The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,80

In a statement released on social media, ISIS confirmed that Awad was a member of its organization who had played a major support role in the attacks in Paris and Amsterdam. It declared him a holy martyr and swore to avenge his death by unleashing “rivers of blood.” The final battle, it said, would come in a place called Dabiq.

32

SANTORINI, GREECE

DR. LEILA HADAWI SHED HER VEIL in a public toilet at Athens International Airport ten minutes after clearing passport control. She shed her pious clothing, too, changing into a pair of white Capri-length pants, a sleeveless blouse, and a pair of gold flat-soled sandals that displayed her newly polished nails. While waiting for her next flight to be called, she repaired to an airport bar and consumed her first alcohol, two glasses of tart Greek white wine, since her recruitment. Boarding her next flight, the three-fifteen to Santorini, she was oblivious to fear. Syria was a troubled place on a map. Isis was the wife of Osiris, friend of slaves and sinners, protector of the dead.

Leila Hadawi had never visited Santorini, and neither for that matter had the woman who wore the good doctor’s identity. Her first airborne glimpse of the island, with its sharp demonic peaks rising from the rim of a flooded caldera, was a revelation. And at the airport, as she stepped onto the bleached tarmac, the heat of the sun on her bare arms was like a lover’s first kiss. She rode in a taxi to Thera and then made her way on foot along a pedestrian walkway to the Panorama Boutique Hotel. Entering the lobby, she saw a tall, sunburned Englishman shouting hysterically at the concierge while a woman with sandstone-colored hair and childbearing hips looked on in embarrassment. Natalie smiled. She was not alone. Not yet.

A young Greek woman stood watch behind the reception desk. Natalie walked over and stated her name. “We have you in a double for ten nights,” said the woman after tapping a few keys on her computer keyboard. “According to our records, one other person will be joining you, a Miss Shirazi.”

“I’m afraid she’s been delayed.”

“Problems with her flight?”

“A family emergency.”

“Not serious, I hope.”

“Not too.”

“Passport, please.”

Natalie slid her worn French passport across the counter while Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern, using different names, flying false flags, stormed from the lobby in a rage. Even Natalie welcomed the sudden quiet.

“Their room isn’t to their liking,” explained the clerk.

“I gathered that.”

“Yours is lovely, I assure you.”

Natalie accepted the key and, after declining an offer of help with her bag, made her way alone to her room. It had two single beds and a small balcony overlooking the rim of the caldera, where a pair of gleaming white cruise ships floated like toys upon a flat perfect sea. One last fling, she thought, courtesy of the richest terrorist organization in history.

She unzipped her bag and unpacked her belongings as though she were settling in for a long stay. By the time she had finished, the sun was a few degrees above the horizon, flooding her room with fiery orange light. After locking her passport in the room safe, she headed downstairs to the terrace bar, which was crowded with other guests, mainly from the British Isles. Seated among them, in decidedly better spirits, were Yossi and Rimona.

Natalie seized an empty table and from a harried waitress ordered a glass of white wine. Slowly, the bar filled with other guests, including a lanky man with bloodless skin and eyes like glacial ice. She hoped he might join her but instead he sat at the bar, where he could keep watch over the terrace and pretend to flirt with a pretty girl from Bristol. Natalie was able to hear his voice for the first time and was surprised by the distinct Russian accent. Given the demographics of modern Israel, she suspected the accent was authentic.

Presently, the sun slipped behind the peaks of Therasia. The skies darkened, the sea turned to black. Natalie glanced at the man who spoke with a Russian accent but at that moment he was otherwise occupied, so she turned away again and stared into the emptiness. Someone will come for you, they had said. But at that instant, in this place, the only person Natalie wanted was the man at the bar.

For the next three days Dr. Leila Hadawi behaved as an ordinary, if solitary, tourist. She breakfasted alone in the Panorama’s dining room, she roasted her skin on the