19

NAHALAL, ISRAEL

BUT FIRST, BEFORE GOING ANY FURTHER, Gabriel gave Natalie another chance to leave. She could go back to Jerusalem, back to her work at Hadassah, back to the overt world. Her file—yes, Gabriel admitted, she already had a file—would be shredded and burned. They would not blame her for turning her back on them; they would only blame themselves for having failed to close the deal. They would speak of her well, if at all. They would always think of her as the one who got away.

He said all this not in Hebrew but in French. And when she gave him her answer, after only a moment’s deliberation, it was in the same language, the language of her dreams. She would stay, she said, but only if he told her why she was being asked to join their exclusive club.

“Shwaya, shwaya,” said Gabriel. It was an Arabic expression that, in this context, meant little by little. Then, without providing Natalie an opening to object, he told her about the man called Saladin. Not the son of a Kurdish soldier of fortune who united the Arab world and reclaimed Jerusalem from the Crusaders, but the Saladin who in the span of a few days had shed infidel and apostate blood in Paris and Amsterdam. They did not know his real name, they did not know his nationality, though his nom de guerre surely was no accident. It suggested he was a man of ambition, a man of history who had visions of using mass murder as a means of unifying the Arab and Islamic world under the black flag of ISIS and the caliphate. His ultimate goals notwithstanding, he was clearly a terrorist mastermind of considerable skill. Under the noses of Western intelligence, he had built a network capable of delivering powerful vehicle-borne explosive devices to carefully chosen targets. Perhaps his tactics would remain the same, or perhaps he had bigger plans. Either way, they had to kill the network.

“And nothing kills a network faster,” said Gabriel, “than to offer its leader a buyout.”

“A buyout?” asked Natalie.

Gabriel was silent.

“Kill him? Is that what you mean?”

“Kill, eliminate, assassinate, liquidate—you choose the word. I’m afraid they’ve never mattered much to me. I’m in the business of saving innocent lives.”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“Kill someone? Don’t worry, we’re not asking you to become a soldier or a special operative. We have plenty of men in black who are trained to do that sort of work.”

“Like you.”

“That was a long time ago. These days I wage war against our enemies from the comfort of a desk. I am a boardroom hero now.”

“That’s not what they wrote about you in Haaretz.”

“Even the respectable Haaretz gets it wrong every now and then.”

“So do the spies.”

“You object to the business of espionage?”

“Only when spies do reprehensible things.”

“Such as?”

“Torture,” she answered.

“We don’t torture anyone.”

“What about the Americans?”

“Let’s leave the Americans out of this for now. But I’m wondering,” he added, “whether you would have any philosophical or moral objection to taking part in an operation that would result in someone’s death.”

“This might come as a shock to you, Mr. Allon, but I’ve never pondered that question before.”

“You’re a doctor, Natalie. You’re trained to save lives. You swear an oath. Do no harm. Just yesterday, for example, you treated a young man who was responsible for the deaths of two people. Surely, that must have been difficult.”

“Not at all.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my job.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“The answer is no,” she said. “I would not have any philosophical or moral objection to taking part in an operation that results in the death of the man responsible for the attacks in Paris and Amsterdam, as long as no innocent lives are lost in the process.”

“It sounds to me, Natalie, as though you’re referring to the American drone program.”

“Israel uses air strikes, too.”

“And some of us disagree with that strategy. We prefer special operations to air power whenever possible. But our politicians have fallen in love with the idea of so-called clean warfare. Drones make that possible.”

“Not for the people on the receiving end.”

“That’s true. Far too many innocent lives have been lost. But the best way to ensure that doesn’t happen is good intelligence.” He paused, then added, “Which is where you come in.”

“What are you asking me to do?”

He smiled. Shwaya, shwaya . . .

She had not touched her food, none of them had, so before going any further Gabriel insisted they eat. He did not heed his own counsel, for truth be told he had never been much of a lunch person. And so while the others partook of the buffet, courtesy of an Office-approved caterer in Tel Aviv, he spoke of his childhood in the valley—of the Arab raids from the hills of the West Bank, of the Israeli reprisals, of the Six-Day War, which took his father, of the Yom Kippur War, which took his belief that Israel was invulnerable. The founding generation believed that a Jewish state in the historical land of Palestine would bring progress and stability to the Middle East. Yet all around Israel, in the frontline states and in the Arab periphery, anger and resentment burned long after the state came into existence, and societies stagnated under the thumbs of monarchs and dictators. While the rest of the world advanced, the Arabs, despite their massive petrowealth, went backward. Arab radio raged against the Jews while Arab children went barefoot and hungry. Arab newspapers printed blood libels that few Arabs could even read. Arab rulers grew rich while the Arab people had nothing but their humiliation and resentment—and Islam.

“Am I somehow to blame for their dysfunction?” asked Gabriel of no one in particular, and no one responded. “Did it happen because I lived here in this valley? Do they hate me because I drained it and killed the mosquitos and made it bloom? If I were not here, would the Arabs be free, prosperous, and stable?”

For a brief moment, he continued, it seemed peace might actually be possible. There was an historic handshake on the South Lawn of the White House. Arafat set up shop in Ramallah, Israelis were suddenly cool. And yet all the while the son of a Saudi construction billionaire was building an organization known as al-Qaeda, or the Base. For all its Islamic fervor, Osama bin Laden’s creation was a highly bureaucratic enterprise. Its bylaws and workplace regulations resembled those of any modern company. They governed everything from vacation days to medical benefits to airline travel and furniture allowances. There were even rules for disability payments and a process by which a member’s employment could be terminated. Those wishing to enter one of Bin Laden’s Afghan training camps had to fill out a lengthy questionnaire. No corner of a potential recruit’s life was spared scrutiny.

“But ISIS is different. Yes, it has its questionnaire, but it’s nowhere near as thorough as al-Qaeda’s. And with good reason. You see, Natalie, a caliphate without people is not a caliphate. It is a patch of empty desert between Aleppo and the Sunni Triangle of Iraq.” He paused. Then for a second time he said, “Which is where you come in.”

“You can’t be serious.”

His blank expression said that he was.

“You want me to join ISIS?” she asked, incredulous.

“No,” he said. “You will be asked to join.”

“By whom?”

“Saladin, of course.”

A silence ensued. Natalie glanced from face to face—the mournful face of the avenged remnant, the familiar face of the chief of the Office, the face of a man who was supposed to be dead. It was to this face that she delivered her response.

“I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m Jewish, and I can’t pretend to be anything else just because I speak their language.”

“You do it all the time, Natalie. At Hadassah they assign you Palestinian patients because they think you’re one of them. So do the Arab traders in the Old City.”

“The Arab traders aren’t members of ISIS.”

“Some of them are. But that’s beside the point. You come to the table with certain natural attributes. You are, as we like to say, a gift from the intelligence gods. With our training, we’ll complete the masterpiece. We’ve been doing this for a long time, Natalie, and we’re very good at it. We can take a Jewish boy from a kibbutz and turn him into an Arab from Jenin. And we can surely turn someone like you into a Palestinian doctor from Paris who wishes to strike a blow against the West.”

“Why would she want to do that?”

“Because like Dina, she is grieving. She craves vengeance. She is a black widow.”

There was a long silence. When finally Natalie spoke, it was with a clinical detachment.

“She’s French, this girl of yours?”

“She carries a French passport, she was educated and trained in France, but she is Palestinian by ethnicity.”

“So the operation will take place in Paris?”

“It will begin there,” he answered carefully, “but if the first phase is successful, it will necessarily migrate.”

“Where?”

He said nothing.

“To Syria?”

“I’m afraid,” said Gabriel, “that Syria is where ISIS is.”

“And do you know what will happen to your doctor from Paris if ISIS finds out she’s actually a Jew from Marseilles?”

“We are well aware of—”

“They’ll saw her head off. And then they’ll put the video on the Internet for the world to see.”

“They’ll never know.”

“But I’ll know,” she said. “I’m not like you. I’m a terrible liar. I can’t keep secrets. I have a guilty conscience. There’s no way I can pull it off.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Allon, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” After a pause, she said, “Find someone else.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” She folded her napkin, rose, and extended her hand. “No hard feelings?”

“None whatsoever.” Gabriel stood and reluctantly accepted her hand. “It was an honor almost working with you, Natalie. Please make no mention of this conversation to anyone, not even your parents.”

“You have my word.”

“Good.” He released her. “Dina will take you back to Jerusalem.”