Prince of Fire

Cleopatra cigarettes a day had ravaged his lungs. Three times he had to pause on a landing to catch his breath. It took him a good five minutes to reach the flat.
    He pressed his ear to the door and heard no sound from within. Hardly surprising. Zubair had followed the Englishman last night during a liquor-soaked excursion through the hotel bars and nightclubs along the river. Zubair was confident he was still sleeping.
    He reached into his pocket and came out with the key. The Mukhabarat had a fine collection: diplomats, dissidents, Islamists, and especially foreign journalists. He inserted the key into the lock and turned, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.
    The flat was cool and dark, the curtains tightly drawn against the early-morning sun. Zubair had been in the flat many times and found his way to the bedroom without bothering to switch on the lights. Quinnell slept soundly in sheets soaked with sweat. On the stagnant air hung the overpowering stench of whiskey. Zubair drew his gun and walked slowly across the room toward the foot of the bed. After a few paces his right foot fell upon something small and hard. Before he could relieve the downward pressure something snapped, emitting a sharp crack. In the deep silence of the room it sounded like a splintering tree limb. Zubair looked down and saw that he’d stepped on Quinnell’s wristwatch. The Englishman, in spite of his drunkenness, sat bolt-upright in bed. Shit, thought Zubair. He was not a professional assassin. He’d hoped to kill Quinnell in his sleep.
    “What the devil are you doing in here?”
    “I bring a message from our friend,” Zubair said calmly.
    “I don’t want anything more to do with him.”
    “The feeling is mutual.”
    “So then what in God’s name are you doing in my flat?”
    Zubair raised the gun. A moment later he let himself out of the flat and started back down the stairs. Halfway down he was breathing like a marathoner and sweating hard. He stopped and leaned against the balustrade. The damned Cleopatras. If he didn’t quit soon they’d be the death of him.
    M ARSEILLES : 5:22 A . M . The door of the apartment house swings open. A figure steps into the street. Dina’s verbal alert is heard in the Operations Center of King Saul Boulevard and in Jerusalem by Shamron and the prime minister. And it is also heard in the dirty esplanade along the cours Belsunce, where Gabriel and Yaakov are sitting on the edge of a stagnant fountain, surrounded by drug addicts and immigrants with nowhere else to sleep.
    “Who is it?” Gabriel asks.
    “The girl,” Dina says, then she adds quickly: “Khaled’s girl.”
    “Which way is she going?”
    “North, toward the Place de la Préfecture.”
    There follows several empty seconds of dead air. In Jerusalem, Shamron is pacing the carpet in front of the prime minister’s desk and waiting anxiously for Gabriel’s order. “Don’t try it,” he murmurs. “If she spots the watcher, she’ll warn Khaled, and you’ll lose him. Let her go.”
    Ten more seconds pass before Gabriel’s voice comes back on the air.
    “It’s too risky,” he whispers. “Let her go.”
    I N R AMALLAH THE MEETING broke up at dawn. Yasir Arafat was in high good humor. To those in attendance he seemed a bit like the Arafat of old, the Arafat who could argue ideology and strategy all night with his closest comrades, then sit down for a meeting with a head of state. As his lieutenants filed out of the room, Arafat motioned for Mahmoud Arwish to remain.
    “It’s begun,” Arafat said. “Now we can only hope that Allah has blessed Khaled’s sacred endeavor.”
    “It is your endeavor, too, Abu Amar.”
    “True,” said Arafat, “and it wouldn’t have been possible without you, Mahmoud.”
    Arwish nodded cautiously. Arafat held him in his gaze.
    “You played your role well,” said Arafat. “Your clever deception of the Israelis almost makes up for your betrayal of me and the rest of the Palestinian people. I’m tempted to overlook your crime, but I cannot.”
    Arwish felt his chest tighten. Arafat smiled.
    “Did you really think your treachery would ever be forgiven?”
    “My wife,” Arwish stammered. “The Jews made me—”
    Arafat waved his hand dismissively. “You sound like a child, Mahmoud. Don’t compound your humiliation by begging for your life.”
    Just then the door swung open, and two uniformed security men stepped into the room, guns at the ready. Arwish tried to get his