Gabriel, whose litany of secret sins on French soil was long. What’s more, France was an unabashed supporter of many of Israel’s most implacable foes. In short, the intelligence services of Israel and France did not like each other much.
It was not always so. France armed Israel in its infancy, and without French help Israel would have never developed the nuclear deterrent that allowed it to survive in the hostile Middle East. But in the 1960s, after the disastrous war in Algeria, Charles de Gaulle set out to repair France’s strained relations with the Arab world—and when Israel, largely with French aircraft, launched the Six-Day War with a surprise attack on Egypt’s airfields, de Gaulle condemned it. He referred to Jews as “an elite people, sure of itself, domineering,” and the rupture was complete.
Now, over coffee in the salon of the Weinberg family apartment on the rue Pavée, Gabriel and Rousseau set out to repair, at least temporarily, the legacy of mistrust. Their first order of business was to hammer out a basic operational accord, a blueprint for how the two services would work together, a division of labor and authority, the rules of the road. It was to be a true partnership, though for obvious reasons Rousseau would retain preeminence over any aspects of the operation that touched French soil. In return, Gabriel would be granted complete and total access to France’s voluminous files on the thousands of Islamic extremists living within its borders: the watch reports, the e-mail and phone intercepts, the immigration records. That alone, he would say much later, had been worth the price of admission.
There were bumps in the road, but for the most part the negotiations went more smoothly than either Gabriel or Rousseau could have imagined. Perhaps it was because the two men were not so different. They were men of the arts, men of culture and learning who had devoted their lives to protecting their fellow citizens from those who would shed the blood of innocents over ideology or religion. Each had lost a spouse—one to illness, the other to terror—and each was well respected by their counterparts in Washington and London. Rousseau was no Gabriel Allon, but he had been fighting terrorists almost as long, and had the notches in his belt to prove it.
“There are some in the French political establishment,” said Gabriel, “who would like to see me behind bars because of my previous activities.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“If I am to function here without cover, I require a document giving me blanket immunity, now and forever, amen.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And I’ll see if I can find Saladin before he attacks again.”
Rousseau frowned. “Too bad you weren’t the one to negotiate the Iran nuclear deal.”
“Too bad,” agreed Gabriel.
By then, it was approaching four o’clock. Rousseau stood, yawned elaborately, stretched his arms wide, and suggested a walk. “Doctor’s orders,” he said. “It seems I’m too fat for my own good.” They slipped from the entrance of Hannah Weinberg’s apartment house and, with Bouchard and Gabriel’s bodyguard in tow, walked along the Seine embankments toward Notre-Dame. They were a mismatched pair, the lumpy, tweedy former professor from the Sorbonne, the smallish figure in leather who seemed to float slightly above the surface of the paving stones. The sun was low in the western sky, blazing through a slit in the clouds. Rousseau shaded his eyes.
“Where do you intend to start?”
“The files, of course.”
“You’ll need help.”
“Obviously.”
“How many officers do you intend to bring into the country?”
“The exact number I need.”
“I can give you a room in our headquarters on the rue de Grenelle.”
“I prefer something a bit more private.”
“I can arrange a safe house.”
“So can I.”
Gabriel paused at a news kiosk. On the front page of Le Monde were two photographs of Safia Bourihane, the Frenchwoman of Muslim heritage, the veiled killer from the caliphate. The headline was one word in length: CATASTROPHE!
“Whose catastrophe was it?” asked Gabriel.
“The inevitable inquiry will undoubtedly find that elements of my service made terrible mistakes. But are we truly to blame? We, the humble secret servants who stand with our fingers in the dike? Or does the blame lie elsewhere?”
“Where?”
“In Washington, for example.” Rousseau set off along the embankment. “The invasion of Iraq turned the region into a cauldron. And when the new American president decided the time had come to withdraw, the cauldron boiled over. And then there was this folly we called the Arab Spring. Mubarak must go! Gaddafi must go! Assad must go!”