“And what if it involved working with an intelligence service other than the Central Intelligence Agency?” he asked, as though discussing an abstract theory. “An intelligence service that is closely allied with us in this fight against the Islamic terrorists?”
“And who might that be?”
Carter was good at evading questions. He proved it again now.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’s a serious chap. A little rough around the edges. He’s going to ask you a few questions. Actually, he’s going to put you under the lights for the next few hours. It’s going to get rather personal at times. If he likes what he sees, he’s going to ask you to help us in a very important endeavor. This endeavor is not without risk, but it is critical to the security of the United States, and it has the Agency’s full support. If you’re interested, remain where you are. If not, walk out the door, and we’ll pretend you stumbled in here by mistake.”
SARAH WOULD NEVER be sure how Carter had summoned him or from where he came. He was small and spare, with short-cropped hair and gray temples. His eyes were the greenest Sarah had ever seen. His handshake, like Carter’s, was fleeting but probing as a doctor’s touch. His English was fluent but heavily accented. If he had a name, it wasn’t yet relevant.
They settled at the long table in the formal dining room, Carter and his nameless collaborator on one side and Sarah on the other like a suspect in an interrogation room. The collaborator was now in possession of her CIA file. He was leafing slowly through the pages as if seeing them for the first time, which she doubted was the case. His first question was put to her as a mild accusation.
“You wrote your doctoral dissertation at Harvard on the German Expressionists.”
It seemed a peculiar place to begin. She was tempted to ask why he was interested in the topic of her dissertation, but instead she simply nodded her head and said, “Yes, that’s correct.”
“In your research did you ever come across a man named Viktor Frankel?”
“He was a disciple of Max Beckmann,” she said. “Frankel is little known today, but at the time he was considered extremely influential and was highly regarded by his contemporaries. In 1936 the Nazis declared his work degenerate, and he was forbidden to continue painting. Unfortunately, he decided to remain in Germany. By the time he decided to leave, it was too late. He was deported to Auschwitz in 1942, along with his wife and teenaged daughter, Irene. Only Irene survived. She went to Israel after the war and was one of the country’s most influential artists in the fifties and sixties. I believe she died several years ago.”
“That’s correct,” said Carter’s collaborator, his eyes still on Sarah’s file.
“Why are you interested in whether I knew about Viktor Frankel?”
“Because he was my grandfather.”
“You’re Irene’s son?”
“Yes,” he said. “Irene was my mother.”
She looked at Carter, who was gazing at his own hands. “I guess I know who’s running this endeavor of yours.” She looked back at the man with gray temples and green eyes. “You’re Israeli.”
“Guilty as charged. Shall we continue, Sarah, or would you like me to leave now?”
She hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Do I get a name, or are names forbidden?”
He gave her one. It was vaguely familiar. And then she remembered where she had seen it before. The Israeli agent who was involved in the bombing of the Gare de Lyon in Paris…
“You’re the one who—”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m the one.”
He looked down at the open file again and turned to a new page. “But let’s get back to you, shall we? We have a lot of ground to cover and very little time.”
HE STARTED SLOWLY, a climber plodding his way through the foothills, conserving his strength for the unseen perils that lay ahead. His questions were short and efficient and methodically posed, as though he were reading them from a prepared list, which he wasn’t. He devoted the first hour to her family. Her father, the high-flying Citicorp executive who’d had no time for his children but plenty of time for other women. Her mother, whose life had crumbled after the divorce and who was now living like a hermit in her classic-eight Manhattan apartment on Fifth Avenue. Her older sister, whom Sarah described as “the one who got all the brains and beauty.” Her little brother, who had checked out of life early and, much to her father’s disappointment, was now working for pennies in a ski-rental shop somewhere in Colorado.
After family came another hour devoted solely to her expensive European schooling. The American in St. John’s Wood, where she’d done her elementary years. The international middle school in Paris, where she’d learned how to speak French and get into trouble. The all-girls boarding school outside Geneva, where she’d been incarcerated by her father for the purpose of “sorting herself out.” It was in Switzerland, she volunteered, where she discovered her passion for art. Each of her answers was greeted by the scratching of his pen. He wrote in red ink on a legal pad the color of sunflowers. At first she thought he was scribbling in shorthand or some form of hieroglyphics. Then she realized he was making notes in Hebrew. The fact that it was written right to left—and that he could write with equal speed with either hand—served to reinforce her impression that she had passed through the looking glass.
At times he seemed to have all the time in the world; at others he would glare at his wristwatch and frown, as though calculating how much farther they could push on before making camp for the night. From time to time he slipped into other languages. His French was quite good. His Italian faultless but tinged with a vague accent that betrayed the fact he was not a native speaker. When he addressed her in German a change came over him. A straightening of his back. A hardening of his severe features. She answered him in the language of his question, though invariably her words were recorded in Hebrew on his yellow legal pad. For the most part he did not challenge her, though any inconsistencies, real or imagined, were pursued with a prosecutorial zeal.
“This passion for art,” he said. “Where do you think it came from? Why art? Why not literature or music? Why not film or drama?”
“Paintings became a refuge for me. A sanctuary.”
“From what?”
“Real life.”
“You were a rich girl going to the finest schools in Europe. What was wrong with your life?” He switched from English into German in mid-accusation. “What were you running from?”
“You judge me,” she responded in the same language.
“Of course.”
“May we speak in English?”
“If you must.”
“Paintings are other places. Other lives. An instant in time that exists on the canvas and nowhere else.”
“You like to inhabit these places.”
It was an observation, not a question. She nodded in response.
“You like to lead other lives? Become other people? You like to walk through Vincent’s wheat fields and Monet’s flower gardens?”
“And even through Frankel’s nightmares.”
He laid down his pen for the first time. “Is that why you applied to join the Agency? Because you wanted to lead another life? Because you wanted to become another person?”
“No, I did it because I wanted to serve my country.”
He gave her a disapproving frown, as if he found her response naïve, and then shot another glance at his wristwatch. Time was his enemy.
“Did you meet Arabs when you were growing up in Europe?”
“Of course.”
“Boys? Girls?”
“Both?”
“What sort of Arabs?”
“Arabs who walk on two legs. Arabs from Arab countries.”
“You’re more sophisticated than that, Sarah.”
“Lebanese. Palestinians. Jordanians. Egyptians.”
“What about Saudis? Did you ever go to school with Saudis?”
“There were a couple of Saudi girls
at my school in Switzerland.”
“They were rich, these Saudi girls?”
“We were all rich.”
“Were you friends with them?”
“They were hard to get to know. They were standoffish. They kept to themselves.”
“And what about Arab boys?”
“What about them?”
“Were you ever friends with any of them?”
“I suppose.”
“Ever date any of them? Ever sleep with any of them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I guess my taste didn’t run to Arab men.”
“You had French boyfriends?”
“A couple.”
“British?”
“Sure.”
“But no Arabs?”
“No Arabs.”
“Are you prejudiced against Arabs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So it’s conceivable you could have dated an Arab. You just didn’t.”
“I hope you’re not going to ask me to serve as bait in a honey trap because—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then why are you asking me these questions?”
“Because I want to know whether you’d be comfortable in a social and professional setting with Arab men.”
“The answer is yes.”
“You don’t automatically see a terrorist when you see an Arab man?”
“No.”
“Are you sure about that, Sarah?”
“I suppose it depends on the sort of Arab you have in mind.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m sure poor Sarah is famished.” He drew a heavy red line across his page of hieroglyphics. “Let’s order some food, shall we? Sarah will feel better after she has something to eat.”
THEY ORDERED KEBABS from a carryout in the heart of Georgetown. The food came twenty minutes later, delivered by the same black Suburban that had brought Sarah to the town house three hours earlier. Gabriel treated its arrival as a signal to begin the night session. For the next ninety minutes he focused on her education and her knowledge of art history. His questions came at such a rapid-fire pace she scarcely had time for her food. As for his own, it sat untouched next to his yellow legal pad. He’s an ascetic, she thought. He can’t be bothered with food. He lives in a bare room and subsists on coarse bread and a few drops of water a day. Shortly after midnight he carried his plate into the kitchen and deposited it on the counter. When he returned to the dining room he stood for a moment behind his chair, with one hand pressed to his chin and his head tilted slightly to one side. The light from the chandelier had turned his eyes to emerald, and they were flashing restlessly over her like searchlights. He can see the summit, she thought. He’s preparing himself for the final assault.
“I SEE FROM YOUR file that you’re unmarried.”
“Correct.”
“Are you involved with anyone at the moment?”
“No.”
“Sleeping with anyone?”
She looked at Carter, who gazed sadly back at her, as if to say, I told you things might get personal.
“No, I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever lost someone close to you?”
The dark look that came suddenly over his face, combined with Carter’s restless shifting in his chair, alerted her that she had strayed into some forbidden zone.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t—”
“It’s Ben, I take it? Ben is the reason you’re not involved with anyone?”
“Yes, it’s Ben. Of course it’s Ben.”
“Tell me about him.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “You don’t get to know about Ben. Ben is mine. Ben isn’t part of the deal.”
“How long did you date?”
“I told you—”
“How long did you see him, Sarah? It’s important, or I wouldn’t be asking.”
“About nine months.”
“And then it ended?”
“Yes, it ended.”
“You ended it, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Ben was in love with you. Ben wanted to marry you.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t feel the same way. You weren’t interested in marriage. Maybe you weren’t interested in Ben.”
“I cared about him very much…”
“But?”
“But I wasn’t in love with him.”
“Tell me about his death.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m quite serious.”
“I don’t talk about his death. I never talk about Ben’s death. Besides, you know how Ben died. He died at nine-oh-three A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, live on television. Everyone in the world watched Ben die. Did you?”
“Some of the passengers from Flight 175 managed to make phone calls.”
“That’s correct.”
“Was Ben one of them?”
“Yes.”
“Did he call his father?”
“No.”
“Did he call his mother?”
“No.”
“His brother? His sister?”
“No.”
“Who did he call, Sarah?”
Her eyes welled with tears.
“He called me, you son of a bitch.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He told me the plane had been hijacked. He told me they’d killed the flight attendants. He told me the plane was making wild movements. He told me he loved me and that he was sorry. He was about to die, and he told me he was sorry. And then we lost the connection.”
“What did you do?”
“I turned on the television and saw the smoke pouring from the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It was a few minutes after Flight 11 struck. No one was really sure then what had happened. I called the FAA and told them about Ben’s call. I called the FBI. I called the Boston police. I felt so utterly fucking helpless.”
“And then?”
“I watched television. I waited for the phone to ring again. It never did. At 9:03 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, the second plane hit the World Trade Center. The South Tower was burning. Ben was burning.”
A single tear spilled onto her cheek. She punched it away and glared at him.
“Are you satisfied?”
He was silent.
“Now it’s my turn to ask a question, and you’d better answer it truthfully, or I’m leaving.”
“Ask me anything you like, Sarah.”
“What do you want from me?”
“We want you to quit your job at the Phillips Collection and go to work for Jihad Incorporated. Are you still interested?”
IT WAS LEFT to Carter to place the contract in front of her. Carter with his Puritan righteousness and corduroy blazer. Carter with his therapeutic demeanor and American-accented English. Gabriel slipped out like a night thief and crossed the street to Carter’s battered Volvo. He knew what Sarah’s answer would be. She had given it to him already. The South Tower was burning, she had said. Ben was burning. And so Gabriel was not concerned by the gallows expression on her face, twenty minutes later, when she emerged stoically from the town house and descended the steps to the waiting Suburban. Nor was he disturbed by the sight of Carter, five minutes after that, ambling morosely across the street like a pallbearer making for the casket. He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. “We have a plane at Andrews waiting to take you back to Israel,” he said. “We need to make one stop along the way. There’s someone who’d like a word with you before you leave.”
IT WAS AFTER midnight; K Street had been abandoned to the overnight delivery trucks and the taxicabs. Carter was driving at a faster pace than usual and making repeated glances at his wristwatch. “She doesn’t come for free, you know. There’ll be costs to using her. She’ll have to be rese
ttled when this is over and protected for a long time.”
“But you’ll handle that, won’t you, Adrian? You’re the one with all the money. The budget for the American intelligence community alone is far more than the budget of our entire country.”
“Have you forgotten that this operation does not exist? Besides, you’re going to walk away with a great deal of Zizi’s money.”
“Fine,” said Gabriel. “You can be the one to tell Sarah Bancroft that she’s going to spend the next ten years living on a kibbutz in the Galilee hiding from the forces of global jihad.”
“All right, we’ll pay for her resettlement.”
Carter made a series of turns. For a moment Gabriel lost track of what street they were on. They passed the façade of a large neoclassical building, then turned into an official-looking driveway. On the left was a fortified guardhouse with bulletproof glass. Carter lowered his window and handed over his badge to the guard.
“We’re expected.”
The guard consulted a clipboard, then handed back Carter’s ID.
“Pull through, then stop in front of the barricade on the left. The dogs will give the car the once-over, then you can head on in.”
Carter nodded and raised his window. Gabriel said, “Where are we?”
Carter wound his way through the barricades and stopped where he’d been told. “The back door of the White House,” he said.
“Who are we seeing?” Gabriel asked, but Carter was now speaking to another officer, this one struggling to control a large German shepherd straining at a thick leather leash. Gabriel, whose fear of dogs was legendary within the Office, sat motionless while the animal prowled the perimeter of the Volvo, searching for concealed explosives. A moment later they were directed through another security gate. Carter pulled into an empty parking space on East Executive Drive and shut down the engine.
“This is as far as I go.”
“Who am I seeing, Adrian?”
“Go through that gate over there and walk up the drive toward the house. He’ll be out in a minute.”