The New Girl

She walked through the cool shadows of the chinaberry trees. The pavements were crowded with midmorning shoppers. Dizengoff Street … The name was familiar. Something awful had happened on Dizengoff Street, Sarah was certain of it. And then she remembered. Dizengoff Street had been the target of a Hamas suicide bombing in October 1994 that killed twenty-two people.

Sarah knew someone who had been wounded, an Office terrorism analyst named Dina Sarid. She had once described the attack to Sarah. The bomb had contained more than forty pounds of military-grade TNT and nails soaked in rat poison. It exploded at nine a.m., aboard the Number 5 bus. The force of the blast hurled human limbs into the nearby cafés. For a long time afterward, blood dripped from the leaves of the chinaberry trees.

It rained blood that morning on Dizengoff Street, Sarah …

But where exactly had it happened? The bus had just picked up several passengers in Dizengoff Square and was heading north. Sarah checked her current position on her iPhone. Then she crossed to the opposite side of the street and continued south, until she came upon a small gray memorial at the base of a chinaberry tree. The tree was much shorter than the others on the street, and younger.

Sarah approached the memorial and scrutinized the names of the victims. They were written in Hebrew.

“Can you read it?”

Startled, Sarah turned and saw a man standing on the pavement in a pool of dappled light. He was tall and long-limbed, with fair hair and pale, bloodless skin. Dark glasses concealed his eyes.

“No,” answered Sarah at length. “I can’t.”

“You don’t speak Hebrew?” The man’s English contained the unmistakable trace of a Russian accent.

“I studied it briefly, but I stopped.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

The man crouched before the memorial. “Here are the names you’re looking for. Sarid, Sarid, Sarid.” He looked up at Sarah. “Dina’s mother and two of her sisters.”

He stood and raised his dark glasses, revealing his eyes. They were blue-gray and translucent—like glacial ice, thought Sarah. She had always loved Mikhail’s eyes.

“How long have you been following me?”

“Since you left your hotel.”

“Why?”

“To see if anyone else was following you.”

“Countersurveillance.”

“We have a different word for it.”

“Yes,” said Sarah. “I remember.”

At once, a black SUV drew to the curb. A young man in a khaki vest climbed out of the passenger seat and opened the rear door.

“Get in,” said Mikhail.

“Where are we going?”

Mikhail said nothing. Sarah climbed into the backseat and watched a Number 5 bus slide past her blacked-out window. It didn’t matter where they were going, she thought. It was going to be a very long ride.

7 (#ulink_af63b189-e51d-5fc1-916a-c8dc59ed2ad1)

TEL AVIV–NETANYA (#ulink_af63b189-e51d-5fc1-916a-c8dc59ed2ad1)

COULDN’T GABRIEL HAVE FOUND SOMEONE else to bring me in?”

“I volunteered.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to avoid another awkward scene.”

Sarah gazed out her window. They were driving through the heart of Israel’s version of Silicon Valley. Shiny new office buildings lined both sides of the flawless highway. In the space of a few years, Israel had traded its socialist past for a dynamic economy driven by the technology sector. Much of that innovation went directly to the military and the security services, giving Israel a decided edge over its Middle East adversaries. Even Sarah’s former colleagues at the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center used to marvel at the high-tech prowess of the Office and Intelligence Unit 8200, Israel’s electronic eavesdropping and cyberwarfare service.

“So the nasty rumor is true, after all.”

“What nasty rumor is that?”

“The one about you and that pretty French woman getting married. Forgive me, but her name slips my mind.”

“Natalie.”

“Nice,” said Sarah.

“She is.”

“Still practicing medicine?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does she do now?”

With his silence, Mikhail confirmed Sarah’s suspicion that the pretty French doctor was employed by the Office. Sarah’s memory of Natalie, while clouded by jealousy, was of a darkly exotic-looking woman who could easily pass for an Arab.

“I suppose there are fewer complications that way. It’s much easier when husband and wife are employed by the same service.”

“That isn’t the only reason we—”

“Let’s not do this, Mikhail. I haven’t thought about it in a long time.”

“How long?”

“At least a week.”

They slid beneath Highway 5, the secure road linking the Coastal Plain with Ariel, the Jewish settlement block deep inside the West Bank. The junction was known as the Glilot Interchange. Beyond it was a shopping center with a multiplex movie theater. There was also another new office complex, partially concealed by thick trees. Sarah supposed it was the headquarters of yet another Israeli tech titan.

She looked at Mikhail’s left hand. “Did you misplace it already?”

“What’s that?”