“This girl,” the Lebanese said. “What did she look like?”

Gabriel handed Azouri a magazine he’d brought down from his room. Azouri opened it and leafed through the pages until he came upon the sketch Gabriel had made aboard Fidelity.

“She looked like that,” Gabriel said. “She looked exactly like that.”

HE HEARD NOTHING from Nabil Azouri for three days. For all Gabriel knew, the Lebanese had absconded with the down payment or had been killed trying to get into Ein al-Hilweh. Then, on the fourth morning, the telephone rang. It was Azouri, calling from Beirut. He would be at the Palm Beach Hotel in time for lunch. Gabriel hung up the phone, then he went down to the beach and took a long run at the water’s edge. His bruises were beginning to fade, and much of the soreness had left his body. When he had finished, he returned to his room to shower and change. By the time he arrived at the poolside restaurant, Azouri was working on his second glass of champagne.

“What a fucking place, Mike. Hell on earth.”

“I’m not paying you ten thousand dollars for a report on conditions at Ein al-Hilweh,” Gabriel said. “That’s the UN’s job. Did you find the old man? Is he still alive?”

“I found him.”

“And?”

“The girl left Ein al-Hilweh in 1990. She’s never been back.”

“Her name?”

“Fellah,” said Azouri. “Fellah al-Tamari.”

“Where did she go?”

“She was a smart girl, apparently. Earned a UN grant to study in Europe. The old man told her to take it and never come back to Lebanon.”

“Where did she study?” Gabriel asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“France,” Azouri said. “Paris first, then she went somewhere in the south. The old man wasn’t sure. Apparently there were long periods with no contact.”

“I’m sure there were.”

“He didn’t seem to fault his daughter. He wanted a better life for her in Europe. He didn’t want her wallowing in the Palestinian tragedy, as he put it to me.”

“She never forgot about Ein al-Hilweh,” Gabriel said absently. “What did she study?”

“She was an archaeologist.”

Gabriel remembered the appearance of her fingernails. He’d had the impression then that she was a potter or someone who worked with her hands outdoors. An archaeologist certainly fit that description.

“Archaeology? You’re certain.”

“He seemed very clear on that point.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Azouri said. “Two years ago she sent him a very strange letter. She told him to destroy all the letters and photographs she’d sent from Europe over the years. The old man disobeyed his daughter’s wishes. The letters and photos were all he had left of her. A couple of weeks later, a bully boy shows up in his room and burned the things for him.”

A friend of Khaled, Gabriel thought. Khaled was trying to erase her past.