The New Girl (Gabriel Allon #19)(52)

Chiara gazed at the television. The new de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia was meeting with senior clerics, including an imam who regularly denounced Jews as the descendants of apes and pigs. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to find out who stole Saudi Arabia.”

“And then?”

Gabriel switched off the lamp. “Steal it back.”





37

Tel Aviv


It was at this point, in late February, as Israel was lashed by a series of winter storms, that there commenced a great search the Office would later refer to as “Where in the World Is Khalid?” That he was even among the living was a matter of considerable internal debate. Eli Lavon was convinced that Khalid was a few feet beneath the surface of the Nejd, probably in several pieces. To support his case, he pointed to the fact that Khalid’s mobile phone was off the air. Even more alarming was a report, never corroborated, that Khalid had been taken into custody not long after the Allegiance Council appointed Abdullah crown prince. Khalid, surmised Lavon, was never supposed to leave France alive in the first place. Returning to Saudi Arabia with the remains of his daughter had given the plotters the perfect opportunity to make certain he would never pose a threat in the future.

Gabriel did not dismiss Lavon’s theory out of hand, for in the hours after Reema’s murder he had warned Khalid he would be a fool to return to Riyadh. Quietly, he reached out to his old nemesis from the Saudi secret police to see whether he had news of Khalid’s fate, but there was no response. The old nemesis, said Eli Lavon, had probably been caught up in the post-Khalid purge and cast out. Or perhaps, Lavon added darkly, the old nemesis was the one who had plunged the dagger into Khalid’s back.

Gabriel and the Office were not the only ones looking for Khalid. So were the Americans and much of the world’s media. The former crown prince was sighted variously on the Pacific coast of Mexico, on the enchanted Caribbean island of Saint Barthélemy, and in a gulfside villa in Dubai. None of the reports proved remotely accurate. Nor was the report in Le Monde that Khalid was living in splendid exile at his lavish chateau in the Haute-Savoie. Paul Rousseau confirmed that the French had not been able to find him, either.

“We have one or two questions we’d like to ask him about Rafiq al-Madani. He’s missing, too.”

“He’s probably back in Riyadh.”

“If he is, he didn’t get his passport stamped on the way out of France. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

Gabriel replied, with some truth, that he did not know al-Madani’s whereabouts. Khalid’s remained a mystery, too. And when another week passed with no sign of him, Gabriel feared the worst. In the end, it was Sarah Bancroft who found him. More to the point, it was Khalid who found her. He was very much alive and hiding out aboard Tranquillity with a skeleton crew and a couple of trusted bodyguards. He was wondering whether Gabriel might have a few minutes to talk.

“He’s anchored off Sharm el-Sheikh in the Red Sea,” said Sarah. “He’ll send the helicopter to pick you up.”

“That’s very generous of him, but I have a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

Gabriel explained.

“You can’t be serious.”

“He promised to give me anything I wanted. This is what I want.”





38

Eilat, Israel


As director-general of the Office, Gabriel possessed the broad authority to undertake sensitive operations without first obtaining approval from the prime minister. His mandate, however, did not grant him license to invite the deposed leader of a formally hostile Arab nation to visit the State of Israel, even unofficially. It was one thing to slip Khalid into the London embassy in the heat of battle, quite another to grant him access to the world’s most contested piece of real estate. The prime minister, after an hour of tense debate, approved of the visit, provided it remained secret. Gabriel, who had all but given the Saudi prince up for dead, was comfortable with the terms. The last thing they needed to worry about, he said, was a selfie popping up on social media. Khalid’s old Twitter and Instagram accounts were dormant, and the House of Saud had erased his memory from existence. Khalid was an unperson.

His Airbus H175 VIP helicopter plopped down in a cloud of dust at the edge of the Gulf of Aqaba at eight o’clock the following morning. A crewman opened the cabin door, and Khalid, in chinos and an Italian blazer, stepped hesitantly onto Israeli soil for the first time. Only Gabriel and his small security detail were on hand to witness the occasion. Smiling, Gabriel extended his hand, but Khalid drew him into a crushing embrace instead. For better or worse, and for all the wrong reasons, they were now the closest of friends.

Khalid surveyed the harsh khaki-colored landscape. “I had hoped to come here one day under different circumstances.”

“Perhaps,” said Gabriel, “I can arrange that, too.”

They headed north into the Negev Desert in Gabriel’s armored SUV. Khalid seemed surprised to see other traffic on the road.

“It’s better,” explained Gabriel, “if we hide in plain sight.”

“What if someone recognizes me?”

“Israel is the last place in the world anyone would expect to see you.”

“That’s because it’s the last place in the world I should be. But then again, I suppose I have nowhere else to go.”