Prince of Fire

her to find, and she had followed them, from Beit Sayeed to Buenos Aires, from Istanbul to Rome, and now Gabriel was in their hands. They would kill him, and it was her fault.
    She pressed PLAY and listened again to Gabriel’s quarrel with the Palestinian woman, then picked up the satellite phone and raised King Saul Boulevard on the secure link.
    “I need a voice identification.”
    “You have a recording?”
    “Yes.”
    “Quality?”
    Dina explained the circumstances of the intercept.
    “Play the recording, please.”
    She pressed PLAY .
    “If we miss one deadline, your wife dies. If your agents try to follow us, your wife dies. If you kill me, your wife dies. If you do exactly what we say, she’ll live.”
    STOP .
    “Stand by, please.”
    Two minutes later: “No match on file.”
    M ARTINEAU MET Abu Saddiq one last time on the boulevard d’Athènes, at the base of the broad steps that led to the Gare Saint-Charles. Abu Saddiq was dressed in Western clothing: neat gabardine trousers and a pressed cotton shirt. He told Martineau a boat had just left the port at great haste.
    “What was it called?”
    Abu Saddiq answered.
    “Fidelity,” Martineau repeated. “An interesting choice.”
    He turned and started trudging up the steps, Abu Saddiq at his side. “The shaheeds have been given their final orders,” Abu Saddiq said. “They’ll proceed to their target as scheduled. Nothing can be done to stop them now.”
    “And you?”
    “The midday ferry to Algiers.”
    They arrived at the top of the steps. The train station was brown and ugly and in a state of severe disrepair. “I must say,” Abu Saddiq said, “that I will not miss this place.”
    “Go to Algiers, and bury yourself deep. We’ll bring you back to the West Bank when it’s safe.”
    “After today . . .” He shrugged. “It will never be safe.”
    Martineau shook Abu Saddiq’s hand. “Maa-salaamah.”
    “ As-salaam alaykum, Brother Khaled.”
    Abu Saddiq turned and headed down the steps. Martineau entered the train station and paused in front of the departure board. The 8:15 TGV for Paris was departing from Track F. Martineau crossed the terminal and went onto the platform. He walked alongside the train until he found his carriage, then climbed aboard.
    Before going to his seat, he went to the toilet. He stood for a long time in front of the mirror, examining his own reflection in the glass. The Yves Saint Laurent jacket, the dark-blue end-on-end shirt, the designer spectacles—Paul Martineau, Frenchman of distinction, archaeologist of note. But not today. Today Martineau was Khaled, son of Sabri, grandson of Sheikh Asad. Khaled, avenger of past wrongs, sword of Palestine.
    The shaheeds have been given their final orders. Nothing can be done to stop them now.
    Another order had been given. The man who would meet Abu Saddiq in Algiers that evening would kill him. Martineau had learned from the mistakes of his ancestors. He would never allow himself to be undone by an Arab traitor.
    A moment later he was sitting in his first-class seat as the train eased out of the station and headed north through the Muslim slums of Marseilles. Paris was 539 miles away, but the high-speed TGV would cover the distance in a little more than three hours. A miracle of Western technology and French ingenuity, Khaled thought. Then he closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

22

M ARTIGUES , F RANCE
    T HE HOUSE WAS IN A WORKING - CLASS A RAB QUARTER on the southern edge of town. It had a red tile roof, a cracked stucco exterior, and a weedy forecourt littered with broken plastic toys in primary colors. Gabriel, when he was pushed through the broken front door, had expected to find evidence of a family. Instead, he found a ransacked residence with rooms empty of furniture and walls stripped bare. Two men awaited him, both Arab, both well-fed. One held a plastic bag bearing the name of a discount department store popular with the French underclass. The other was swinging a rusted golf club, one-handed, like a cudgel.
    “Take off your clothes.”
    The girl had spoken to him in Arabic. Gabriel remained motionless with his hands hanging against the seam of his trousers, like a soldier at attention. The girl repeated the command, more forcefully this time. When Gabriel still made no response, the one who’d driven the Mercedes slapped him hard across the cheek.
    He removed his jacket and black pullover. The radio and the guns were already gone—the girl had