The Black Widow. Daniel Silva
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Israel.
Among the thousands of young Muslims from the Middle East and Europe who were drawn to the siren song of ISIS was a young Jordanian named Jalal Nasser. Like Zarqawi, Nasser was from a prominent East Bank tribe, the Bani Hassan, though his family was better off than the Khalaylehs of Zarqa. He attended a private secondary school in Amman and King’s College in London. Soon after the outbreak of civil war in Syria, however, he met with an ISIS recruiter in Amman and inquired about making his way to the caliphate. The recruiter advised Jalal that he could be more useful elsewhere.
“In Europe?” asked Gabriel.
Fareed nodded.
“How do you know this?”
“Sources and methods,” said Fareed, which meant he had no interest in answering Gabriel’s question.
“Why not take him off the streets?”
“Jalal is from a good family, a family that has been loyal to the monarchy for a long time. If we had arrested him, it would have caused problems.” A careful smile. “Collateral damage.”
“So you put him on an airplane to London and waved good-bye.”
“Not entirely. Every time he comes back to Amman, we bring him in for a little chat. And we watch him from time to time in England to make certain he isn’t plotting against us.”
“Did you tell the British about him?”
Silence.
“What about your friends at Langley?”
More silence.
“Why not?”
“Because we didn’t want to turn a small problem into a big problem. These days, that seems to be the American way.”
“Careful, Fareed. You never know who’s listening.”
“Not here,” he said, glancing around his vast office. “It’s perfectly secure.”
“Says who?”
“Langley.”
Gabriel smiled.
“So why are you so interested in Jalal?” asked Fareed.
Gabriel handed him another photograph.
“The woman from the Paris attack?”
Gabriel nodded. Then he instructed Fareed to look carefully at the man seated alone in the corner of the café, with an open laptop computer.
“Jalal?”
“In the flesh.”
“Any chance it’s a coincidence?”
Gabriel handed the Jordanian two more photos: Safia Bourihane and Jalal Nasser on the rue de Rivoli, Safia Bourihane and Jalal Nasser on the Champs-Élysées.
“I guess not.”
“There’s more.”
Gabriel gave Fareed two more photos: Jalal Nasser with Margreet Janssen at a restaurant in Amsterdam, Jalal Nasser holding his recently slapped cheek on a street in the red-light district.
“Shit,” said Fareed softly.
“The Office concurs.”
Fareed returned the photos. “Who else knows about this?”
“Paul Rousseau.”
“Alpha Group?”
Gabriel nodded.
“They’re quite good.”
“You’ve worked with them?”
“On occasion.” Fareed shrugged. “As a rule, France’s problems come from other parts of the Arab world.”
“Not anymore.” Gabriel returned the photos to his briefcase.
“I assume you have Jalal under watch.”
“As of last night.”
“Have you had a chance to peek at that laptop?”
“Not yet. You?”
“We drained it the last time we brought him in for a chat. It was clean as a whistle. But that doesn’t mean anything. Jalal is very good with computers. They’re all very good. And getting better by the day.”
Fareed started to light one of his English cigarettes but stopped. It seemed that Gabriel’s aversion to tobacco was well known to the GID.
“I don’t suppose you’ve mentioned any of this to the Americans.”
“Who?”
“What about the British?”
“In passing.”
“There’s no such thing when it comes to the British. Furthermore,” said Fareed with his newsreader formality, “I know for a fact they’re terrified that they’re going to be hit next.”
“They should be terrified.”
Fareed ignited his gold lighter and touched his cigarette to the slender flame. “So what was Jalal’s connection to Paris and Amsterdam?”
“I’m not sure yet. He might be just a recruiter or talent spotter. Or he might be the project manager.” Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Or maybe,” he said finally, “he’s the one they call Saladin.”
Fareed Barakat looked up sharply.
“Obviously,” said Gabriel, “you’ve heard the name.”
“Yes,” conceded Fareed, “I’ve heard it.”
“Is he?”
“Not a chance.”
“Does he exist?”
“Saladin?” Fareed nodded slowly. “Yes, he exists.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s our worst nightmare. Other than that,” said Fareed, “I haven’t a clue.”
OF THE TERRORIST’S NAMESAKE, HOWEVER, the GID chief knew a great deal. Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, or Saladin, was born into a prominent family of Kurds, in the town of Tikrit, in approximately 1138. His father was a soldier of fortune. Young Saladin lived for a time in Baalbek, in present-day Lebanon, and in Damascus, where he drank wine, pursued women, and played polo by candlelight. Damascus was the city he preferred over all others. Later, he would describe Egypt, the financial hub of his empire, as a whore who tried to separate him from his faithful wife Damascus.
His realm stretched from Yemen to Tunisia and north to Syria. It was ruled over by a hodgepodge of princes, emirs, and greedy relatives, all held together by Saladin’s diplomatic skills and considerable charisma. He used violence to great effect, but found it distasteful. To his favorite son, Zahir, he once remarked: “I warn you against shedding blood, indulging in it and making a habit of it, for blood never sleeps.”
He was lame and sickly, watched over constantly by a team of twenty-one doctors, including the philosopher and Talmudic scholar Maimonides, who was appointed his court physician in Cairo. Lacking in personal vanity—in Jerusalem he once laughed uproariously when a courtier splashed his silk robes with mud—he had little interest in personal riches or earthly delights. He was happiest when surrounded by poets and men of learning, but mainly it was the concept of jihad, or holy war, that consumed him. He built mosques and Islamic centers of learning across his lands and lavished money and favors on preachers and religious scholars. His goal was to re-create