Prince of Fire

Solomon’s ledger and affix to it my own thumbprint. That way, if I betray Solomon, he can punish me. There is but one fate for collaboration in our part of this land. Death. And not a gentleman’s death. A biblical death. I’ll be stoned or hacked to pieces by Arafat’s fanatical killers. That’s how Yaakov ensures I tell him nothing but the truth, and on a timely basis.”
    Yaakov leaned forward and whispered into Arwish’s ear, like a lawyer instructing a witness under hostile questioning.
    “Solomon grows irritated with my speeches. Solomon would like me to get down to business.” Arwish studied Gabriel for a moment. “But not you, Jibril. You are the patient one.”
    Gabriel looked up. “Where’s Khaled?”
    “I don’t know. I only know that Arafat misled you this morning. You’re right. Khaled does exist, and he’s taken up the sword of his father and grandfather.”
    “Did he do Rome?”
    A moment of hesitation, a glance toward the dark figure of Yaakov, then a slow nod.
    “Is he acting at Arafat’s behest?”
    “I couldn’t say for certain.”
    “What can you say for certain?”
    “He’s in communication with the Mukata.”
    “How?”
    “A number of different ways. Sometimes he uses faxes. They’re bounced from a number of different machines, and by the time they arrive in the Territories, they’re almost impossible to read.”
    “What else?”
    “Sometimes he uses coded e-mails, which are routed through a number of different addresses and servers. Sometimes he sends messages to Arafat via courier or through the visiting delegations. Most of the time, though, he just uses the telephone.”
    “Could you identify his voice?”
    “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him speak.”
    “Have you ever seen him?”
    “I believe I met him once, many years ago in Tunis. A young man came to visit and stayed in Arafat’s compound for a few days. He had a French name and passport, but he spoke Arabic like a Palestinian.”
    “What makes you think it was Khaled?”
    “The way Arafat was acting. He glowed in the presence of this young man. He was positively giddy.”
    “That’s all?”
    “No, there was something about his appearance. They always said Khaled looked like his grandfather. This man certainly bore a striking resemblance to Sheikh Asad.”
    Arwish stood suddenly. Yaakov’s arm swung up, and he leveled his Uzi at the Arab’s head. Arwish smiled and pulled his shirt out of his trousers. Taped to his lower back was an envelope. Gabriel had missed it during his rapid search for weapons in the back of the car. Arwish removed the envelope and flipped it to Gabriel, who pried open the flap and shook the photograph out onto his lap. It showed a young man, strikingly handsome, seated next to Arafat at a table. He seemed unaware that his picture was being taken.
    “Arafat has a habit of secretly photographing anyone who meets with him,” Arwish said. “You have photographs of Khaled as a child. Perhaps your computers can confirm that this man is truly him.”
    “It’s not likely,” Gabriel said. “What else do you have?”
    “When he calls the Mukata, it’s not his voice on the line.”
    “How does he do that?”
    “He has someone else do the talking. A woman—a European woman.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “She uses different names and different telephones.”
    “Where?”
    Arwish shrugged.
    “What’s her native language?”
    “Hard to tell, but her Arabic is perfect.”
    “Accent?”
    “Classical. Upper-crust Jordanian. Maybe Beirut or Cairo. She refers to Khaled as Tony.”
    “Tony who?” Gabriel asked calmly. “Tony where?”
    “I don’t know,” Arwish said, “but find the woman, and maybe you’ll find Khaled.”

12

T EL A VIV
    “S HE CALLS HERSELF M ADELEINE , BUT ONLY WHEN she’s posing as a Frenchwoman. When she wants to be British, she calls herself Alexandra. When Italian, she’s Lunetta—Little Moon.”
    Natan looked at Gabriel and blinked several times. He wore his hair in a ponytail, his spectacles lay slightly askew across the end of his nose, and there were holes in his Malibu surfer’s sweatshirt. Yaakov had forewarned Gabriel about Natan’s appearance. “He’s a genius. After graduating from Cal-Tech, every high-tech firm in America and Israel wanted him. He’s a bit like you,” Yaakov had concluded, with the slightly envious tone of a man who did but one thing well.
    Gabriel looked out of Natan’s glass-enclosed office, onto a