a contemplative silence. “There’s only one person I would trust with a job like this,” he said at last.
“That might be difficult.”
“The pregnancy?”
Navot nodded.
“When is she due?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
Seymour managed a brief smile. “Do you suppose he might be persuaded to take the assignment?”
“Anything’s possible,” replied Navot noncommittally. “I’d be happy to make the approach on your behalf.”
“No,” said Seymour. “I’ll do it.”
“There is one other problem,” said Navot after a moment.
“Only one?”
“He doesn’t know much about that part of the world.”
“I know someone who can serve as his guide.”
“He won’t work with someone he doesn’t know.”
“Actually, they’re very well acquainted.”
“Is he MI6?”
“No,” replied Seymour. “Not yet.”
5
FIUMICINO AIRPORT, ROME
W HY DO YOU SUPPOSE my flight is delayed?” asked Chiara.
“It could be a mechanical problem,” replied Gabriel.
“It could be,” she repeated without conviction.
They were seated in a quiet corner of a first-class departure lounge. It didn’t matter the city, thought Gabriel, they were all the same. Unread newspapers, tepid bottles of suspect pinot grigio, CNN International playing silently on a large flat-panel television. By his own calculation, Gabriel had spent one-third of his career in places like this. Unlike his wife, he was extraordinarily good at waiting.
“Go ask that pretty girl at the information desk why my flight hasn’t been called,” she said.
“I don’t want to talk to the pretty girl at the information desk.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t know anything, and she’ll simply tell me something she thinks I want to hear.”
“Why must you always be so fatalistic?”
“It prevents me from being disappointed later.”
Chiara smiled and closed her eyes; Gabriel looked at the television. A British reporter in a helmet and flak jacket was talking about the latest airstrike on Gaza. Gabriel wondered why CNN had become so enamored with British reporters. He supposed it was the accent. The news always sounded more authoritative when delivered with a British accent, even if not a word of it was true.
“What’s he saying?” asked Chiara.
“Do you really want to know?”
“It’ll help pass the time.”
Gabriel squinted to read the closed captioning. “He says an Israeli warplane attacked a school where several hundred Palestinians were sheltering from the fighting. He says at least fifteen people were killed and several dozen more seriously wounded.”
“How many were women and children?”
“All of them, apparently.”
“Was the school the real target of the air raid?”
Gabriel typed a brief message into his BlackBerry and fired it securely to King Saul Boulevard, the headquarters of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Employees referred to it as the Office and nothing else.
“The real target,” he said, his eyes on the BlackBerry, “was a house across the street.”
“Who lives in the house?”
“Muhammad Sarkis.”
“ The Muhammad Sarkis?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Is Muhammad still among the living?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about the school?”
“It wasn’t hit. The only casualties were Sarkis and members of his family.”
“Maybe someone should tell that reporter the truth.”
“What good would it do?”
“More fatalism,” said Chiara.
“No disappointment.”
“Please find out why my flight is delayed.”
Gabriel typed another message into his BlackBerry. A moment later came the response.
“One of the Hamas rockets landed close to Ben-Gurion.”
“How close?” asked Chiara.
“Too close for comfort.”
“Do you think the pretty girl at the information desk knows my destination is under rocket fire?”
Gabriel was silent.
“Are you sure
“That might be difficult.”
“The pregnancy?”
Navot nodded.
“When is she due?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
Seymour managed a brief smile. “Do you suppose he might be persuaded to take the assignment?”
“Anything’s possible,” replied Navot noncommittally. “I’d be happy to make the approach on your behalf.”
“No,” said Seymour. “I’ll do it.”
“There is one other problem,” said Navot after a moment.
“Only one?”
“He doesn’t know much about that part of the world.”
“I know someone who can serve as his guide.”
“He won’t work with someone he doesn’t know.”
“Actually, they’re very well acquainted.”
“Is he MI6?”
“No,” replied Seymour. “Not yet.”
5
FIUMICINO AIRPORT, ROME
W HY DO YOU SUPPOSE my flight is delayed?” asked Chiara.
“It could be a mechanical problem,” replied Gabriel.
“It could be,” she repeated without conviction.
They were seated in a quiet corner of a first-class departure lounge. It didn’t matter the city, thought Gabriel, they were all the same. Unread newspapers, tepid bottles of suspect pinot grigio, CNN International playing silently on a large flat-panel television. By his own calculation, Gabriel had spent one-third of his career in places like this. Unlike his wife, he was extraordinarily good at waiting.
“Go ask that pretty girl at the information desk why my flight hasn’t been called,” she said.
“I don’t want to talk to the pretty girl at the information desk.”
“Why not?”
“Because she doesn’t know anything, and she’ll simply tell me something she thinks I want to hear.”
“Why must you always be so fatalistic?”
“It prevents me from being disappointed later.”
Chiara smiled and closed her eyes; Gabriel looked at the television. A British reporter in a helmet and flak jacket was talking about the latest airstrike on Gaza. Gabriel wondered why CNN had become so enamored with British reporters. He supposed it was the accent. The news always sounded more authoritative when delivered with a British accent, even if not a word of it was true.
“What’s he saying?” asked Chiara.
“Do you really want to know?”
“It’ll help pass the time.”
Gabriel squinted to read the closed captioning. “He says an Israeli warplane attacked a school where several hundred Palestinians were sheltering from the fighting. He says at least fifteen people were killed and several dozen more seriously wounded.”
“How many were women and children?”
“All of them, apparently.”
“Was the school the real target of the air raid?”
Gabriel typed a brief message into his BlackBerry and fired it securely to King Saul Boulevard, the headquarters of Israel’s foreign intelligence service. It had a long and deliberately misleading name that had very little to do with the true nature of its work. Employees referred to it as the Office and nothing else.
“The real target,” he said, his eyes on the BlackBerry, “was a house across the street.”
“Who lives in the house?”
“Muhammad Sarkis.”
“ The Muhammad Sarkis?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Is Muhammad still among the living?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about the school?”
“It wasn’t hit. The only casualties were Sarkis and members of his family.”
“Maybe someone should tell that reporter the truth.”
“What good would it do?”
“More fatalism,” said Chiara.
“No disappointment.”
“Please find out why my flight is delayed.”
Gabriel typed another message into his BlackBerry. A moment later came the response.
“One of the Hamas rockets landed close to Ben-Gurion.”
“How close?” asked Chiara.
“Too close for comfort.”
“Do you think the pretty girl at the information desk knows my destination is under rocket fire?”
Gabriel was silent.
“Are you sure