The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,54
didn’t fit Leila’s profile, either. Then, three weeks into her stay at the farm, they dressed her from head to toe as a Muslim woman and took her for a heavily guarded test drive in Tayibe, the largest Arab city in the so-called Triangle. Next she visited Ramallah, the seat of Palestinian authority in the West Bank, and a few days later, and on a warm Friday in mid-May, she attended Friday prayer services at the al-Aqsa Mosque in the Old City of Jerusalem. It was a tense day—the Israelis forbade young men from entering the Noble Sanctuary—and afterward there was a violent protest. Natalie briefly became separated from her undercover security guards. Eventually, they dragged her, choking on tear gas, into the back of a car and spirited her back to the farm.
“How did it make you feel?” asked Gabriel that evening, as they walked through the cool evening air of the valley. By then, Natalie was no longer running, for running didn’t fit Leila’s profile, either.
“It made me angry,” she said without hesitation.
“At whom?”
“The Israelis, of course.”
“Good,” he replied. “That’s why I did it.”
“Did what?”
“Provoked a demonstration in the Old City for your benefit.”
“You did that?”
“Trust me, Natalie. It really wasn’t that difficult.”
He didn’t come to Nahalal the next day or for five days after that. Only later would Natalie learn that he had been in Paris and Amman preparing for her introduction into the field—operational spadework, he called it. When finally he returned to the farm it was at noon on a warm and breezy Thursday, as Natalie was becoming acquainted with some of the unique features of her new mobile phone. He informed her that they were going to take another field trip, just the two of them, and instructed her to dress as Leila. She chose a green hijab with embroidered edges, a white blouse that concealed the shape of her breasts and hips, and long pants that left only the insteps of her feet visible. Her pumps were Bruno Magli. Leila, it seemed, had a soft spot for Italian footwear.
“Where are we going?”
“North,” was all he said.
“No bodyguards.”
“Not today,” he answered. “Today I am free.”
The car was a rather ordinary Korean sedan, which he drove very fast and with an uncharacteristic abandon.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” observed Natalie.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been behind the wheel of a car. The world looks different from the backseat of an armored SUV.”
“How so?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“But I’m one of you now.”
“Not quite,” he answered, “but we’re getting close.”
They were the last words he spoke for several minutes. Natalie slipped on a pair of stylish sunglasses and watched a sepia-toned version of Acre slide past her window. A few miles to the north was Lohamei HaGeta’ot, a kibbutz founded by survivors of the Warsaw Ghetto uprising. It was a tidy little farming community of neat houses, green lawns, and regular streets lined with cypress. The sight of an obviously Israeli man driving a car in which a veiled woman was the sole passenger elicited glances of only mild curiosity.
“What’s that?” asked Natalie, pointing toward a white conical structure rising above the rooftops of the kibbutz.
“It’s called Yad Layeled. It’s a memorial for the children killed in the Holocaust.” There was a curious note of detachment in his voice. “But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here to see something much more important.”
“What’s that?”
“Your home.”
He drove to a shopping center just north of the kibbutz and parked in a distant corner of the lot.
“How charming,” said Natalie.
“This isn’t it.” He pointed toward a patch of uncultivated land between the car park and Highway 4. “Your home is out there, Leila. The home that was stolen from you by the Jews.”
He climbed out of the car without another word and led Natalie across a service road, into a field of weeds and prickly pear and broken blocks of limestone. “Welcome to Sumayriyya, Leila.” He turned to face her. “Say it for me, please. Say it as though it is the most beautiful word you’ve ever heard. Say it as though it is the name of your mother.”
“Sumayriyya,” she repeated.
“Very good.” He turned and watched the traffic rushing along the highway. “In May 1948 there were eight hundred people living here, all Muslims.” He pointed toward the arches of an ancient aqueduct, largely intact, running along the edge of a field of soy. “That was theirs. It carried water from the springs and irrigated the fields that