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  Khalid appeared to consider the question carefully. “I doubt it. The Saudi dissident community doesn’t have the capability to carry out something like this.”

  “Your intelligence services must have a suspect.”

  “The Iranians are at the top of their list.”

  The default Saudi position, thought Gabriel. Blame everything on the Shiite heretics of Iran. Still, he did not dismiss the theory out of hand. The Iranians viewed Khalid as a primary threat to their regional ambitions, second only to Gabriel himself.

  “Who else?” he asked.

  “The Qataris. They loathe me.”

  “With good reason.”

  “And the jihadis,” said Khalid. “The hard-liners inside the Saudi religious community are furious at me for the things I’ve said about radical Islam and the Muslim Brotherhood. They also don’t like the fact I’ve allowed women to drive and attend sporting events. The threat level against me inside the Kingdom is very high.”

  “I doubt that ransom note was written by a jihadist.”

  “For now, those are our only suspects.”

  “The Iranians, the Qataris, and the ulema? Come now, Khalid. You can do better than that. What about all the relatives you pushed aside to become crown prince? Or the one hundred prominent Saudis and members of the royal family you locked away in the Ritz-Carlton? Please remind me how much you managed to extort from them before letting them leave. The figure slips my mind.”

  “It was one hundred billion dollars.”

  “And how much of it ended up in your pocket?”

  “The money was placed in the treasury.”

  “Which is your pocket by another name.”

  “L’état, c’est moi,” said Khalid. I am the state.

  “But some of the men you fleeced are still very rich. Rich enough to hire a team of professional operatives to kidnap your daughter. They knew they could never get to you, not when you’re surrounded day and night by an army of bodyguards. But Reema was another story.” Greeted by silence, Gabriel asked, “Have I left anyone out?”

  “My father’s second wife. She opposed changing the line of succession. I placed her under house arrest.”

  “Every Jewish boy’s dream.” The air was suddenly very cold. Gabriel turned up the collar of his suit jacket. “Why did you send Reema to school in Switzerland? Why not England, where you were educated?”

  “The United Kingdom was my first choice, I must admit, but the director-general of MI5 couldn’t guarantee Reema’s security. The Swiss were much more accommodating. The headmaster at the school agreed to protect Reema’s identity, and the Swiss security service kept an eye on her from afar.”

  “That was very generous of them.”

  “Generosity had nothing to do with it. I paid the government a great deal of money to cover the additional costs of Reema’s security. They’re good hoteliers, the Swiss, and discreet. In my experience, it comes naturally to them.”

  “And what about the French? Did they know Reema was spending weekends at that ridiculous château of yours in the Haute-Savoie?” Gabriel lifted his gaze briefly to the stars. “I can’t remember how much you spent on that place. Almost as much as you paid for that Leonardo.”

  Khalid ignored the remark. “I might have mentioned it to the president, but I made no request of the French government for security. Once Reema’s motorcade crossed the border, my bodyguards were responsible for her protection.”

  “That was a mistake on your part.”

  “In retrospect,” agreed Khalid. “The people who kidnapped my daughter were quite professional. The question is, for whom were they working?”

  “You’ve managed to make a lot of enemies in a short period of time.”

  “We have that in common, you and I.”

  “My enemies are in Moscow and Tehran. Yours are much closer. Which is why I want nothing to do with this. Show the demand note to the French, give them everything you have. They’re good,” said Gabriel. “I should know. Thanks to Saudi ideology and Saudi money, I’ve been forced to work closely with them on a number of counterterrorism operations.”

  Khalid smiled. “Feel better?”

  “I’m getting there.”

  “I can’t change the past, only the future. We can do it together, you and I. We can make history. But only if you can find my daughter.”

  Gabriel slowed to a stop and contemplated the tall robed figure standing before him in the starlight. “Who are you, Khalid? Are you the real thing, or was Omar Nawwaf right about you? Are you just another power-mad sheikh who happens to have a good public-relations strategist?”

  “I’m as close to the real thing as Saudi Arabia will allow at this time. And if I am forced to renounce my claim to the throne, there will be dire consequences for Israel and the West.”

  “That much I believe. As for the rest of it . . .” Gabriel left the thought unfinished. “You’re to say nothing to anyone about my involvement. And that includes the Americans.”

  With his expression, Khalid made it clear he did not appreciate diktats from commoners. Exhaling heavily, he made a subtle change to the arrangement of his ghutra. “You surprise me.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ve agreed to help me. And yet you’ve asked for nothing in return.”

  “One day I will,” said Gabriel. “And you will give me what I want.”

  “You sound very sure of yourself.”

  “That’s because I am.”

  12

  Jerusalem

  Gabriel’s motorcade was waiting on the tarmac at Ben Gurion Airport when the Gulfstream touched down a few minutes after midnight. Sarah accompanied him to Jerusalem. He dropped her at the entrance of the King David Hotel.

  “The room is one of ours,” he explained. “Don’t worry, we switched off the cameras and the microphones.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” She smiled. “What are your plans?”

  “Against all better judgment, I’m going to undertake a rapid search for the daughter of His Royal Highness Prince Khalid bin Mohammed.”

  “Where do you intend to start?”

  “Since she was kidnapped in France, I thought it might be a good idea to start there.”

  Sarah frowned.

  “Forgive me, it’s been a long day.”

  “I speak French very well, you know.”

  “So do I.”

  “And I attended the International School of Geneva when my father was working in Switzerland.”

  “I remember, Sarah. But you’re going home to New York.”

  “I’d rather go to France with you.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you traded the secret world for the overt world a long time ago.”

  “But the secret world is so much more interesting.” She checked the time. “My God, it’s late. When are you leaving for Paris?”

  “The ten o’clock El Al to Charles de Gaulle. These days, I seem to have a standing reservation on it. I’ll pick you up at eight and take you back to the airport.”

  “Actually, I think I’ll hang around Jerusalem for a day or two.”

  “You’re not thinking about doing something foolish, are you?”

  “Like what?”

  “Making contact with Mikhail.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, Mikhail made it abundantly clear he’s very happy with what’s-her-name.”

  “Natalie.”

  “Oh, yes, I keep forgetting.” She kissed Gabriel’s cheek. “Sorry to drag you into all of this. Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything more I can do.”

  She climbed out of the SUV without another word and disappeared through the entrance of the hotel. Gabriel dialed the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard and informed the duty officer of his intention to travel to Paris later that morning.

  “Anything else, boss?”

  “Activate Room 435 at the King David. Audio only.”

  G
abriel killed the connection and leaned his head wearily against the window. She was right about one thing, he thought. The secret world was much more interesting.

  It was a five-minute drive from the King David Hotel to Narkiss Street, the quiet, leafy lane in the historic Jerusalem neighborhood of Nachlaot where Gabriel Allon, despite the objections of his security department and many of his neighbors, continued to make his home. There were checkpoints at either end of the street, and a guard stood watch outside the old limestone apartment building at Number 16. As Gabriel alighted from the back of his SUV, the air smelled of eucalyptus and, faintly, of Turkish tobacco. There was little mystery as to the source. Ari Shamron’s flashy new armored limousine was parked along the curb in the space reserved for Gabriel’s motorcade.

  “He arrived around midnight,” the guard explained. “He said you were expecting him.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “What was I supposed to do? He’s the Memuneh.”

  Gabriel shook his head slowly. He was two years into his term as director-general, and yet even the members of his security detail still referred to Shamron as “the one in charge.”

  He headed up the garden walk, entered the foyer, and climbed the brightly lit stairs to the third floor. Chiara, in black leggings and a matching black pullover, was waiting in the open door of the apartment. She appraised Gabriel coolly for a moment before finally throwing her arms around his neck.

  “I should go to Saudi Arabia more often.”

  “When were you planning to tell me?”

  “Right about now.” He followed Chiara inside. Scattered across the coffee table in the sitting room were cups and glasses and half-consumed plates of food, evidence of a tense late-night vigil. The television, tuned to CNN International, played silently. “Did I make the evening news?”

  Chiara glared at him but said nothing.

  “How did you find out?”

  “How do you think?” She glanced toward the terrace, where Shamron was no doubt listening to every word they were saying. “He was even more worried than I was.”

  “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

  “He ordered Air Defense Command to track your plane. The tower at Ben Gurion alerted us when you landed. We expected you sooner, but apparently you made a slight detour on the way home.” Chiara gathered the dishes from the coffee table. She always tidied up when she was annoyed. “I’m sure you enjoyed seeing Sarah again. She was always fond of you.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not that long ago.”

  “You know I never had any feelings for her.”

  “It would have been completely understandable if you had. She’s very beautiful.”

  “Not as beautiful as you, Chiara. Not even close.”

  It was true. Chiara’s was a timeless beauty. In her face Gabriel saw traces of Arabia and North Africa and Spain and all the other lands through which her ancestors had passed before finding themselves behind the locked gates of Venice’s ancient ghetto. Her hair was dark and riotous and streaked with highlights of auburn and chestnut. Her eyes were wide and brown and flecked with gold. No, he thought, no woman would ever come between them. Gabriel only feared that one day Chiara would come to the realization she was far too young and beautiful to be married to a wreck like him.

  He went onto the terrace. There were two wrought-iron chairs and a small table, upon which was the plate Shamron had commandeered for his ashtray. Six cigarette butts lay side by side, like spent cartridges. Shamron was in the process of igniting a seventh with his old Zippo lighter when Gabriel plucked the cigarette from his lips.

  Shamron frowned. “One more won’t kill me.”

  “It might.”

  “Do you know how many of those I’ve smoked in my life?”

  “All the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore.”

  “You shouldn’t borrow from Genesis when discussing a vice like smoking. It’s bad karma.”

  “Jews don’t believe in karma.”

  “Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

  Shamron extracted another cigarette from his packet with a tremulous liver-spotted hand. He was dressed, as usual, in a pair of pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a leather bomber jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. He had damaged the garment the night a Palestinian master terrorist named Tariq al-Hourani planted a bomb beneath Gabriel’s car in Vienna. Daniel, Gabriel’s young son, was killed in the explosion. Leah, his first wife, suffered catastrophic burns. She lived now in a psychiatric hospital atop Mount Herzl, trapped in a prison of memory and a body ravaged by fire. And Gabriel lived here on Narkiss Street, with his beautiful Italian-born wife and two young children. From them, he hid his unending grief. But not from Shamron. Death had joined them in the beginning. And death remained the foundation of their bond.

  Gabriel sat down. “Who told you?”

  “About your flying visit to Saudi Arabia?” Shamron’s smile was mischievous. “I believe it was Uzi.”

  Uzi Navot was the previous director-general and, like Gabriel, one of Shamron’s acolytes. In a break with Office tradition, he had agreed to remain at King Saul Boulevard, thus allowing Gabriel to function as an operational chief.

  “How much were you able to beat out of him?”

  “No coercion was necessary. Uzi was deeply concerned about your decision to return to the country where you spent nearly a month in captivity. Needless to say,” said Shamron, “I shared his opinion.”

  “You traveled secretly to Arab countries when you were the chief.”

  “Jordan, yes. Morocco, of course. I even went to Egypt after Sadat made his visit to Jerusalem. But I never set foot in Saudi Arabia.”

  “I wasn’t in danger.”

  “With all due respect, Gabriel, I doubt that was the case. You should have conducted the meeting on neutral ground, in an environment controlled by the Office. He has a tempestuous streak, the crown prince. You’re lucky you didn’t end up like that journalist he killed in Istanbul.”

  “I’ve always found journalists to be much more useful alive than dead.”

  Shamron smiled. “Did you read the piece they wrote about Khalid in the New York Times? They said the Arab Spring had finally come to Saudi Arabia. They said an untested boy was going to transform a country founded on a shotgun marriage between Wahhabism and a desert tribe from the Nejd.” Shamron shook his head. “I didn’t believe the story then, and I surely don’t believe it now. Khalid bin Mohammed is interested in two things. The first is power. The second is money. For the Al Saud, they are one and the same. Without power, there is no money. And without money, there is no power.”

  “But he fears the Iranians as much as we do. For that reason alone, he can prove quite useful.”

  “Which is why you agreed to find his daughter.” Shamron gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. “That is why he wanted to see you, isn’t it?”

  Gabriel handed Shamron the demand note, which he read by the flickering light of the Zippo. “It looks as though you’ve gotten yourself into the middle of a royal family feud.”

  “That’s exactly what it looks like.”

  “It’s not without risk.”

  “Nothing worth doing is.”

  “I agree.” Shamron closed the lighter with a snap of his thick wrist. “Even if you fail to find her, your efforts will pay dividends in the royal court of Riyadh. And if you succeed . . .” Shamron shrugged. “The crown prince will be forever in your debt. For all intents and purposes, he will be an asset of the Office.”

  “So you approve?”

  “I would have done exactly the same thing.” Shamron returned the note to Gabriel. “But why did Khalid offer you this opportunity to compromise him? Why turn to the Office? Why didn’t he ask his good friend in the White House for help?”

  “Perhaps he thinks I might prove more effective.”

  “Or more ruthless.”

  “That, too.”


  “You should consider one possibility,” said Shamron after a moment.

  “What’s that?”

  “That Khalid knows full well who kidnapped his daughter, and he’s using you to do his dirty work.”

  “He’s proven himself more than willing to do his own.”

  “Which is why you should make no more trips to Saudi Arabia.” Shamron looked at Gabriel seriously for a moment. “I was in Langley that night—do you remember? I watched the entire thing through the camera of that Predator drone. I saw them leading you and Nadia into the desert to be executed. I pleaded with the Americans to drop a Hellfire missile on you to spare you the pain of the knife. I’ve had many terrible nights in my life, but that might have been the worst. If she hadn’t stepped in front of that bullet . . .” Shamron looked at his big stainless-steel wristwatch. “You should get some sleep.”

  “It’s too late now,” said Gabriel. “Stay with me, Abba. I’ll sleep on the way to Paris.”

  “I didn’t think you could sleep on airplanes.”

  “I can’t.”

  Shamron watched the wind moving in the eucalyptus trees. “I never could, either.”

  13

  Princess Reema bint Khalid Abdulaziz Al Saud endured the many indignities of her captivity with as much grace as possible, but the bucket was the last straw.

  It was pale blue and plastic, the sort of thing an Al Saud never touched. They had placed it in Reema’s cell after she had misbehaved during a visit to the toilet. According to a typewritten note taped to the side, Reema was to use it until further notice. Only when her conduct returned to normal would her bathroom privileges be restored. Reema refused to relieve herself in such a shameful manner and did so on the floor of her cell instead. At which point her captors, again in writing, threatened to withhold food and water. “Fine!” Reema shouted at the masked figure who delivered the note. She would rather starve to death than eat another wretched meal that tasted as though it had been cooked in its own can. The food was not fit for pigs, let alone the daughter of the future king of Saudi Arabia.