The Black Widow. Daniel Silva

      “I don’t know why. I’m just glad they didn’t kill him. It would have ruined my going-away party.”

      Gabriel returned the photograph. “How much did you tell the French?”

      “Enough to let them know that the plot against the Weinberg Center originated in the caliphate. They weren’t surprised. In fact, they were already well aware of the Syrian connection. Both of the attackers traveled there during the past year. One is a Frenchwoman of Algerian descent. Her male accomplice is a Belgian national from the Molenbeek district of Brussels.”

      “Belgium? How shocking,” said Gabriel derisively.

      Thousands of Muslims from France, Britain, and Germany had traveled to Syria to fight alongside ISIS, but tiny Belgium had earned the dubious distinction of being Western Europe’s largest per capita supplier of manpower to the Islamic caliphate.

      “Where are they now?” asked Gabriel.

      “In a few minutes the French interior minister is going to announce they’re back in Syria.”

      “How did they get there?”

      “Air France to Istanbul on borrowed passports.”

      “But of course.” There was a silence. Finally, Gabriel asked, “What does this have to do with me, Uzi?”

      “The French are concerned that ISIS has managed to construct a sophisticated network on French soil.”

      “Is that so?”

      “The French are also concerned,” said Navot, ignoring the remark, “that this network intends to strike again in short order. Obviously, they would like to roll it up before the next attack. And they’d like you to help them do it.”

      “Why me?”

      “It seems you have an admirer inside the French security service. His name is Paul Rousseau. He runs a small operational unit called Alpha Group. He wants you to fly to Paris tomorrow morning for a meeting.”

      “And if I don’t?”

      “That painting will never leave French soil.”

      “I’m supposed to meet with the prime minister tomorrow. He’s going to tell the world that I wasn’t killed in that bombing on the Brompton Road. He’s going to announce that I’m the new chief of the Office.”

      “Yes,” said Navot dryly, “I know.”

      “Maybe you should be the one to work with the French.”

      “I suggested that.”

      “And?”

      “They only want you.” Navot paused, then added, “The story of my life.”

      Gabriel tried and failed to suppress a smile.

      “There is a silver lining to this,” Navot continued. “The prime minister thinks a joint operation with the French will help to repair our relations with a country that was once a valuable and trusted ally.”

      “Diplomacy by special ops?”

      “In so many words.”

      “Well,” said Gabriel, “you and the prime minister seem to have it all worked out.”

      “It was Paul Rousseau’s idea, not ours.”

      “Was it really, Uzi?”

      “What are you suggesting? That I engineered this to hold on to my job a little longer?”

      “Did you?”

      Navot waved his hand as though he were dispersing a foul odor. “Take the operation, Gabriel—for Hannah Weinberg, if for no other reason. Get inside the network. Find out who Saladin really is and where he’s operating. And then put him down before another bomb explodes.”

      Gabriel gazed northward, toward the distant black mass of mountains separating Israel from what remained of Syria. “You don’t even know whether he really exists, Uzi. He’s only a rumor.”

      “Someone planned that attack and moved the pieces into place under the noses of the French security services. It wasn’t a twenty-nine-year-old woman from the banlieues and her friend from Brussels. And it wasn’t a rumor.”

      Navot’s phone flared like a match in the darkness. He raised it briefly to his ear before offering it to Gabriel.

      “Who is it?”

      “The prime minister.”

      “What does he want?”

      “An answer.”

      Gabriel stared at the phone for a moment. “Tell him I have to have a word with the most powerful person in the State of Israel. Tell him I’ll call first thing in the morning.”

      Navot relayed the message and rang off.

      “What did he say?”

      Navot smiled. “Good luck.”

       8

       NARKISS STREET, JERUSALEM

      THE GRUMBLE OF GABRIEL’S SUV disturbed the resolute quiet of Narkiss Street. He alighted from the backseat, passed through a metal gate, and headed up the garden walk to the entrance of a Jerusalem limestone apartment building. On the third-floor landing, he found the door to his flat slightly ajar. He opened it slowly, silently, and in the half-light saw Chiara seated at one end of the white couch, a child to her breast. The child was wrapped in a blanket. Only when Gabriel crept closer could he see it was Raphael. The boy had inherited his father’s face and the face of a half-brother he would never know. Gabriel toyed with the downy dark hair and then leaned down to kiss Chiara’s warm lips.

      “If you wake him,” she whispered, “I’ll kill you.”

      Smiling, Gabriel slipped off his suede loafers and in stocking feet padded down the corridor to the nursery. Two cribs stood end to end against a wall covered by clouds. They had been painted by Chiara and then hastily repainted by Gabriel upon his return to Israel, after what was supposed to be his last operation. He stood at the railing of one of the cribs and gazed down at the child sleeping below. He didn’t dare touch her. Raphael was already sleeping through the night, but Irene was a nocturnal creature who had learned how to blackmail her way into her parents’ bed. She was smaller and trimmer than her corpulent sibling, but far more stubborn and determined. Gabriel thought she had the makings of a perfect spy, though he would never permit it. A doctor, a poet, a painter—anything but a spy. He would have no successor, there would be no dynasty. The House of Allon would fade with his passing.

      Gabriel peered upward toward the spot where he had painted Daniel’s face among the clouds, but the darkness rendered the image invisible. He left the nursery, closing the door soundlessly behind him, and went into the kitchen. The savor of meat braising in red wine and aromatics hung decadently in the air. He peered through the oven window and saw a covered orange casserole centered on the rack. Next to the stove, arranged as if for a recipe book, were the makings of Chiara’s famous risotto: Arborio rice, grated cheese, butter, white wine, and a large measuring cup filled with homemade chicken stock. There was also a bottle of Galilean Syrah, unopened. Gabriel eased the cork from the neck, poured a glass, and returned to the sitting room.

      Quietly, he settled into the armchair opposite Chiara. And he thought, not for the first time, that the little apartment in the old neighborhood of Nachlaot was too small for a family of four, and too far from King Saul Boulevard. It would be better to have a house in the secular belt of suburbs along the Coastal Plain, or a large apartment in one of the smart new towers that seemed to sprout overnight along the sea in Tel Aviv. But long ago, Jerusalem, God’s