Twenty-four

Southern France

In the farmhouse kitchen, Daria stood and refilled her coffee cup. “So we find out if this biologist from Tajikistan is still in Milan. If he is, we go find him. He may be our best lead to Asher.”

Belhadj finished his coffee. “There’s a Syrian intelligence officer working out of a safe house in Lyon.”

“Will he help us?”

Belhadj nodded.

“Can you get us there? If you can, I know people in Lyon.”

Belhadj returned to the computer and clicked on the Internet provider symbol. “I’ll get a map.”

Daria leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed her bare ankles, watching him. He sat in the dining-room chair turned into a mini-office, eyes on the aging PC. An hourglass symbol began to rotate, telling them to wait.

He said, without looking up, “Do we need to talk about last night?”

She studied him in profile. “God, I hope not.”

“Fine.” He studied the unmoving screen.

“But if we did…?”

The Syrian darted a glance at her brown legs, which disappeared up into the chambray shirt. “I’m fine not talking about it.”

“Is this a Muslim thing?”

He jettisoned a puff of air, making his cheeks bulge for a split second. It took Daria a moment to realize that’s what passed for a laugh from Khalid Belhadj. “Making love to you was not a Muslim thing and not talking about it isn’t a Muslim thing. By God, you were undercover in Beirut and the West Bank for years. Did you learn nothing about us?”

“Hmm. Less than you’d imagine, really. My cover was a twenty-something political science student, Western-oriented but curious about the Islamist movement. I was supposed to like clubbing and MTV. It made me a good target for the extremists.”

The PC’s hourglass continued to rotate. Belhadj kept his eyes on the screen.

Daria said, “Are you a believer?”

“It’s complicated.”

“We appear to have some time.”

Belhadj turned directly toward her, sitting sideways in his chair, left arm thrown over the back, locking eyes with her. “I believe. I do. But … a very long time ago, I made a vow to be a killer. To do things that the Holy Quran expressly forbids. I believe in Allah and in Heaven but I also recognize that men like me have no place there.”

Daria studied his slate-gray eyes.

“And what of you? Are you a good Jew?”

“No. I lost my faith early. In my childhood. By the time I was working in Lebanon, I realized I could have served the other side easily. I enjoyed being undercover, and the danger. But I didn’t do it because of faith.”

He snorted another huff of a laugh. “So. Whoever is in charge of Heaven has chosen me to defend Islam, and you to defend Judaism. I’m starting to think the pagans got it right.”

The Internet screen flared to life. Belhadj turned frontward in his chair. He typed a few keys, waited for the screen to catch up.

“I hunted you.”

Daria said, “Sorry?”

He didn’t look in her direction. “I hunted you. After you shot me. I had a dossier created for you. I retasked overseas teams who were supposed to be doing other things to shadow your operations for the Shin Bet. No matter how pedestrian or business-as-usual they may be. We bugged you, but only in places Shin Bet would expect to find Syrian bugs. When they got swept up, they would be associated with specific operations, not with you. You were watched, nonstop, for the better part of a year. I … I hunted you.”

Belhadj typed orders on the keyboard with his two forefingers, hunched forward, squinting. His hooded eyes glanced at the keyboard every time he typed. He made many type-overs.

Daria watched him. He took pains not to look in her direction. She waited.

“I wanted to kill you. I asked permission for a kill order.”

She sipped her coffee.

“Eventually, anger and hatred gave way to respect. That night, on the bridge near Al-A’ref School, you made a shot from a kilometer away. Dead of night, no moon, and precious few stars.”

He typed, peering at the screen. Daria stood, ankles crossed, damp hair falling forward toward her charcoal eyes.

“When the kill order came?” Belhadj clucked his teeth. “Damnedest thing. I threw it away.”

He typed some more.

Daria waited almost a minute. “I’m not sorry I shot you that night in Damascus.”

“Nor should you be.”

“But I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”

The Internet screen flared to life. Belhadj turned in his chair. “Ah, good. For a moment there—”

Daria crossed the wooden floor in bare feet and straddled his lap. She held his head tight and kissed him ferociously. Belhadj kissed her back, his hands along her flank, raising the shirt.

She used her leg muscles to rise long enough to reach down and unzip him.

The dial-up Internet screen waited patiently.

*   *   *

Later, Daria found clothes; a sleeveless white undershirt, the boy’s chambray shirt, a girl’s matchstick jeans, a jean jacket, and boots with Spanish heels. She stole a small backpack with a Hello Kitty decal.

They pushed the DCRI command vehicle into a dry ditch and set the interior ablaze. They doused the interior with petrol, turning the truck into a furnace. No reason to leave the pathologist’s bloody body around for the farm family to find.

Belhadj changed, too. They left the pathologist’s eight hundred euros behind as payment, then stole a sixteen-year-old compact car and drove back roads to Lyon.