The New Girl. Daniel Silva

and leaned his head wearily against the window. She was right about one thing, he thought. The secret world was much more interesting.

      IT WAS A FIVE-MINUTE DRIVE from the King David Hotel to Narkiss Street, the quiet, leafy lane in the historic Jerusalem neighborhood of Nachlaot where Gabriel Allon, despite the objections of his security department and many of his neighbors, continued to make his home. There were checkpoints at either end of the street, and a guard stood watch outside the old limestone apartment building at Number 16. As Gabriel alighted from the back of his SUV, the air smelled of eucalyptus and, faintly, of Turkish tobacco. There was little mystery as to the source. Ari Shamron’s flashy new armored limousine was parked along the curb in the space reserved for Gabriel’s motorcade.

      “He arrived around midnight,” the guard explained. “He said you were expecting him.”

      “And you believed him?”

      “What was I supposed to do? He’s the Memuneh.”

      Gabriel shook his head slowly. He was two years into his term as director-general, and yet even the members of his security detail still referred to Shamron as “the one in charge.”

      He headed up the garden walk, entered the foyer, and climbed the brightly lit stairs to the third floor. Chiara, in black leggings and a matching black pullover, was waiting in the open door of the apartment. She appraised Gabriel coolly for a moment before finally throwing her arms around his neck.

      “I should go to Saudi Arabia more often.”

      “When were you planning to tell me?”

      “Right about now.” He followed Chiara inside. Scattered across the coffee table in the sitting room were cups and glasses and half-consumed plates of food, evidence of a tense late-night vigil. The television, tuned to CNN International, played silently. “Did I make the evening news?”

      Chiara glared at him but said nothing.

      “How did you find out?”

      “How do you think?” She glanced toward the terrace, where Shamron was no doubt listening to every word they were saying. “He was even more worried than I was.”

      “Really? I find that hard to believe.”

      “He ordered Air Defense Command to track your plane. The tower at Ben Gurion alerted us when you landed. We expected you sooner, but apparently you made a slight detour on the way home.” Chiara gathered the dishes from the coffee table. She always tidied up when she was annoyed. “I’m sure you enjoyed seeing Sarah again. She was always fond of you.”

      “That was a long time ago.”

      “Not that long ago.”

      “You know I never had any feelings for her.”

      “It would have been completely understandable if you had. She’s very beautiful.”

      “Not as beautiful as you, Chiara. Not even close.”

      It was true. Chiara’s was a timeless beauty. In her face Gabriel saw traces of Arabia and North Africa and Spain and all the other lands through which her ancestors had passed before finding themselves behind the locked gates of Venice’s ancient ghetto. Her hair was dark and riotous and streaked with highlights of auburn and chestnut. Her eyes were wide and brown and flecked with gold. No, he thought, no woman would ever come between them. Gabriel only feared that one day Chiara would come to the realization she was far too young and beautiful to be married to a wreck like him.

      He went onto the terrace. There were two wrought-iron chairs and a small table, upon which was the plate Shamron had commandeered for his ashtray. Six cigarette butts lay side by side, like spent cartridges. Shamron was in the process of igniting a seventh with his old Zippo lighter when Gabriel plucked the cigarette from his lips.

      Shamron frowned. “One more won’t kill me.”

      “It might.”

      “Do you know how many of those I’ve smoked in my life?”

      “All the stars in the sky and the sand on the seashore.”

      “You shouldn’t borrow from Genesis when discussing a vice like smoking. It’s bad karma.”

      “Jews don’t believe in karma.”

      “Wherever did you get an idea like that?”

      Shamron extracted another cigarette from his packet with a tremulous liver-spotted hand. He was dressed, as usual, in a pair of pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a leather bomber jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. He had damaged the garment the night a Palestinian master terrorist named Tariq al-Hourani planted a bomb beneath Gabriel’s car in Vienna. Daniel, Gabriel’s young son, was killed in the explosion. Leah, his first wife, suffered catastrophic burns. She lived now in a psychiatric hospital atop Mount Herzl, trapped in a prison of memory and a body ravaged by fire. And Gabriel lived here on Narkiss Street, with his beautiful Italian-born wife and two young children. From them, he hid his unending grief. But not from Shamron. Death had joined them in the beginning. And death remained the foundation of their bond.

      Gabriel sat down. “Who told you?”

      “About your flying visit to Saudi Arabia?” Shamron’s smile was mischievous. “I believe it was Uzi.”

      Uzi Navot was the previous director-general and, like Gabriel, one of Shamron’s acolytes. In a break with Office tradition, he had agreed to remain at King Saul Boulevard, thus allowing Gabriel to function as an operational chief.

      “How much were you able to beat out of him?”

      “No coercion was necessary. Uzi was deeply concerned about your decision to return to the country where you spent nearly a month in captivity. Needless to say,” said Shamron, “I shared his opinion.”

      “You traveled secretly to Arab countries when you were the chief.”

      “Jordan, yes. Morocco, of course. I even went to Egypt after Sadat made his visit to Jerusalem. But I never set foot in Saudi Arabia.”

      “I wasn’t in danger.”

      “With all due respect, Gabriel, I doubt that was the case. You should have conducted the meeting on neutral ground, in an environment controlled by the Office. He has a tempestuous streak, the crown prince. You’re lucky you didn’t end up like that journalist he killed in Istanbul.”

      “I’ve always found journalists to be much more useful alive than dead.”

      Shamron smiled. “Did you read the piece they wrote about Khalid in the New York Times? They said the Arab Spring had finally come to Saudi Arabia. They said an untested boy was going to transform a country founded on a shotgun marriage between Wahhabism and a desert tribe from the Nejd.” Shamron shook his head. “I didn’t believe the story then, and I surely don’t believe it now. Khalid bin Mohammed is interested in two things. The first is power. The second is money. For the Al Saud, they are one and the same. Without power, there is no money. And without money, there is no power.”

      “But he fears the Iranians as much as we do. For that reason alone, he can prove quite useful.”

      “Which is why you agreed to find his daughter.” Shamron gave Gabriel a sidelong glance. “That is why he wanted to see you, isn’t it?”

      Gabriel handed Shamron the demand note, which he read by the flickering light of the Zippo. “It looks as though you’ve gotten yourself into the middle of a royal family feud.”

      “That’s exactly what it looks like.”

      “It’s not without risk.”

      “Nothing worth doing is.”

      “I agree.” Shamron closed the lighter with a snap of his thick wrist. “Even if you fail to find her, your efforts will pay dividends in the royal court of Riyadh. And if you succeed …” Shamron shrugged. “The