A MILE BEFORE NÎMES, she directed him into the gravel parking lot of a roadside store that sold earthenware planters and garden statuary. For five unbearable moments they waited in silence for her satellite telephone to ring. When it finally did, the electronic chime sounded to Gabriel like a fire alarm. The girl listened without speaking. From her blank expression Gabriel could not discern whether she’d been ordered to keep going or to kill him. She severed the connection and nodded toward the road.

“Get on the Autoroute.”

“Which direction?”

“North.”

“Where are we going?”

A hesitation, then: “Lyon.”

Gabriel did as he was told. As they neared the Autoroute tollbooth, the girl slipped the Tanfolgio into her satchel. Then she handed him some change for the toll. When they were back on the road, the gun came out again. She placed it on her lap. Her forefinger, with her short, dirty nail, lay noncommittally across the trigger.

“What’s he like?”

“Who?”

“Khaled,” Gabriel said.

“As I told you before, I don’t know anyone named Khaled.”

“You spent the night with him in Marseilles.”

“Actually, I spent the night with a man named Monsieur Véran. You’d better drive faster.”

“He’s going to kill us, you know. He’s going to kill us both.”

She said nothing.

“Were you told that this was a suicide mission? Have you prepared yourself to die? Have you prayed and made a farewell videotape for your family?”

“Please drive, and don’t talk anymore.”

“We’re shaheeds, you and I. We’re going to die together—for different causes, mind you, but together.”

“Please, shut up.”

And there it was, he thought. The crack. Khaled had lied to her.

“We’re going to die tonight,” he said. “At seven o’clock. He didn’t mention that to you?”

Another silence. Her finger was moving over the surface of the trigger.

“I guess he forgot to tell you,” Gabriel resumed. “But then it’s always been that way. It’s the poor kids who die for Palestine, the kids from the camps and the slums. The elite just give the orders from their villas in Beirut and Tunis and Ramallah.”

She swung the gun toward his face again. This time he snatched it and twisted it from her grasp.

“When you hit me with this, it makes it hard to drive.”

He held out the gun to her. She took it and placed it back in her lap.

“We’re shaheeds, Palestina. We’re driving toward destruction, and Khaled is giving us directions. Seven o’clock, Palestina. Seven o’clock.”