MARSEILLES: 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.”

IN RAMALLAH 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 sidearm out of its holster, but a rifle butt slammed into his kidney, and a burst of blinding pain sent him to the floor.

“Today you die the death of a collaborator,” Arafat said. “A death fit for a dog.”