The Black Widow

by Daniel Silva

  76

  NAHALAL, ISRAEL

  THEY RETURNED HER TO THE place where it all began, to the farmhouse in the old moshav of Nahalal. Her room was as she had left it, save for the volume of Darwish poetry, which had vanished. So, too, had the outsize photographs of Palestinian suffering. The walls of the sitting room were now hung with paintings.

  “Yours?” she asked on the evening of her arrival.

  “Some,” answered Gabriel.

  “Which ones?”

  “The ones with no signatures.”

  “And the others?”

  “My mother.”

  Her eyes moved across the canvases. “She was obviously a great influence on you.”

  “Actually, we influenced each other.”

  “You were competitive?”

  “Very.”

  She went to the French doors and gazed across the darkened valley, toward the lights of the Arab village atop the hillock.

  “How long can I stay here?”

  “As long as you like.”

  “And then?”

  “That,” said Gabriel, “is entirely up to you.”

  She was the farmhouse’s only occupant, but she was never truly alone. A security detail monitored her every move, as did the cameras and the microphones, which recorded the awful sounds of her night terrors. Saladin appeared often in her dreams. Sometimes he was the wounded, helpless man whom she had encountered in the house near Mosul. And sometimes he was the strong, elegantly dressed figure who had so gleefully sentenced her to die in a cottage at the edge of the Shenandoah. Safia came to Natalie in her dreams, too. She never wore a hijab or abaya, only the gray five-button jacket she had worn the night of her death, and her hair was always blond. She was Safia as she might have been if radical Islam hadn’t sunk its hooks into her. She was Safia the impressionable girl.

  Natalie explained all this to the team of physicians and therapists who checked in on her every few days. They prescribed sleeping pills, which she refused to take, and anti-anxiety medication, which left her feeling dull and listless. To aid in her recovery, she led herself on punishing training runs on the farm roads of the valley. As before, she covered her arms and legs, not out of piety, but because it was late autumn and quite cold. The security guards kept watch over her always, as did the other residents of Nahalal. It was a tight-knit community, with many veterans of the IDF and the security services. They came to regard Natalie as their responsibility. They also came to believe she was the one they had read about in the newspapers. The one who had infiltrated the most vicious terrorist group the world had ever known. The one who had gone to the caliphate and lived to tell about it.

  The doctors were not her only visitors. Her parents came often, sometimes spending the night, and early each afternoon she had a session with her old trainers. This time, their task was to undo what they had done before, to flush Natalie’s system of Palestinian enmity and Islamic zeal, to turn her into an Israeli again. “But not too Israeli,” Gabriel cautioned the trainers. He had invested a great deal of time and effort transforming Natalie into one of his enemies. He did not want to lose her because of a few terrifying minutes in a Virginia cottage.

  She was visited, too, by Dina Sarid. During six interminable sessions, all recorded, she debriefed Natalie in far greater detail than before—her time in Raqqa and the camp at Palmyra, her initial interrogation at the hands of Abu Ahmed al-Tikriti, the many hours she had spent alone with the former Iraqi intelligence officer who called himself Saladin. All the material would eventually find its way into Dina’s voluminous files, for she was already preparing for the next round. Saladin, she had warned the Office, was not finished. One day soon he would come for Jerusalem.

  At the end of the last session, after Dina had switched off her computer and packed away her notes, the two women sat in silence for a long time as night fell heavily over the valley.

  “I owe you an apology,” said Dina at last.

  “For what?”

  “For talking you into it. I shouldn’t have. I was wrong.”

  “If not me,” said Natalie, “then who?”

  “Someone else.”

  “Would you have done it?”

  “No,” answered Dina, to her everlasting credit. “I don’t think I would have. In the end it wasn’t worth it. He beat us.”

  “This time,” said Natalie.

  Yes, thought Dina. This time . . .

  Mikhail waited nearly a week before making his first appearance at the farm. The delay was not his idea; the doctors feared his presence might further complicate Natalie’s already complicated recovery. His initial visit was brief, a little more than an hour, and entirely professional, save for an intimate exchange in the moonlit garden that escaped the sharp ears of the microphones.

  The next night they watched a film—French, Hebrew subtitles—and the night after that, with the approval of Uzi Navot, they went for a pizza in Caesarea. Afterward, while walking in the Roman ruins, Mikhail told Natalie about the worst few minutes of his life. They had occurred, oddly enough, in his homeland, at a dacha many miles east of Moscow. A hostage rescue operation had gone awry, he and two other operatives were about to be killed. But another man had traded his life for theirs, and they all three had survived. One of the operatives had recently given birth to a set of twins. And the other, he said portentously, would soon be the chief of the Office.

  “Gabriel?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “And the woman?”

  “It was his wife.”

  “My God.” They walked in silence for a moment. “So what is the moral of this awful story?”

  “There is no moral,” answered Mikhail. “It’s just what we do. And then we try to forget.”

  “Have you managed to forget?”

  “No.”

  “How often do you think about it?”

  “Every night.”

  “I suppose you were right after all,” said Natalie after a moment.

  “About what?”

  “I’m more like you than I realized.”

  “You are now.”

  She took his hand. “When?” she whispered into his ear.

  “That,” said Mikhail, smiling, “is entirely up to you.”

  The following afternoon, when Natalie returned from her training run in the valley, she found Gabriel waiting in the sitting room of the farmhouse. He was dressed in a gray suit and a white open-neck dress shirt; he looked very professional. On the coffee table before him were three files. The first, he said, was the final report of Natalie’s team of doctors.

  “What does it say?”

  “It says,” answered Gabriel evenly, “that you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, which, given what you went through in Syria and America, is entirely understandable.”

  “And my prognosis?”

  “Quite good, actually. With proper medication and counseling, you will eventually make a full recovery. In fact,” Gabriel added, “we are all of the opinion you can leave here whenever you like.”

  “And the other two files?”

  “A choice,” he answered obliquely.

  “What kind of choice?”

  “It concerns your future.”

  She pointed to one of the files. “What’s in that one?”

  “A termination agreement.”

  “And the other?”

  “The exact opposite.”

  A silence fell between them. It was Gabriel who broke it.

  “I assume you’ve heard the rumors about my pending promotion.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “It seems the reports of my demise were greatly exaggerated.”

  “Mine, too.”

  He smiled warmly. Then his expression turned serious. “Some chiefs are fortunate enough to serve during relatively quiet times. They serve their term, they collect their accolades, and then they go forth into the world to make money. I’m confident I won’t be so lucky. The next few ye
ars promise to be tumultuous for the Middle East and for Israel. It will be up to the Office to help determine whether we survive in this land.” He looked out at the valley, the valley of his youth. “It would be a dereliction of duty if I were to let someone of your obvious gifts slip through my fingers.”

  He said nothing more. Natalie made a show of thought.

  “What is it?” he asked. “More money?”

  “No,” she answered, shaking her head. “I was wondering about the Office policy regarding relationships between coworkers.”

  “Officially, we discourage it.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “We’re Jewish, Natalie. We’re natural matchmakers.”

  “How well do you know Mikhail?”

  “I know him in ways only you could understand.”

  “He told me about Russia.”

  “Did he?” Gabriel frowned. “That was insecure on his part.”

  “It was in service of a good cause.”

  “And what cause was that?”

  Natalie picked up the third file, the one with the employment contract.

  “Did you bring a pen?” she asked.

  77

  PETAH TIKVA, ISRAEL

  THE END WAS NEAR, IT was plain to see. On the Thursday, Uzi Navot was seen lugging several cardboard boxes from his office suite, including a lifetime supply of his beloved butter cookies, a parting gift from the Vienna station chief. The next morning, during the nine a.m. senior staff meeting, he acted as though a great weight had been lifted from his sturdy shoulders. And that afternoon, before departing for the weekend, he made a slow tour of King Saul Boulevard from the top floor to the underground recesses of Registry, shaking hands, patting shoulders, and kissing a few damp cheeks. Curiously, he avoided the dark, forbidding lair occupied by Personnel, the place where careers went to die.

  Navot spent the Saturday behind the walls of his residence in the Tel Aviv suburb of Petah Tikva. Gabriel knew this because the movements of the ramsad, the official abbreviation for the head of the Office, were monitored constantly by the operations desk, as were his own. He decided it was better to show up unannounced, thus preserving the element of surprise. He slid from the back of his official SUV into a pouring rain and pressed the call button of the intercom at the front gate. Twenty long wet seconds elapsed before a voice answered. Unfortunately, it was Bella’s.

  “What do you want?”

  “I need to have a word with Uzi.”

  “Haven’t you done enough already?”

  “Please, Bella. It’s important.”

  “It always is.”

  Another prolonged delay ensued before the locks opened with an inhospitable snap. Gabriel opened the gate and hurried up the garden walk to the front entrance, where Bella awaited him. She wore an elaborate flowing pantsuit of embroidered crushed silk and gold sandals. Her hair was newly coiffed, her face was discreetly but thoroughly made up. She looked as though she were entertaining. She always did. Appearances had always mattered to Bella, which is why Gabriel had never understood her decision to marry a man like Uzi Navot. Perhaps, he thought, she had done it simply out of cruelty. Bella always struck Gabriel as the sort who enjoyed pulling the wings off flies.

  Coldly, she shook Gabriel’s hand. Her nails were blood red.

  “You’re looking well, Bella.”

  “You, too. But then I suppose that’s to be expected.”

  She gestured toward the sitting room, where Navot was working his way through the latest edition of the Economist. The room was a showpiece of contemporary Asian design, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the waterworks and manicured shrubbery in the garden. Navot looked like one of the workmen whom Bella had so terrorized during the long renovation. He wore wrinkled chinos and a stretched-out cotton pullover, and the gray stubble of his hair had encroached on his cheeks and chin. His disheveled appearance surprised Gabriel. Bella had never been one to permit weekend negligence when it came to grooming and dress.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

  “Hemlock,” answered Gabriel.

  Frowning, Bella withdrew. Gabriel looked around the large room. It was three times the size of the sitting room of his little apartment in Narkiss Street. Perhaps, he thought, it was time for an upgrade. He sat down directly opposite Navot, who was now staring at a silent television. Earlier that day, the Americans had launched a drone strike on a house in western Iraq where Saladin was thought to be hiding. Twenty-two people had been killed, including several children.

  “Think they got him?” asked Navot.

  “No,” answered Gabriel, watching as a limp body was pulled from the rubble. “I don’t think they did.”

  “Neither do I.” Navot switched off the television. “I hear you managed to convince Natalie to join the Office full-time.”

  “Actually, Mikhail did it for me.”

  “Think they’re serious?”

  Gabriel gave a noncommittal shrug. “Love is harder in the real world than in the secret world.”

  “Tell me about it,” murmured Navot. He plucked a low-calorie rice treat from a bowl on the coffee table. “What’s this I hear about Eli Lavon coming back?”

  “It’s true.”

  “As what?”

  “Nominally, he’ll oversee the watchers. In truth, I’ll use him as I see fit.”

  “Who gets Special Ops?”

  “Yaakov.”

  “Good call,” said Navot, “but Mikhail will be disappointed.”

  “Mikhail isn’t ready. Yaakov is.”

  “What about Yossi?”

  “Head of Research. Dina will be his number two.”

  “And Rimona?”

  “Deputy director for planning.”

  “A clean sweep. I suppose it’s for the best.” Navot stared blankly at the darkened television screen.

  “I heard a rumor about you the other day when I was in the prime minister’s office.”

  “Really?”

  “They say you’re moving to California to work for a defense contractor. They say you’re going to make a million dollars a year, plus bonuses.”

  “When searching for the truth,” said Navot philosophically, “the last place one should look is the prime minister’s office.”

  “My source says Bella has already picked out the house.”

  Navot scooped a handful of the rice treats from the bowl. “And what if it’s true? What difference does it make?”

  “I need you, Uzi. I can’t do this job without you.”

  “What would you call me? What would I actually do?”

  “You’ll run the place and see to the politics while I run the ops.”

  “A manager?”

  “You’re better with people than I am, Uzi.”

  “That,” said Navot, “is the understatement of the year.”

  Gabriel gazed out the window. The rain was lashing Bella’s garden.

  “How can you go to California at a time like this? How can you leave Israel?”

  “You’re one to talk. You lived abroad for years, and you socked away plenty of money restoring all those paintings, too. It’s my turn now. Besides,” Navot added, “you don’t really need me.”

  “I’m not making this offer out of the goodness of my heart. My motives are purely selfish.” Gabriel lowered his voice and added, “You’re the closest thing to a brother I have, Uzi. You and Eli Lavon. Things are going to get rough. I need you both at my side.”

  “Is there no depth to which you won’t stoop?”

  “I learned from the best, Uzi. So did you.”

  “Sorry, Gabriel, but it’s too late. I’ve already accepted the job.”

  “Tell them you’ve had a change of heart. Tell them your country needs you.”

  Navot nibbled thoughtfully at the rice treats, one by one. It was, thought Gabriel, an encouraging sign.

  “Has the prime minister approved it?”

  “He didn’t have much of a choice.”
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  “Where will my office be?”

  “Across the hall from mine.”

  “Secretary?”

  “We’ll share Orit.”

  “The minute you try to cut me out of something,” warned Navot, “I walk. I get to talk to you whenever and wherever I please.”

  “You’ll be sick of me in no time.”

  “That much I believe.”

  The rice treats were gone. Navot exhaled heavily.

  “What’s wrong, Uzi?”

  “I’m just wondering how I’m going to tell Bella that I’ve turned down a million-dollar-a-year job in California to stay at the Office.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said Gabriel. “You’ve always been good with people.”

  78

  JERUSALEM

  WHEN GABRIEL RETURNED TO Narkiss Street, he found Chiara dressed in a dark professional pantsuit and the children strapped into their carry seats. Together, they made the short drive across West Jerusalem to the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital. In the old days, before his remarriage, before his unwanted celebrity, Gabriel had slipped in and out of the facility unnoticed, usually late at night. Now he arrived with all the subtlety of a visiting head of state, a circle of bodyguards protecting him, Raphael wriggling in his grasp. Chiara walked silently at his side, Irene in her arms, her heels clattering over the paving stones of the forecourt. He did not envy her this moment. He took her hand and squeezed it tightly while Raphael tugged at his earlobe.

  In the lobby waited a rotund, rabbinical-looking doctor in his late fifties. He had approved of the visit—in fact, Gabriel reminded himself, it was the doctor who had suggested it in the first place. Now he didn’t seem so certain it was a good idea.

  “How much does she know?” asked Gabriel as his son reached for the doctor’s spectacles.

  “I told her that she’s going to have visitors. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged his rounded shoulders. “I thought it would be best if you were the one who explained it to her.”

  Gabriel handed Raphael to Chiara and followed the doctor along a corridor of Jerusalem limestone, to the doorway of a common room. It was empty of patients except for one. She sat in her wheelchair with the stillness of a figure in a painting while behind her a television flickered silently. On the screen Gabriel briefly glimpsed his own face. It was a still photo, snapped a thousand years ago, after his return from Operation Wrath of God. He might have looked like a kid were it not for the gray hair at his temples. The smudges of ash on the prince of fire . . .