Chapters (43)
- PART ONE THE DOSSIER
- 1 ROME: MARCH 4
- 2 TIBERIAS, ISRAEL
- 3 LONDON
- 4 VENICE
- 5 TEL AVIV: MARCH 10
- 6 TEL AVIV: MARCH 20
- 7 TEL AVIV
- PART TWO THE COLLABORATOR
- 8 NEAR AIX-EN-PROVENCE, FRANCE
- 9 JERUSALEM
- 10 JERUSALEM: MARCH 22
- 11 JERUSALEM: MARCH 23
- 12 TEL AVIV
- 13 CAIRO: MARCH 31
- 14 CAIRO
- PART THREE THE GARE de LYON
- 15 MARSEILLES
- 16 ROME
- 17 BOSA, SARDINIA
- 18 MARSEILLES
- 19 SURREY, ENGLAND
- 20 MARSEILLES
- 21 MARSEILLES
- 22 MARTIGUES, FRANCE
- 23 JERUSALEM
- 24 TROYES, FRANCE
- 25 ST-DENIS, NORTHERN PARIS
- 26 PARIS
- 27 PARIS
- 28 PARIS
- 29 PARIS
- PART FOUR SUMAYRIYYA
- 30 PARIS
- 31 FIUMICINO, ITALY
- 32 JERUSALEM
- 33 JERUSALEM
- 34 TEL AVIV
- 35 TEL MEGIDDO, ISRAEL
- 36 TIBERIAS, ISRAEL
- 37 AIX-EN-PROVENCE: FIVE MONTHS LATER
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The painter silently held up the card Martineau had just given him. “I believe the name on this is incorrect.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“The name says Paul Martineau.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“But it’s not your real name, is it?”
Martineau felt a searing heat across the back of his neck. He looked carefully at the figure standing at the edge of the trench. Was it really him? Martineau couldn’t be sure, not with the heavy beard and floppy hat. Then he thought of the landscape. It was a perfect imitation of Cézanne in tone and texture. Of course it was him. Martineau inched his hand toward his pocket and made one more play for time.
“Listen, my friend, my name is—”
“Khaled al-Khalifa,” the painter said, finishing the sentence for him. His next words were spoken in Arabic. “Do you really want to die as a Frenchman? You’re Khaled, son of Sabri, grandson of Asad, the Lion of Beit Sayeed. Your father’s gun is in your coat pocket. Reach for it. Tell me your name.”
Khaled seized the grip of the Makarov and was pulling it from his pocket when the first round tore into his chest. The second shot caused the gun to slip from his grasp. He toppled backward and struck his head against the rocklike base of the pit. As he slipped toward unconsciousness, he looked up and saw the Jew, scooping a handful of earth from the mound at the edge of the trench. He tossed the soil onto Khaled’s face, then raised his gun for the final time. Khaled saw a flash of fire, then darkness. The trench began to spin, and he felt himself spiraling downward, into the past.
THE PAINTER SLIPPED the Beretta back into the waistband of his trousers and walked back to the spot where he’d been working. He dipped his brush in black paint and signed his name to the canvas, then turned and started up the slope of the hill. In the shadow of the ancient wall he encountered a girl with short hair who bore a vague resemblance to Fellah al-Tamari. He bid her a good morning and climbed into the saddle of his motorcycle. A moment later he was gone.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
AUTHOR’S NOTE