by Daniel Silva
“Mr. al-Siddiqi tells me you were raised in Hamburg.”
She nodded.
“It is one of the great tragedies of our country, the great Syrian diaspora. How many of us have been scattered to the four winds? Ten million? Fifteen million? If only they would come home again. Syria would be a truly great nation.”
She wanted to explain to him that the diaspora would never return as long as men like him were running the country. Instead, she nodded thoughtfully, as though he had spoken words of great insight. He was seated in the manner of the ruler’s father, with his feet resting flat on the floor and his palms on his knees. His cropped hair had a reddish tint to it, as did his neatly trimmed beard. In his tailored suit and restrained necktie, it was almost possible to imagine he was truly a diplomat and not a man who used to crucify opponents for fun.
“Coffee?” he asked, as though suddenly aware of his ill manners.
“No, thank you,” she answered.
“Something to eat, perhaps?”
“I was told to collect the documents and leave, Mr. al-Farouk.”
“Ah, yes, the documents.” He laid his hand on a manila envelope lying next to him on the couch. “Did you enjoy growing up in Hamburg, Jihan?”
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
“There were many other Syrians there, yes?”
She nodded.
“Enemies of the Syrian government?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
His smile said he didn’t quite believe her.
“You lived on the Marienstrasse, did you not?”
“How did you know that?”
“These are difficult times,” he said after a moment, as though Syria were experiencing a spell of inclement weather. “My security men tell me you were born in Damascus.”
“That’s correct.”
“In 1976.”
She nodded slowly.
“Also difficult times,” he said. “We saved Syria from the extremists then, and we’ll save Syria once again now.” He looked at her for a moment. “You do want the government to prevail in this war, don’t you, Jihan?”
She raised her chin a little and looked him directly in the eye. “I want peace for our country,” she said.
“We all want peace,” he replied. “But it is impossible to make peace with monsters.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. al-Farouk.”
He smiled and placed the manila envelope on the table in front of her.
“How long until your flight leaves?” he asked.
She glanced at her wristwatch and said, “Ninety minutes.”
“Are you sure you won’t have coffee?”
“No, thank you, Mr. al-Farouk,” she said primly.
“How about some food?”
She forced herself to smile. “I’ll eat something on the plane.”
For a few minutes that glorious Monday morning in Geneva, it seemed the stately old Hotel Métropole was the center of the civilized world. Black motorcars came and went from her entrance; gray diplomats and bankers flowed in and out of her doors. A famous reporter from the BBC used her as a backdrop for a live report. A band of protesters shouted at her for allowing murderers to sleep peacefully beneath her roof.
Inside the hotel, all was quiet bedlam. After his brief visit to the third floor, Yaakov had pounced upon the last open table at the Mirror Bar and was staring at the elevators over a lukewarm café crème. At 11:40 one set of doors rattled open and Jihan suddenly appeared. When she had entered the hotel a few minutes earlier, she had carried her handbag over her right shoulder. Now it was over her left. It was a prearranged signal. Left shoulder meant she had the documents. Left shoulder meant she was safe. Yaakov quickly radioed Gabriel for directions. Gabriel told Yaakov to let her run.
The team had the hotel surrounded on four sides, but no one had bothered with photographic coverage. It didn’t matter; as Jihan stepped from the front entrance, she passed through the camera shot of the BBC. The image, beamed live around the world and stored to this day in the broadcaster’s digital archives, was the last ever made of her. Her face appeared calm and resolute; her walk was swift and determined. She paused, as though confused about which of the Mercedes sedans parked outside the hotel was hers. Then a man in his mid-thirties gestured to her, and she disappeared into the backseat of a car. The man in his mid-thirties glanced toward the upper floors of the hotel before climbing behind the wheel. The car lurched from the curb, and the child of Hama was gone.
Among the many aspects of Jihan’s departure not captured by the BBC’s camera was the silver Toyota sedan that followed her. Kemel al-Farouk did notice the car, however, because at that moment he was standing in the window of his room on the hotel’s third floor. A former intelligence officer, he couldn’t help but admire the manner in which the driver of the Toyota pulled into traffic with no sense of haste or urgency. He was a professional; Kemel al-Farouk was certain of it.
He drew a mobile phone from his pocket, dialed, and murmured a few coded words that informed the man at the other end of the call that he was being followed. Then he rang off and watched the Jet d’Eau blasting a stream of water high above the lake. His thoughts, however, were on the events that would transpire next. First Mr. Omari was going to make her talk. Then Mr. Omari was going to kill her. It promised to be an entertaining afternoon. Kemel al-Farouk only wished that he could make time in his busy schedule to do it himself.
In the safe flat on the boulevard de Saint-Georges, Gabriel stood before the computer, one hand resting on his chin, head tilted to one side, transfixed. Eli Lavon paced slowly behind him, a mug of tea in hand, a writer searching for the perfect verb. The secure radio told them everything there was to know; the computer provided only corroborating evidence. Jihan Nawaz was safely back in the car, and the car was bound for Geneva International Airport. Mikhail Abramov was two hundred meters behind them on the route de Meyrin, with Yossi serving as his navigator and trusted second pair of eyes. Oded and Rimona Stern were covering the terminal. The rest of the team was en route. Everything was unfolding according to plan, with one small exception.
“What’s that?” asked Eli Lavon.
“Her phone,” replied Gabriel.
“What about it?”
“I’m just wondering why Mr. Omari hasn’t given it back to her.”
Another minute passed and still her winking red light did not appear on the screen. Gabriel raised the radio to his lips and ordered Mikhail to close the gap.
Later, during the secret inquest that followed the events in Geneva, there would be some question as to precisely when Mikhail and Yossi received Gabriel’s order. Eventually, all agreed it was 12:17. There was no question as to their location at the time; they were driving past Les Asters bar and restaurant at 88 route de Meyrin. A woman with dark hair was standing on the apartment balcony just above the café. A streetcar was snaking toward them. It was the Number 14. Of this Mikhail and Yossi were certain.
They were certain, too, that the Mercedes sedan carrying Jihan Nawaz was one hundred meters in front of them and moving at a considerable rate of speed. So considerable, in fact, that Mikhail admittedly found it difficult to make much of a dent in the interval separating the two cars. He blew through the red light at the avenue Wendt and nearly ran down a daredevil pedestrian, but it was no use. The driver of the Mercedes was tearing hell-for-leather up the boulevard as though he feared Jihan might miss her flight.
Finally, at the edges of Geneva’s compact city center, Mikhail was able to press the accelerator to the floor. And that was when the white commercial van, very new, no markings, came careening out of a narrow side street. Mikhail had less than a second to consider evasive action, and in that time determined that no options were available. There was a streetcar stop in the center of the boulevard, and heavy traffic streaming toward him in the opposing lanes. Which left no alternative but to slam hard on the brakes while simultaneously turning the wheel to the left, a maneuver that placed
the car in a controlled power skid.
The driver of the van braked, too, thus blocking both lanes of the boulevard. And when Mikhail waved at him to move, the driver climbed out of the van and began ranting in a language that sounded like a cross between French and Arabic. Mikhail climbed out, too, and for an instant considered drawing his concealed weapon. But it wasn’t necessary; after making one final lewd gesture, the driver of the van retreated to his cockpit and, smiling, inched slowly out of the way. The Mercedes was gone, and Jihan Nawaz had officially vanished from their radar screens.
The mobile phone belonging to Mr. Omari, first name unknown, rang twice after their departure from the Hotel Métropole, once as they were crossing the Pont du Mont-Blanc and again as they were approaching the airport. During the first call he said nothing; during the second he emitted little more than a grunt before killing the connection. Jihan’s phone lay next to him on the center console. Thus far, he had given no indication he planned to return it, now or ever.
“You must be curious about the nature of those documents,” he said after a moment.
“Not at all,” she replied.
“Really?” He turned and looked at her. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“Why?”
“Because most people are naturally curious when it comes to the financial affairs of powerful people.”
“I deal with powerful people all the time.”
“Not like Mr. al-Farouk.” He smiled unpleasantly. Then he said, “Go ahead. Have a look.”
“I was told not to.”
Jihan remained motionless. His smile disappeared.
“Look at the documents,” he said again.
“I can’t.”
“Mr. al-Farouk just told me that he wanted you to open the envelope before you get on the plane.”
“Unless he tells me himself, I can’t.”
“Look at them, Jihan. It’s important.”
She removed the manila envelope from her purse and offered it to him. He raised his hands defensively, as though she were offering him a venomous snake.
“I’m not allowed to see them,” he said. “Only you.”
She released the metal tab, lifted the flap, and removed the sheaf of documents. It was a half-inch thick and bound by a metal clasp. The top page was blank.
“There,” she said. “I’ve looked at them. Can we go to the airport now?”
“Look at the next page,” he said, smiling again.
She did. It was blank as well. So was the third. And the fourth. Then she looked up at Mr. Omari and saw the gun in his hand, the gun that was pointed at her chest.
53
GENEVA
AT TWO O’CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON, the Geneva Conference on Syria convened at the lakefront headquarters of the United Nations. The dour American secretary of state called for an orderly transition from the regime to democracy, something the Syrian foreign minister said would never happen. Not surprisingly, his position won the support of his Russian counterpart, who warned that the Kremlin would veto any attempt, military or diplomatic, to force its only ally in the Arab world from power. At the conclusion of the session, the UN secretary-general meekly declared the negotiations “a promising start.” The global media disagreed. They characterized the entire episode as a monumental waste of time and money, mainly theirs, and went in search of a real story to cover.
Elsewhere in the enchanted little city, life went on as normal. The bankers plied their trade along the rue du Rhône, the cafés of the Old City filled and emptied, white jetliners rose into the clear skies above Geneva International Airport. Among the flights that departed that afternoon was Austrian Airlines 577. Its only irregularity was the absence of a single passenger, a female, age thirty-nine, born in Syria and raised on a street in Hamburg that would be forever linked to Islamic terrorism. Given the woman’s unusual background and the events taking place in Geneva that day, the airline forwarded a report to the Swiss aviation authority, which in turn sent the information to the NDB, the Swiss intelligence and security service. Eventually, it crossed the desk of Christoph Bittel, who, coincidentally, had been placed in command of security for the Syrian peace talks. He made a routine request for information from his brethren in Berlin and Vienna and was told in short order that they had nothing to report. Even so, he sent a copy of her file and photo to the Geneva police, to the American and Russian diplomatic security services, and even to the Syrians. And then he moved on to more pressing matters.
The failure of the woman to board her Vienna-bound flight was of significantly more concern to the two men in the safe flat on the boulevard de Saint-Georges. In the span of a few minutes, their mood had swung wildly from one of quiet confidence to quiet desperation. They had recruited her, lied to her, and then revealed themselves to her. They had promised to protect her, promised to give her a new life in a place where the monsters who had murdered her family would never find her. And now, in the blink of an eye, they had lost her. But why had the monsters brought her to Geneva in the first place? And why had they allowed her to enter a hotel room where Kemel al-Farouk, Syria’s deputy foreign minister and trusted adviser of the ruler, was present?
“Obviously,” said Eli Lavon, “it was a trap.”
“Obviously?” asked Gabriel.
Lavon looked at the computer screen. “Do you see a red light?” he asked. “Because I don’t.”
“That doesn’t mean it was a trap.”
“What does it mean?”
“Why take her here during the peace conference? Why didn’t they take her in Linz?”
“Because they knew we were watching her, and they didn’t think they could get her cleanly.”
“So they created an excuse to bring her to Geneva? Something we couldn’t resist? Is that what you’re saying, Eli?”
“Sound familiar?”
“What’s your point?”
“That’s exactly the way we would have done it.”
Gabriel wasn’t convinced. “Did you happen to notice any agents of Syrian intelligence when we were in Linz?”
“That doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
“Did you, Eli?”
“No,” Lavon said, shaking his head. “I can’t say that I did.”
“Neither did I,” replied Gabriel. “And that’s because Waleed al-Siddiqi and Jihan Nawaz were the only Syrians in town. She was clean until her plane landed in Geneva.”
“What happened?”
“This happened.” Gabriel pressed the PLAY icon on the computer and a few seconds later came the sound of Waleed al-Siddiqi murmuring in Arabic.
“The phone call from Damascus?” asked Lavon.
Gabriel nodded. “If I had to guess,” he said, “it was someone from the Mukhabarat telling Waleed that he’d hired a woman from Hama to serve as his account manager.”
“Big mistake.”
“Which is why Waleed then called Kemel al-Farouk at the Hotel Métropole and told him to cancel the meeting.”
“But al-Farouk had a better idea?”
“Maybe it was al-Farouk’s idea. Or maybe it was Mr. Omari’s. The point is,” Gabriel added, “they’ve got nothing on her other than the fact that she lied about her place of birth.”
“Something tells me it won’t take them long to discover the truth.”
“I agree.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Make a deal, of course.”
“How?”
“Like this.” Gabriel typed a three-word message to King Saul Boulevard and pressed SEND.
“That should get their attention,” said Lavon. “All we need now is someone to negotiate with.”
“We have someone, Eli.”
“Who?”
Gabriel turned the computer around so Lavon could see the screen. A red light was winking on the rue Saint-Honoré, in the First Arrondissement of Paris. Waleed al-Siddiqi had finally switched on his phone.
Uzi Navot had a body built for leverag
e, not speed. Even so, all those who witnessed his headlong dash from the Ops Center to Room 414C would later say they had never seen a chief move so quickly. He hammered so hard on the door it seemed he was trying to break it down, and once inside he made straight for the computer terminal that had been reserved for the heist. “Is it still ready to go?” he asked of no one in particular, and from somewhere in the room came the reply that everything was in order. Navot leaned down and, with far more force than was necessary, pressed the button. It was 4:22 p.m. in Tel Aviv, 3:22 p.m. in Geneva. And all around the world, trapdoors were swinging open and money was beginning to flow.
Approximately five minutes after crossing the French border, Mr. Omari dragged Jihan screaming into the trunk of the car. The lid closed upon her with a heavy thud of finality, and her world turned to black. It was like Hama during the siege, she thought. But here in the trunk of the car, there were no explosions or screams to pierce the darkness, only the maddening drone of the tires over pavement. She imagined she was in her mother’s arms again, clinging to her hijab. She even imagined she could smell her mother’s rose-scented perfume. Then the stench of petrol overwhelmed her, and the memory of her mother’s embrace slipped from her grasp, leaving only the fear. She knew what fate awaited her; she had seen it all before, during the dark days that followed the siege. She would be interrogated. Then she would be killed. There was nothing to be done. It was God’s will.
The darkness made it impossible for Jihan to see her wristwatch and therefore to keep track of the passage of time. She hummed to herself to hide her fear. And, briefly, she thought about the Israeli intelligence officer whose name she had written on the surface of the Attersee. He would never abandon her; she was certain of it. But she had to somehow keep herself alive long enough for him to find her. Then she remembered a man she had met in Hamburg when she was a university student, a Syrian dissident who had been tortured by the Mukhabarat. He had survived, he said, because he had told the interrogators things he thought they wanted to hear. Jihan would do the same thing—not the truth, of course, but a lie so irresistible they would want to hear every last word of it. She had no doubts about her ability to deceive them. She had been deceiving people her entire life.
