The New Girl. Daniel Silva
Mikhail spoke a few words in Hebrew to the driver. A moment later they stopped at the edge of a broad esplanade.
Mikhail pointed toward a dilapidated hotel. “That’s where the Passover Massacre happened back in 2002. Thirty dead, a hundred and forty wounded.”
“Is there any place in this country that hasn’t been bombed?”
“I told you, life isn’t so easy here.” Mikhail nodded toward the esplanade. “Take a walk. We’ll do the rest.”
Sarah climbed out of the car and started across the square. The past is the past … For a moment, she almost believed it was true.
AT THE CENTER OF THE esplanade was a blue reflecting pool, around which several young Orthodox boys, payess flying, played a noisy game of tag. They were speaking not in Hebrew but in French. So were their wigged mothers and the two black-shirted hipsters who eyed Sarah approvingly from a table at a brasserie called Chez Claude. Indeed, were it not for the worn-out khaki-colored buildings and the blinding Middle Eastern sunlight, Sarah might have imagined she was crossing a square in the twentieth arrondissement of Paris.
Suddenly, she realized someone was calling her name, with the emphasis on the second syllable rather than the first. Turning, she spotted a petite dark-haired woman waving to her from across the square. The woman approached with a slight limp.
Sarid, Sarid, Sarid …
Dina kissed Sarah on both cheeks. “Welcome to the Israeli Riviera.”
“Is everyone here French?”
“Not everyone, but more are coming every day.” Dina pointed toward the far end of the square. “There’s a little place called La Brioche right over there. I recommend the pain au chocolat. They’re the best in Israel. Order enough for two.”
Sarah walked to the café. She made a few moments of small talk in fluent French with the woman behind the counter before ordering an assortment of pastries and two coffees, a café crème and an espresso.
“Sit anywhere you like. Someone will bring your order.”
Sarah went outside. Several tables stood along the edge of the square. At one sat Mikhail. He caught Sarah’s eye and nodded toward the man of late middle age sitting alone. He wore a dark gray suit and white dress shirt. His face was long and narrow at the chin, with wide cheekbones and a slender nose that looked as though it had been carved from wood. His dark hair was cropped short and shot with gray at the temples. His eyes were an unnatural shade of green.
Rising, he extended his hand, formally, as though meeting Sarah for the first time. She held it a moment too long. “I’m surprised to see you in a place like this.”
“I go out in public all the time. Besides,” he added with a glance toward Mikhail, “I have him.”
“The man who broke my heart.” She sat down. “Is he the only one?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“How many?”
His green eyes searched the square. “Eight, I believe.”
“A small battalion. Who have you managed to offend this time?”
“I imagine the Iranians are a bit miffed at me. So is my old friend in the Kremlin.”
“I read something in the newspapers about you and the Russians a couple of months ago.”
“Did you?”
“Your name came up during that spy scandal in Washington. They said you were aboard the private plane that took Rebecca Manning from Dulles Airport to London.”
Rebecca Manning was the former MI6 Head of Station in Washington. She now reported for work each morning at Moscow Center, headquarters of the SVR, Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service.
“There was also a suggestion,” Sarah went on, “that you were the one who killed those three Russian agents they found on the C&O Canal in Maryland.”
A waiter appeared with their order. He placed the espresso in front of Gabriel with inordinate care.
“What’s it like to be the most famous man in Israel?” asked Sarah.
“It has its drawbacks.”
“Surely, it isn’t all bad. Who knows? If you play your cards right, you might even be prime minister one day.” She tugged at the sleeve of his suit jacket. “I must say, you look the part. But I think I like the old Gabriel Allon better.”
“Which Gabriel Allon was that?”
“The one who wore blue jeans and a leather jacket.”
“We all have to change.”
“I know. But sometimes I wish I could turn back the clock.”
“Where would you go?”
She thought about it for a moment. “The night we had dinner together in that little place in Copenhagen. We sat outside in the freezing cold. I told you a deep, dark secret I should have kept to myself.”
“I don’t remember it.”
Sarah plucked a pain au chocolat from the basket. “Aren’t you going to have one?”
Gabriel held up a hand.
“Maybe you haven’t changed, after all. In all the years I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a bite of food during the daytime.”
“I make up for it after the sun goes down.”
“You haven’t gained an ounce since I saw you last. I wish I could say the same.”
“You look wonderful, Sarah.”
“For a woman of forty-three?” She added a packet of artificial sweetener to her coffee. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your number.”
“I was out of pocket when you called.”
“I called several times. I also left you about a dozen text messages.”
“I had to take certain precautions before responding.”
“With me? Whatever for?”
Gabriel offered a careful smile. “Because of your relationship with a certain high-profile member of the Saudi royal family.”
“Khalid?”
“I didn’t realize you two were on a first-name basis.”
“I insisted on it.”
Gabriel was silent.
“You obviously disapprove.”
“Only with some of your recent acquisitions. One in particular.”
“The Leonardo?”
“If you say so.”
“You’re dubious about the attribution?”
“I could have painted a better Leonardo than that one.” He looked at her seriously. “You should have come to me when he approached you about working for him.”
“And what would you have told me?”
“That his interest in you was no accident. That he was well aware of your ties to the CIA.” Gabriel paused. “And to me.”
“You would have been right.”
“I usually am.”
Sarah