“Could you identify his voice?”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him speak.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“I believe I met him once, many years ago in Tunis. A young man came to visit and stayed in Arafat’s compound for a few days. He had a French name and passport, but he spoke Arabic like a Palestinian.”

“What makes you think it was Khaled?”

“The way Arafat was acting. He glowed in the presence of this young man. He was positively giddy.”

“That’s all?”

“No, there was something about his appearance. They always said Khaled looked like his grandfather. This man certainly bore a striking resemblance to Sheikh Asad.”

Arwish stood suddenly. Yaakov’s arm swung up, and he leveled his Uzi at the Arab’s head. Arwish smiled and pulled his shirt out of his trousers. Taped to his lower back was an envelope. Gabriel had missed it during his rapid search for weapons in the back of the car. Arwish removed the envelope and flipped it to Gabriel, who pried open the flap and shook the photograph out onto his lap. It showed a young man, strikingly handsome, seated next to Arafat at a table. He seemed unaware that his picture was being taken.

“Arafat has a habit of secretly photographing anyone who meets with him,” Arwish said. “You have photographs of Khaled as a child. Perhaps your computers can confirm that this man is truly him.”

“It’s not likely,” Gabriel said. “What else do you have?”

“When he calls the Mukata, it’s not his voice on the line.”

“How does he do that?”

“He has someone else do the talking. A woman—a European woman.”

“What’s her name?”

“She uses different names and different telephones.”

“Where?”

Arwish shrugged.

“What’s her native language?”

“Hard to tell, but her Arabic is perfect.”

“Accent?”

“Classical. Upper-crust Jordanian. Maybe Beirut or Cairo. She refers to Khaled as Tony.”

“Tony who?” Gabriel asked calmly. “Tony where?”

“I don’t know,” Arwish said, “but find the woman, and maybe you’ll find Khaled.”

12 TEL AVIV

12

TEL AVIV

“SHE CALLS HERSELF MADELEINE, BUT ONLY WHEN she’s posing as a Frenchwoman. When she wants to be British, she calls herself Alexandra. When Italian, she’s Lunetta—Little Moon.”

Natan looked at Gabriel and blinked several times. He wore his hair in a ponytail, his spectacles lay slightly askew across the end of his nose, and there were holes in his Malibu surfer’s sweatshirt. Yaakov had forewarned Gabriel about Natan’s appearance. “He’s a genius. After graduating from Cal-Tech, every high-tech firm in America and Israel wanted him. He’s a bit like you,” Yaakov had concluded, with the slightly envious tone of a man who did but one thing well.