At eight fifteen, Jihan’s red light arrived at Vienna’s Schwechat Airport, and at nine it went dark as she dutifully obeyed the flight attendant’s instructions to switch off all electronic devices. Gabriel then turned his full attention to Waleed al-Siddiqi, who at that moment was entering the Paris offices of a prominent French bank where he had secretly deposited several hundred million dollars in Syrian assets. The bank was located along an elegant stretch of the rue Saint-Honoré, in the First Arrondissement. Al-Siddiqi’s black Mercedes sedan remained parked outside in the street. An Office surveillance team from Paris Station had identified the driver as an asset of Syrian intelligence in France—security, mainly, but occasionally rough stuff, too. Gabriel requested a photo and was rewarded five minutes later with a shot of a thick-necked man grimly clutching a luxury steering wheel.
At ten minutes past nine Paris time, al-Siddiqi entered the office of Monsieur Gérard Beringer, one of the bank’s vice presidents. The Syrian did not remain there for long, because at 9:17 he received a call on his mobile phone that took him into the corridor in search of privacy. The call was from a number in Damascus; the baritone voice at the other end was male, a person of authority. At the conclusion of the conversation—which was just twenty seconds in length and conducted in the Alawite dialect of Syrian Arabic—al-Siddiqi switched off his phone, and his red light disappeared from the computer screen.
Gabriel listened to the recording of the conversation five times and was unable to determine exactly what was being said. Then he asked King Saul Boulevard for a translation and was told that the baritone caller had instructed al-Siddiqi to ring him back on another device. Voice analysis turned up no matches on the caller’s identity. The eavesdroppers at Unit 8200 were trying to pinpoint the location of the number in Damascus.
“People turn off their cell phones all the time,” said Eli Lavon. “Especially people like Waleed al-Siddiqi.”
“True,” replied Gabriel. “But they generally do it when they fear someone is listening.”
“Someone
is
listening.”
Gabriel said nothing. He was staring at the computer screen as if he were trying to will al-Siddiqi’s light back into life.
“The call probably had something to do with the man sitting in the Hotel Métropole,” Lavon said after a moment.
“That’s what concerns me.”
“It’s not too late to cash out, Gabriel. You can make eight billion dollars disappear. And you can make the girl disappear, too.”
“What if there’s another eight billion out there, Eli? What if there’s
eighty
billion?”
Lavon said nothing for a moment. Then, finally, he asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to consider all the reasons why Waleed al-Siddiqi might have just turned off his phone. And then I’m going to make a decision.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t time for that.”
Gabriel looked at the computer again. The child of Hama had just arrived in Geneva.
The arrivals hall at Geneva Airport was more crowded than usual: diplomats, reporters, extra police and security, a knot of Syrian exiles singing the song of protest that was written by a man whose throat had been cut out by the secret police. As a result, it took Jihan a moment to spot her driver. He was in his mid-thirties, dark-haired and olive-skinned, a bit too intelligent-looking to be working as a chauffeur. His gaze turned toward her as she approached—he had obviously been shown her photograph—and he flashed a smile, exposing a row of even white teeth. He spoke to her in Arabic, with a Syrian accent.
“I hope you had a good flight, Miss Nawaz.”
“It was fine,” she replied coolly.
“The car is outside. Follow me, please.”
He raised a manicured hand toward the appropriate door. Their route took them past the protesters, who were still singing their song of defiance, and past the small square Israeli who looked as though he could bend steel bars. Jihan looked through him as though he were invisible and stepped outside. A black Mercedes S-Class sedan with heavily tinted windows and diplomatic plates idled curbside. When the driver opened the rear passenger-side door, Jihan hesitated before climbing inside. She waited until the door was closed again before turning her head and looking at the man seated next to her. He was several years older than the driver, with thinning black hair, a heavy mustache, and the hands of a bricklayer.
“Who are you?” asked Jihan.
“Security,” he answered.
“Why do I need security?”
“Because you are about to meet with an official of the Syrian foreign ministry. And because there are many enemies of the Syrian government in Geneva at the moment, including that rabble inside,” he added with a sidelong nod toward the terminal building. “It is important that you reach your destination safely.”
The driver climbed behind the wheel and closed his door. “
Yallah
,” said the one in the backseat, and the car shot forward.
It was not until they had left the airport that he bothered to offer a name. He called himself Mr. Omari. He worked, or so he said, as a senior security officer for Syrian diplomatic posts in Western Europe—a difficult job, he added with a burdened nod, given the political tensions of the time. It was clear from his accent he was an Alawite. It was also clear that the driver, who seemed to have no name at all, was taking anything but the direct route into central Geneva. He wandered through an estate of low-rise industrial buildings for several minutes, glancing constantly into his rearview mirror, before finally making his way to the route de Meyrin. It bore them through a leafy residential quarter and, eventually, to the shore of the lake. As they sped across the Pont du Mont-Blanc, Jihan realized she was clutching her handbag so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She forced herself to relax her hand and to smile slightly as she looked out her window at the beautiful sunlit city. The sight of Swiss policemen lining the ramparts of the bridge gave her a moment of comfort; and when they reached the opposite shore of the lake, she saw the Israeli with pockmarked cheeks peering through the window of an Armani boutique on the Quai du Général-Guisan. The car slid past him and stopped outside the gray-green facade of the Métropole. Mr. Omari waited a moment before speaking.
“I assume Mr. al-Siddiqi told you the name of the man waiting for you upstairs?”
“Mr. al-Farouk.”
He nodded gravely. “He’s staying in Room 312. Please go directly to his room. Do not talk to the concierge or anyone else in the hotel. Is that clear, Miss Nawaz?”
She nodded.
“Once you have the documents, you are to leave his room and return directly to this car. Do not make any stops along the way. Do not speak to anyone. Understood?”
Another nod. “Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, holding out his hand. “Please give me your mobile phone, along with any other electronic device you might have in your bag.”
Ten seconds later, the red light from Jihan’s phone vanished from Gabriel’s computer screen. He immediately radioed Yaakov, who had followed her into the hotel, and ordered him to abort the operation. But by then it was too late; Jihan was marching across the crowded lobby at a parade-ground clip, her chin raised defiantly, her handbag over one shoulder. Then she slipped between a pair of closing elevator doors and was gone from his sight.
Yaakov quickly boarded the next elevator and pressed the call button for the third floor. The journey seemed to take an eternity; and when the doors finally opened he saw a Syrian security man standing in the vestibule, hands clasped, feet shoulder-width, as though he were bracing himself for a frontal assault. The two men exchanged a long, cold stare. Then the doors rattled shut, and the elevator sank slowly toward the lobby.
S
HE KNOCKED LIGHTLY—TOO LIGHTLY
, it seemed, because for several long seconds no one answered. Then the door retreated a few inches, and a pair of dark eyes regarded her warily over the security bar. The eyes belonged to yet another security man. He was more like Jihan’s driver than the implacable Mr. Omari, young, immaculately groomed and attired, a killer in a presentable wrapper. In the entrance hall he ransacked her handbag to make certain she hadn’t brought a pistol or a suicide vest. Then he invited her to follow him into the sitting room of the luxurious suite. There were four more security men just like him scattered about the perimeter; and seated on the couch was Kemel al-Farouk, deputy minister of foreign affairs, former officer of the Mukhabarat, friend and trusted adviser of the ruler. He was balancing a cup and saucer in one hand and shaking his head at something a reporter from Al Jazeera was saying on the television. Files lay scattered about him on the couch and the coffee table. Jihan could only wonder at the contents. Position papers regarding the upcoming peace talks? An account of recent battlefield victories? A list of newly dead opposition figures? Finally, he swiveled his head a few degrees and, with a nod, invited her to sit. He neither stood nor offered his hand. Men like Kemel al-Farouk were too powerful to worry about good manners.
“Your first time in Geneva?” he asked.
“No,” she answered.
“You’ve come here before on behalf of Mr. al-Siddiqi?”
“On holiday, actually.”
“When did you come here on holiday, Jihan?” He smiled suddenly and asked, “Is it all right if I call you Jihan?”
“Of course, Mr. al-Farouk.”
His smile faded. He asked again about the circumstances of her holiday in Geneva.
“I was a child,” she said. “I really don’t remember much about it.”
“Mr. al-Siddiqi tells me you were raised in Hamburg.”
She nodded.
“It is one of the great tragedies of our country, the great Syrian diaspora. How many of us have been scattered to the four winds? Ten million? Fifteen million? If only they would come home again. Syria would be a truly great nation.”
She wanted to explain to him that the diaspora would never return as long as men like him were running the country. Instead, she nodded thoughtfully, as though he had spoken words of great insight. He was seated in the manner of the ruler’s father, with his feet resting flat on the floor and his palms on his knees. His cropped hair had a reddish tint to it, as did his neatly trimmed beard. In his tailored suit and restrained necktie, it was almost possible to imagine he was truly a diplomat and not a man who used to crucify opponents for fun.
“Coffee?” he asked, as though suddenly aware of his ill manners.
“No, thank you,” she answered.
“Something to eat, perhaps?”
“I was told to collect the documents and leave, Mr. al-Farouk.”
“Ah, yes, the documents.” He laid his hand on a manila envelope lying next to him on the couch. “Did you enjoy growing up in Hamburg, Jihan?”
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
“There were many other Syrians there, yes?”
She nodded.
“Enemies of the Syrian government?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
His smile said he didn’t quite believe her.
“You lived on the Marienstrasse, did you not?”
“How did you know that?”
“These are difficult times,” he said after a moment, as though Syria were experiencing a spell of inclement weather. “My security men tell me you were born in Damascus.”
“That’s correct.”
“In 1976.”
She nodded slowly.
“Also difficult times,” he said. “We saved Syria from the extremists then, and we’ll save Syria once again now.” He looked at her for a moment. “You do want the government to prevail in this war, don’t you, Jihan?”
She raised her chin a little and looked him directly in the eye. “I want peace for our country,” she said.
“We all want peace,” he replied. “But it is impossible to make peace with monsters.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. al-Farouk.”
He smiled and placed the manila envelope on the table in front of her.
“How long until your flight leaves?” he asked.
She glanced at her wristwatch and said, “Ninety minutes.”
“Are you sure you won’t have coffee?”
“No, thank you, Mr. al-Farouk,” she said primly.
“How about some food?”
She forced herself to smile. “I’ll eat something on the plane.”
For a few minutes that glorious Monday morning in Geneva, it seemed the stately old Hotel Métropole was the center of the civilized world. Black motorcars came and went from her entrance; gray diplomats and bankers flowed in and out of her doors. A famous reporter from the BBC used her as a backdrop for a live report. A band of protesters shouted at her for allowing murderers to sleep peacefully beneath her roof.
Inside the hotel, all was quiet bedlam. After his brief visit to the third floor, Yaakov had pounced upon the last open table at the Mirror Bar and was staring at the elevators over a lukewarm café crème. At 11:40 one set of doors rattled open and Jihan suddenly appeared. When she had entered the hotel a few minutes earlier, she had carried her handbag over her right shoulder. Now it was over her left. It was a prearranged signal. Left shoulder meant she had the documents. Left shoulder meant she was safe. Yaakov quickly radioed Gabriel for directions. Gabriel told Yaakov to let her run.
The team had the hotel surrounded on four sides, but no one had bothered with photographic coverage. It didn’t matter; as Jihan stepped from the front entrance, she passed through the camera shot of the BBC. The image, beamed live around the world and stored to this day in the broadcaster’s digital archives, was the last ever made of her. Her face appeared calm and resolute; her walk was swift and determined. She paused, as though confused about which of the Mercedes sedans parked outside the hotel was hers. Then a man in his mid-thirties gestured to her, and she disappeared into the backseat of a car. The man in his mid-thirties glanced toward the upper floors of the hotel before climbing behind the wheel. The car lurched from the curb, and the child of Hama was gone.
Among the many aspects of Jihan’s departure not captured by the BBC’s camera was the silver Toyota sedan that followed her. Kemel al-Farouk did notice the car, however, because at that moment he was standing in the window of his room on the hotel’s third floor. A former intelligence officer, he couldn’t help but admire the manner in which the driver of the Toyota pulled into traffic with no sense of haste or urgency. He was a professional; Kemel al-Farouk was certain of it.