The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(44)

Al Jazeera, which delivered the news to the wider world, could scarcely contain its glee. Nor could the Iranians, the Muslim Brotherhood, the Palestinians, Hezbollah, ISIS, or the widow of Omar Nawwaf. The White House instantly released a statement declaring its determination to work closely with Khalid’s successor. Downing Street murmured something similar a few minutes later, as did the élysée Palace. The government of Israel, for its part, said nothing at all.

But why had Khalid surrendered the throne for which he had fought so ruthlessly? The media could only speculate. The Middle East experts were unanimous in the opinion that Khalid had not abdicated voluntarily. The only question was whether the pressure had been applied from within the House of Saud or without. Few reporters or commentators made any attempt to hide their joy over his fall, especially those early supporters who had cheered his rise to power. “Good riddance,” declared the important columnist from the New York Times who had prematurely crowned Khalid the savior of the Arab world.

Among the many mysteries that night were Khalid’s exact whereabouts. Had anyone bothered to ask the chief of Israeli intelligence, he could have told them definitively that Khalid flew to Paris immediately after his contentious meeting with his father and, absent his usual entourage, slipped anonymously into the H?tel de Crillon. At five the following afternoon, he received a phone call. The voice at the other end, digitized and perversely affable in tone, issued a set of instructions, then the call went dead. Frantic, Khalid rang Sarah Bancroft in New York. And Sarah, at Khalid’s request, called Gabriel at King Saul Boulevard. Needlessly, as it turned out, for he was monitoring events in the Op Center and had overheard everything. The kidnappers wanted more than Khalid’s abdication. They wanted him.





31

Tel Aviv–Paris


Actually, it was a bit more complicated than that. What the kidnappers wanted was for Gabriel to handle the final negotiations and logistics of Princess Reema’s release. They characterized their demand not as a threat but as a humanitarian gesture, one that would guarantee the safe return of the hostage, always the most perilous element of a kidnapping. They preferred to deal with a professional, they said, rather than a desperate and sometimes volatile father. Gabriel, however, was under no illusion as to why the kidnappers wanted him at the other end of the phone. The men behind the plot, whoever they were, whatever their motive, intended to kill him at the first opportunity. And Khalid, too.

Not surprisingly, the demand did not meet with a favorable reception inside the walls of King Saul Boulevard. Uzi Navot said it was out of the question, a sentiment shared by the rest of Gabriel’s senior staff—including Yaakov Rossman, who threatened to handcuff Gabriel to his desk. Even Eli Lavon, the chief of the watchers and Gabriel’s closest friend, thought it a fool’s errand. Besides, Lavon added, now that Khalid had abdicated, he was no longer worth the effort, and certainly not worth the risk.

Gabriel did not bother to consult with the prime minister. Instead, he called his wife. The conversation was brief, two or three minutes, no more. Afterward, he and Mikhail slipped quietly out of King Saul Boulevard and headed for Ben Gurion. There were no more flights to Paris that night. It was no matter; Khalid had sent a plane for them.

It was shortly after one a.m. when they arrived at the Crillon. Christopher Keller was in the lounge bar, flirting with the pretty hostess in his Corsican-accented French.

“Have you been upstairs yet?” asked Gabriel.

“Why do you think I’m down here? He was driving me crazy.”

“How’s he holding up?”

“Sixes and sevens.”

Khalid was staying in a grand apartment on the fourth floor. It was a shock to see him perform so ordinary a task as opening a door. He closed it again quickly and engaged the locks. The coffee table in the main sitting room was littered with the tins and wrappers of complimentary snacks from his personal bar. Somewhere his phone was playing an annoying electronic melody.

“The damn thing won’t stop ringing.” He raised a hand in anger toward the enormous television. “They’re laughing at me! They’re saying I was forced to abdicate because of Omar Nawwaf.”

“You can set the record straight later,” said Gabriel.

“What good will it do?” The phone was ringing again. Khalid dispatched the call to voice mail. “Another so-called friend.”

“Who was it?”

“The president of Brazil. And before him it was the head of a Hollywood talent agency, wondering whether I still planned to invest in his company.” He paused. “Everyone except the people who took my daughter.”

“If I had to guess, you’ll be hearing from them any minute.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because undoubtedly they know I’ve arrived.”

“They’re watching the hotel?”

Gabriel nodded.

“When they call back, I’ll offer them a hundred million dollars. That should be enough to convince them to live up to their end of the original bargain.”

Gabriel smiled briefly. “If only it were that simple.”

“Surely,” said Khalid after a moment, “you have no wish to die for a man like me.”

“I don’t,” conceded Gabriel. “I’m here for your daughter.”

“Can you get her back?”