The New Girl Read online

  He worked when he could, an hour or so in the morning, a few minutes in the evening after dinner. The children rarely left his side. He made no preparatory sketches or underdrawing. Nevertheless, his draftsmanship was flawless. He posed Reema as he had posed Nadia, on a couch of white against a background of Caravaggesque black. The arrangement of her limbs was childlike, but Gabriel aged her slightly—sixteen or seventeen instead of twelve—so Khalid might have her a little longer.

  Gradually, as she came to life on the canvas, she took leave of Gabriel’s dreams. During her last appearance she handed him a letter for her father. Gabriel added it to the painting. Afterward, he stood for a long time before the canvas, right hand to his chin, left hand supporting his right elbow, head tilted slightly down, so lost in thought he was unaware that Chiara was standing at his side.

  “Is it finished, Signor Delvecchio?”

  “No,” he said, wiping the paint from his brush. “Not quite.”

  81

  Langley–New York

  CIA director Morris Payne called Gabriel on the dedicated secure line that afternoon and asked him to come to Washington. It wasn’t quite a summons, but it wasn’t an open-ended invitation, either. After pretending to consult his calendar, Gabriel said he could come the following Tuesday at the earliest.

  “I have a better idea. How about tomorrow?”

  In truth, Gabriel was anxious to make the trip. He owed Payne a full accounting of the operation to remove Abdullah from the line of succession. Furthermore, he needed Payne and his boss at the White House to sign off on Khalid’s ascension to the throne. The Allegiance Council had yet to name a new crown prince. Once again, Saudi Arabia was being ruled by an ailing octogenarian with no ordained successor.

  Gabriel caught an overnight flight to Washington and met with Payne the following day in his seventh-floor office at Langley. As it turned out, it wasn’t necessary for Gabriel to confess his role in Abdullah’s demise. The American knew everything.

  “How?”

  “A source inside the SVR. It seems you’ve turned the place inside out.”

  “Any word about Rebecca Manning?”

  “You mean Philby?” Payne shook his head bitterly. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “It wasn’t my place, Morris.”

  “Apparently, she’s hanging on by a thread.”

  “I told her not to go back.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “In the Netherlands,” said Gabriel. “We had to arrange an exchange of prisoners.”

  “Dragunov for the girl?” Payne rubbed his lantern jaw thoughtfully. “Do you remember our recent dinner?”

  “With considerable fondness.”

  “When I suggested you might want to think about moving aside Abdullah for the good of the region, you looked at me as though I’d just told you to bump off Mother Teresa.”

  Gabriel said nothing.

  “Why didn’t you include us?”

  “Too many cooks.”

  “Saudi Arabia is our ally.”

  “And thanks to me, that’s still the case. All you have to do now is send a signal to Riyadh that Washington would look favorably on Khalid’s reappointment as crown prince.”

  “From what we hear, he won’t be crown prince for long.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Is he ready?”

  “He’ll be different, Morris.”

  Payne didn’t seem so sure. He abruptly tacked, a conversational habit of his. “I hear the Russians gave her a pretty good going-over.”

  “Sarah?”

  Payne nodded.

  “Under the circumstances,” said Gabriel, “it could have been worse.”

  “How did she hold up in the field?”

  “She’s a natural, Morris.”

  “So why is she working in a museum in New York?”

  “Read her file.”

  “I just did.” There was a copy on Payne’s desk. “Any chance you could convince her to come back to the Agency?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I could be wrong,” said Gabriel, “but I believe she’s already spoken for.”

  Gabriel left Langley in time to make the three o’clock train to New York. A car from the Israeli consulate met him at Penn Station and took him through the warm spring evening to the corner of Second Avenue and East Sixty-Fourth Street. The restaurant he entered was Italian, old-fashioned, and very noisy. He squeezed past the crowd at the bar and made his way to the table where Sarah, in a dark business suit, was sipping a three-olive martini. As Gabriel approached, she smiled and lifted her face to be kissed. It bore no trace of her night journey across the North Sea with the Russian assassin named Nikolai. In fact, thought Gabriel as he took his seat, Sarah looked more radiant than ever.

  “Have one of these,” she said, clicking a polished nail on the edge of the glass. “I promise it will take care of that pain in your back.”

  Gabriel ordered Italian sauvignon blanc and promptly took delivery of the largest glass of wine he had ever seen.

  Sarah raised her martini a fraction of an inch. “To the secret world.” She looked around the crowded room. “No little friends?”

  “I couldn’t get them a reservation.”

  “You mean I have you all to myself? Let’s do something positively scandalous.” Sarah smiled wickedly and sipped her drink. She had a voice and manner from a different age. As always, Gabriel felt as though he were conversing with a character from a Fitzgerald novel. “How was Langley?” she asked.

  “Morris couldn’t stop talking about you.”

  “Do they miss me?”

  Gabriel smiled. “The whole town is desolate. Morris would do anything to have you back.”

  “What’s done cannot be undone.” She lowered her voice to a confiding murmur. “Except where Khalid is concerned. You prevented our tragic hero from destroying himself.” She smiled. “He’s restored.”

  “Literally,” said Gabriel.

  “Morris green-lit Khalid’s return?”

  Gabriel nodded. “So did the White House. Season two of the Khalid show is about to begin production.”

  “Let’s hope it’s a little less exciting than season one.”

  A waiter appeared. Sarah ordered insalata Caprese and sautéed veal. Gabriel had the same.

  “How’s work?” he asked.

  “It seems the Nadia al-Bakari Collection did not fall from the walls of the Museum of Modern Art while I was away. In fact, my staff barely noticed my absence.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “A change of scenery, I think.”

  This time it was Gabriel who surveyed the room. “It’s rather nice here, Sarah.”

  “The Upper East Side? It has its charms, but I’ve always preferred London. Kensington, especially.”

  “Sarah . . .”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Have you been back to London to see him?”

  “Last weekend. It was almost as good as this martini. I must say, his maisonette is divine, even without furniture.”

  “Did he tell you where he got the money to buy it?”

  “He mentioned something about a certain Don Orsati from the island of Corsica. He has a home there, too, you know.”

  “And a Monet.” Gabriel fixed Sarah with a reproachful stare. “He’s too old for you.”

  “He’s the youngest man I’ve been on a date with in a long time. Besides, have you ever seen him without his clothes on?”

  “Have you?”

  Sarah looked away.

  “Is there nothing I can do to talk you out of this?”

  “Why would you try?”

  “Because it’s probably unwise for you to get involved with a man who used to kill people for a living.”

  “If you can overlook Christopher’s past, why can’t I?”

  “Because I’ve never considered moving to London to live with him.” Gabriel exhaled slowly. “What do
you intend to do for work?”

  “This might come as a shock to you, darling, but money isn’t exactly an issue. My father left me quite well off. That said, I would like something to do.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “A gallery, perhaps.”

  Gabriel smiled. “There’s a nice one in Mason’s Yard in St. James’s. It specializes in Italian Old Masters. The owner’s been talking about retiring for a couple of years. He’s looking for someone to take over the business.”

  “How are his finances?” asked Sarah with justified concern.

  “Thanks to his association with a certain Russian businessman, they’re quite good.”

  “Christopher told me all about the operation.”

  “Did he?” asked Gabriel, annoyed. “And did he tell you about Olivia Watson, too?”

  Sarah nodded. “And about Morocco. I’m only sorry I wasn’t invited.”

  “Olivia’s gallery is in Bury Street,” warned Gabriel. “It’s possible you might bump into her.”

  “And Christopher will bump into Mikhail the next time we . . .” Sarah left the thought unfinished.

  “It could get a bit incestuous.”

  “It could, but we’ll manage somehow.” Sarah smiled with a sudden sadness. “We always do, don’t we, Gabriel?”

  Just then, his BlackBerry vibrated. The distinctive pulse told him it was an urgent message from King Saul Boulevard.

  “Anything serious?” asked Sarah.

  “The Allegiance Council just appointed Khalid the new crown prince.”

  “That was fast.” Suddenly, Sarah’s iPhone was vibrating, too. She smiled as she read the message.

  “If that’s Keller, tell him I want a word.”

  “It isn’t Keller, it’s Khalid.”

  “What does he want?”

  She handed Gabriel the phone. “You.”

  82

  Tiberias

  In his first official act after regaining the post of crown prince, Khalid bin Mohammed severed ties with the Russian Federation and expelled all Russian citizens from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The regional analysts applauded his restraint. The old Khalid, they said, might have acted rashly. But the new Khalid had displayed the acumen and prudence of an experienced statesman. Clearly, they speculated, a wiser voice was whispering in his ear.

  At home, he moved quickly to undo the damage of his uncle’s brief reign—and some of his own damage as well. He released the jailed women’s rights activists and supporters of democratic reform. He even freed a popular blogger who, like Omar Nawwaf, had criticized him personally. As the dreaded Mutaween withdrew from Riyadh’s streets, life returned. A new cinema opened its doors. Young Saudis filled cafés late into the night.

  But for the most part, Khalid’s actions were characterized by a newfound caution. His royal court, while filled with loyalists prepared to do his bidding, contained several old-guard traditionalists, suggesting to Middle East observers he intended to return to the Al Saud practice of ruling by consensus. Where the old Khalid had been a man in a hurry, the new Khalid seemed to favor incrementalism over haste. “Shwaya, shwaya” became something of an official mantra. Still, he was not a ruler to be trifled with, as a prominent reformer discovered after heckling Khalid during a public appearance. The one-year prison sentence made it clear there were limits to KBM’s tolerance for dissent. Khalid was an enlightened despot, said the observers, but he was a despot nonetheless.

  His personal conduct changed as well. He sold his superyacht and his palace in France, and returned several billion dollars to the men he had imprisoned at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. He also parted company with much of his art collection. He entrusted the sale of Salvator Mundi to Isherwood Fine Arts of Mason’s Yard in London. Sarah Bancroft, formerly of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, was listed as the dealer of record.

  His wife, Asma, appeared at his side in public, but Princess Reema, his daughter, was nowhere to be seen. A rumor circulated that she was enrolled at an exclusive school in Switzerland. It was soon put to rest, however, by an explosive exposé in the German newsmagazine Der Spiegel. Based in part on the reporting of Omar Nawwaf, it detailed the series of events that had led to KBM’s dramatic fall from grace and his eventual restoration. Khalid, after several days of silence, offered a tearful confirmation of the report’s authenticity.

  Which prompted, mainly in the West, yet another great reassessment. Perhaps the Russians, for all their recklessness, had actually done them a favor. Perhaps it was time to forgive the youthful prince and welcome him back into the fold. From Washington to Wall Street, and from Hollywood to Silicon Valley, there arose a great clamor as all those who had shunned him suddenly pleaded with him to return. One man, however, had stood by him when no one else would. And it was this man’s invitation, on a sultry summer’s evening in June, that Khalid accepted.

  The new KBM, like the old, was forever running late. Gabriel expected him at five p.m. but it was approaching half past six when his Gulfstream finally landed at the IAF base in Ramat David. He emerged from the cabin alone, in a trim-fitting blazer and stylish aviator sunglasses that glinted with the early-evening sun. Gabriel offered Khalid his hand, but once again he received a warm embrace instead.

  Leaving the airbase, they passed through the town of Gabriel’s birth. His parents, he explained to Khalid, were Holocaust survivors from Germany. Like everyone else in Ramat David, the Allon family had lived in a little breeze-block bungalow. Theirs was filled with photographs of loved ones lost to the fires of the Shoah. To escape the grief of his family home, Gabriel had wandered the Valley of Jezreel, the land given by Joshua to the tribe of Zebulun, one of the twelve tribes of ancient Israel. He had spent most of his adult life living abroad or in Jerusalem. But the valley, he told Khalid, would always be his home.

  As they headed east on Highway 77, Khalid’s phone pinged and vibrated without cease. The messages were from the White House. Khalid explained that he and the president were planning to meet briefly in New York during the annual meeting of the UN General Assembly in September. If all went well, he would return to America later in the autumn for a formal summit in Washington.

  “It seems all is forgiven.” He looked at Gabriel. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”

  “The Americans didn’t need any encouragement from me. They’re eager to normalize relations.”

  “But you’re the one who made me palatable again.” He paused. “You and Omar Nawwaf. That article in Der Spiegel lifted the cloud over me once and for all.”

  Khalid finally switched off the phone. For the next thirty minutes, as they crossed the Upper Galilee, he gave Gabriel a most remarkable briefing—a secret guided tour of the Middle East led by none other than the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia. The Saudi GID was hearing naughty things about the head of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps, something about a financial indiscretion. Raw intelligence would soon be heading King Saul Boulevard’s way. Khalid and the GID were anxious to play a role in Syria now that the Americans were heading for the exits. Perhaps the GID and the Office could undertake a covert program to make life a little less comfortable in Syria for the Iranians and their allies, Hezbollah. Gabriel asked Khalid to intervene with Hamas to stop the rockets and missiles from Gaza. Khalid said he would do what he could.

  “But don’t expect much. Those crazies from Hamas hate me almost as much as they hate you.”

  “What do you hear about the administration’s Middle East peace plan?”

  “Not much.”

  “Maybe we should come up with our own peace plan, you and I.”

  “Shwaya, shwaya, my friend.”

  In time, they came upon the parched plain where, on a scalding afternoon in July 1187, Saladin defeated the thirst-crazed armies of the Crusaders in a climactic battle that would eventually leave Jerusalem once again in Muslim hands. A moment later they glimpsed the Sea of Galilee. They headed north along the shoreline until they came to a
fortress-like villa perched atop a rocky escarpment. Several cars and SUVs lined the steeply sloped drive.

  “Where are we?” asked Khalid.

  Gabriel opened his door and climbed out. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  Ari Shamron waited in the entrance hall. He appraised Khalid warily for a moment before finally extending a liver-spotted hand.

  “I never thought this day would come.”

  “It hasn’t,” replied Khalid conspiratorially. “Not officially, at least.”

  Shamron gestured toward the sitting room, where most of the senior staff of the Office were gathered—Eli Lavon, Yaakov Rossman, Dina Sarid, Rimona Stern, Mikhail Abramov and Natalie Mizrahi, Uzi and Bella Navot. Chiara and the children stood next to an oaken easel. Upon it was a painting covered in black baize cloth.

  Khalid looked at Gabriel, perplexed. “What is it?”

  “Something to replace that Leonardo of yours.”

  Gabriel nodded toward Raphael and Irene. With Chiara’s help, they removed the black shroud. Khalid swayed slightly and placed a hand over his heart.

  “My God,” he whispered.

  “Forgive me, I should have warned you.”

  “She looks . . .” Khalid’s voice trailed off. He stretched a hand toward Reema’s face, then toward the letter. “What is it?”

  “A message for her father.”

  “What does it say?”

  “That’s between the two of you.”

  Khalid studied the bottom right corner of the canvas. “There’s no signature.”

  “The artist wished to remain anonymous so as not to overshadow his subject.”

  Khalid looked up. “He’s famous, the artist?”

  Gabriel smiled sadly. “In certain circles.”