The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,73
never told you anything about my parents. In fact, I’m quite certain I’ve never seen you until this moment.”
“Never?”
“No.”
“Then how do I know these things about you?”
“Maybe you’re from the DGSI?”
“Me? French intelligence? My French is dreadful. You said so yourself.”
“Then maybe you’re American. Or Israeli,” she added.
“You’re paranoid.”
“That’s because I’m a Palestinian. And if you don’t tell me who you really are and what you want, I’m leaving. And there’s a very good chance I might find the nearest gendarme and tell him about the strange man who knows things about me he shouldn’t.”
“It’s never a good idea for Muslims to get involved with the French police, Leila. There’s a good chance they’ll open an S file on you. And if they do, they’ll learn things that could prove detrimental to someone in your position.”
She placed a five-euro note next to her coffee and started to rise, but once again he placed his hand on her arm—not lightly but with a grip that was shockingly firm. And all the while he was smiling for the benefit of the waiter and the passersby, immigrants and native French, filing past through the soft sunlight.
“Who are you?” she murmured through clenched teeth.
“My name is Jalal Nasser.”
“Jalal from London?”
“Correct.”
“Have we ever met before?”
“No.”
“You lied to me.”
“I had to.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was asked to come.”
“By whom?”
“You, of course.” He relaxed his grip. “Don’t be nervous, Leila,” he said calmly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m only here to help. I’m going to give you the chance you’ve been waiting for. I’m going to make your dreams come true.”
Paul Rousseau’s observation post was located directly above the café, and the sharp downward angle of the surveillance camera was such that Natalie and Jalal seemed like characters in an avant-garde French film. Audio coverage was supplied by Natalie’s mobile phone, which meant that, when viewed live, there was a maddening two-second audio delay. But afterward, in the safe house at Seraincourt, Mordecai produced an edited version of the encounter in which sound and video were synchronized. With Eli Lavon at his side, Gabriel watched it three times from beginning to end. Then he adjusted the time code to 11:17:38 and clicked on the play icon.
“Why are you here?”
“I was asked to come.”
“By whom?”
“You, of course.”
Gabriel clicked PAUSE.
“Impressive performance,” said Eli Lavon.
“His or hers?”
“Both, actually.”
Gabriel clicked PLAY.
“I’m going to give you the chance you’ve been waiting for. I’m going to make your dreams come true.”
“Who told you about these dreams of mine?”
“My friend Nabil. Perhaps you remember him.”
“Very well.”
“Nabil told me about the conversation you had after the demonstration in the Place de la République.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because Nabil and I work for the same organization.”
“Which organization?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Not here. Not now.”
Gabriel clicked PAUSE and looked at Lavon. “Why not here?” he asked. “Why not now?”
“You didn’t really think he would make his move in the café, did you?”
Gabriel frowned and pressed PLAY.
“Perhaps we can meet somewhere more private to talk at length.”
“Perhaps.”
“Are you free this evening?”
“I might be.”
“Do you know La Courneuve?”
“Of course.”
“Can you make your way there?”
“It’s not far. I can walk.”
“There’s a large housing estate on the Avenue Leclerc.”
“I know it.”
“Be outside the pharmacy at nine. Don’t bring your mobile phone or anything electronic. And dress warmly.”
Gabriel paused the recording. “Sounds to me like they’re going to be traveling by motorbike.”
“Brilliant,” said Lavon.
“Jalal or me?”
A silence fell between them. It was Lavon who finally broke it.
“What are you worried about?”
“I’m worried that he’s going to drive her to a secluded location, brutally interrogate her, and then cut her head off. Other than that, I have no concerns at all.”
Another silence, longer than the first.
“What are you going to do?” Lavon asked finally.
Gabriel stared at the computer screen, one hand to his chin, his head tilted slightly to one side. Then he reached down, reset the time code, and pressed PLAY.
“Leila? Is that really you? It’s Jalal. Jalal Nasser from London . . .”
30
LA COURNEUVE, FRANCE
THE CLEAR SKIES WERE BY that evening a pleasant memory. A cold, damp wind plucked at Natalie’s hijab as she made her way along the Avenue Leclerc, and above her head a blanket of thick clouds obscured the moon and stars. The raw weather was more typical of the northern banlieues; a trick of the prevailing southwesterly winds gave them a distinctly gloomier climate than the center of Paris. It only added to the air of dystopian misery that hung like a gray