The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(51)

The Office knew the basics of Abdullah’s undistinguished career, and in the days following his elevation, Collections and Research rapidly filled in the missing pieces. He was anti-Israel, anti-West, and harbored an abiding resentment of America, which he blamed for much of the Middle East’s violence and political chaos. He had two wives in Riyadh whom he rarely saw and a stable of high-priced prostitutes, boys and girls, who tended to his sexual needs at his mansion in Belgravia. A devout Wahhabi Muslim, he was a heavy drinker who had thrice received treatment at an exclusive facility outside Zurich. In business he had been aggressive but unwise. Despite a generous monthly stipend, money was constantly an issue.

There was speculation in the media that Abdullah was merely a caretaker crown prince who would remain in the post only until a suitable candidate from the next generation could be chosen. Abdullah, however, quickly consolidated his hold on power by purging the royal court and the Saudi security services of his nephew’s influence. He also scrapped The Way Forward, Khalid’s ambitious plan to transform the Saudi economy, and made it clear there would be no more talk of reforming the faith. Wahhabism, he proclaimed, was the Kingdom’s official religion and would be practiced in its purest and sternest form. Women were summarily stripped of the right to drive or attend sporting events—and the Mutaween, the dreaded Saudi religious police, were once again given license to enforce the rules of Islamic purity, with arrests and physical brutality if necessary. Those who objected were jailed or publicly flogged. The fleeting Riyadh Spring was over.

Which prompted, mainly in the West, another great reassessment. Had the Americans and their European allies been too hard on KBM for his misdeeds? Had they foolishly backed the House of Saud into a corner, leaving them no choice but to revert to their tried-and-true method of survival? Had they let a golden opportunity to fundamentally change the Middle East slip through their fingers? In the secure rooms and salons of Washington and London, they quarreled among themselves over who had lost Saudi Arabia. In Tel Aviv, however, Gabriel approached the question altogether differently. Saudi Arabia, he concluded, had not been lost, it had been taken from them. But by whom?



Though Gabriel managed to conceal his grief from his troops, Chiara saw through him as though he were made of glass. It wasn’t difficult; he relived it each night in the sweat-drenched tumult that passed for his sleep. Several times she was awakened by his shouting. His words were always the same. “You’re dead,” he would cry out. “Dead, dead, dead!”

He had given her a highly abridged version of the story after his return from France. He and Khalid had been led by the kidnappers to a remote field, the child had died. Chiara had resisted the temptation to press him for more details. She knew that one day he would tell her everything.

It was clawing at him, that much was obvious. What he needed, she thought, was a painting, a few square meters of damaged canvas that he could make right again. But he had no painting, he had only a country to protect, and he was haunted by the prospect of war in the north. Hezbollah and the Iranians had stockpiled more than one hundred and fifty thousand missiles and rockets in Syria and Lebanon. The largest could reach Tel Aviv and beyond. In the event of a conflict, the entire Galilee and much of the Coastal Plain would be within range. Thousands might die.

“Which is why the American presence in Syria is so important. They’re a tripwire. Once they’re gone, there will be only one check on Hezbollah and Iranian aggression.”

“The Russians,” said Chiara.

It was after midnight. Gabriel was propped upright in bed, a stack of Office files on his lap, a halogen reading lamp burning brightly over his shoulder. The television was muted so as not to wake the children. Earlier that evening Hezbollah had fired four rockets into Israel. Three had been destroyed by the Iron Dome missile defense system, but one had landed outside Ramat David, the town in the Valley of Jezreel where Gabriel had lived as a child. The IAF was preparing a massive retaliatory strike based on intelligence supplied by the Office.

“A preview of coming attractions,” he said softly.

“How do we stop it?”

“Short of all-out war?” Gabriel closed the file he had been reading. “With a strategy to drive the Russians, the Iranians, and Hezbollah out of Syria.”

“And how do we do that?”

“By creating a decent central government in Damascus led by the Sunni majority instead of a brutal dictatorial regime led by a tiny Alawite minority.”

“And I thought it was going to be something difficult.” Chiara slipped into bed next to him. “The Arabs have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt they’re not ready to govern themselves.”

“I’m not talking about Jeffersonian democracy. I’m talking about an enlightened despot.”

“Like Khalid?” asked Chiara skeptically.

“That depends which Khalid we’re talking about.”

“How many are there?”

“Two,” said Gabriel. “The first was handed absolute power before he was ready.”

“And the second?”

“He was the man who watched his child die an unimaginable death.”

There was a silence. Then Chiara asked, “What happened in that field in France?”

“I saved Khalid’s life,” said Gabriel. “And I’m not sure he’ll ever forgive me for it.”