these, the poor souls like Dina Sarid whose limbs and vital organs had been shredded by nails and ball bearings or ravaged by the unseen destructive power of the blast wave. And she had heard the macabre stories about the damage done to those who had been seduced into strapping bombs to their bodies. Ayelet Malkin, her friend from Hadassah Medical Center, had been sitting in her apartment one afternoon in Jerusalem when the head of a suicide bomber landed like a fallen coconut on her balcony. The thing had lain there for more than an hour, glaring at Ayelet reproachfully, until finally a policewoman zipped it into a plastic evidence bag and carted it off.
Natalie sniffed the explosive; it smelled of marzipan. She held the detonator lightly in her right hand and then threaded her arm carefully through the sleeve of the red Tahari jacket. The left arm was even more of a challenge. She didn’t dare use her right hand for fear of accidentally hitting the detonator button and blowing herself and a portion of the eighth floor to bits. Next she fastened the jacket’s five decorative buttons using only her left hand, smoothed the front, and straightened the shoulders. Examining her appearance in the mirror, she thought Safia had chosen well. The cut of the jacket concealed the bomb perfectly. Even Natalie, whose back was aching beneath the weight of the ball bearings, could see no visible evidence of it. There was only the smell, the faint smell of almonds and sugar.
She looked around the interior of the bathroom, around the edges of the mirror, at the overhead light fixture. Surely, the Americans were watching and listening. And surely, she thought, Gabriel was watching, too. She wondered what they were waiting for. She had come to Washington in an attempt to identify targets and other members of the attack cells. Thus far, she had learned almost nothing because Safia had very deliberately withheld even the most basic information about the operation. But why? And why had Safia insisted that Natalie wear the suicide vest with the red stitch in the zipper? Again, she glanced around the bathroom. Are you watching? Do you see what’s going on in here? Obviously, they intended to let it play out a little longer. But not too long, she thought. The Americans wouldn’t allow a proven terrorist like Safia, a black widow with blood on her hands, to walk around the streets of Washington wearing a suicide vest. As an Israeli, Natalie knew that such operations were inherently dangerous and unpredictable. Safia would have to be shot cleanly through the brain stem with a large-caliber weapon to ensure that she did not retain the capacity to squeeze her detonator with a dying spasm. If she did, anyone close to her would be cut to pieces.
Natalie scrutinized her face one last time in the mirror, as if committing her own features to memory—the nose she detested, the mouth she thought too large for her face, the dark alluring eyes. Then, quite unexpectedly, she saw someone standing beside her, a man with pale skin and eyes the color of glacial ice. He was dressed for a special occasion, a wedding, perhaps a funeral, and was holding a gun in one hand.
Actually, you’re more like me than you realize . . .
She switched out the light and went into the next room. Safia was sitting at the end of the bed, dressed in her suicide vest and her gray jacket. She was staring blankly at the television. Her skin was pale as milk, her hair lay heavy and limp against the side of her neck. The young woman who had carried out a massacre of innocents in the name of Islam was obviously frightened.
“Are you ready?” asked Natalie.
“I can’t.” Safia spoke as though a hand were squeezing her throat.
“Of course you can. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Safia held a cigarette between the trembling fingers of her left hand. With her right she was clutching her detonator—too tightly, thought Natalie.
“Maybe I should drink a little vodka or whisky,” Safia was saying. “They say it helps.”
“Do you really want to meet Allah smelling of alcohol?”
“I suppose not.” Her eyes moved from the television to Natalie’s face. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“A little.”
“You don’t look afraid. In fact, you look happy.”
“I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”
“For death?”
“For vengeance,” said Natalie.
“I thought I wanted vengeance, too. I thought I wanted to die . . .”
The invisible hand