The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(107)

Surrounded by Gabriel and his division chiefs, Khalid spoke not of the past but the future. The road ahead, he cautioned, would be difficult. For all its riches, his country was traditional, backward, and in many ways barbaric. What’s more, another Arab Spring was stirring. He made it clear he would never tolerate an open rebellion against his rule. He asked them to be patient, to maintain realistic expectations, and to make life bearable for the Palestinians. Somehow, someday, the occupation of Arab land had to end.

Shortly before eleven o’clock, sirens sounded along the lakeshore. A moment later a Hezbollah rocket arced over the Golan, and from an Iron Dome battery in the Galilee a missile rose to meet it. Afterward, Gabriel and Khalid stood alone along the balustrade of the terrace, watching a single craft beating up the lake, its stern aglow with a green running light.

“It’s rather small,” said Khalid.

“The lake?”

“No, the boat.”

“It probably doesn’t have a discotheque.”

“Or a snow room.”

Gabriel laughed quietly. “Do you miss it?”

Khalid shook his head. “I only miss my daughter.”

“I hope the portrait helps.”

“It’s the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. But you have to let me pay for it.”

Gabriel waved his hand dismissively.

“Then allow me to give you this.” Khalid held up a flash drive.

“What is it?”

“A bank account in Switzerland with one hundred million dollars in it.”

“I have a better idea. Use the money to establish the Omar Nawwaf School of Journalism in Riyadh. Train the next generation of Arab reporters, editors, and photographers. Then give them the freedom to write and publish whatever they want, regardless of whether it hurts your feelings.”

“Is that really all you want?”

“No,” said Gabriel. “But it’s a good place to start.”

“Actually, I was planning to start somewhere else.” Khalid returned the flash drive to the pocket of his blazer. “There’s something I must do before I become king. I was hoping you might be willing to play the role of intermediary.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Khalid explained.

“She’s not terribly hard to find,” said Gabriel. “Just send her an e-mail.”

“I have. Several, in fact. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t answer my calls, either.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Perhaps you can approach her on my behalf.”

“Why me?”

“You seem to have something of a rapport with her.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Can you arrange it?”

“A meeting?” Gabriel shook his head. “Bad idea, Khalid.”

“My specialty.”

“She’s too angry. Let a little more time pass. Or better yet, let me handle it for you.”

“You don’t know much about Arabs, do you?”

“I’m learning more every day.”

“It is an essential part of our culture,” said Khalid. “I must personally make restitution.”

“Blood money?”

“An unfortunate turn of phrase. But, yes, blood money.”

“What you need to do,” said Gabriel, “is accept full responsibility for what happened in Istanbul and see that it never happens again.”

“It won’t.”

“Tell that to her, not me.”

“I intend to.”

“In that case,” said Gabriel, “I’ll do it. But let it be on your head if anything goes wrong.”

“Is that a Jewish proverb?” Khalid glanced at his watch. “It’s late, my friend. Perhaps it’s time for me to be leaving.”





83

Berlin


Gabriel rang her the next morning and left a message on her voice mail. A week passed before she bothered to call him back, hardly a promising beginning. Yes, she said after hearing his proposal, she would be willing to hear Khalid out. But the last thing he should expect from her was a grant of absolution. She wasn’t interested in his blood money, either. When Gabriel told her about his idea, she was skeptical. “The Palestinians will have an independent state,” she said, “before Khalid opens a journalism school in Riyadh with Omar’s name on it.”

She insisted the meeting take place in Berlin. The embassy, of course, was out of the question, and she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of going to the ambassador’s residence or even a hotel. It was Khalid who suggested the apartment she had once shared with Omar in the old East Berlin neighborhood of Mitte. His agents had been regular visitors and knew it well. Even so, a thorough search—a ransacking, actually—would be required before his arrival. There would be no recording of the encounter, and no public statements afterward. And, no, he would not be taking refreshment of any kind. He was worried the Russians were plotting to kill him the same way they had killed his uncle. His fears, thought Gabriel, were entirely justified.

And so it was that on a warm and windless Berlin afternoon in early July, with the leaves hanging limply on the linden trees and the clouds low and dark, a line of black Mercedes motorcars arrived like a funeral procession in the street beneath Hanifa Khoury’s window. Frowning, she checked the time. It was half past three. He was an hour and a half late.