The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,50

I’ve interrogated them. I know more about them than they know about themselves. But I’ve never been in the room with them when they plot and plan. It would be like being in the eye of a storm. I’d give anything for that one chance.”

“You would go to Syria?”

“In an instant.”

“What about your life? Would you give up your life for that chance?”

“We don’t do suicide missions. We’re not like them.”

“But you can’t guarantee I’ll be safe.”

“The only thing I can guarantee,” said Dina pointedly, “is that Saladin is planning more attacks, and that more innocent people are going to die.”

She dropped the last of the clothing into the suitcase and handed Natalie a flat, rectangular gift box. The lid was embossed with Arabic writing.

“A going-away present?”

“A tool to help with your transformation. Open it.”

Natalie hesitantly removed the lid. Inside was a swath of silk, royal blue, about one meter by one meter. After a moment she realized it was a hijab.

“Arab clothing is very effective at altering appearances,” explained Dina. “I’ll show you.” She took the hijab from Natalie’s grasp, folded it into a triangle, and swiftly wrapped it around her own head and neck. “What do I look like?”

“Like an Ashkenazi girl wearing a Muslim headscarf.”

Frowning, Dina removed the hijab and offered it to Natalie. “Now you.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Let me help you.”

Before Natalie could move away, the triangle of royal blue had been placed over her hair. Dina gathered the fabric beneath Natalie’s chin and secured it with a safety pin. Then she took the two loose ends of fabric, one slightly longer than the other, and tied them at the base of Natalie’s neck.

“There,” said Dina, making a few final adjustments. “See for yourself.”

Above the dresser hung an oval-shaped mirror. Natalie stared at her reflection for a long moment, entranced. At last, she asked, “What’s my name?”

“Natalie,” answered Dina. “Your name is Natalie.”

“No,” she said, staring at the veiled woman in the looking glass. “Not my name. Her name.”

“Her name,” said Dina, “is Leila.”

“Leila,” she repeated. “Leila . . .”

Leaving Nahalal, Dina noticed for the first time that Natalie was beautiful. Earlier, in Jerusalem and at lunch with the others, there had been no time for such an observation. Natalie was merely a target then. Natalie was a means to an end, and the end was Saladin. But now, alone with her in the car again, with the late-afternoon light golden and the warm air rushing through the open windows, Dina was free to contemplate Natalie at her leisure. The line of her jaw, the rich brown eyes, the long slender nose, the small upturned breasts, the bones of her delicate wrists and hands—hands that could save a life, thought Dina, or repair a leg ripped apart by a terrorist’s bomb. Natalie’s beauty was not the sort to turn heads or stop traffic. It was intelligent, dignified, pious even. It could be concealed, downgraded. And perhaps, thought Dina coldly, it could be used.

Not for the first time, she wondered why it was that Natalie was unmarried and without meaningful male attachment. The Office vetters had found nothing to suggest she was unsuited for work as an undercover field operative. She had no vices other than a taste for white wine, and no physical or emotional maladies except insomnia, which was brought on by the irregularity of her hours. Dina suffered the same affliction, though for different reasons. At night, when sleep finally claimed her, she saw blood dripping from chinaberry trees, and her mother, reassembled from her torn remnants, patched and sewn, calling to her from the open doorway of the Number 5 bus. And she saw Abdel Rahim al-Souwi, a bag at his feet, smiling to her from his seat behind the driver. It was one of his best, or so he said . . . Yes, thought Dina again, she would give anything to be in Natalie’s place.

Natalie had taken nothing from the bungalow except for the hijab, which was wrapped around her neck like a scarf. She was gazing at the sun, low over Mount Carmel, and listening intently to the news on the radio. There had been another stabbing, another fatality, this time in the Roman ruins at Caesarea. The perpetrator was an Israeli Arab from a village located inside the heavily Palestinian corner of the country known as the Triangle. He would be receiving no urgent care from the doctors at Hadassah; an Israeli soldier had shot him dead. In Ramallah