The Black Widow

The woman smiled and opened her door. “Don’t worry about your bag. Someone will see to it.”

The first thing Natalie noticed after stepping from the car was the smell — the smell of rich earth and newly mown grass, the smell of blossom and pollen, the smell of animals and fresh dung. Her clothing, she thought suddenly, was wholly unsuited for such a place, especially her flat shoes, which were little more than ballet slippers. She was annoyed with the woman for having failed to tell her that their destination was a farm in the Jezreel Valley. Then, as they crossed the thick green lawn, Natalie again noticed the limp, and all sins were forgiven. The man on the veranda had yet to move. Despite the shadows, Natalie knew he was watching her with the intensity of a portrait artist studying his subject. At last, he came slowly down the three steps that led from the veranda to the lawn, moving from the shadow to the bright sunlight. “Natalie,” he said, extending his hand. “I hope the drive wasn’t too difficult. Welcome to Nahalal.”

His temples were the color of ash, his eyes were an unnerving shade of green. Something about the handsome face was familiar. Then all at once Natalie realized where she had seen it before. She released his hand and took a step back.

“You’re—”

“Yes, I’m him. And I’m obviously very much alive, which means you are in possession of an important state secret.”

“Your obituary in Haaretz was quite moving.”

“I thought so, too. But you mustn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. You’re about to find out that about seventy percent of history is classified. And difficult things are almost always accomplished entirely in secret.” His smile faded, the green eyes scanned her face. “I hear you had a long night.”

“We’ve been having a lot them lately.”

“The doctors in Paris and Amsterdam had long nights recently, too.” He tilted his head to one side. “I assume you followed the news of the bombing in the Marais quite carefully.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because you’re French.”

“I’m Israeli now.”

“But you retained your French passport after you made aliyah.”

His question sounded like an accusation. She didn’t respond.

“Don’t worry, Natalie, I’m not being judgmental. In times like these, it’s best to have a lifeboat.” He placed a hand to his chin. “Did you?” he asked suddenly.

“Did I what?”

“Follow the news from Paris?”

“I admired Madame Weinberg a great deal. In fact, I actually met her once when she came to Marseilles.”

“Then you and I have something in common. I admired Hannah a great deal as well, and it was my pleasure to consider her a friend. She was very generous to our service. She helped us when we needed it, and a grave threat to our security was eliminated.”

“Is that why she’s dead?”

“Hannah Weinberg is dead,” he said pointedly, “because of a man who calls himself Saladin.” He removed his hand from his chin and leveled his gaze. “You are now a member of a very small club, Natalie. Not even the American CIA knows about this man. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He smiled again and took her by the arm. “Come. We’ll have some food. We’ll get to know each other better.”

He led her across the veranda and into a shaded garden, where a round table set for four people had been laid with a traditional Israeli lunch of salads and Middle Eastern dips. At one of the places sat a large, morose-looking man with closely cropped gray hair and small rimless spectacles. Natalie recognized him at once. She had seen him on television rushing into the prime minister’s office in times of crisis.

“Natalie,” said Uzi Navot, rising slowly to his feet. “So good of you to accept our invitation. I’m sorry about showing up on your doorstep unannounced like that, but that’s how we’ve always done things, and I believe the old ways are the best.”

A few paces from the garden stood a large barn of corrugated metal, and next to the barn were pens filled with cattle and horses. A pie slice of row crops stretched toward Mount Tabor, which rose like a nipple from the tabletop flatlands of the valley.

“This farm belongs to a friend of our service,” explained the one who was supposed to be dead, the one named Gabriel Allon. “I was born right over there”—he pointed toward a cluster of distant buildings to the right of Mount Tabor—“in Ramat David. It was established a few years after Nahalal. Many of the people who lived there were refugees from Germany.”

“Like your mother and father.”

“You obviously read my obituary quite carefully.”

“It was fascinating. But very sad.” She turned away and stared out at the land. “Why am I here?”

“First, we have lunch. Then we talk.”

“And if I want to leave?”

“You leave.”

“And if I stay?”

“I can promise you only one thing, Natalie. Your life will never be the same.”

“And if the roles were reversed? What would you do?”

“I’d probably tell you to find someone else.”

“Well,” she said. “How can I possibly turn down an offer like that? Shall we eat? I’m absolutely famished.”

18 NAHALAL, ISRAEL