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  Not long after the dispute was resolved, they gave her another injection of the drug. She awoke, as usual, with a blinding headache and a mouth as dry as the Arabian Desert. The rags in which they had kept her for some two weeks had been removed, and she was dressed in the outfit she had been wearing on the afternoon of her abduction. She was even wearing her favorite Burberry coat. It seemed heavier than normal, though Reema couldn’t be certain. She was weakened by inactivity, and the drugs made her feel as though her limbs were made of iron.

  The final injection contained a smaller dose of the sedative. Reema seemed to be hovering close to consciousness. She was certain she was riding in the trunk of a moving car, for she could hear the rushing of the tires beneath her. She could also hear two voices from the passenger compartment. They were speaking the same language, the language that had shocked her. She recognized only two words.

  Gabriel Allon . . .

  The rocking of the car and the close smell of the dirty trunk were turning her stomach. Reema seemed to be having trouble drawing air into her lungs. Perhaps it was the drugs they had given her. No, she thought, it was the coat. It was pressing down on her.

  Her hands were unbound. She loosened the toggles and pulled at the lapels, but it was no use, it wouldn’t open. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in many days she wept.

  The coat was sewn shut.

  The avenue du Général Leclerc was located beyond the double walls of Carcassonne’s ancient citadel and possessed none of the old quarter’s beauty or charm. Plein Sud occupied a pie-shaped building on the south side of the street, the last in a short parade of shops and enterprises that catered to the working-class residents of the neighborhood. The interior was clean and neat and brightly lit. There was a large man with southern features who worked the pizza ovens, and a mournful-looking woman who saw to the paella. Four tables stood in a small seating area. The walls were hung with African art, and a large sliding glass door overlooked the street. It was a sniper’s shooting gallery, thought Gabriel.

  He and Khalid sat down at the only available table. The occupants of the other three looked like the people they had seen rioting in the streets of Paris that morning. They were citizens of the other France, the France one didn’t read about in guidebooks. They were the put-upon and the left-behind, the ones without glittering degrees from elite institutions of learning. Globalization and automation had eroded their value in the workforce. The service economy was their only option. Their counterparts in Britain and America had already had their say at the ballot box. France, reckoned Gabriel, would be next.

  A message hit his BlackBerry. He read it, then returned the device to his pocket. Khalid’s phone was between them on the tabletop, darkened, silenced.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “My men.”

  “Where are they?”

  With a movement of his eyes, Gabriel indicated they were parked nearby.

  “What about the kidnappers?”

  “They’re not in here.”

  “Do they know we’ve arrived?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Check your phone.”

  Khalid looked down. He had an incoming call. No name. No number.

  Gabriel tapped accept and lifted the device to his ear. The voice that addressed him was female and vaguely erotic. It was not, however, a recording.

  The voice was real.

  34

  Carcassonne, France

  “You couldn’t resist, could you?”

  “I suppose not. After all, how often does one get to speak to a man like you?”

  “And what kind of man is that?”

  “A war criminal. A murderer of those who struggle for dignity and self-determination.”

  Her English was flawless. The accent was German but there was a trace of something else. Something farther to the east, thought Gabriel. “Are you a freedom fighter?” he asked.

  “I am a professional, Allon. Like you.”

  “Really? And what kind of work do you do when you’re not kidnapping and torturing children?”

  “The child,” she replied, “has been well cared for.”

  “I saw the room in Areatza where you kept her. It wasn’t fit for a dog, let alone a twelve-year-old girl.”

  “A girl who has spent her entire life surrounded by unimaginable luxury. At least now she has some sense of how the vast majority of the people in the world live.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Close.”

  “In that case, leave her in front of the restaurant. I won’t make any attempt to follow you.”

  She laughed, low and throaty. Gabriel raised the volume on the phone to full and pressed it tightly to his ear. She was in a moving car, he was certain of it.

  “Are you ready for the next set of instructions?” she asked.

  “They’d better be the last.”

  “There’s a village north of Carcassonne called Saissac. Follow the D629 to the border of the next département. After a kilometer you’ll see a break in the fence on the right side of the road. Follow the track into the field exactly one hundred meters and then switch off your headlamps. Any deviation on your part,” said the woman, “will result in the girl’s death.”

  “If you harm a hair on her head, I’m going to put a bullet in yours.”

  “Like this?”

  At once, the café’s sliding glass door shattered, and a superheated round split the air between Gabriel and Khalid and embedded in the wall.

  “You have thirty minutes,” said the woman calmly. “Otherwise, the next one is for her.”

  Gabriel and Khalid followed the other panicked patrons of Plein Sud into the busy avenue. The Renault was parked outside the neighboring shop. Gabriel dropped behind the wheel, started the engine, and raced along the walls of the ancient citadel. Khalid charted their course on his mobile phone. In truth, Gabriel didn’t need the help—the route to Saissac was clearly marked with signposts—but it gave Khalid something to do other than shout at Gabriel to drive faster.

  It was a drive of nearly forty kilometers to Saissac alone. Gabriel covered the distance in about twenty minutes. They flashed through the town’s old center in a blur. In his peripheral vision he glimpsed a rampart overlooking a lowland, the ruins of a battlement, and a single café. The newer quarter of the town was to the northwest. There was an outpost of the gendarmerie and a traffic circle where for an instant Gabriel feared the Renault might overturn.

  Beyond the circle, the town dwindled. For a mile or so the countryside was groomed and cultivated, but gradually it turned wild. The road narrowed, spanned a riverbed over a stone bridge, and narrowed again. Gabriel glanced at the dashboard clock. By his calculation they were already three or four minutes late. Then he checked the rearview mirror and saw a set of headlights. Somehow the lights were drawing nearer. He found his BlackBerry and dialed.

  It was Keller who answered.

  “Back off,” said Gabriel.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Tell Mikhail to pull over now.”

  Gabriel overheard Keller reluctantly relay the instructions and watched a few seconds later as the car moved onto the verge. Then he severed the connection and returned the phone to his pocket. Khalid’s was suddenly ablaze with light. No name. No number.

  “Put her on speaker.”

  Khalid tapped the screen.

  “You’re late,” said the woman.

  “I think we’re almost there.”

  “You are. And so are your men.”

  “I told them to pull over. They won’t come any closer.”

  “They’d better not.”

  A sign appeared: département du tarn.

  “I’m crossing the border,” said Gabriel.

  “Keep going.”

  They were in a tunnel of trees. When they emerged, Gabriel saw a line of sagging wire fencing along the right side of the road. The field beyond it was in darkness. Heav
y cloud had rendered the night moonless.

  “Slow down,” commanded the woman. “The break in the fence is just ahead.”

  Gabriel eased off the throttle and turned through the breach. The track was unpaved, deeply rutted, and wet with a recent rain. Gabriel bumped along for what he thought was a hundred meters and braked.

  “Keep going,” said the woman.

  Gabriel crept forward, the car rocking like a boat rising and falling on swells.

  “That’s far enough.”

  Gabriel stopped.

  “Switch off the engine and the headlamps.”

  Gabriel hesitated.

  “Now,” said the woman. “Or the next bullet comes through the windscreen.”

  Gabriel killed the engine and the lights. The darkness was absolute. So was the silence at the other end of the cellular connection. The woman, he thought, had muted her phone.

  “How long do you think she’ll make us wait?” asked Khalid.

  “She can hear you,” said the woman.

  “And I can hear you,” said Khalid coldly.

  “Was that a threat?”

  Before Khalid could answer, the Renault’s rear window exploded. Gabriel drew a Beretta from the small of his back and chambered the first round.

  “I know you’re rather good with a gun, Mr. Allon, but I wouldn’t try anything. Besides, it’s almost over now.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Turn on your headlamps,” said the woman, and the connection went dead.

  35

  Département du Tarn, France

  She was standing on the track about fifty meters in front of the car, atop a slight rise in the land. Silver duct tape covered her mouth and bound her hands. They had dressed her in a tartan skirt, dark tights, and a schoolgirl’s toggle coat. It looked as though they had buttoned the coat out of proper sequence, but that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t buttoned at all.

  All at once Khalid threw open his door and, shouting Reema’s name, sprinted up the muddy path. Gabriel followed a few paces behind him, bent slightly at the waist, the Beretta in his outstretched hands. He pivoted left and right, looking for what, he did not know. Reema and the land behind her were awash in light, but otherwise the darkness in the field was complete. Gabriel could see nothing, only a father careening toward a child whose eyes were filled with terror.

  Something wasn’t right. Why wasn’t she relieved by the sound of her father’s voice? And where was the next gunshot? The promised bullet through Gabriel’s head? And then he understood why Reema’s coat did not fit her properly. There was no sniper, not any longer. The child was the weapon.

  “Don’t go near her!” shouted Gabriel, but Khalid plunged forward along the slippery path. It was then Gabriel saw a glimmer of light in the trees bordering the field.

  A mobile phone . . .

  It was a long way off, a hundred meters at least. Gabriel leveled the Beretta toward the light and pulled the trigger until the magazine was empty. Then he dropped the gun and hurled himself toward Khalid.

  The Saudi was a much younger man, but he was no athlete and Gabriel had the advantage of a kind of madness. He closed the space between them with a few wild strides and dragged Khalid to the damp earth as the bomb beneath Reema’s toggle coat exploded.

  A flash of searing light illuminated the field in all directions, and rushing metal filled the air above Gabriel’s head like outgoing artillery. When he looked up again, Reema was gone. What remained of her was strewn along both sides of the pathway.

  Gabriel tried to pin Khalid to the ground, but the Saudi wrenched himself free and clambered to his feet. He was covered in Reema’s blood, they both were. Gabriel turned away and covered his ears as the first terrible scream of agony poured from Khalid’s lungs.

  A car was racing up the road. Gabriel found the Beretta, ejected the spent cartridge, and inserted a new one. Then he turned slowly and saw Khalid desperately collecting his daughter’s limbs. “Call an ambulance,” he was saying. “Please, we must get her to a hospital.”

  Gabriel dropped to his knees and was violently sick. Then he raised his face to the moonless sky and prayed for a sudden rain to wash the blood of the child from his face. “You’re dead!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Dead, dead, dead!”

  Part Three

  Absolution

  36

  Southwest France–Jerusalem

  Mikhail Abramov and Christopher Keller had heard the frenzied burst of gunfire—ten shots, all discharged by the same weapon—followed a few seconds later by an explosion. It was relatively small, judging by the sound of it, but the flash of the detonation was enough to illuminate the sky above the remote corner of the Département du Tarn. The tableau they encountered upon their arrival in the field was like something from Dante’s Inferno. Both men were combat veterans who had carried out numerous extrajudicial killings, and yet both were sickened by what they saw. Gabriel was on his knees in the mud, drenched in blood, raging against the heavens. Khalid was holding something that looked like a small arm, and screaming about an ambulance. Mikhail and Keller would never speak of it again. Not to one another, and certainly not to the French.

  After regaining a small measure of composure, Gabriel had called Paul Rousseau in Paris—and Rousseau had called his chief, who called his minister, who called the palace. Within minutes, the first units of the gendarmerie were streaking up the D629, and the entire field was soon ablaze with crime-scene lights. On the direct orders of the French president, no attempt was made to question the victim’s overwrought father or the devastated chief of Israeli intelligence.

  The forensic teams meticulously gathered up the remains of the victim; the explosives experts, the fragments of the bomb that killed her. All the evidence was flown to Paris that night by police helicopter. So, too, were Gabriel, Khalid, Mikhail, and Keller. By dawn, Khalid and his daughter’s remains were airborne once more, this time bound for Saudi Arabia. For Gabriel and his accomplices, however, the French had other plans.

  He was an ally—indeed, he had all but single-handedly destroyed ISIS’s terror network in France—and they treated him accordingly. The inquisition, such as it was, took place later that same day, in a gilded, chandeliered room in the Interior Ministry. Present were the minister himself, the chiefs of the various police and intelligence services, and several note takers, cupbearers, and assorted fonctionnaires. Mikhail and Keller were spared direct questioning, and the French pledged there would be no electronic recording. Gabriel assumed the French were lying.

  The minister began the proceedings by demanding to know how the chief of Israeli intelligence had become involved in the search for the princess in the first place. Gabriel replied, truthfully, that he undertaken the assignment at the behest of the child’s father.

  “But Saudi Arabia is your adversary, is it not?”

  “I was hoping to change that.”

  “Did you receive assistance from anyone inside the French security and intelligence establishment?”

  “I did not.”

  The minister wordlessly presented Gabriel with a photograph. A Passat sedan entering Alpha Group headquarters on the rue Nélaton. The visit, explained Gabriel, had been a courtesy call only.

  “And the woman in the passenger seat?” wondered the minister.

  “She’s a colleague.”

  “According to the Swiss Federal Police, that same car was in Geneva the following evening when Lucien Villard was killed by a briefcase bomb. I assume you were there, too?”

  “I was.”

  “Did Israeli intelligence kill Lucien Villard?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The minister thrust a photograph beneath Gabriel’s nose. A man sitting in a café in Annecy. “Did he?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “Were you able to identify him?”

  “No.”

  Another photograph. “What about her?”

  “I believe I spoke to her last night.”


  “She handled the negotiations?”

  “There were none.”

  “There was no exchange of money?”

  “The demand was abdication.”

  “And the ten shots you fired?”

  “I saw the light of a mobile phone. I assumed he was using it to detonate the bomb.”

  “He?”

  Gabriel inclined his head toward the man in the photograph. “If I had hit him—”

  “You might have saved the child.”

  Gabriel said nothing.

  “It was a mistake not to involve us. We could have brought her in safely.”

  “They said they would kill her.”

  “Yes,” said the minister. “And now she is dead.”

  And on it went, deep into the afternoon, until the lights of Paris glowed beyond the ministry’s windows. It was a folly, and both sides knew it. The French intended to sweep the entire messy episode under the rug. When at last the questions stopped and the note takers laid down their pens, there were handshakes all around. They were of the graveside variety, fleeting, consoling. A ministry car took Gabriel, Mikhail, and Keller to Charles de Gaulle. Keller boarded a plane bound for London; Gabriel and Mikhail, for Tel Aviv. During the four-hour flight they did not speak of what had transpired in the field in the Département du Tarn. They never would.

  There was a small item the next day in one of the southern papers, something about a set of remains being found in a remote field, an adolescent, almost certainly a female. It made Le Figaro, and a short story was read on one of the evening newscasts, but the French cover-up was so thorough—and the French media was so distracted by the “Yellow Vests”—it was soon forgotten. At times, even Gabriel wondered whether he had dreamed it. He had only to listen to the recordings of his conversations with the woman to be reminded that a child had been blown to pieces before his eyes.