The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  Night had fallen by the time Khalid came out of the mosque. “Where is the chamber where you found the pillars of the so-called Temple of Solomon?”

  Gabriel pointed downward, into the depths of the plateau.

  “And the Wailing Wall?”

  Gabriel inclined his head toward the west.

  “Can you take me to the chamber?” asked Khalid.

  “Perhaps another time.”

  “What about the wall?”

  They were standing only a few meters from the top of the Western Wall, but they drove there in Gabriel’s SUV. The giant Herodian ashlars were ablaze with light, as was the broad plaza that lay at their base. Gabriel had made no attempt to close it for Khalid’s visit. It was crowded with worshippers and tourists.

  “The men and women pray separately,” the Saudi observed archly.

  “Much to the dismay of more liberal Jews.”

  “Perhaps we can change that.”

  “Shwaya, shwaya,” said Gabriel.

  Khalid removed a small slip of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket. “It’s a prayer for Reema. I’d like to leave it in the wall.”

  Gabriel placed a kippah atop Khalid’s dark hair and watched as he approached the wall. He slipped the note between two of the ashlars and bowed his head in silent prayer, and when he returned his eyes were wet with tears. Gabriel’s SUV was parked outside Dung Gate. They crossed to the western side of the city and made their way to the old neighborhood known as Nachlaot. At the entrance of Narkiss Street was a security checkpoint. They passed through without slowing and parked outside the limestone apartment house at Number 16.

  “Where are we now?” asked Khalid.

  “Home,” said Gabriel.

  39

  Jerusalem

  Chiara had opened a bottle of Domaine du Castel, a Bordeaux-style wine from the Judean Hills. Khalid readily accepted a glass. Now that he had been deposed, he said, he no longer had any excuse to maintain the appearance of strict Wahhabi piety. He seemed surprised a man as powerful as Gabriel Allon lived in so modest a dwelling. But then again, almost any home would seem humble to a prince who had been raised in a palace the size of a city block.

  His gaze traveled expertly over the paintings hanging on the walls of the sitting room. “Yours?”

  “Some,” answered Gabriel.

  “And the others?”

  “My mother and grandfather. And one or two by my first wife.”

  Chiara had prepared enough food for Khalid and the entourage that used to accompany him everywhere he went. It was arrayed on the buffet in the dining room. Khalid sat at the head of the table, with Gabriel and Chiara on one side and Raphael and Irene on the other. Gabriel introduced Khalid to the children as “Mr. Abdulaziz,” but he insisted they refer to him only by his given name. They were clearly intrigued by his presence in the Allon home. Gabriel rarely entertained outsiders at Narkiss Street, and the children, despite living in close proximity to East Jerusalem, seldom saw Arabs, let alone dined with them.

  Nevertheless, it took only a few minutes for the children to fall under Khalid’s spell. With his black hair, sharp features, and warm brown eyes, he looked like the Hollywood version of an Arab prince. One could easily picture Khalid, in the robes and headdress of the desert, riding into battle at the side of T. E. Lawrence. Even without the money and expensive toys, his charm and charisma were irresistible.

  They spoke only of safe topics—paintings, books, his journey through a portion of Israel and the West Bank, anything but Reema’s death and Khalid’s fall from grace. He was telling the children tales of falconry when sirens wailed over Nachlaot. Gabriel rang King Saul Boulevard and learned there was yet another incoming missile from Syria, this one heading in the general direction of Jerusalem.

  “What if it hits the Haram al-Sharif?” asked Khaled.

  “Your trip to Israel will get a lot more interesting.”

  For several minutes they sat waiting for the thud of impact until finally the sirens went silent. Gabriel rang King Saul Boulevard a second time and learned the missile had been intercepted. Its wreckage had fallen harmlessly to earth in a field outside the West Bank settlement of Ofra.

  By nine o’clock the children began to squirm and slump. Chiara shepherded them off to bed while Gabriel and Khalid finished the last of the wine on the terrace. Khalid sat in Shamron’s usual chair. The smell of eucalyptus was intoxicating.

  “Is this part of hiding in plain sight?”

  “I’m afraid my address is the worst-kept secret in Israel.”

  “And your first wife? Where is she?”

  Gabriel gazed toward the west. The hospital, he explained, was located in the old Arab village of Deir Yassin, where Jewish fighters from the Irgun and Lehi paramilitary groups massacred more than a hundred Palestinians on the night of April 9, 1948.

  “How terribly poignant she should live in a place like that.”

  “Such is life,” replied Gabriel, “in the twice-promised land.”

  Khalid smiled sadly. “Did you see it happen?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The bomb that killed your child and wounded your wife?”

  Gabriel nodded slowly.

  “You spared me such a memory. I suppose I should be grateful.” Khalid drank some of the wine. “Do you remember the things you said to the kidnappers when you were negotiating Reema’s return?”

  “I have the recordings.”

  “And what about the words you were shouting after the bomb went off?”

  Gabriel said nothing.

  “I must admit,” said Khalid, “I have thought of nothing else since that night.”

  “You know what they say about vengeance?”

  “What’s that?”

  “‘If you live to seek revenge, dig a grave for two.’”

  “That’s a very old Arab proverb.”

  “It’s Jewish, actually.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Khalid with a flash of his old arrogance. “Have you made any attempt to find them?”

  “We’ve made inquiries,” answered Gabriel vaguely.

  “Have any borne fruit?”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “Neither have mine.”

  “Perhaps we should pool our resources.”

  “I agree,” said Khalid. “Where should we begin?”

  “Omar Nawwaf.”

  “What about him?”

  “Why did you give the order for him to be killed?”

  Khalid hesitated, then said, “I was advised to.”

  “By whom?”

  “My dear uncle Abdullah,” said Khalid. “The next king of Saudi Arabia.”

  40

  Jerusalem

  But it was the Americans, began Khalid, only half in jest, who were ultimately to blame. After the attacks of 9/11, they demanded the royal family crack down on al-Qaeda and stem the flow of money and Wahhabi ideology that had given rise to it. The Kingdom’s links to the worst attack on the American homeland in history were undeniable. Fifteen of the nineteen hijackers were Saudi citizens, and Osama bin Laden, al-Qaeda’s founder and guiding light, was the scion of a notable Saudi family that had grown fabulously wealthy through its close financial ties to the House of Saud.

  “There are many reasons why nine-eleven happened,” said Khalid, “but we Saudis must accept responsibility for our role. The attack left an indelible stain on our country and on my family, and something like it must never happen again.”

  To effectively combat al-Qaeda, the Kingdom sorely needed cybersurveillance technology so it could monitor the Internet-based communications of suspected terrorists and their fellow travelers, especially after the global jihadist movement morphed and shapeshifted with the advent of social media. To that end, it established the vaguely named Royal Data Center and filled it with sophisticated cybertools purchased from the tech-savvy Emiratis and a private Italian firm. The center even acquired mobile phone-hacking software from an Israeli company
called ONS Systems. Gabriel was aware of the transaction. He had vehemently opposed it, as had the chief of Unit 8200, but both were overruled by the prime minister.

  The Royal Data Center allowed the regime to monitor not only potential terrorists but ordinary political opponents as well. For that reason, Khalid seized control of it when he became crown prince. He used it to spy on the mobile devices of his enemies and track their activity in cyberspace. The center also gave Khalid the power to monitor and manipulate the social network. He was not ashamed to admit that, like the American president, he was obsessed by his standing in the parallel universe of Twitter and Facebook. It was not merely vanity that drove his preoccupation. He feared he might be toppled by an Internet-inspired “hashtag” uprising like the one that had brought down Mubarak of Egypt. Qatar, his blood rival in the Gulf, was working against him online. So were a number of commentators and journalists who had acquired large cyberfollowings of young, restless Arabs desperate for political change. One such commentator was a Saudi named Omar Nawwaf.

  Nawwaf was the editor in chief of the Arab News, Saudi Arabia’s most prominent English-language daily. A veteran Middle East correspondent, he had managed to maintain good relations with both the House of Saud, to whom he owed his survival as a journalist, and al-Qaeda and the Muslim Brotherhood. As a result, the royal court regularly used him as an emissary to the forces of political Islam. Religiously secular himself, Nawwaf had long championed loosening the Wahhabi-inspired restrictions on women in Saudi society, and initially he greeted the rise of a young reform-minded KBM with editorial enthusiasm. His support dissolved as Khalid ruthlessly suppressed political opposition and enriched himself at the public trough.

  It did not take Khalid and his courtiers long to realize they had “an Omar Nawwaf problem.” At first, they tried to defuse the situation with charm and engagement. But when Nawwaf’s criticism intensified, he was warned to cease and desist, or suffer dire consequences. Faced with a choice between silence or exile, Nawwaf chose exile. He took refuge in Berlin and found work at Der Spiegel, Germany’s most important newsmagazine. Now free of Saudi Arabia’s machinery of repression, he unleashed a torrent of biting commentary targeted at its headstrong crown prince, painting him as a fraud and a grifter who had no intention of delivering real political reform to the calcifying Kingdom. Khalid waged war on Nawwaf from within the Royal Data Center, but it was no use. On Twitter alone, Nawwaf had some ten million followers, many more than Khalid. The meddlesome exiled journalist was winning the battle of ideas on social media.

  “And then,” said Khalid, “there was a most intriguing development. Omar Nawwaf, my great detractor, requested an interview.”

  “And you declined?”

  “I didn’t give it a moment’s thought.”

  “What happened?”

  Nawwaf made a second request. Then a third. And when none met with a response, he used his contacts inside the House of Saud to send a message to Khalid directly.

  “It seemed the interview request was a ruse from the beginning. Omar claimed he had uncovered information regarding a threat against me. He insisted on telling me about this threat in person. Obviously, given everything he had written and said about me, I was skeptical. So were my security men. They were convinced he wanted to kill me.”

  “With what? A pen and a notebook?”

  “When Bin Laden killed Ahmad Shah Massoud of the Northern Alliance two days before nine-eleven, the assassins posed as television journalists.”

  “Go on,” said Gabriel.

  “I know you think I’m impulsive and reckless, but I gave the matter thorough consideration. In the end, I decided to see him. I sent a message through the Saudi Embassy in Berlin inviting Omar to return to the Kingdom, but he refused. He said he would only meet in a neutral location, somewhere he would feel safe. My security men were more convinced than ever that Omar intended to kill me.”

  “And you?”

  “I wasn’t so sure. Frankly, if I were in Omar’s position, I wouldn’t return to the Kingdom, either.”

  “But you wanted to hear what he had to say?”

  “His sources,” said Khalid, “are impeccable. Omar had the entire region wired.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I sought advice from someone I thought I could trust.”

  “Uncle Abdullah?”

  Khalid nodded. “The next king of Saudi Arabia.”

  Abdullah bin Abdulaziz Al Saud was not a member of the Sudairi Seven, the internal royal bloodline of the Founder’s sons that had produced three Saudi monarchs, including Khalid’s father. Therefore, he had assumed he would never be a king. He had lived his life accordingly, with one foot in Saudi Arabia and another in the West. Nevertheless, he remained an important figure inside the House of Saud, respected for his intellect and political acumen. Khalid found his uncle to be a source of sage counsel, precisely because he opposed many of Khalid’s reforms, including those involving women, for whom Abdullah had but one use.

  “And when you told your uncle about Omar Nawwaf?”

  “He was alarmed.”

  “What did he suggest?”

  Khalid drew a forefinger across his throat.

  “Rather drastic, don’t you think?”

  “Not by our standards.”

  “But you were supposed to be different, Khalid. You were supposed to be the one who was going to change the Middle East and the Islamic world.”

  “I can’t change the world if I’m dead, can I?”

  “What about the blowback?”

  “Abdullah promised there wouldn’t be any.”

  “How wise of him,” said Gabriel dryly. “But why would he say such a thing?”

  “Because my hands would be clean.”

  “Abdullah said he would take care of it?”

  Khalid nodded.

  “How did he get Nawwaf to come to the consulate in Istanbul?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Nawwaf was told you were going to be there.”

  “Very good.”

  “And the nonsense you put out after he was dead? The happy talk about a rendition operation that went sideways?”

  “Omar Nawwaf,” said Khalid gravely, “was never going to leave that consulate alive.”

  “Rather sloppy, don’t you think?”

  “Abdullah wanted a noisy kill to scare off other potential assassins.”

  “It was noisy, all right. And now your uncle is next in line to the throne.”

  “And I’m sitting here with you in al-Quds.” Khalid listened to the stirring of the ancient city. “It does look as though Abdullah baited me into a reckless act in order to damage my international standing and weaken me at home.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “But what if we’re looking at this the wrong way?”

  “What would be the right way?”

  “What if Omar Nawwaf really wanted to warn me about a grave threat?” Khalid checked his wristwatch. “My God, look at the time.”

  “It’s early by our standards.”

  Khalid placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough for inviting me here.”

  “It will be our little secret.”

  Khalid smiled. “I considered bringing you a gift, but I knew you wouldn’t accept it, so I’m afraid this will have to do.” He held up a flash drive. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “What’s on it?”

  “Some of the financial records I acquired during the affair at the Ritz-Carlton. My uncle Abdullah was a terrible businessman, but a couple of years ago he became a billionaire almost overnight.” He pressed the flash drive into Gabriel’s palm. “Perhaps you can figure out exactly how he did it.”

  41

  New York–Berlin

  On the evening of Khalid’s unlikely visit to Jerusalem, Sarah Bancroft was on a date with the man of her nightmares. His name was David Price, and they had been thrust together by a mutual friend at an auction at Christie
’s. David was fifty-seven and did something with money, a virile-looking creature with sleek black hair, gleaming white teeth, and a deep tan he had acquired while on holiday in the Caribbean with his ex-wife and their two college-age children. He took her to a new play the Times had declared important and, afterward, to Joe Allen, where he was well known to the bartenders and the waitstaff. Later, at the entrance of her apartment building on East Sixty-Seventh Street, Sarah avoided his lips as though she were sidestepping a puddle. Upstairs, she rang her mother, something she rarely did, and lamented the state of her love life. Her mother, who knew little of Sarah’s secret past, suggested she take up yoga, which she swore had done wonders for her.

  In fairness, it was not entirely David Price’s fault the evening had not gone well. Sarah had been preoccupied by Khalid’s sudden request to once again place him in touch with Gabriel. It was the first contact she had had with either man since returning to New York. She had learned of Khalid’s abdication by watching CNN and had assumed that Reema had been returned safely. Gabriel, however, had told her the truth. Sarah knew that such an act would not go unpunished. The people responsible would be hunted down, there would be an operation of retribution. All the more reason why her mind had wandered during the play—she could scarcely recall a line the actors spoke—and over dinner at Joe Allen. She wanted to be back in the field with Gabriel and Mikhail and the mysterious Englishman named Christopher Keller, not making small talk over liver and onions with a divorced hedgie from Connecticut.

  And so Sarah was not at all displeased when three days later she woke to find in her in-box a boarding pass for that evening’s Lufthansa flight to Berlin. She informed her staff of her travel plans, inaccurately, and saw herself to Newark Airport. It seemed her seatmate, an investment banker from Morgan Stanley, had vowed to drink the aircraft dry. Sarah picked at her dinner and then slept until a snow-dusted German field appeared beneath her window. A courier from the Office’s Berlin Station approached her in the arrivals hall and directed her to a waiting BMW sedan. Mikhail was behind the wheel.