The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(106)
The new KBM, like the old, was forever running late. Gabriel expected him at five p.m. but it was approaching half past six when his Gulfstream finally landed at the IAF base in Ramat David. He emerged from the cabin alone, in a trim-fitting blazer and stylish aviator sunglasses that glinted with the early-evening sun. Gabriel offered Khalid his hand, but once again he received a warm embrace instead.
Leaving the airbase, they passed through the town of Gabriel’s birth. His parents, he explained to Khalid, were Holocaust survivors from Germany. Like everyone else in Ramat David, the Allon family had lived in a little breeze-block bungalow. Theirs was filled with photographs of loved ones lost to the fires of the Shoah. To escape the grief of his family home, Gabriel had wandered the Valley of Jezreel, the land given by Joshua to the tribe of Zebulun, one of the twelve tribes of ancient Israel. He had spent most of his adult life living abroad or in Jerusalem. But the valley, he told Khalid, would always be his home.
As they headed east on Highway 77, Khalid’s phone pinged and vibrated without cease. The messages were from the White House. Khalid explained that he and the president were planning to meet briefly in New York during the annual meeting of the UN General Assembly in September. If all went well, he would return to America later in the autumn for a formal summit in Washington.
“It seems all is forgiven.” He looked at Gabriel. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”
“The Americans didn’t need any encouragement from me. They’re eager to normalize relations.”
“But you’re the one who made me palatable again.” He paused. “You and Omar Nawwaf. That article in Der Spiegel lifted the cloud over me once and for all.”
Khalid finally switched off the phone. For the next thirty minutes, as they crossed the Upper Galilee, he gave Gabriel a most remarkable briefing—a secret guided tour of the Middle East led by none other than the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia. The Saudi GID was hearing naughty things about the head of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps, something about a financial indiscretion. Raw intelligence would soon be heading King Saul Boulevard’s way. Khalid and the GID were anxious to play a role in Syria now that the Americans were heading for the exits. Perhaps the GID and the Office could undertake a covert program to make life a little less comfortable in Syria for the Iranians and their allies, Hezbollah. Gabriel asked Khalid to intervene with Hamas to stop the rockets and missiles from Gaza. Khalid said he would do what he could.
“But don’t expect much. Those crazies from Hamas hate me almost as much as they hate you.”
“What do you hear about the administration’s Middle East peace plan?”
“Not much.”
“Maybe we should come up with our own peace plan, you and I.”
“Shwaya, shwaya, my friend.”
In time, they came upon the parched plain where, on a scalding afternoon in July 1187, Saladin defeated the thirst-crazed armies of the Crusaders in a climactic battle that would eventually leave Jerusalem once again in Muslim hands. A moment later they glimpsed the Sea of Galilee. They headed north along the shoreline until they came to a fortress-like villa perched atop a rocky escarpment. Several cars and SUVs lined the steeply sloped drive.
“Where are we?” asked Khalid.
Gabriel opened his door and climbed out. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
Ari Shamron waited in the entrance hall. He appraised Khalid warily for a moment before finally extending a liver-spotted hand.
“I never thought this day would come.”
“It hasn’t,” replied Khalid conspiratorially. “Not officially, at least.”
Shamron gestured toward the sitting room, where most of the senior staff of the Office were gathered—Eli Lavon, Yaakov Rossman, Dina Sarid, Rimona Stern, Mikhail Abramov and Natalie Mizrahi, Uzi and Bella Navot. Chiara and the children stood next to an oaken easel. Upon it was a painting covered in black baize cloth.
Khalid looked at Gabriel, perplexed. “What is it?”
“Something to replace that Leonardo of yours.”
Gabriel nodded toward Raphael and Irene. With Chiara’s help, they removed the black shroud. Khalid swayed slightly and placed a hand over his heart.
“My God,” he whispered.
“Forgive me, I should have warned you.”
“She looks . . .” Khalid’s voice trailed off. He stretched a hand toward Reema’s face, then toward the letter. “What is it?”
“A message for her father.”
“What does it say?”
“That’s between the two of you.”
Khalid studied the bottom right corner of the canvas. “There’s no signature.”
“The artist wished to remain anonymous so as not to overshadow his subject.”
Khalid looked up. “He’s famous, the artist?”
Gabriel smiled sadly. “In certain circles.”
They ate outside on the terrace, watched over by Reema’s portrait. The meal was a sumptuous affair of Israeli and Arab cuisine, including Gilah Shamron’s famous chicken with Moroccan spices, which Khalid decreed the finest dish he had ever tasted. Discreetly, he declined Gabriel’s offer of wine. He would soon be the custodian of the two holy mosques of Mecca and Medina, he explained. His days of even moderate alcohol consumption were over.