The Black Widow

by Daniel Silva

  “Have you forgotten that we’re having coffee today?”

  Natalie recognized the voice. “Of course not,” she answered quickly. “I’m just running a few minutes late. Where are you?”

  “Café de Flore. It’s on—”

  “I know where it is,” she interrupted with a flash of French superiority. “I’m on my way.”

  The connection went dead. Natalie dropped the phone into her bag and went into the street. Her pursuer was not there, but on the opposite pavement was one of the French surveillance men. He followed her through the Luxembourg Quarter to the boulevard Saint-Germain, where Dina Sarid was waving to her from a sidewalk table of one of Paris’s most famous coffeehouses. She was brightly veiled and wearing a pair of large movie starlet sunglasses.

  “Even with that getup,” said Natalie softly as she kissed Dina’s cheek, “you still look like an Ashkenazi Jew in a hijab.”

  “The maître d’ doesn’t agree. I was lucky to get a table.”

  Natalie laid a napkin across her lap. “I think I’m being followed.”

  “You are.”

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  Dina only smiled.

  “Is he the one we want?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How do you want me to play it?”

  “Hard to get. And remember,” added Dina, “no kissing on the first date.”

  Natalie opened her menu and sighed. “I need a drink.”

  29

  AUBERVILLIERS, FRANCE

  LEILA? IS THAT REALLY YOU? It’s Jalal. Jalal Nasser from London. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago. May I join you? I was just going to have a coffee myself.”

  He blurted all this in classical Jordanian Arabic while hovering over Natalie’s usual table at the café opposite her apartment. It was late the following morning, a Sunday, the air cool and soft, the sun adrift in a cloudless sky. The traffic in the street was light; consequently, Natalie had seen him walking along the pavement from a long way off. Passing her table, he had stopped abruptly—as Natalie had stopped on the footpaths of the Luxembourg Gardens—and spun around as though his shoulder had been tapped. He approached her slowly and established himself so that the sun was at his back and his long shadow fell upon Natalie’s open newspaper. Looking up, she shaded her eyes and regarded him coolly, as if for the first time. His hair was tightly curled and neatly styled, his jawline was square and strong, his smile was restrained but warm. Women found him attractive, and he knew it.

  “You’re blocking the light,” she said.

  He grasped the back of an empty chair. “May I?”

  Before Natalie could object, he pulled the chair away from the table and settled himself proprietarily into it. And there it was, she thought. All the preparation, all the training—and now he sat before her, the one they wanted, the one who would place her in the hands of Saladin. All at once she realized her heart was tolling like an iron bell. Her discomfort must have been apparent, because he placed a hand on the sleeve of her modest silk blouse. Met by her reproachful glare, he hastily removed it.

  “Forgive me. I don’t want you to be nervous.”

  But she wasn’t nervous, she told herself. And why should she be? She was in her usual café across the street from her apartment. She was a respected member of the community, a healer who cared for the residents of the cités and spoke to them in their native language, though with a distinct Palestinian accent. She was Dr. Leila Hadawi, graduate of the Université Paris-Sud, fully accredited and licensed to practice medicine by the government of France. She was Leila from Sumayriyya, Leila who loved Ziad. And the handsome creature who had just intruded on her Sunday-morning coffee, who had dared to touch the hem of her sleeve, was of no consequence.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, folding her newspaper absently, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Jalal,” he repeated. “Jalal Nasser.”

  “Jalal from London?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say we’ve met before?”

  “Briefly.”

  “That would explain why I don’t remember you.”

  “It might.”

  “And where exactly did we meet?”

  “It was in the Place de la République, two months ago. Or maybe it was three. There was a demonstration against—”

  “I remember it.” She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “But I don’t remember you.”

  “We spoke afterward. I told you that I admired your passion and commitment to the issue of Palestine. I said I wanted to discuss it with you further. I wrote down my contact information on the back of a leaflet and gave it to you.”

  “If you say so.” Feigning boredom, she gazed into the street. “Do you use this tired approach on all the women you see sitting alone in cafés?”

  “Are you accusing me of making this entire thing up?”

  “I might be.”

  “How did I know you were at the demonstration in the Place de la République if I wasn’t there?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “I know you were there,” he said, “because I was there, too.”

  “So you say.”

  He flagged down the waiter and ordered a café crème. Natalie turned her head and smiled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your French is atrocious.”

  “I live in London.”

  “We’ve established that.”

  “I’m a student at King’s College,” he explained.

  “Aren’t you a bit old to still be a student?”

  “My father tells me the same thing.”

  “Your father sounds like a wise man. Does he live in London, too?”

  “Amman.” He fell silent as the waiter placed a coffee before him. Then, casually, he asked, “Your mother is from Jordan, is she not?”

  This time, the silence was Leila’s. It was the silence of suspicion, the silence of an exile. “How do you know my mother is from Jordan?” she asked at last.

  “You told me.”

  “When?”

  “After the demonstration, of course. You told me your mother’s family lived in Nablus. You said they fled to Jordan and were forced to live in the refugee camp at Zarqa. I know this camp, by the way. I have many friends from this camp. I used to pray in the mosque there. Do you know the mosque in Zarqa camp?”

  “Are you referring to the al-Falah Mosque?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “I know it well,” she said. “But I’m quite certain I never mentioned any of this to you.”

  “How could I know about your mother if you didn’t tell me?”

  Again, she was silent.

  “You also told me about your father.”

  “Not possible.”

  He ignored her objection. “He wasn’t from Nablus like your mother. He was from the Western Galilee.” He paused, then added, “From Sumayriyya.”

  Her expression darkened and she engaged in a series of tiny gestures that interrogators refer to as displacement activity. She adjusted her hijab, she tapped a nail against the rim of her coffee cup, she glanced nervously around the quiet Sunday street—anywhere but into the face of the man seated on the other side of the table, the man who would place her in the hands of Saladin.

  “I don’t know who you are,” she said finally, “but I’ve never told you anything about my parents. In fact, I’m quite certain I’ve never seen you until this moment.”

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do I know these things about you?”

  “Maybe you’re from the DGSI?”

  “Me? French intelligence? My French is dreadful. You said so yourself.”

  “Then maybe you’re American. Or Israeli,” she added.

  “You’re paranoid.”

  “That’s because I’m a Palestinian. And if you don’t tell me who you really are and what you want, I’m leaving. And there’s a very good chance I
might find the nearest gendarme and tell him about the strange man who knows things about me he shouldn’t.”

  “It’s never a good idea for Muslims to get involved with the French police, Leila. There’s a good chance they’ll open an S file on you. And if they do, they’ll learn things that could prove detrimental to someone in your position.”

  She placed a five-euro note next to her coffee and started to rise, but once again he placed his hand on her arm—not lightly but with a grip that was shockingly firm. And all the while he was smiling for the benefit of the waiter and the passersby, immigrants and native French, filing past through the soft sunlight.

  “Who are you?” she murmured through clenched teeth.

  “My name is Jalal Nasser.”

  “Jalal from London?”

  “Correct.”

  “Have we ever met before?”

  “No.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I was asked to come.”

  “By whom?”

  “You, of course.” He relaxed his grip. “Don’t be nervous, Leila,” he said calmly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m only here to help. I’m going to give you the chance you’ve been waiting for. I’m going to make your dreams come true.”

  Paul Rousseau’s observation post was located directly above the café, and the sharp downward angle of the surveillance camera was such that Natalie and Jalal seemed like characters in an avant-garde French film. Audio coverage was supplied by Natalie’s mobile phone, which meant that, when viewed live, there was a maddening two-second audio delay. But afterward, in the safe house at Seraincourt, Mordecai produced an edited version of the encounter in which sound and video were synchronized. With Eli Lavon at his side, Gabriel watched it three times from beginning to end. Then he adjusted the time code to 11:17:38 and clicked on the play icon.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I was asked to come.”

  “By whom?”

  “You, of course.”

  Gabriel clicked PAUSE.

  “Impressive performance,” said Eli Lavon.

  “His or hers?”

  “Both, actually.”

  Gabriel clicked PLAY.

  “I’m going to give you the chance you’ve been waiting for. I’m going to make your dreams come true.”

  “Who told you about these dreams of mine?”

  “My friend Nabil. Perhaps you remember him.”

  “Very well.”

  “Nabil told me about the conversation you had after the demonstration in the Place de la République.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because Nabil and I work for the same organization.”

  “Which organization?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Not here. Not now.”

  Gabriel clicked PAUSE and looked at Lavon. “Why not here?” he asked. “Why not now?”

  “You didn’t really think he would make his move in the café, did you?”

  Gabriel frowned and pressed PLAY.

  “Perhaps we can meet somewhere more private to talk at length.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Are you free this evening?”

  “I might be.”

  “Do you know La Courneuve?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you make your way there?”

  “It’s not far. I can walk.”

  “There’s a large housing estate on the Avenue Leclerc.”

  “I know it.”

  “Be outside the pharmacy at nine. Don’t bring your mobile phone or anything electronic. And dress warmly.”

  Gabriel paused the recording. “Sounds to me like they’re going to be traveling by motorbike.”

  “Brilliant,” said Lavon.

  “Jalal or me?”

  A silence fell between them. It was Lavon who finally broke it.

  “What are you worried about?”

  “I’m worried that he’s going to drive her to a secluded location, brutally interrogate her, and then cut her head off. Other than that, I have no concerns at all.”

  Another silence, longer than the first.

  “What are you going to do?” Lavon asked finally.

  Gabriel stared at the computer screen, one hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. Then he reached down, reset the time code, and pressed PLAY.

  “Leila? Is that really you? It’s Jalal. Jalal Nasser from London . . .”

  30

  LA COURNEUVE, FRANCE

  THE CLEAR SKIES WERE BY that evening a pleasant memory. A cold, damp wind plucked at Natalie’s hijab as she made her way along the Avenue Leclerc, and above her head a blanket of thick clouds obscured the moon and stars. The raw weather was more typical of the northern banlieues; a trick of the prevailing southwesterly winds gave them a distinctly gloomier climate than the center of Paris. It only added to the air of dystopian misery that hung like a gray shroud over the looming concrete towers of the cités.

  One of the largest housing estates in the entire department rose before Natalie now, two enormous slabs in the brutalist style, one tall and rectangular, like a giant deck of playing cards, the other lower and longer, as if to provide architectural balance. Between the two structures was a broad esplanade planted with many youthful trees in green leaf. A flock of veiled women, some wearing full facial veils, conversed quietly in Arabic while a few feet away a quartet of teenage boys openly passed a joint, knowing that a patrol by the French police was exceedingly unlikely. Natalie slipped past the women, returning their greeting of peace, and headed toward the parade of shops at the base of the tower. A supermarket, a hair salon, a small carryout restaurant, an optician, a pharmacy—all of life’s needs met in one convenient location. That was the goal of the central planners, to create self-contained utopias for the working classes. Few residents of the banlieues ventured into the center of Paris unless they were lucky enough to have jobs there. Even then, they joked that the short journey, ten minutes on the RER, required a passport and proof of vaccination.

  Natalie made her way to the entrance of the pharmacy. Outside was a pair of modular concrete benches, upon which sat several Africans in traditional flowing dress. She reckoned it was a few minutes before nine o’clock, but couldn’t be sure; as instructed she had come without electronic devices, including her battery-powered wristwatch. One of the Africans, a tall thin man with skin like ebony, offered Natalie his seat, but with only a polite smile she indicated she preferred to stand. She watched the evening traffic moving in the avenue, and the hidden women chattering softly in Arabic, and the now-stoned teenage boys, who in turn were eyeing her malevolently, as though they could see the truth beneath her veil. She drew a deep breath to slow the beat of her heart. I’m in France, she told herself. Nothing can happen to me here.

  Several minutes elapsed, long enough for Natalie to wonder whether Jalal Nasser had decided to abort the meeting. Behind her, the pharmacy door opened and from inside emerged a Frenchman who might have been mistaken for a North African. Natalie recognized him; he was one of her watchers from the French security service. He slipped past without a word and climbed into the backseat of a battered Renault. Approaching the car from behind was a motor scooter, black in color, large enough to accommodate two passengers. It stopped outside the pharmacy, a few feet from where Natalie stood. The driver lifted the visor of his helmet and smiled.

  “You’re late,” said Natalie, annoyed.

  “Actually,” said Jalal Nasser, “you were early.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I followed you.”

  He removed a second helmet from the rear storage compartment. Warily, Natalie accepted it. This was something they hadn’t covered during her training at the farm in Nahalal, how to wear a helmet over a hijab. She slipped it on carefully, buckled the strap beneath her chin, and climbed onto the back of the bike. Instantly, it lurched forward into the traffic. As the
y shot through the canyons of the cités in a blur, Natalie wrapped her arms around Jalal Nasser’s waist and held on for her life. I’m in France, she reassured herself. Nothing can happen to me here. Then she realized her mistake. She wasn’t in France, not anymore.

  Earlier that afternoon, in the elegant salon of Château Treville, there had been an intense debate regarding the level of surveillance required for that evening’s meeting. Gabriel, perhaps owing to the burden of pending command, had wanted as many eyes as possible on his agent, both human and electronic. Only Eli Lavon dared to offer a countervailing opinion. Lavon knew the possibilities of surveillance, and its pitfalls. Clearly, he argued, Jalal Nasser intended to take his potential recruit on a surveillance-detection run before baring his jihadist soul to her. And if he discovered they were being followed, the operation would be doomed before it left port. Nor was it possible, said Lavon, to conceal a tracking beacon on Natalie, because the technologically minded operatives of ISIS and al-Qaeda knew how to find them.

  It was a brotherly row, but heated. There were voices raised, mild insults exchanged, and a piece of fruit, a banana of all things, hurled in frustration—though afterward Lavon insisted that Gabriel’s lightning-fast duck, while impressive, had been wholly unnecessary, for it was only a warning shot across the bow. Lavon prevailed in the end, if only because Gabriel, in his operational heart, knew that his old friend was correct. He was magnanimous in defeat, but no less worried about sending his agent into the meeting entirely alone. Despite his unthreatening appearance, Jalal Nasser was a ruthless and committed jihadi killer who had served as a project manager for two devastating terror attacks. And Natalie, for all her training and intelligence, was a Jew who happened to speak Arabic very well.