The Black Widow Page 10

  “In Europe?” asked Gabriel.

  Fareed nodded.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Sources and methods,” said Fareed, which meant he had no interest in answering Gabriel’s question.

  “Why not take him off the streets?”

  “Jalal is from a good family, a family that has been loyal to the monarchy for a long time. If we had arrested him, it would have caused problems.” A careful smile. “Collateral damage.”

  “So you put him on an airplane to London and waved good-bye.”

  “Not entirely. Every time he comes back to Amman, we bring him in for a little chat. And we watch him from time to time in England to make certain he isn’t plotting against us.”

  “Did you tell the British about him?”

  Silence.

  “What about your friends at Langley?”

  More silence.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we didn’t want to turn a small problem into a big problem. These days, that seems to be the American way.”

  “Careful, Fareed. You never know who’s listening.”

  “Not here,” he said, glancing around his vast office. “It’s perfectly secure.”

  “Says who?”

  “Langley.”

  Gabriel smiled.

  “So why are you so interested in Jalal?” asked Fareed.

  Gabriel handed him another photograph.

  “The woman from the Paris attack?”

  Gabriel nodded. Then he instructed Fareed to look carefully at the man seated alone in the corner of the café, with an open laptop computer.

  “Jalal?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “Any chance it’s a coincidence?”

  Gabriel handed the Jordanian two more photos: Safia Bourihane and Jalal Nasser on the rue de Rivoli, Safia Bourihane and Jalal Nasser on the Champs-Élysées.

  “I guess not.”

  “There’s more.”

  Gabriel gave Fareed two more photos: Jalal Nasser with Margreet Janssen at a restaurant in Amsterdam, Jalal Nasser holding his recently slapped cheek on a street in the red-light district.

  “Shit,” said Fareed softly.

  “The Office concurs.”

  Fareed returned the photos. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Paul Rousseau.”

  “Alpha Group?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “They’re quite good.”

  “You’ve worked with them?”

  “On occasion.” Fareed shrugged. “As a rule, France’s problems come from other parts of the Arab world.”

  “Not anymore.” Gabriel returned the photos to his briefcase.

  “I assume you have Jalal under watch.”

  “As of last night.”

  “Have you had a chance to peek at that laptop?”

  “Not yet. You?”

  “We drained it the last time we brought him in for a chat. It was clean as a whistle. But that doesn’t mean anything. Jalal is very good with computers. They’re all very good. And getting better by the day.”

  Fareed started to light one of his English cigarettes but stopped. It seemed that Gabriel’s aversion to tobacco was well known to the GID.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve mentioned any of this to the Americans.”

  “Who?”

  “What about the British?”

  “In passing.”

  “There’s no such thing when it comes to the British. Furthermore,” said Fareed with his newsreader formality, “I know for a fact they’re terrified that they’re going to be hit next.”

  “They should be terrified.”

  Fareed ignited his gold lighter and touched his cigarette to the slender flame. “So what was Jalal’s connection to Paris and Amsterdam?”

  “I’m not sure yet. He might be just a recruiter or talent spotter. Or he might be the project manager.” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Or maybe,” he said finally, “he’s the one they call Saladin.”

  Fareed Barakat looked up sharply.

  “Obviously,” said Gabriel, “you’ve heard the name.”

  “Yes,” conceded Fareed, “I’ve heard it.”

  “Is he?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Does he exist?”

  “Saladin?” Fareed nodded slowly. “Yes, he exists.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s our worst nightmare. Other than that,” said Fareed, “I haven’t a clue.”

  15

  GID HEADQUARTERS, AMMAN

  OF THE TERRORIST’S NAMESAKE, HOWEVER, the GID chief knew a great deal. Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, or Saladin, was born into a prominent family of Kurds, in the town of Tikrit, in approximately 1138. His father was a soldier of fortune. Young Saladin lived for a time in Baalbek, in present-day Lebanon, and in Damascus, where he drank wine, pursued women, and played polo by candlelight. Damascus was the city he preferred over all others. Later, he would describe Egypt, the financial hub of his empire, as a whore who tried to separate him from his faithful wife Damascus.

  His realm stretched from Yemen to Tunisia and north to Syria. It was ruled over by a hodgepodge of princes, emirs, and greedy relatives, all held together by Saladin’s diplomatic skills and considerable charisma. He used violence to great effect, but found it distasteful. To his favorite son, Zahir, he once remarked: “I warn you against shedding blood, indulging in it and making a habit of it, for blood never sleeps.”

  He was lame and sickly, watched over constantly by a team of twenty-one doctors, including the philosopher and Talmudic scholar Maimonides, who was appointed his court physician in Cairo. Lacking in personal vanity—in Jerusalem he once laughed uproariously when a courtier splashed his silk robes with mud—he had little interest in personal riches or earthly delights. He was happiest when surrounded by poets and men of learning, but mainly it was the concept of jihad, or holy war, that consumed him. He built mosques and Islamic centers of learning across his lands and lavished money and favors on preachers and religious scholars. His goal was to re-create the zeal that had allowed Islam’s earliest followers to conquer half of the known world. And once the sacred rage had been rekindled, he focused it on the one prize that had eluded him: Jerusalem.

  A smallish outpost fed by springs, the city occupied a strategic high ground at the crossroads of three continents, a geographical sin for which it would be punished throughout the ages. Besieged, plundered, captured and recaptured, Jerusalem had been ruled by Jebusites, Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, and, of course, the Jews. When Omar al-Khattab, a close confidant of Muhammad, conquered Jerusalem in 639 with a small band of Arab cameleers from the Hejaz and Yemen, it was a predominantly Christian city. Four and a half centuries later, Pope Urban II would dispatch an expeditionary force numbering several thousand European Christians to reclaim Jerusalem from the Muslims, whom he regarded as a people “alien to God.” The Christian soldiers, who would one day be known as Crusaders, breached the city’s defenses on the night of July 13, 1099, and slaughtered its inhabitants, including three thousand men, women, and children who had taken shelter inside the great al-Aqsa Mosque on the Temple Mount.

  It was Saladin, the son of a Kurdish soldier of fortune from Tikrit, who would return the favor. After humiliating the thirst-crazed Crusader force at the Battle of Hattin near Tiberias—Saladin personally sliced off the arm of Raynald of Châtillon—the Muslims reclaimed Jerusalem after a negotiated surrender. Saladin tore down the large cross that had been erected atop the Dome of the Rock, scrubbed its courts with Damascene rosewater to remove the last foul traces of the infidel, and sold thousands of Christians into slavery or the harem. Jerusalem would remain under Islamic control until 1917, when the British seized it from the Ottoman Turks. And when the Ottoman Empire collapsed in 1924, so, too, did the last Muslim caliphate.

  But now ISIS had declared a new caliphate. At present, it included only portions of western Iraq and eastern
Syria, with Raqqa as its capital. Saladin, the new Saladin, was ISIS’s chief of external operations—or so believed Fareed Barakat and the Jordanian General Intelligence Department. Unfortunately, the GID knew almost nothing else about Saladin, including his real name.

  “Is he Iraqi?”

  “He might be. Or he might be a Tunisian or a Saudi or an Egyptian or an Englishman or one of the other lunatics who’ve rushed to Syria to live in this new Islamic paradise of theirs.”

  “Surely, the GID doesn’t believe that.”

  “We don’t,” Fareed conceded. “We think he’s probably a former Iraqi military officer. Who knows? Maybe he’s from Tikrit, just like Saladin.”

  “And Saddam.”

  “Ah, yes, let’s not forget Saddam.” Fareed exhaled a lungful of smoke toward the high ceiling of his office. “We had our problems with Saddam, but we warned the Americans they would rue the day they toppled him. They didn’t listen, of course. Nor did they listen when we asked them to do something about Syria. Not our problem, they said. We’re putting the Middle East in our rearview mirror. No more American wars in Muslim lands. And now look at the situation. A quarter of a million dead, hundreds of thousands more streaming into Europe, Russia and Iran working together to dominate the Middle East.” He shook his head slowly. “Have I left anything out?”

  “You forgot Saladin,” said Gabriel.

  “What do you want to do about him?”

  “I suppose we could do nothing and hope he goes away.”

  “Hope is how we ended up with him in the first place,” said Fareed. “Hope and hubris.”

  “So let’s put him out of business, sooner rather than later.”

  “What about the Americans?”

  “What about them?” asked Gabriel.

  “They’ll want a role.”

  “They can’t have one, at least not yet.”

  “We could use their technology.”

  “We have technology, too.”

  “Not like the Americans,” said Fareed. “They own cyber, cellular, and satellite.”

  “None of that means a thing if you don’t know the target’s real name.”

  “Point taken. So we work together? The Office and the GID?”

  “And the French,” added Gabriel.

  “Who runs the show?”

  When Gabriel offered no reply, Fareed frowned. The Jordanian didn’t like diktats. But he also wasn’t in the mood for a quarrel with the man who in all likelihood would be running the Office for a very long time.

  “I won’t be treated like a domestic servant. Do you understand me? I get enough of that from the Americans. Too often, they think of us as a branch office of Langley.”

  “I would never dream of it, Fareed.”

  “Very well.” He gave a concierge smile. “Then please tell me how the GID can be of service.”

  “You can start by giving me everything you’ve got on Jalal Nasser.”

  “And then?”

  “Stay away from him. Jalal belongs to me now.”

  “He’s all yours. But no collateral damage.” The Jordanian patted the back of Gabriel’s hand. “His Majesty doesn’t like collateral damage. And neither do I.”

  When Gabriel arrived at King Saul Boulevard, he found Uzi Navot alone in his office joylessly consuming a lunch of steamed white fish and wilted gray-green vegetables. He was using a pair of lacquered chopsticks rather than a knife and fork, which slowed his rate of intake and, theoretically, made the unappetizing meal more satisfying. It was Bella, his demanding wife, who had inflicted this indignity upon him. Bella kept track of every scrap of food that entered her husband’s mouth and monitored his weight with the care of a geologist watching a rumbling volcano. Twice each day, when he rose and before he crawled exhausted into his bed, Navot was made to stand upon Bella’s precise bathroom scale. She recorded the fluctuations in a leather-bound logbook and punished or rewarded him accordingly. When Navot had been good for an appropriate period of time, he was allowed a meal of stroganoff, goulash, schnitzel, or one of the other heavy Eastern European dishes he craved. And when he was bad, it was boiled fish and chopsticks. Clearly, thought Gabriel, watching him, Navot was paying the price for a dietary infidelity.

  “It sounds to me as if you and Fareed really hit it off,” he said after Gabriel described his visit to Amman. “The only thing Fareed ever gave me is candy and baklava. Bella can always tell when I’ve been to see him. It’s rarely worth the trip.”

  “I tried to give back the pearls, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Make sure you go on the record with Personnel. Heaven knows you’re completely incorruptible, but we wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about your newfound love affair with the GID.”

  Navot pushed away his plate. Nothing edible remained. Gabriel was surprised he hadn’t eaten the chopsticks and the paper sleeve in which they had been presented.

  “Do you really think that Fareed will back off Jalal Nasser?”

  “Not in a million years.”

  “Which means Jordanian intelligence is going to have a front-row seat on your operation.”

  “With an obstructed view.”

  Navot smiled. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to penetrate Saladin’s network. I’m going to find out who he really is and where he’s operating. And then I’m going to drop a very large bomb on his head.”

  “That means sending an agent into Syria.”

  “Yes, Uzi, that’s where ISIS is.”

  “The new caliphate is a forbidden kingdom. If you send an agent in there, he’ll be lucky to come out again with his head still attached to his shoulders.”

  “She,” said Gabriel. “Saladin clearly prefers women.”

  Navot shook his head gravely. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “It’s too dangerous not to, Uzi.”

  After a belligerent silence, Navot asked, “One of ours or one of theirs?”

  “Ours.”

  “Languages?”

  “French and Arabic. And I want someone who has something to offer. ISIS already has plenty of losers.” Gabriel paused, then asked, “Do you know anyone like that, Uzi?”

  “I might,” said Navot.

  One of the many improvements he had made to the director’s suite was a high-tech video wall upon which the global news channels flickered day and night. At present, it was filled with images of human misery, much of it emanating from the shattered remnants of an ancient land called Syria. Navot watched the screen for a long moment before twirling the combination lock of his private safe. He removed two items, a file and an unopened box of Viennese butter cookies. He handed the file to Gabriel. The cookies he kept for himself. By the time Gabriel looked up again, they were gone.

  “She’s perfect.”

  “Yes,” agreed Navot. “And if anything happens to her, it’s on your head, not mine.”

  16

  JERUSALEM

  NO ONE COULD REALLY REMEMBER precisely when it all began. It might have been the Arab motorist who ran down three Jewish teenagers near a West Bank settlement south of Jerusalem. Or the Arab trader who stabbed two yeshiva students outside the Old City’s Damascus Gate. Or the Arab worker at a luxury hotel who tried to poison a visiting congressman from Ohio. Inspired by the words and deeds of ISIS, frustrated by the broken promises of peace, many young Palestinians had quite literally taken matters into their own hands. The violence was low level, deeply personal, and difficult to stop. An Arab with a suicide vest was relatively easy to detect. An Arab armed with a kitchen knife, or an automobile, was a security nightmare, especially if the Arab was prepared to die. The random nature of the attacks had deeply unsettled the Israeli public. A recent poll had found that an overwhelming majority said they feared being attacked on the street. Many no longer frequented places where Arabs might be present, a difficult proposition in a city like Jerusalem.

  Invariably, the wounded and the dying were rushed to Hadassah Medical
Center, Israel’s primary Level 1 trauma facility. Located in West Jerusalem, in the abandoned Arab village of Ein Kerem, the hospital’s remarkable team of doctors and nurses routinely cared for the victims of the world’s oldest conflict—the shattered survivors of suicide bombings, the IDF soldiers wounded in combat, the Arab demonstrators cut down by Israeli gunfire. They made no distinction between Arab and Jew, victim and perpetrator; they treated anyone who came through their door, including some of Israel’s most dangerous enemies. It was not unusual to see a senior member of Hamas at Hadassah. Even the rulers of Syria, before the outbreak of the civil war, had sent their influential sick to the hills of Ein Kerem for care.

  According to Christian tradition, Ein Kerem was the birthplace of John the Baptist. Church towers rose above the squat old limestone dwellings of the vanished Arabs, and the tolling of bells ushered one day into the next. Between the ancient village and the modern hospital was a parking lot reserved for senior physicians and administrators. Dr. Natalie Mizrahi was not yet permitted to park there; her space was located in a distant satellite lot at the edge of a deep ravine. She arrived at eight thirty and as usual had to wait several minutes for a shuttle bus. It dropped her a short walk from the entrance to the emergency room. For the moment, all appeared quiet. There were no ambulances in the courtyard, and the trauma center was darkened, with only a single nurse on duty in the event a team had to be assembled.

  In the staff lounge, Natalie placed her handbag in a locker, pulled a white lab coat over her blue-green scrubs, and hung a stethoscope round her neck. Her shift commenced at nine a.m. and would terminate at nine the following morning. The face she examined in the bathroom mirror appeared reasonably rested and alert, much better than it would look in twenty-four hours. Her skin was olive complected, her eyes were nearly black. So was her hair. It was drawn into a tight bun and secured with a simple elastic band. A few escaped tendrils hung down the length of her neck. She wore no makeup and no fragrance; her nails were trimmed and covered in clear polish. The loose-fitting hospital attire concealed a body that was slender and taut, with narrow hips and the lightly muscled thighs and calves of a long-distance runner. These days, Natalie was confined to the treadmill at her health club. Like most Jerusalemites, she no longer felt safe alone in public.