Prince of Fire

authority, or had Khaled undertaken the work on his own to avenge the death of a father and grandfather? Was it another battle in the war between two peoples or just an outbreak in the long-simmering feud between two families, the al-Khalifas and the Shamron-Allons? He suspected it was a combination of both, an intersection of shared needs and goals. Two great artists had cooperated on a single work—Titian and Bellini, he thought. The Feast of the Gods.
    The date of the painting’s commission remained elusive to him as well, though. Of one thing he was sure: the work had taken several years and much blood to produce. He had been deceived, and skillfully so. They all had. The dossier found in Milan had been planted by Khaled in order to lure Gabriel into the search. Khaled had dropped a trail of clues and wound the clock, so that Gabriel had had no choice but to desperately pursue them. Mahmoud Arwish, David Quinnell, Mimi Ferrere—they’d all been a part of it. Gabriel saw them now, silent and still, as minor figures at the edges of a Bellini, allegorical in nature but supportive of the focal point. But what was the point? Gabriel knew that the painting was unfinished. Khaled had one more coup in store, one more spectacular of blood and fire. Somehow Gabriel had to survive it. He was certain the clue to his survival lay somewhere along the path he’d already traveled. And so, as he raced northward toward Lyon, he saw not the Autoroute but the case—every minute, every setting, every encounter, oil on canvas. He would survive it, he thought, and someday he would come back to Khaled on his own terms. And the girl, Palestina, would be his doorway.
    “P ULL OVER TO THE side of the road.”
    Gabriel did as he was told. They were a few miles from the center of Lyon. This time, only two minutes elapsed before the telephone rang.
    “Get back on the road,” she said. “We’re going to Chalon. It’s a—”
    “I know where Chalon is. It’s just south of Dijon.”
    He waited for an opening in the traffic, then accelerated back onto the Autoroute.
    “I can’t decide whether you’re a very courageous man or a fool,” she said. “You could have walked away from me in Marseilles. You could have saved yourself.”
    “She’s my wife,” he said. “She’ll always be my wife.”
    “And you’re willing to die for her?”
    “You’re going to die for her, too.”
    “At seven o’clock?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why did you make up this time? Why seven o’clock?”
    “You don’t know anything about the man you’re working for, do you? I feel sorry for you, Palestina. You’re a very foolish girl. Your leader has betrayed you, and you’re the one who’ll pay the price.”
    She lifted the gun to hit him again, but thought better of it. Gabriel kept his eyes on the road. The door was ajar.
    T HEY STOPPED FOR GAS south of Chalon. Gabriel filled the tank and paid with cash given to him by the girl. When he was behind the wheel again, she ordered him to park next to the toilets.
    “I’ll be back.”
    “I’ll be waiting.”
    She was gone only a moment. Gabriel slid the car into gear, but the girl removed the satellite phone from her bag and ordered him to wait. It was 2:55 P . M .
    “We’re going to Paris,” he said.
    “Oh, really?”
    “He’ll send us one of two ways. The Autoroute splits at Beaune. If we take that cutoff, we can head straight into the southern suburbs. Or we can stay to the east—Dijon to Troyes, Troyes to Reims—and come in from the northeast.”
    “You seem to know everything. Tell me which way he’s going to send us.”
    Gabriel made a show of consulting his watch.
    “He’ll want to keep us moving, and he won’t want us at the target too early. I’m betting for the eastern route. I say he sends us to Troyes and tells us to wait there for instructions. He’ll have options if he sends us to Troyes.”
    Just then the telephone rang. She listened in silence, then severed the connection.
    “Get back on the Autoroute,” she said.
    “Where are we going?”
    “Just drive,” she said.
    H E ASKED FOR PERMISSION to turn on the radio.
    “Sure,” she said affably.
    He pressed the power button, but nothing happened. A slight smile appeared on her lips.
    “Nicely played,” said Gabriel.
    “Thank you.”
    “Why are you doing this?”
    “Surely you’re joking.”
    “Actually, I’m quite serious.”
    “I’m Palestina,” she said. “I have no choice.”
    “You’re wrong. You