by Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, the caliph himself. Natalie searched the street for evidence of the village’s name, but found none. She feared she had crossed the invisible border into Iraq.
All at once the SUV turned through an archway and drew to a stop in the court of a large house. There were date palms in the court; in their shade reclined a half-dozen ISIS fighters. One, a young man of perhaps twenty-five whose reddish beard was a work in progress, opened Natalie’s door and led her inside. It was cool in the house, and from somewhere came the soft reassuring chatter of women. In a room furnished with only carpets and pillows, the young man with the thin reddish beard invited Natalie to sit. He quickly withdrew and a veiled woman appeared with a glass of tea. Then the veiled woman took her leave, too, and Natalie had the room to herself.
She moved aside her veil and raised the glass tentatively to her lips. The sugary tea entered her bloodstream like drug from a needle. She drank it slowly, careful not to scald her mouth, and watched a shadow creeping toward her across the carpet. When the shadow reached her ankle, the woman reappeared to reclaim the glass. Then, a moment later, the room vibrated with the arrival of another vehicle in the court. Four doors opened and closed in near unison. Four men entered the house.
It was instantly apparent which of the four was the leader. He was a few years older than the others, more deliberative in movement, calmer in demeanor. The three younger men all carried large automatic combat rifles of a model Natalie could not identify, but the leader had only a pistol, which he wore holstered on his hip. He was attired in the manner of Abu Musab al-Zarqawi—a black jumpsuit, white trainers, a black keffiyeh tied tightly to his large head. His beard was unkempt, streaked with gray, and damp with sweat. His eyes were brown and oddly gentle, like the eyes of Bin Laden. His right hand was intact, but his left had only its thumb and forefinger, evidence of bomb making. For several minutes he stared down at the lump of black seated motionless on the carpet. When finally he addressed her, he did so in Arabic, with an Iraqi accent.
“Remove your veil.”
Natalie did not stir. It was haram in the Islamic State for a woman to reveal her face to a male who was not a relative, even if the male was an important Iraqi from the network of Saladin.
“It’s all right,” he said at last. “It is necessary.”
Slowly, carefully, Natalie raised her veil. She stared downward toward the carpet.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and Natalie obediently raised her eyes. He regarded her for a long moment before taking her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his ruined hand and turning her face side to side to examine it in profile. His gaze was critical, as though he were examining the flesh of a horse.
“They tell me you are a Palestinian.”
She nodded her assent.
“You look like a Jew, but I must admit all Palestinians look like Jews to me.” He spoke these words with a desert Arab’s disdain for those who lived in cities, marshes, and seacoasts. He was still holding her chin. “You’ve been to Palestine?”
“No, never.”
“But you have a French passport. You could have gone very easily.”
“It would have been too painful to see the land of my ancestors ruled by Zionists.”
Her answer appeared to please him. With a nod he instructed her to veil her face. She was grateful for the garment’s shelter, for it gave her a moment to compose herself. Hidden beneath her black tent, her face obscured, she prepared herself for the interrogation she knew lay ahead. The ease with which Leila’s story flowed from her subconscious to her conscious surprised her. The intense training had succeeded. It was as if she were recalling events that had actually occurred. Natalie Mizrahi was lost to her; she was dead and buried. It was Leila Hadawi who had been brought to this village in the middle of the desert, and Leila Hadawi who confidently awaited the sternest test of her life.
Presently, the woman reappeared with tea for everyone. The Iraqi sat down opposite Natalie, and the three others sat behind him with their weapons lying across their thighs. An image flashed in Natalie’s memory, a condemned man in an orange jumpsuit, a Westerner, pale as death,