House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(103)

“Upheaval is what keeps me in business.”

“I should think so,” said Bakkar.

“What is your associate’s name?”

“You may call him Khalil.”

“And before the upheaval?” asked Mikhail quickly, as though the name meant nothing to him. “Where was he from?”

“As a child he lived along the banks of one of the rivers that flowed from the Garden of Eden.”

“There were four,” said Mikhail.

“That’s correct. The Pishon, the Gihon, the Euphrates, and the Tigris. My associate lived along the banks of the Tigris.”

“So your associate is an Iraqi.”

“He was once. He’s not any longer. My associate is a subject of the Islamic caliphate.”

“I trust he’s not in the caliphate now.”

“No. He’s right over there.” Bakkar inclined his head toward the Toyota. Then he looked at Mikhail and asked, “Are you carrying a weapon, Monsieur Antonov?”

“Of course not.”

“Would you mind terribly if one of my men searched you?” Bakkar smiled amiably. “You are an arms dealer, after all.”



There was a gathering at the driver’s-side door of the Toyota—five men by Gabriel’s count, all armed. Finally, the door swung open, and with some difficulty the man inside climbed out. He remained next to the vehicle, protected by a circle of guards, for another long moment while Mikhail was thoroughly searched. And only when the search was complete did he make his way toward the center court of the camp. The armed guards surrounded him in a tight scrum. Even so, Gabriel could see that he was favoring the right leg. Step one of the two-step authentication process was complete. Step two, however, could not be accomplished from on high, with the use of an American drone. Only a face-to-face encounter would suffice.

Gabriel dispatched a message to Christopher Keller, stating that the subject had just entered the camp and that he had walked with a noticeable limp. Then he watched as the subject extended a hand toward an officer of Israeli intelligence.

“Dmitri Antonov,” said Gabriel softly, “I’d like you to meet my friend Saladin. Saladin, this is Dmitri Antonov.”



There were two Israeli officers at the remote desert camp who could potentially provide the second stage of the authentication required to launch a targeted killing operation on the soil of a sometime ally in the war on terror. The first was seated before the subject himself, with no weapon or communications device. The second was a few feet away in a comfortably furnished tent. The officer outside had had only a fleeting encounter with the subject in a famous Georgetown restaurant. But not the officer in the tent. She had spent several days with the subject in a house of many rooms and courts near Mosul and had spoken to him at length. She had also, in a cabin at the edge of the Shenandoah in Virginia, heard the subject sentence her to death. It was not a sound she would ever forget. She did not need to see the subject’s face to know it was him. His voice told her it was so.

There was a third officer who had seen the subject in person as well—the officer who was waiting anxiously in a haunted house, in the old colonial section of Casablanca. When the confirmation of the subject’s identity landed on his computer, he forwarded it immediately to the Black Hole at Langley.

“Got him!” shouted Kyle Taylor.

“Not yet,” cautioned Uzi Navot, gazing at the image on the screen. “Not by a mile. Not even close.”





57





The Sahara, Morocco



He was taller than Mikhail remembered, and broader through the chest and shoulders. Perhaps it was because he’d had sufficient time to recover from his injuries. Or perhaps, thought Mikhail, it was his clothing. He had been wearing a dark business suit that night and had been seated across from a beautiful young woman whose dark hair was dyed blond. Occasionally, he had stolen glances at the television above the bar to view the results of his handiwork. Bombs had exploded at the National Counterterrorism Center in Virginia and at the Lincoln Memorial. But there was more to come. Much more.

Mikhail’s first impression of Saladin’s new face was that it did not suit him. It was too thin through the nose and cheekbones, and the movie-idol chin was something a vain man might choose from a magazine in his plastic surgeon’s office. Substantial work had been done to the eyes as well, but the irises themselves were as Mikhail remembered—wide and dark and bottomless and shimmering with profound intelligence. They were not the eyes of a madman, they were the eyes of a professional. One would never want to play a game of chance against such eyes, nor sit across from them in an interrogation chamber. Or a camp at the edge of the Sahara, thought Mikhail, surrounded by several hardened jihadis armed with automatic weapons. He resolved to conduct the meeting swiftly and then send Saladin on his way. But not too swiftly. Saladin was about to present Mikhail with his weapons wish list, which meant there was priceless intelligence to be gained. The opportunity was unprecedented. It could not be squandered.

The introductions had been brisk and businesslike. Mikhail had accepted the proffered hand without hesitation. The hand that had condemned so many to death. The hand of the murderer. It was thick and strong and very warm to the touch. And dry, observed Mikhail. No sign of nerves. Saladin was not anxious or uncomfortable, he was in his element. Like his namesake, he was a man of the desert. The Moroccan mint tea, however, was clearly not to his liking.