The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,130

the foyer.

“Al-Farouk,” said Saladin. “I have a reservation for two.”

One of the hostesses checked the computer. “Eight o’clock?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes averted.

“You’re early.”

“I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Not at all. Is the rest of your party here?”

“Not yet.”

“I can seat you now, or if you prefer you can wait at the bar.”

“I prefer to sit.”

The hostess led Saladin to a coveted table near the front of the restaurant, a few paces from the bar.

“I’m dining with a young lady. She should be arriving in a few minutes.”

The hostess smiled and withdrew. Saladin sat down and surveyed the interior of the restaurant. Its patrons were moneyed, comfortable, and powerful. He was surprised to find he recognized a few, including the man seated at the next table. He was a columnist for the New York Times who had supported—no, thought Saladin, that was too weak a word—campaigned for the American invasion of Iraq. Saladin smiled. Qassam el-Banna had chosen well. It was a shame he would not see the results of his hard work.

A waiter appeared and offered Saladin a cocktail. With practiced confidence, he ordered a vodka martini, specifying the brand of alcohol he preferred. It arrived a few minutes later and with great ceremony was poured from its silver shaker. It stood untouched before him, beads of condensation clouding the glass. At the bar a trio of half-naked women were screaming with laughter, and at the next table the columnist was holding forth on the subject of Syria. Apparently, he did not think the band of murderous thugs known as ISIS posed much of a threat to the United States. Saladin smiled and checked his watch.

There were no parking spaces to be had on Prospect Street, so Mikhail made a U-turn at the end of the block and parked illegally opposite a sandwich shop that catered to students from Georgetown University. Café Milano was more than a hundred yards away, a smudge in the distance.

“This won’t do,” said Eli Lavon, pointing out the obvious. “One of us has to go in there and keep an eye on him.”

“You go. I’ll stay with the car.”

“It’s not really my kind of place,” replied Lavon.

Mikhail climbed out and started back toward Café Milano on foot. It was not the only restaurant on the street. Besides the sandwich shop, there was a Thai restaurant and an upscale bistro. Mikhail walked past them and descended the two steps to Café Milano’s entrance. The maître d’ smiled at Mikhail as though he were expected.

“I’m meeting a friend at the bar.”

The maître d’ pointed the way. Only one stool was available, a few paces from where a well-dressed man, Arab in appearance, sat alone. There was a second place setting opposite, which meant that in all likelihood the well-dressed man would not be dining alone. Mikhail settled onto the empty stool. It was far too close to the target, though it had the advantage of an unobstructed view of the entrance. He ordered a glass of wine and dug his phone from his pocket.

Mikhail’s message landed on Gabriel’s phone thirty seconds later. He now had a choice to make: keep the information to himself or confess to Adrian Carter that he had deceived him. Given the circumstances, he chose the latter. Carter took the news surprisingly well.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said. “And mine.”

“Then you won’t mind if we stick around a little longer and see who he’s having dinner with.”

“Don’t bother. We have more important things to worry about than a rich Saudi having dinner with the beautiful people at Café Milano.”

“Like what?”

“Like that.”

Carter nodded toward the video screen, where subject number two, otherwise known as Safia Bourihane, was placing the L.L.Bean bags upon the bed. From one, she carefully removed a black nylon vest fitted with wires and explosives and held it to her torso. Then, smiling, she examined her appearance in the mirror while the entire counterterrorism apparatus of the United States looked on in horror.

“Game over,” said Gabriel. “Get my girl out of there.”

59

KEY BRIDGE MARRIOTT

THERE WAS A MOMENT’S CONFUSION regarding who would wear which suicide vest. It seemed peculiar to Natalie—the vests appeared identical in every way—but Safia was insistent. She wanted Natalie to wear the vest with the small stitch of red thread along the inside of the zipper. Natalie accepted it without argument and carried it into the bathroom, warily, as though it were a cup brimming over with scalding liquid. She had treated the victims of weapons like