The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,48
periphery, anger and resentment burned long after the state came into existence, and societies stagnated under the thumbs of monarchs and dictators. While the rest of the world advanced, the Arabs, despite their massive petrowealth, went backward. Arab radio raged against the Jews while Arab children went barefoot and hungry. Arab newspapers printed blood libels that few Arabs could even read. Arab rulers grew rich while the Arab people had nothing but their humiliation and resentment—and Islam.
“Am I somehow to blame for their dysfunction?” asked Gabriel of no one in particular, and no one responded. “Did it happen because I lived here in this valley? Do they hate me because I drained it and killed the mosquitos and made it bloom? If I were not here, would the Arabs be free, prosperous, and stable?”
For a brief moment, he continued, it seemed peace might actually be possible. There was an historic handshake on the South Lawn of the White House. Arafat set up shop in Ramallah, Israelis were suddenly cool. And yet all the while the son of a Saudi construction billionaire was building an organization known as al-Qaeda, or the Base. For all its Islamic fervor, Osama bin Laden’s creation was a highly bureaucratic enterprise. Its bylaws and workplace regulations resembled those of any modern company. They governed everything from vacation days to medical benefits to airline travel and furniture allowances. There were even rules for disability payments and a process by which a member’s employment could be terminated. Those wishing to enter one of Bin Laden’s Afghan training camps had to fill out a lengthy questionnaire. No corner of a potential recruit’s life was spared scrutiny.
“But ISIS is different. Yes, it has its questionnaire, but it’s nowhere near as thorough as al-Qaeda’s. And with good reason. You see, Natalie, a caliphate without people is not a caliphate. It is a patch of empty desert between Aleppo and the Sunni Triangle of Iraq.” He paused. Then for a second time he said, “Which is where you come in.”
“You can’t be serious.”
His blank expression said that he was.
“You want me to join ISIS?” she asked, incredulous.
“No,” he said. “You will be asked to join.”
“By whom?”
“Saladin, of course.”
A silence ensued. Natalie glanced from face to face—the mournful face of the avenged remnant, the familiar face of the chief of the Office, the face of a man who was supposed to be dead. It was to this face that she delivered her response.
“I can’t do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m Jewish, and I can’t pretend to be anything else just because I speak their language.”
“You do it all the time, Natalie. At Hadassah they assign you Palestinian patients because they think you’re one of them. So do the Arab traders in the Old City.”
“The Arab traders aren’t members of ISIS.”
“Some of them are. But that’s beside the point. You come to the table with certain natural attributes. You are, as we like to say, a gift from the intelligence gods. With our training, we’ll complete the masterpiece. We’ve been doing this for a long time, Natalie, and we’re very good at it. We can take a Jewish boy from a kibbutz and turn him into an Arab from Jenin. And we can surely turn someone like you into a Palestinian doctor from Paris who wishes to strike a blow against the West.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“Because like Dina, she is grieving. She craves vengeance. She is a black widow.”
There was a long silence. When finally Natalie spoke, it was with a clinical detachment.
“She’s French, this girl of yours?”
“She carries a French passport, she was educated and trained in France, but she is Palestinian by ethnicity.”
“So the operation will take place in Paris?”
“It will begin there,” he answered carefully, “but if the first phase is successful, it will necessarily migrate.”
“Where?”
He said nothing.
“To Syria?”
“I’m afraid,” said Gabriel, “that Syria is where ISIS is.”
“And do you know what will happen to your doctor from Paris if ISIS finds out she’s actually a Jew from Marseilles?”
“We are well aware of—”
“They’ll saw her head off. And then they’ll put the video on the Internet for the world to see.”
“They’ll never know.”
“But I’ll know,” she said. “I’m not like you. I’m a terrible liar. I can’t keep secrets. I have a guilty conscience. There’s no way I can pull it off.”
“You underestimate yourself.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Allon, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” After a pause, she said, “Find someone else.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” She folded her napkin, rose, and extended