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Authors: Daniel Silva
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was dimly lit and, because of the computers, unbearably cold. The duty officers wore fleece pullovers and moved with the quiet efficiency of night staff in an intensivecare ward. Gabriel climbed up to the viewing platform and leaned his weight against the aluminum handrail. Arrayed before him was a massive computer-generated map of the world, ten feet in height, thirty in width. Scattered across the globe were pinpricks of light, each depicting the last known location of a terrorist on Israel’s watch list. There were clusters in Damascus and Baghdad and even in supposedly friendly places like Amman and Cairo. A river of light flowed from Beirut to the Bekaa Valley to the refugee camps along Israel’s northern border. The West Bank and Gaza were ablaze. A string of lights lay across Europe like a diamond necklace. The cities of North America glowed seductively.
Gabriel felt a sudden weight of depression pushing down against his shoulders. He had given his life to the protection of the State and the Jewish people, and yet here, in this frigid room, he was confronted with the stark reality of the Zionist dream: a middle-aged man, gazing upon a constellation of enemies, waiting for the next one to explode.
D INA WAS WAITING for him in the corridor in her stocking feet.
“It feels familiar to me, Gabriel.”
“What’s that?”
“The way they carried it off. The way they moved. The planning. The sheer audacity of the thing. It feels like Munich and Sabena.” She paused and pushed a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It feels like Black September.”
“There is no Black September, Dina—not anymore, at least.”
“You asked us to look for the thing that’s missing. Does that include Khaled?”
“Khaled is a rumor. Khaled is a ghost story.”
“I believe in Khaled,” she said. “Khaled keeps me awake at night.”
“You have a hunch?”
“A theory ,” she said, “and some interesting evidence to support it. Would you like to hear it?”
6
T EL A VIV : M ARCH 20
T HEY RECONVENED AT TEN THAT EVENING . T HE mood, Gabriel would recall later, was that of a university study group, too exhausted for serious enterprise but too anxious to part company. Dina, in order to add credence to her hypothesis, stood behind a small tabletop lectern. Yossi sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by his precious files from Research. Rimona, the only one in uniform, propped her sandaled feet on the back of Yossi’s empty chair. Yaakov sat next to Gabriel, his body still as granite.
Dina switched off the lights and placed a photograph on the overhead projector. It showed a child, a young boy, with a bereton his head and a kaffiyeh draped over his shoulders. The boy was seated on the lap of a distraught older man: Yasir Arafat.
“This is the last confirmed photograph of Khaled al-Khalifa,” Dina said. “The setting is Beirut, the year is 1979. The occasion is the funeral of his father, Sabri al-Khalifa. Within days of the funeral, Khaled vanished. He has never been seen again.”
Yaakov stirred in the darkness. “I thought we were going to deal with reality,” he grumbled.
“Let her finish,” snapped Rimona.
Yaakov appealed his case to Gabriel, but Gabriel’s gaze was locked on the accusatory eyes of the child.
“Let her finish,” he murmured.
Dina removed the photograph of the child and dropped a new one in its place. Black and white and slightly out of focus, it showed a man on horseback with bandoliers across his chest. A pair of dark defiant eyes, barely visible through the small opening in his kaffiyeh, stared directly into the camera lens.
“To understand Khaled,” Dina said, “one must first know his celebrated lineage. This man is Asad al-Khalifa, Khaled’s grandfather, and the story begins with him.”
TURKISH-RULED PALESTINE: OCTOBER 1910
He was born in the village of Beit Sayeed to a desperately poor fellah who had been cursed with seven daughters. He named his
Gabriel felt a sudden weight of depression pushing down against his shoulders. He had given his life to the protection of the State and the Jewish people, and yet here, in this frigid room, he was confronted with the stark reality of the Zionist dream: a middle-aged man, gazing upon a constellation of enemies, waiting for the next one to explode.
D INA WAS WAITING for him in the corridor in her stocking feet.
“It feels familiar to me, Gabriel.”
“What’s that?”
“The way they carried it off. The way they moved. The planning. The sheer audacity of the thing. It feels like Munich and Sabena.” She paused and pushed a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “It feels like Black September.”
“There is no Black September, Dina—not anymore, at least.”
“You asked us to look for the thing that’s missing. Does that include Khaled?”
“Khaled is a rumor. Khaled is a ghost story.”
“I believe in Khaled,” she said. “Khaled keeps me awake at night.”
“You have a hunch?”
“A theory ,” she said, “and some interesting evidence to support it. Would you like to hear it?”
6
T EL A VIV : M ARCH 20
T HEY RECONVENED AT TEN THAT EVENING . T HE mood, Gabriel would recall later, was that of a university study group, too exhausted for serious enterprise but too anxious to part company. Dina, in order to add credence to her hypothesis, stood behind a small tabletop lectern. Yossi sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by his precious files from Research. Rimona, the only one in uniform, propped her sandaled feet on the back of Yossi’s empty chair. Yaakov sat next to Gabriel, his body still as granite.
Dina switched off the lights and placed a photograph on the overhead projector. It showed a child, a young boy, with a bereton his head and a kaffiyeh draped over his shoulders. The boy was seated on the lap of a distraught older man: Yasir Arafat.
“This is the last confirmed photograph of Khaled al-Khalifa,” Dina said. “The setting is Beirut, the year is 1979. The occasion is the funeral of his father, Sabri al-Khalifa. Within days of the funeral, Khaled vanished. He has never been seen again.”
Yaakov stirred in the darkness. “I thought we were going to deal with reality,” he grumbled.
“Let her finish,” snapped Rimona.
Yaakov appealed his case to Gabriel, but Gabriel’s gaze was locked on the accusatory eyes of the child.
“Let her finish,” he murmured.
Dina removed the photograph of the child and dropped a new one in its place. Black and white and slightly out of focus, it showed a man on horseback with bandoliers across his chest. A pair of dark defiant eyes, barely visible through the small opening in his kaffiyeh, stared directly into the camera lens.
“To understand Khaled,” Dina said, “one must first know his celebrated lineage. This man is Asad al-Khalifa, Khaled’s grandfather, and the story begins with him.”
TURKISH-RULED PALESTINE: OCTOBER 1910
He was born in the village of Beit Sayeed to a desperately poor fellah who had been cursed with seven daughters. He named his
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