waited curbside. Saladin lowered himself into the backseat and instructed the driver, a member of his network, to move forward a few yards. Inside the restaurant, surrounded by more than a hundred people, a woman sat alone, staring at her wristwatch. And though she did not realize it, her lips were moving.
65
WISCONSIN AVENUE, GEORGETOWN
AFTER CROSSING Q STREET, NATALIE encountered two Georgetown students, both women, both terrified. Over the scream of a passing ambulance, she explained that she had been robbed and needed to call her boyfriend for help. The women said that the university had sent out an alert ordering all students to return to their dorms and residences and to shelter in place. But when Natalie made a second appeal, one of the women, the taller of the two, handed over an iPhone. Natalie held the device in the palm of her left hand, and with her right, the one that held the detonator switch, entered the number she was supposed to use only in an extreme emergency. It rang on the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv. A male voice answered in terse Hebrew.
“I need to speak to Gabriel right away,” Natalie said in the same language.
“Who is this?”
She hesitated and then spoke her given name for the first time in many months.
“Where are you?”
“Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes, I think so, but I’m wearing a suicide vest.”
“It might be booby-trapped. Don’t try to take it off.”
“I won’t.”
“Stand by.”
Twice the man on the Operations Desk in Tel Aviv tried to transfer the call to Gabriel’s mobile. Twice there was no answer.
“There seems to be a problem.”
“Where is he?”
“The National Counterterrorism Center in Virginia.”
“Try again.”
A police cruiser flashed past, siren screaming. The two Georgetown students were growing impatient.
“Just a minute,” Natalie said to them in English.
“Please hurry,” replied the owner of the phone.
The man in Tel Aviv tried Gabriel’s phone again. It rang several times before a male voice answered in English.
“Who is this?” asked Natalie.
“My name is Adrian Carter. I work for the CIA.”
“Where’s Gabriel?”
“He’s here with me.”
“I need to speak to him.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Is this Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
She answered.
“Are you still wearing your vest?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t touch it.”
“I won’t.”
“Can you keep this phone?”
“No.”
“We’re going to bring you in. Walk north on Wisconsin Avenue. Stay on the west side of the street.”
“There’s going to be another attack. Safia is somewhere close.”
“We know exactly where she is. Get moving.”
The connection went dead. Natalie returned the phone and headed north up Wisconsin Avenue.
In the ruins of the National Counterterrorism Center, Carter managed to communicate to Gabriel that Natalie was safe and would momentarily be in FBI custody. Deafened, bleeding, Gabriel had no time for celebration. Mikhail was still inside Café Milano, not twenty feet from the table where Safia Bourihane sat alone, her thumb on her detonator, her eyes on her watch. Carter raised the phone to his ear and again ordered Mikhail to leave the restaurant at once. Gabriel still couldn’t hear what Carter was saying. He only hoped that Mikhail was listening.
Like Saladin, Mikhail surveyed the interior of Café Milano’s elegant dining room before rising. He, too, saw fear on the faces around him, and like Saladin he knew that in a moment many people would die. Saladin had had the power to stop the attack. Mikhail did not. Even if he was armed, which he was not, the chances of stopping the attack were slim. Safia’s thumb was atop the detonator switch, and when she was not staring at her watch, she was staring at Mikhail. Nor was it possible to issue any sort of warning. A warning would only cause a panicked rush to the door, and more would die. Better to let the vest explode with the patrons as they were. The lucky ones at the outer tables might survive. The ones closest to Safia, the ones who had been granted the coveted tables, would be spared the awful knowledge that they were about to die.
Slowly, Mikhail slid from the barstool and stood. He didn’t dare try to leave the restaurant through the front entrance; his path would take him far too close to Safia’s table. Instead, he moved calmly down the length of the bar toward the toilets. The door to the men’s room was locked. He twisted the flimsy latch until it snapped and went inside. A thirtysomething man with gelled hair was admiring himself in the mirror.
“What’s your problem, man?”
“You’ll know in a minute.”
The man tried to