The Black Widow

by Daniel Silva

  “I take it your answer is yes, then?”

  Gabriel nodded gravely. The minister made a show of thought.

  “How comprehensive is your surveillance of this man Nasser?” he asked.

  “Physical and electronic.”

  “But he uses encrypted communications?”

  “Correct.”

  “So he could issue an attack order and we would be completely in the dark.”

  “Conceivably,” said Gabriel carefully.

  “And the British? They are unaware of his activities?”

  “It appears so.”

  “Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job, Monsieur Allon, but if I had an agent who was about to go into Syria, I wouldn’t want the man who sent her there to be arrested by the British.”

  Gabriel did not disagree with the minister, largely because he had been thinking the same thing for some time. And so late the following morning he journeyed across the channel to inform Graham Seymour, the chief of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, or MI6, that the Office had been covertly watching a high-ranking ISIS operative living in the Bethnal Green section of East London. Seymour was predictably appalled, as was Amanda Wallace, the chief of MI5, who heard the same confession an hour later across the river at Thames House. For his penance, Gabriel was forced to make the British services nonvoting partners in his operations. All he needed now was the Americans, he thought, and the disaster would be complete.

  The woman now known as Dr. Leila Hadawi was unaware of the interservice warfare raging around her. She tended to her patients at the clinic, she idled away her spare time at the café across the street from her apartment, she ventured occasionally into the center of Paris to shop or stroll. She no longer viewed extremist material on the Internet because she had been instructed not to. Nor did she ever discuss her political beliefs with friends or colleagues. Mainly, she spoke of her summer holiday, which she planned to spend in Greece with a friend from her university days. A packet containing her airline tickets and hotel accommodations arrived three days before she was due to depart. A travel agent in London named Farouk Ghazi handled the booking. Dr. Hadawi paid for nothing.

  With the arrival of the packet, Gabriel and the rest of the team went on a war footing. They made travel accommodations of their own—in point of fact, King Saul Boulevard handled the arrangements for them—and by early the next morning the first operatives were moving quietly toward their failsafe points. Only Eli Lavon remained behind at Seraincourt with Gabriel, a decision he later came to regret because his old friend was distraught with worry. He watched over Natalie as a parent watches over an ailing child, looking for signs of distress, changes in mood and demeanor. If she was frightened, she gave no sign of it, even on the last night, when Gabriel spirited her into Paul Rousseau’s lair on the rue de Grenelle for a final briefing. When he gave her a last chance to change her mind, she only smiled. Then she composed a letter to her parents, to be delivered in the event of her death. Tellingly, Gabriel did not refuse to accept it. He placed it in a sealed envelope and placed the envelope in the breast pocket of his jacket. And there it would remain until the day she came out of Syria again.

  ISIS supplied most of its European recruits with a detailed list of items to pack for their trip. Dr. Leila Hadawi was no ordinary recruit, however, and so she packed with deception in mind—summer dresses of the kind worn by promiscuous Europeans, revealing swimwear, erotic undergarments. In the morning she dressed piously, pinned her hijab carefully into place, and wheeled her suitcase through the quiet streets of the banlieue to the Aubervilliers RER station. The ride to Charles de Gaulle Airport was ten minutes in length. She glided through unusually heavy security and onto an Air France jet bound for Athens. On the other side of the aisle, dressed for the boardroom of a Fortune 500 company, was the small man with an elusive face. Smiling, Natalie peered out her window as France disappeared beneath her. She was not alone. Not yet.

  As it happened, the day of Natalie’s departure was a particularly violent one in the Middle East, even by the region’s bloody standards. There were beheadings and burnings in Syria, a string of simultaneous suicide bombings in Baghdad, a Taliban raid in Kabul, a new round of fighting in Yemen, several stabbings in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and a gun-and-grenade attack on Western tourists at a beach hotel in Tunisia. So it was understandable that a relatively minor skirmish between Islamic militants and Jordanian police went largely unnoticed. The incident occurred at ten fifteen in the morning outside the village of Ramtha, located just a few yards from the Syrian border. The militants were four in number; all perished during the brief firefight. One of the militants was later identified as Nabil Awad, a twenty-four-year-old Jordanian citizen who resided in the Molenbeek district of Brussels. In a statement released on social media, ISIS confirmed that Awad was a member of its organization who had played a major support role in the attacks in Paris and Amsterdam. It declared him a holy martyr and swore to avenge his death by unleashing “rivers of blood.” The final battle, it said, would come in a place called Dabiq.

  32

  SANTORINI, GREECE

  DR. LEILA HADAWI SHED HER VEIL in a public toilet at Athens International Airport ten minutes after clearing passport control. She shed her pious clothing, too, changing into a pair of white Capri-length pants, a sleeveless blouse, and a pair of gold flat-soled sandals that displayed her newly polished nails. While waiting for her next flight to be called, she repaired to an airport bar and consumed her first alcohol, two glasses of tart Greek white wine, since her recruitment. Boarding her next flight, the three-fifteen to Santorini, she was oblivious to fear. Syria was a troubled place on a map. Isis was the wife of Osiris, friend of slaves and sinners, protector of the dead.

  Leila Hadawi had never visited Santorini, and neither for that matter had the woman who wore the good doctor’s identity. Her first airborne glimpse of the island, with its sharp demonic peaks rising from the rim of a flooded caldera, was a revelation. And at the airport, as she stepped onto the bleached tarmac, the heat of the sun on her bare arms was like a lover’s first kiss. She rode in a taxi to Thera and then made her way on foot along a pedestrian walkway to the Panorama Boutique Hotel. Entering the lobby, she saw a tall, sunburned Englishman shouting hysterically at the concierge while a woman with sandstone-colored hair and childbearing hips looked on in embarrassment. Natalie smiled. She was not alone. Not yet.

  A young Greek woman stood watch behind the reception desk. Natalie walked over and stated her name. “We have you in a double for ten nights,” said the woman after tapping a few keys on her computer keyboard. “According to our records, one other person will be joining you, a Miss Shirazi.”

  “I’m afraid she’s been delayed.”

  “Problems with her flight?”

  “A family emergency.”

  “Not serious, I hope.”

  “Not too.”

  “Passport, please.”

  Natalie slid her worn French passport across the counter while Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern, using different names, flying false flags, stormed from the lobby in a rage. Even Natalie welcomed the sudden quiet.

  “Their room isn’t to their liking,” explained the clerk.

  “I gathered that.”

  “Yours is lovely, I assure you.”

  Natalie accepted the key and, after declining an offer of help with her bag, made her way alone to her room. It had two single beds and a small balcony overlooking the rim of the caldera, where a pair of gleaming white cruise ships floated like toys upon a flat perfect sea. One last fling, she thought, courtesy of the richest terrorist organization in history.

  She unzipped her bag and unpacked her belongings as though she were settling in for a long stay. By the time she had finished, the sun was a few degrees above the horizon, flooding her room with fiery orange light. After locking her passport in the room safe, she headed downstairs to the terrace bar, which was crowded with other guests, mainly from the British Isles.
Seated among them, in decidedly better spirits, were Yossi and Rimona.

  Natalie seized an empty table and from a harried waitress ordered a glass of white wine. Slowly, the bar filled with other guests, including a lanky man with bloodless skin and eyes like glacial ice. She hoped he might join her but instead he sat at the bar, where he could keep watch over the terrace and pretend to flirt with a pretty girl from Bristol. Natalie was able to hear his voice for the first time and was surprised by the distinct Russian accent. Given the demographics of modern Israel, she suspected the accent was authentic.

  Presently, the sun slipped behind the peaks of Therasia. The skies darkened, the sea turned to black. Natalie glanced at the man who spoke with a Russian accent but at that moment he was otherwise occupied, so she turned away again and stared into the emptiness. Someone will come for you, they had said. But at that instant, in this place, the only person Natalie wanted was the man at the bar.

  For the next three days Dr. Leila Hadawi behaved as an ordinary, if solitary, tourist. She breakfasted alone in the Panorama’s dining room, she roasted her skin on the black-pebble beach at Perissa, she hiked the rim of the caldera, she toured the island’s archaeological and geological sites, she took her wine at sunset on the terrace. It was a small island, so it was understandable she might encounter other guests of the hotel far from its premises. She passed an unpleasant morning on the beach within earshot of the balding Englishman and his Rubenesque wife, and while touring the buried city of Akrotiri she bumped into the pale Russian, who pointedly ignored her. The next day, her fourth on the island, she saw the pretty girl from Bristol while shopping in Thera. Dr. Hadawi was coming out of a swimwear boutique. The pretty girl was standing outside in the narrow street.

  “You’re staying at my hotel,” she said.

  “Yes, I think I am.”

  “I’m Miranda Ward.”

  Dr. Leila Hadawi extended her hand and introduced herself.

  “What a lovely name. Won’t you join me for a drink?”

  “I was just going back to the hotel.”

  “I can’t bear the scene at our bar anymore. Too many bloody English! Especially that bald bloke and his curvy wife. God, what bores! If they complain about the service again, I’ll open a vein.”

  “Let’s go somewhere else then.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “Where?”

  “Have you been to the Tango?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s this way.”

  She seized Natalie’s arm as though she feared losing her and led her through the shadows of the street. She was thin and blond and freckled and smelled of cherry candy and coconut. Her sandals slapped the paving stones like the palm of a hand connecting to an unfaithful cheek.

  “You’re French,” she said at once, her tone accusatory.

  “Yes.”

  “French French?”

  “My family is from Palestine.”

  “I see. A shame, that.”

  “How so?”

  “The whole refugee thing. And those Israelis! Horrible creatures.”

  Dr. Hadawi smiled but said nothing.

  “You’re here alone?” asked Miranda Ward.

  “That wasn’t the plan, but it seems to have worked out that way.”

  “What happened?”

  “My friend had to cancel at the last minute.”

  “Mine, too. He dumped me for another woman.”

  “Your friend is an idiot.”

  “He was gorgeous, though. Here we are.”

  The Tango generally didn’t come alive until late. They passed through the deserted cavelike interior and went onto the terrace. Natalie ordered a glass of Santorini white; Miranda Ward, a vodka martini. She took a decorous sip, made a face, and returned the glass to the table.

  “You don’t like it?” asked Natalie.

  “Actually, I never touch alcohol.”

  “Really? Then why did you invite me for a drink?”

  “I needed to have a word with you in private.” She gazed at the darkening sea. “It’s lovely here, but dreadfully boring. What do you say we take a little trip, just the two of us? It will be an adventure, I promise.”

  “Where?”

  Smiling, Miranda Ward raised the martini to her lips. “I used to love this stuff. Now it tastes like bloody nail polish to me.”

  Together they returned to the Panorama and informed the clerk that they planned to travel to Turkey. No, they did not require assistance with ferry bookings; others had done that for them. Yes, they would like to keep their rooms; their stay in Turkey would be brief. Dr. Hadawi then returned to her room alone and packed her bags. Afterward, she dispatched a text message to her “father,” telling him of her plans. Her father pleaded with her to be careful. A moment later he sent a second message.

  ARE YOU WELL?

  Natalie hesitated and then typed her answer.

  LONELY BUT FINE.

  DO YOU NEED COMPANY?

  Another hesitation, then three taps on the screen.

  YES.

  No reply was forthcoming. Natalie went down to the terrace, expecting to see Miranda Ward, but there was no sign of her. The tall pale Russian was in his usual place at the bar, where he had found fresh prey. Natalie sat with her back to him and consumed the last wine she would taste for many weeks. When she had finished it, the waitress brought a second glass.

  “I didn’t order that.”

  “It’s from him.” The waitress glanced toward the bar. Then she handed Natalie a slip of paper, folded in half. “This is from him, too. Looks like this is your unlucky night.”

  When the waitress was gone, Natalie read the note. Smiling, she drank the second glass of wine, slipped the note into her handbag, and left without acknowledging the loathsome creature at the bar. In her room she showered quickly, hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the latch, and switched out the lights. Then she sat alone in the darkness and waited for the knock at her door. It came at twenty minutes past ten. When she unchained the door, he entered with the silence of a night thief. “Please,” she said, collapsing into his arms. “Tell him I want to go home. Tell him I can’t do it. Tell him I’m frightened to death.”

  33

  SANTORINI, GREECE

  WHAT’S YOUR REAL NAME?” asked Natalie.

  “The management of the Panorama Hotel is under the impression it’s Michael Danilov.”

  “Is it?”

  “Close enough.” He was standing before the door that gave onto the balcony. A pale moon illuminated his pale face. “And you, Dr. Hadawi, have no business inviting a man like me to your room.”

  “I did nothing of the sort, Mr. Danilov. I said I needed company. They could have sent the woman instead.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. Empathy isn’t her strong suit.” His head swiveled a few degrees, his eyes found hers in the darkness. “We all get nervous before a big operation, especially those of us who operate in places where there’s no embassy if things go sideways. But we trust in our mission and our planning and we go. It’s what we do.”

  “I’m not like you.”

  “Actually, you’re more like me than you realize.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “The kind we never talk about.”

  “You kill people?”

  “I eliminate threats to our security. And on the night before a big operation, I’m always afraid that I’m the one who’s going to get eliminated.”

  “But you go.”

  He averted his gaze and changed the subject. “So the comely Miss Ward is going to take you to the other side.”

  “You don’t sound surprised.”

  “I’m not. Did she give you the route?”

  “Santorini to Kos, Kos to Bodrum.”

  “Two young women on holiday, very professional.” He turned away and addressed his next words to the night. “He must think very highly of you.”

  “Who?”

  “Saladin.” />
  From beyond the door came the sound of voices in the corridor, Englishmen, drunk. When the silence returned, he looked at the luminous dial of his wristwatch.

  “The Kos ferry leaves early. You should get some sleep.”

  “Sleep? You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s important. You have a long day tomorrow.”

  He drew the blinds, casting the room into pitch darkness, and started toward the door.

  “Please don’t go,” whispered Natalie. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  After a moment he eased onto the bed, propped his back against the headboard, and stretched his long legs before him. Natalie placed a pillow next to his hip and laid her head upon it. He covered her with a thin blanket and brushed her hair from her face.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “They are closed.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  “You can see in the dark?”

  “Very well, actually.”

  “At least take off your shoes.”

  “I prefer to sleep with them on.”

  “You’re joking.”

  With his silence he said that he wasn’t. She laughed quietly and once again asked his name. This time, he answered truthfully. His name, he said, was Mikhail Abramov.

  “When did you come to Israel?”

  “When I was a teenager.”

  “Why did your family leave Russia?”

  “The same reason yours left France.”

  “Maybe we’re not so different after all.”

  “I told you.”

  “You’re not married, are you? I would hate to think—”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Serious girlfriend?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s not so easy to have a relationship in this business. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I have no intention of staying with the Office when this is over.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He placed his hand at the center of her back and worked his fingers gently along her spine.