The New Girl

by Daniel Silva

  She turned inland and wandered the streets, seemingly without purpose or destination. In truth, she was engaging in a surveillance-detection run using techniques taught to her by both the Agency and the Office. On Dizengoff Street, while leaving a pharmacy with a bottle of shampoo she did not need, she concluded she was being followed. There was nothing specific, no confirmed sighting, just a nagging sense that someone was watching her.

  She walked through the cool shadows of the chinaberry trees. The pavements were crowded with midmorning shoppers. Dizengoff Street . . . The name was familiar. Something awful had happened on Dizengoff Street, Sarah was certain of it. And then she remembered. Dizengoff Street had been the target of a Hamas suicide bombing in October 1994 that killed twenty-two people.

  Sarah knew someone who had been wounded, an Office terrorism analyst named Dina Sarid. She had once described the attack to Sarah. The bomb had contained more than forty pounds of military-grade TNT and nails soaked in rat poison. It exploded at nine a.m., aboard the Number 5 bus. The force of the blast hurled human limbs into the nearby cafés. For a long time afterward, blood dripped from the leaves of the chinaberry trees.

  It rained blood that morning on Dizengoff Street, Sarah . . .

  But where exactly had it happened? The bus had just picked up several passengers in Dizengoff Square and was heading north. Sarah checked her current position on her iPhone. Then she crossed to the opposite side of the street and continued south, until she came upon a small gray memorial at the base of a chinaberry tree. The tree was much shorter than the others on the street, and younger.

  Sarah approached the memorial and scrutinized the names of the victims. They were written in Hebrew.

  “Can you read it?”

  Startled, Sarah turned and saw a man standing on the pavement in a pool of dappled light. He was tall and long-limbed, with fair hair and pale, bloodless skin. Dark glasses concealed his eyes.

  “No,” answered Sarah at length. “I can’t.”

  “You don’t speak Hebrew?” The man’s English contained the unmistakable trace of a Russian accent.

  “I studied it briefly, but I stopped.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  The man crouched before the memorial. “Here are the names you’re looking for. Sarid, Sarid, Sarid.” He looked up at Sarah. “Dina’s mother and two of her sisters.”

  He stood and raised his dark glasses, revealing his eyes. They were blue-gray and translucent—like glacial ice, thought Sarah. She had always loved Mikhail’s eyes.

  “How long have you been following me?”

  “Since you left your hotel.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if anyone else was following you.”

  “Countersurveillance.”

  “We have a different word for it.”

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “I remember.”

  At once, a black SUV drew to the curb. A young man in a khaki vest climbed out of the passenger seat and opened the rear door.

  “Get in,” said Mikhail.

  “Where are we going?”

  Mikhail said nothing. Sarah climbed into the backseat and watched a Number 5 bus slide past her blacked-out window. It didn’t matter where they were going, she thought. It was going to be a very long ride.

  7

  Tel Aviv–Netanya

  “Couldn’t Gabriel have found someone else to bring me in?”

  “I volunteered.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to avoid another awkward scene.”

  Sarah gazed out her window. They were driving through the heart of Israel’s version of Silicon Valley. Shiny new office buildings lined both sides of the flawless highway. In the space of a few years, Israel had traded its socialist past for a dynamic economy driven by the technology sector. Much of that innovation went directly to the military and the security services, giving Israel a decided edge over its Middle East adversaries. Even Sarah’s former colleagues at the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center used to marvel at the high-tech prowess of the Office and Intelligence Unit 8200, Israel’s electronic eavesdropping and cyberwarfare service.

  “So the nasty rumor is true, after all.”

  “What nasty rumor is that?”

  “The one about you and that pretty French woman getting married. Forgive me, but her name slips my mind.”

  “Natalie.”

  “Nice,” said Sarah.

  “She is.”

  “Still practicing medicine?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What does she do now?”

  With his silence, Mikhail confirmed Sarah’s suspicion that the pretty French doctor was employed by the Office. Sarah’s memory of Natalie, while clouded by jealousy, was of a darkly exotic-looking woman who could easily pass for an Arab.

  “I suppose there are fewer complications that way. It’s much easier when husband and wife are employed by the same service.”

  “That isn’t the only reason we—”

  “Let’s not do this, Mikhail. I haven’t thought about it in a long time.”

  “How long?”

  “At least a week.”

  They slid beneath Highway 5, the secure road linking the Coastal Plain with Ariel, the Jewish settlement block deep inside the West Bank. The junction was known as the Glilot Interchange. Beyond it was a shopping center with a multiplex movie theater. There was also another new office complex, partially concealed by thick trees. Sarah supposed it was the headquarters of yet another Israeli tech titan.

  She looked at Mikhail’s left hand. “Did you misplace it already?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your wedding band.”

  Mikhail seemed surprised by its absence. “I took it off before I went into the field. We got back late last night.”

  “Where were you?”

  Mikhail looked at her blankly.

  “Come now, darling. We have a past, you and I.”

  “The past is the past, Sarah. You’re an outsider now. Besides, you’ll know soon enough.”

  “At least tell me where it was.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Wherever it was, it must have been awful. You look like hell.”

  “The ending was messy.”

  “Anyone get hurt?”

  “Only the bad guys.”

  “How many?”

  “Lots.”

  “But the operation was a success?”

  “One for the books,” said Mikhail.

  The high-tech office blocks had given way to the affluent northern Tel Aviv suburb of Herzliya. Mikhail was reading something on his mobile phone. He looked bored, his default expression.

  “Do give her my best,” said Sarah archly.

  Mikhail returned the phone to his jacket pocket.

  “Tell me something, Mikhail. Why did you really volunteer to bring me in?”

  “I wanted a word with you in private.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could apologize for the way it turned out between us.”

  “Turned out?”

  “For the way I treated you in the end. I behaved badly. If you could find it in your heart to—”

  “Was Gabriel the one who told you to end it?”

  Mikhail seemed genuinely surprised. “Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

  “I always wondered, that’s all.”

  “Gabriel told me to go to America and spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Why didn’t you take his advice?”

  “Because this is my home.” Mikhail gazed at the patchwork quilt of farmland beyond his window. “Israel and the Office. There was no way I could live in America, even if you were there.”

  “I could have come here.”

  “It’s not such an easy life.”

  “Better than the alternative.” She immediately regretted her words. “But the past is the past—isn’t that what you said?”

  He nodded slowl
y.

  “Did you ever have any second thoughts?”

  “About leaving you?”

  “Yes, you idiot.”

  “Of course.”

  “And are you happy now?”

  “Very.”

  She was surprised at how badly his answer wounded her.

  “Perhaps we should change the subject,” suggested Mikhail.

  “Yes, let’s. What shall we talk about?”

  “The reason you’re here.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t discuss it with anyone but Gabriel. Besides,” said Sarah playfully, “I have a feeling you’ll know soon enough.”

  They had reached the southern fringes of Netanya. The tall white apartment houses lining the beach reminded Sarah of Cannes. Mikhail spoke a few words in Hebrew to the driver. A moment later they stopped at the edge of a broad esplanade.

  Mikhail pointed toward a dilapidated hotel. “That’s where the Passover Massacre happened back in 2002. Thirty dead, a hundred and forty wounded.”

  “Is there any place in this country that hasn’t been bombed?”

  “I told you, life isn’t so easy here.” Mikhail nodded toward the esplanade. “Take a walk. We’ll do the rest.”

  Sarah climbed out of the car and started across the square. The past is the past . . . For a moment, she almost believed it was true.

  8

  Netanya

  At the center of the esplanade was a blue reflecting pool, around which several young Orthodox boys, payess flying, played a noisy game of tag. They were speaking not in Hebrew but in French. So were their wigged mothers and the two black-shirted hipsters who eyed Sarah approvingly from a table at a brasserie called Chez Claude. Indeed, were it not for the worn-out khaki-colored buildings and the blinding Middle Eastern sunlight, Sarah might have imagined she was crossing a square in the twentieth arrondissement of Paris.

  Suddenly, she realized someone was calling her name, with the emphasis on the second syllable rather than the first. Turning, she spotted a petite dark-haired woman waving to her from across the square. The woman approached with a slight limp.

  Sarid, Sarid, Sarid . . .

  Dina kissed Sarah on both cheeks. “Welcome to the Israeli Riviera.”

  “Is everyone here French?”

  “Not everyone, but more are coming every day.” Dina pointed toward the far end of the square. “There’s a little place called La Brioche right over there. I recommend the pain au chocolat. They’re the best in Israel. Order enough for two.”

  Sarah walked to the café. She made a few moments of small talk in fluent French with the woman behind the counter before ordering an assortment of pastries and two coffees, a café crème and an espresso.

  “Sit anywhere you like. Someone will bring your order.”

  Sarah went outside. Several tables stood along the edge of the square. At one sat Mikhail. He caught Sarah’s eye and nodded toward the man of late middle age sitting alone. He wore a dark gray suit and white dress shirt. His face was long and narrow at the chin, with wide cheekbones and a slender nose that looked as though it had been carved from wood. His dark hair was cropped short and shot with gray at the temples. His eyes were an unnatural shade of green.

  Rising, he extended his hand, formally, as though meeting Sarah for the first time. She held it a moment too long. “I’m surprised to see you in a place like this.”

  “I go out in public all the time. Besides,” he added with a glance toward Mikhail, “I have him.”

  “The man who broke my heart.” She sat down. “Is he the only one?”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “How many?”

  His green eyes searched the square. “Eight, I believe.”

  “A small battalion. Who have you managed to offend this time?”

  “I imagine the Iranians are a bit miffed at me. So is my old friend in the Kremlin.”

  “I read something in the newspapers about you and the Russians a couple of months ago.”

  “Did you?”

  “Your name came up during that spy scandal in Washington. They said you were aboard the private plane that took Rebecca Manning from Dulles Airport to London.”

  Rebecca Manning was the former MI6 Head of Station in Washington. She now reported for work each morning at Moscow Center, headquarters of the SVR, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service.

  “There was also a suggestion,” Sarah went on, “that you were the one who killed those three Russian agents they found on the C&O Canal in Maryland.”

  A waiter appeared with their order. He placed the espresso in front of Gabriel with inordinate care.

  “What’s it like to be the most famous man in Israel?” asked Sarah.

  “It has its drawbacks.”

  “Surely, it isn’t all bad. Who knows? If you play your cards right, you might even be prime minister one day.” She tugged at the sleeve of his suit jacket. “I must say, you look the part. But I think I like the old Gabriel Allon better.”

  “Which Gabriel Allon was that?”

  “The one who wore blue jeans and a leather jacket.”

  “We all have to change.”

  “I know. But sometimes I wish I could turn back the clock.”

  “Where would you go?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “The night we had dinner together in that little place in Copenhagen. We sat outside in the freezing cold. I told you a deep, dark secret I should have kept to myself.”

  “I don’t remember it.”

  Sarah plucked a pain au chocolat from the basket. “Aren’t you going to have one?”

  Gabriel held up a hand.

  “Maybe you haven’t changed, after all. In all the years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a bite of food during the daytime.”

  “I make up for it after the sun goes down.”

  “You haven’t gained an ounce since I saw you last. I wish I could say the same.”

  “You look wonderful, Sarah.”

  “For a woman of forty-three?” She added a packet of artificial sweetener to her coffee. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your number.”

  “I was out of pocket when you called.”

  “I called several times. I also left you about a dozen text messages.”

  “I had to take certain precautions before responding.”

  “With me? Whatever for?”

  Gabriel offered a careful smile. “Because of your relationship with a certain high-profile member of the Saudi royal family.”

  “Khalid?”

  “I didn’t realize you two were on a first-name basis.”

  “I insisted on it.”

  Gabriel was silent.

  “You obviously disapprove.”

  “Only with some of your recent acquisitions. One in particular.”

  “The Leonardo?”

  “If you say so.”

  “You’re dubious about the attribution?”

  “I could have painted a better Leonardo than that one.” He looked at her seriously. “You should have come to me when he approached you about working for him.”

  “And what would you have told me?”

  “That his interest in you was no accident. That he was well aware of your ties to the CIA.” Gabriel paused. “And to me.”

  “You would have been right.”

  “I usually am.”

  Sarah picked at her pastry. “What do you think of him?”

  “As you might imagine, Crown Prince Khalid bin Mohammed is of particular interest to the Office.”

  “I’m not asking the Office, I’m asking you.”

  “The CIA and the Office were far less impressed with Khalid than the White House and my prime minister. Our concerns were confirmed when Omar Nawwaf was killed.”

  “Did Khalid order his murder?”

  “Men in Khalid’s position don’t have to give a direct order.”

  “‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’”

 
Gabriel nodded thoughtfully in agreement. “A perfect example of a tyrant making his wishes abundantly clear. Henry spoke the words, and a few weeks later Becket was dead.”

  “Should Khalid be removed from the line of succession?”

  “If he is, it’s likely someone worse will take his place. Someone who will undo the modest social and religious reforms he’s put in place.”

  “And if you learned of a threat to Khalid? What would you do?”

  “We hear things all the time. Much of it from the mouth of the crown prince himself.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means your client is the target of aggressive collection by the Office and Unit 8200. Not long ago, we managed to hack into the supposedly secure phone he carries around. We’ve been listening to his calls and reading his texts and e-mails ever since. The Unit also managed to activate the phone’s camera and microphone, so we’ve been able to listen to many of his face-to-face conversations as well.” Gabriel smiled. “Don’t look so surprised, Sarah. As a former CIA officer, you should have realized that once you went to work for a man like Khalid bin Mohammed, you could expect no zone of privacy.”

  “How much do you know?”

  “We know that six days ago, the crown prince placed a number of urgent calls to the French National Police concerning an incident that took place in the Haute-Savoie, not far from the Swiss border. We know that later that same night, the crown prince was driven under police escort to Paris, where he met with a number of senior French officials, including the interior minister and the president. He remained in Paris for seventy-two hours before traveling to New York. There he had a single appointment.”

  Gabriel removed a BlackBerry from the breast pocket of his jacket and tapped the screen twice. A few seconds later Sarah heard the sound of two people conversing. One was the future king of Saudi Arabia. The other was the director of the Nadia al-Bakari Collection at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.