The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,71

for Al Jazeera television.

The flash drive made the journey to East London on foot and at noon changed hands with admirable discretion on the pavements of Brick Lane. A few minutes later, in a bachelor flat in Chilton Street, it was inserted into a computer with no connection to the Internet, or so believed its owner. At which point a new wait commenced, the wait for Jalal Nasser, Saladin’s man in Europe, to come to Paris to meet his new girl.

28

PARIS

NATALIE TOOK CONSCIOUS NOTE OF him for the first time on Saturday, at half past two o’clock, as she was crossing the Luxembourg Gardens. At that instant she realized she had seen him on several prior occasions, including the previous afternoon, at the café across the street from her flat in Aubervilliers. Shaded by a Pernod umbrella, he had nipped at a glass of white wine, feigned absorption in a worn paperback, and stared at her without reservation. She had mistaken his attentions for lust and had left the café earlier than intended. In retrospect, she supposed her actions had made a positive impression.

But it was not until that perfect sun-dappled Saturday that Natalie was certain the man was following her. She had intended to take the entire day off from work, but a pandemic of strep throat in the cités had compelled her to spend the morning at the clinic. She had left at noon and ridden an RER into the city center. And while pretending to window-shop in the rue Vavin she had seen him on the opposite side of the street, pretending to do the same. A few minutes later, on the footpaths of the Luxembourg Gardens, she had employed another one of the techniques she had learned at the farm in Nahalal—a sudden stop, a turn, a hasty retracing of her steps. And there he was again. She walked past him with her eyes averted. Even so, she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her face. A few paces behind him, dressed like an aging revolutionary poet, was the blurry-faced watcher from the Office, and behind him were two French surveillance men. Natalie returned quickly to the rue Vavin and entered a boutique she had visited a few minutes earlier. Instantly, her phone rang.

“Have you forgotten that we’re having coffee today?”

Natalie recognized the voice. “Of course not,” she answered quickly. “I’m just running a few minutes late. Where are you?”

“Café de Flore. It’s on—”

“I know where it is,” she interrupted with a flash of French superiority. “I’m on my way.”

The connection went dead. Natalie dropped the phone into her bag and went into the street. Her pursuer was not there, but on the opposite pavement was one of the French surveillance men. He followed her through the Luxembourg Quarter to the boulevard Saint-Germain, where Dina Sarid was waving to her from a sidewalk table of one of Paris’s most famous coffeehouses. She was brightly veiled and wearing a pair of large movie starlet sunglasses.

“Even with that getup,” said Natalie softly as she kissed Dina’s cheek, “you still look like an Ashkenazi Jew in a hijab.”

“The maître d’ doesn’t agree. I was lucky to get a table.”

Natalie laid a napkin across her lap. “I think I’m being followed.”

“You are.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Dina only smiled.

“Is he the one we want?”

“Absolutely.”

“How do you want me to play it?”

“Hard to get. And remember,” added Dina, “no kissing on the first date.”

Natalie opened her menu and sighed. “I need a drink.”

29

AUBERVILLIERS, FRANCE

LEILA? IS THAT REALLY YOU? It’s Jalal. Jalal Nasser from London. Remember me? We met a few weeks ago. May I join you? I was just going to have a coffee myself.”

He blurted all this in classical Jordanian Arabic while hovering over Natalie’s usual table at the café opposite her apartment. It was late the following morning, a Sunday, the air cool and soft, the sun adrift in a cloudless sky. The traffic in the street was light; consequently, Natalie had seen him walking along the pavement from a long way off. Passing her table, he had stopped abruptly—as Natalie had stopped on the footpaths of the Luxembourg Gardens—and spun around as though his shoulder had been tapped. He approached her slowly and established himself so that the sun was at his back and his long shadow fell upon Natalie’s open newspaper. Looking up, she shaded her eyes and regarded him coolly, as if for the first time. His hair was tightly curled and neatly