The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(18)

“Since she was kidnapped in France, I thought it might be a good idea to start there.”

Sarah frowned.

“Forgive me, it’s been a long day.”

“I speak French very well, you know.”

“So do I.”

“And I attended the International School of Geneva when my father was working in Switzerland.”

“I remember, Sarah. But you’re going home to New York.”

“I’d rather go to France with you.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because you traded the secret world for the overt world a long time ago.”

“But the secret world is so much more interesting.” She checked the time. “My God, it’s late. When are you leaving for Paris?”

“The ten o’clock El Al to Charles de Gaulle. These days, I seem to have a standing reservation on it. I’ll pick you up at eight and take you back to the airport.”

“Actually, I think I’ll hang around Jerusalem for a day or two.”

“You’re not thinking about doing something foolish, are you?”

“Like what?”

“Making contact with Mikhail.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Besides, Mikhail made it abundantly clear he’s very happy with what’s-her-name.”

“Natalie.”

“Oh, yes, I keep forgetting.” She kissed Gabriel’s cheek. “Sorry to drag you into all of this. Don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything more I can do.”

She climbed out of the SUV without another word and disappeared through the entrance of the hotel. Gabriel dialed the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard and informed the duty officer of his intention to travel to Paris later that morning.

“Anything else, boss?”

“Activate Room 435 at the King David. Audio only.”

Gabriel killed the connection and leaned his head wearily against the window. She was right about one thing, he thought. The secret world was much more interesting.



It was a five-minute drive from the King David Hotel to Narkiss Street, the quiet, leafy lane in the historic Jerusalem neighborhood of Nachlaot where Gabriel Allon, despite the objections of his security department and many of his neighbors, continued to make his home. There were checkpoints at either end of the street, and a guard stood watch outside the old limestone apartment building at Number 16. As Gabriel alighted from the back of his SUV, the air smelled of eucalyptus and, faintly, of Turkish tobacco. There was little mystery as to the source. Ari Shamron’s flashy new armored limousine was parked along the curb in the space reserved for Gabriel’s motorcade.

“He arrived around midnight,” the guard explained. “He said you were expecting him.”

“And you believed him?”

“What was I supposed to do? He’s the Memuneh.”

Gabriel shook his head slowly. He was two years into his term as director-general, and yet even the members of his security detail still referred to Shamron as “the one in charge.”

He headed up the garden walk, entered the foyer, and climbed the brightly lit stairs to the third floor. Chiara, in black leggings and a matching black pullover, was waiting in the open door of the apartment. She appraised Gabriel coolly for a moment before finally throwing her arms around his neck.

“I should go to Saudi Arabia more often.”

“When were you planning to tell me?”

“Right about now.” He followed Chiara inside. Scattered across the coffee table in the sitting room were cups and glasses and half-consumed plates of food, evidence of a tense late-night vigil. The television, tuned to CNN International, played silently. “Did I make the evening news?”

Chiara glared at him but said nothing.

“How did you find out?”

“How do you think?” She glanced toward the terrace, where Shamron was no doubt listening to every word they were saying. “He was even more worried than I was.”

“Really? I find that hard to believe.”

“He ordered Air Defense Command to track your plane. The tower at Ben Gurion alerted us when you landed. We expected you sooner, but apparently you made a slight detour on the way home.” Chiara gathered the dishes from the coffee table. She always tidied up when she was annoyed. “I’m sure you enjoyed seeing Sarah again. She was always fond of you.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not that long ago.”

“You know I never had any feelings for her.”

“It would have been completely understandable if you had. She’s very beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you, Chiara. Not even close.”

It was true. Chiara’s was a timeless beauty. In her face Gabriel saw traces of Arabia and North Africa and Spain and all the other lands through which her ancestors had passed before finding themselves behind the locked gates of Venice’s ancient ghetto. Her hair was dark and riotous and streaked with highlights of auburn and chestnut. Her eyes were wide and brown and flecked with gold. No, he thought, no woman would ever come between them. Gabriel only feared that one day Chiara would come to the realization she was far too young and beautiful to be married to a wreck like him.

He went onto the terrace. There were two wrought-iron chairs and a small table, upon which was the plate Shamron had commandeered for his ashtray. Six cigarette butts lay side by side, like spent cartridges. Shamron was in the process of igniting a seventh with his old Zippo lighter when Gabriel plucked the cigarette from his lips.