Prince of Fire

“reprisal” against Gabriel in Vienna. But were Leah and Dani the targets or had the bomb actually been meant for him? Gabriel had been obsessed by the question for thirteen years. Arafat certainly knew the answer. It was one of the reasons why Gabriel had so readily accepted Shamron’s suggestion to visit Ramallah.
    “Shamron said you wished to discuss an important matter with me,” Arafat said. “I agreed to see you only as a courtesy to him. We are the same age, Shamron and I. History threw us together in this land, and unfortunately we have fought many battles. Sometimes I got the better of him, sometimes he bested me. Now we are both growing old. I had hopes we might see a few days of peace before we died. My hopes are fading.”
    If that was the case, thought Gabriel, why then did you walk away from a deal that would have given you a state in Gaza and 97 percent of the West Bank with East Jerusalem as its capital? Gabriel knew the answer, of course. It was evidenced in the cloth map of “Palestine” Arafat wore on his shoulder. He’d wanted it all.
    Gabriel had no chance to respond, because Colonel Kemel returned holding a small silver tray with two glasses of tea. The colonel then settled himself in a chair and glared at Gabriel with his one good eye. Arafat explained that the aide spoke fluent Hebrew and would assist with any translation. Gabriel had hoped to meet with Arafat alone, but a translator would probably prove useful. Gabriel’s Arabic, while passable, did not possess the nuance or flexibility necessary for a conversation with a man like Yasir Arafat.
    Arafat, with a trembling hand, placed his glass of tea back into its saucer and asked Gabriel what had brought him to Ramallah. Gabriel’s one-word answer left Arafat momentarily off balance, just as Gabriel had intended.
    “Khaled?” Arafat repeated, recovering his footing. “I know many men named Khaled. I’m afraid it is a rather common Palestinian name. You’ll have to be more specific.”
    Feigned ignorance, Gabriel well knew, was one of Arafat’s favorite negotiating tactics. Gabriel pressed his case.
    “The Khaled I’m looking for, Chairman Arafat, is Khaled al-Khalifa.”
    “ President Arafat,” said the Palestinian.
    Gabriel nodded indifferently. “Where is Khaled al-Khalifa?”
    The blotchy skin of Arafat’s face colored suddenly, and his lower lip began to tremble. Gabriel looked down and contemplated his tea. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Colonel Kemel shifting nervously in his seat. Arafat, when he spoke again, managed to keep his legendary temper in check.
    “I take it you’re referring to the son of Sabri al-Khalifa?”
    “Actually, he’s your son now.”
    “My adopted son,” Arafat said, “because you murdered his father.”
    “His father was killed on the field of battle.”
    “He was murdered in cold blood on the streets of Paris.”
    “It was Sabri who turned Paris into a battlefield, President Arafat, with your blessing.”
    A silence fell between them. Arafat seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I always knew that, one day, you would come up with some sort of provocation to target Khaled for elimination. That’s why, after Sabri’s funeral, I sent the boy far away from here. I gave him a new life, and he took it. I haven’t seen or heard from Khaled since he was a young man.”
    “We have evidence to suggest Khaled al-Khalifa was involved in the attack on our embassy in Rome.”
    “Nonsense,” said Arafat dismissively.
    “Since Khaled had nothing to do with Rome, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind telling us where we can find him.”
    “As I said before, I don’t know where Khaled is.”
    “What’s his name?”
    A guarded smile. “I went to extraordinary lengths to protect the boy from you and your vengeful service. What on earth makes you think I would tell you his name now? Do you really believe that I would play the role of Judas Iscariot and hand over my son to you for trial and execution?” Arafat shook his head slowly. “We have many traitors in our midst, many who work right here in the Mukata, but I am not one of them. If you want to find Khaled, you’ll do it without my help.”
    “There was a raid on a pensione in Milan shortly after the bombing. One of the men hiding there was named Daoud Hadawi, a Palestinian who used to be a member of your Presidential Security Service.”
    “So you say.”
    “I would appreciate a copy of Hadawi’s personnel