33

SANTORINI, GREECE

WHAT’S YOUR REAL NAME?” asked Natalie.

“The management of the Panorama Hotel is under the impression it’s Michael Danilov.”

“Is it?”

“Close enough.” He was standing before the door that gave onto the balcony. A pale moon illuminated his pale face. “And you, Dr. Hadawi, have no business inviting a man like me to your room.”

“I did nothing of the sort, Mr. Danilov. I said I needed company. They could have sent the woman instead.”

“Consider yourself lucky. Empathy isn’t her strong suit.” His head swiveled a few degrees, his eyes found hers in the darkness. “We all get nervous before a big operation, especially those of us who operate in places where there’s no embassy if things go sideways. But we trust in our mission and our planning and we go. It’s what we do.”

“I’m not like you.”

“Actually, you’re more like me than you realize.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“The kind we never talk about.”

“You kill people?”

“I eliminate threats to our security. And on the night before a big operation, I’m always afraid that I’m the one who’s going to get eliminated.”

“But you go.”

He averted his gaze and changed the subject. “So the comely Miss Ward is going to take you to the other side.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not. Did she give you the route?”

“Santorini to Kos, Kos to Bodrum.”

“Two young women on holiday, very professional.” He turned away and addressed his next words to the night. “He must think very highly of you.”

“Who?”

“Saladin.”

From beyond the door came the sound of voices in the corridor, Englishmen, drunk. When the silence returned, he looked at the luminous dial of his wristwatch.

“The Kos ferry leaves early. You should get some sleep.”

“Sleep? You can’t be serious.”

“It’s important. You have a long day tomorrow.”

He drew the blinds, casting the room into pitch darkness, and started toward the door.

“Please don’t go,” whispered Natalie. “I don’t want to be alone.”

After a moment he eased onto the bed, propped his back against the headboard, and stretched his long legs before him. Natalie placed a pillow next to his hip and laid her head upon it. He covered her with a thin blanket and brushed her hair from her face.

“Close your eyes.”

“They are closed.”

“No, they’re not.”

“You can see in the dark?”

“Very well, actually.”

“At least take off your shoes.”

“I prefer to sleep with them on.”

“You’re joking.”

With his silence he said that he wasn’t. She laughed quietly and once again asked his name. This time, he answered truthfully. His name, he said, was Mikhail Abramov.

“When did you come to Israel?”

“When I was a teenager.”

“Why did your family leave Russia?”

“The same reason yours left France.”

“Maybe we’re not so different after all.”

“I told you.”

“You’re not married, are you? I would hate to think—”

“I’m not married.”

“Serious girlfriend?”

“Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“It’s not so easy to have a relationship in this business. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“I have no intention of staying with the Office when this is over.”

“Whatever you say.”

He placed his hand at the center of her back and worked his fingers gently along her spine.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very good at that?”

“Close your eyes.”

She did. But not because she was suddenly drowsy; his touch had sent an electrical charge straight to her abdomen. She draped an arm across his thighs. The fingers went still and then resumed their exploration of her spine.

“Do you think we could have a drink when this is over,” she asked, “or is that not allowed?”

“Close your eyes,” was all he said.

The fingers moved a few inches lower down her back. She laid her palm flat against his thigh and squeezed gently.

“Don’t.” Then he said, “Not now.”

She removed her hand and placed it beneath her chin while his fingers strolled the length of her spine. Sleep stalked her. She kept it at bay.

“Tell him I can’t go through with it,” she said drowsily. “Tell him I want to go home.”

“Sleep, Leila,” was all he said, and she slept. And in the morning, when she awoke, he was gone.

The sugar-cube dwellings of Thera were still pink with the sunrise when Natalie and Miranda Ward stepped into the quiet street at seven fifteen. They walked to the nearest taxi stand, each towing a rolling suitcase, and hired a car to take them down the coast to the ferry terminal in Athinios. The eastward crossing to Kos was four and a half hours; they passed it on the sun-drenched observation deck or in the ship’s café. Forsaking her training, Natalie actively searched for watchers among the faces of her fellow passengers, hoping Mikhail might be among them. She recognized no one. It seemed she was alone now.

At Kos they had to wait an hour for the next ferry to the Turkish port of Bodrum. It was a shorter journey, less than an hour, with strict passport control at both ends. Miranda Ward gave Natalie a Belgian passport and instructed her to hide her French passport deep within her luggage. The photograph in the Belgian passport was of a thirtysomething woman of Moroccan ethnicity. Dark hair, dark eyes, not ideal but close enough.

“Who is she?” asked Natalie.

“She’s you,” answered Miranda Ward.

The Greek border policeman in Kos seemed to think so, too, as did his Turkish counterpart in Bodrum. He stamped the passport after a brief inspection and with a frown invited Natalie to enter Turkey. Miranda followed a few seconds later, and together they made their way to the bedlam of the car park, where a line of taxis smoked in the scalding midafternoon sun. Somewhere a horn sounded, and an arm gestured from the front window of a dusty cream-colored Mercedes. Natalie and Miranda Ward hoisted their bags into the boot and climbed in, Miranda in front, Natalie in the backseat. She opened her handbag, withdrew her favorite green hijab, and pinned it piously into place. She was Leila from Sumayriyya. Leila who loved Ziad. Leila who wanted vengeance.

Contrary to her assumptions, Natalie had not made the crossing from Santorini to Bodrum alone. Yaakov Rossman had accompanied her on the first leg of the journey; Oded, the second. In fact, he had snapped a photo of her climbing into the back of the Mercedes, which he transmitted to King Saul Boulevard and the safe house in Seraincourt.

Within minutes of leaving the terminal, the car was headed east on the D330 motorway, watched over by an Ofek 10 Israeli spy satellite. Shortly after two the next morning, the car arrived at the border town of Kilis, where the satellite’s infrared camera observed two figures, both women, entering a small house. They did not remain there long—two hours and twelve minutes, to be precise. Afterward, they crossed the porous border on foot, accompanied by four men, and slipped into another vehicle in the Syrian town of A’zaz. It bore them southward to Raqqa, the unofficial capital of the caliphate. There, cloaked in black, they entered an apartment building near al-Rasheed Park.

By then, it was approaching four a.m. in Paris. Sleepless, Gabriel slipped behind the wheel of a rented car and drove to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where he boarded a flight to Washington. It was time to have a word with Langley, and thus make the disaster complete.