then for a second time he said, “Which is where you come in.”
“You can’t be serious.”
His blank expression said that he was.
“You want me to join ISIS?” she asked, incredulous.
“No,” he said. “You will be asked to join.”
“By whom?”
“Saladin, of course.”
A silence ensued. Natalie glanced from face to face—the mournful face of the avenged remnant, the familiar face of the chief of the Office, the face of a man who was supposed to be dead. It was to this face that she delivered her response.
“I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m Jewish, and I can’t pretend to be anything else just because I speak their language.”
“You do it all the time, Natalie. At Hadassah they assign you Palestinian pat
ients because they think you’re one of them. So do the Arab traders in the Old City.”
“The Arab traders aren’t members of ISIS.”
“Some of them are. But that’s beside the point. You come to the table with certain natural attributes. You are, as we like to say, a gift from the intelligence gods. With our training, we’ll complete the masterpiece. We’ve been doing this for a long time, Natalie, and we’re very good at it. We can take a Jewish boy from a kibbutz and turn him into an Arab from Jenin. And we can surely turn someone like you into a Palestinian doctor from Paris who wishes to strike a blow against the West.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“Because like Dina, she is grieving. She craves vengeance. She is a black widow.”
There was a long silence. When finally Natalie spoke, it was with a clinical detachment.
“She’s French, this girl of yours?”
“She carries a French passport, she was educated and trained in France, but she is Palestinian by ethnicity.”
“So the operation will take place in Paris?”
“It will begin there,” he answered carefully, “but if the first phase is successful, it will necessarily migrate.”
“Where?”
He said nothing.
“To Syria?”
“I’m afraid,” said Gabriel, “that Syria is where ISIS is.”
“And do you know what will happen to your doctor from Paris if ISIS finds out she’s actually a Jew from Marseilles?”
“We are well aware of—”
“They’ll saw her head off. And then they’ll put the video on the Internet for the world to see.”
“They’ll never know.”
“But I’ll know,” she said. “I’m not like you. I’m a terrible liar. I can’t keep secrets. I have a guilty conscience. There’s no way I can pull it off.”
“You underestimate yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Allon, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” After a pause, she said, “Find someone else.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” She folded her napkin, rose, and extended her hand. “No hard feelings?”
“None whatsoever.” Gabriel stood and reluctantly accepted her hand. “It was an honor almost working with you, Natalie. Please make no mention of this conversation to anyone, not even your parents.”
“You have my word.”
“Good.” He released her. “Dina will take you back to Jerusalem.”
20
NAHALAL, ISRAEL
NATALIE FOLLOWED HER ACROSS the shadowed garden and through a pair of French doors that led into the sitting room of the bungalow. It was sparsely furnished, more office than home, and upon its whitewashed walls hung several outsize black-and-white photographs of Palestinian suffering—the long dusty walk into exile, the wretched camps, the weathered faces of the old ones dreaming of paradise lost.
“This is where we would have trained you,” explained Dina. “This is where we would have turned you into one of them.”
“Where are my things?”
“Upstairs.” Then Dina added, “In your room.”
More photos lined the staircase and on the bedside table of a tidy little room rested a volume of verse by Mahmoud Darwish, the semi-official poet of Palestinian nationalism. Natalie’s suitcase lay at the foot of the bed, empty.
“We took the liberty of unpacking for you,” explained Dina.
“I guess no one ever turns him down.”
“You’re the first.”
Natalie watched her limp across the room and open the top drawer of a wicker dresser.
You see, Natalie, Dina is grieving, too. And she is very serious about her work . . .
“What happened?” asked Natalie quietly.
“You said no, and now you’re leaving.”
“To your leg.”
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me.”
“Because you’re a doctor?” Dina removed a handful of clothing from the drawer and placed it in the suitcase. “I am an employee of the secret intelligence service of the State of Israel. You don’t get to know what happened to my leg. You aren’t allowed to know. It’s classified. I’m classified.”
Natalie sat on the edge of the bed while Dina removed the rest of the clothing from the dresser.
“It was a bombing,” said Dina finally. “Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv. The Number Five bus.” She closed the dresser drawer with more force than necessary. “Do you know this attack?”
Natalie nodded. The date was October 1994, long before she and her family had moved to Israel, but she had seen the small gray memorial at the base of a chinaberry tree along the pavement and, by chance, had once eaten in the quaint café directly adjacent.
“Were you on the bus?”
“No. I was standing on the pavement. But my mother and two of my sisters were. And I saw him before the bomb exploded.”
“Who?”
“Abdel Rahim al-Souwi,” Dina replied, as though reading the name from one of her thick files. “He was sitting on the left side behind the driver. There was a bag at his feet. It contained twenty kilos of military-grade TNT and bolts and nails soaked in rat poison. It was built by Yahya Ayyash, the one they called the Engineer. It was one of his best, or so he said. I didn’t know that then, of course. I didn’t know anything. I was just a girl. I was innocent.”
“And when the bomb exploded?”
“The bus rose several feet into the air and then crashed to the street again. I was knocked to the ground. I could see people screaming all around me, but I couldn’t hear anything—the blast wave had damaged my eardrums. I noticed a human leg lying next to me. I assumed it was mine, but then I saw that both my legs were still attached. The blood and the smell of burning flesh sickened the first police officers who arrived on the scene. There were limbs in the cafés and strips of flesh hanging from the trees. Blood dripped on me as I lay helpless on the pavement. It rained blood that morning on Dizengoff Street.”
“And your mother and sisters?”
“They were killed instantly. I watched while the rabbis collected their remains with tweezers and placed them in plastic bags. That’s what we buried. Scraps. Remnants.”
Natalie said nothing, for there was nothing to say.
“And so you will forgive me,” Dina continued after a moment, “if I find your behavior today puzzling. We don’t do this because we want to. We do it because we have to. We do it because we have no other choice. It’s the only way we’re going to survive in this land.”
“I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
“Too bad,” said Dina, “because you’re perfect. And, yes,” she added, “I would do anything to be in your place right now. I’ve listened to them, I’ve watched them, I’ve interrogated them. I know more about them than they know about themselves. But I’ve never been in the room with them when they plot and plan. It would be like being in the eye of a storm. I’d give anything for that one chance.”
“You would go to Syria?”
“In an instant.”
“What about your life? Would you give up your life for that chance?”
“We don’t do suicide missions. We’re not like them.”
“But you can’t guarantee I’ll be safe.”
“The only thing I can guarantee,” said Dina pointedly, “is that Saladin is planning more attacks, and that more innocent people are going to die.”
She dropped the last of the clothing into the suitcase and handed Natalie a flat, rectangular gift box. The lid was embossed with Arabic writing.
“A going-away present?”
“A tool to help with your transformation. Open it.”
Natalie hesitantly removed the lid. Inside was a swath of silk, royal blue, about one meter by one meter. After a moment she realized it was a hijab.
“Arab clothing is very effective at altering appearances,” explained Dina. “I’ll show you.” She took the
hijab from Natalie’s grasp, folded it into a triangle, and swiftly wrapped it around her own head and neck. “What do I look like?”
“Like an Ashkenazi girl wearing a Muslim headscarf.”
Frowning, Dina removed the hijab and offered it to Natalie. “Now you.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Let me help you.”
Before Natalie could move away, the triangle of royal blue had been placed over her hair. Dina gathered the fabric beneath Natalie’s chin and secured it with a safety pin. Then she took the two loose ends of fabric, one slightly longer than the other, and tied them at the base of Natalie’s neck.
“There,” said Dina, making a few final adjustments. “See for yourself.”
Above the dresser hung an oval-shaped mirror. Natalie stared at her reflection for a long moment, entranced. At last, she asked, “What’s my name?”
“Natalie,” answered Dina. “Your name is Natalie.”
“No,” she said, staring at the veiled woman in the looking glass. “Not my name. Her name.”
“Her name,” said Dina, “is Leila.”
“Leila,” she repeated. “Leila . . .”
Leaving Nahalal, Dina noticed for the first time that Natalie was beautiful. Earlier, in Jerusalem and at lunch with the others, there had been no time for such an observation. Natalie was merely a target then. Natalie was a means to an end, and the end was Saladin. But now, alone with her in the car again, with the late-afternoon light golden and the warm air rushing through the open windows, Dina was free to contemplate Natalie at her leisure. The line of her jaw, the rich brown eyes, the long slender nose, the small upturned breasts, the bones of her delicate wrists and hands—hands that could save a life, thought Dina, or repair a leg ripped apart by a terrorist’s bomb. Natalie’s beauty was not the sort to turn heads or stop traffic. It was intelligent, dignified, pious even. It could be concealed, downgraded. And perhaps, thought Dina coldly, it could be used.
Not for the first time, she wondered why it was that Natalie was unmarried and without meaningful male attachment. The Office vetters had found nothing to suggest she was unsuited for work as an undercover field operative. She had no vices other than a taste for white wine, and no physical or emotional maladies except insomnia, which was brought on by the irregularity of her hours. Dina suffered the same affliction, though for different reasons. At night, when sleep finally claimed her, she saw blood dripping from chinaberry trees, and her mother, reassembled from her torn remnants, patched and sewn, calling to her from the open doorway of the Number 5 bus. And she saw Abdel Rahim al-Souwi, a bag at his feet, smiling to her from his seat behind the driver. It was one of his best, or so he said . . . Yes, thought Dina again, she would give anything to be in Natalie’s place.