“Anything serious?” asked Sarah.

“The Allegiance Council just appointed Khalid the new crown prince.”

“That was fast.” Suddenly, Sarah’s iPhone was vibrating, too. She smiled as she read the message.

“If that’s Keller, tell him I want a word.”

“It isn’t Keller, it’s Khalid.”

“What does he want?”

She handed Gabriel the phone. “You.”

82

Tiberias

In his first official act after regaining the post of crown prince, Khalid bin Mohammed severed ties with the Russian Federation and expelled all Russian citizens from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The regional analysts applauded his restraint. The old Khalid, they said, might have acted rashly. But the new Khalid had displayed the acumen and prudence of an experienced statesman. Clearly, they speculated, a wiser voice was whispering in his ear.

At home, he moved quickly to undo the damage of his uncle’s brief reign—and some of his own damage as well. He released the jailed women’s rights activists and supporters of democratic reform. He even freed a popular blogger who, like Omar Nawwaf, had criticized him personally. As the dreaded Mutaween withdrew from Riyadh’s streets, life returned. A new cinema opened its doors. Young Saudis filled cafés late into the night.

But for the most part, Khalid’s actions were characterized by a newfound caution. His royal court, while filled with loyalists prepared to do his bidding, contained several old-guard traditionalists, suggesting to Middle East observers he intended to return to the Al Saud practice of ruling by consensus. Where the old Khalid had been a man in a hurry, the new Khalid seemed to favor incrementalism over haste. “Shwaya, shwaya” became something of an official mantra. Still, he was not a ruler to be trifled with, as a prominent reformer discovered after heckling Khalid during a public appearance. The one-year prison sentence made it clear there were limits to KBM’s tolerance for dissent. Khalid was an enlightened despot, said the observers, but he was a despot nonetheless.

His personal conduct changed as well. He sold his superyacht and his palace in France, and returned several billion dollars to the men he had imprisoned at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. He also parted company with much of his art collection. He entrusted the sale of Salvator Mundi to Isherwood Fine Arts of Mason’s Yard in London. Sarah Bancroft, formerly of the Museum of Modern Art in New York, was listed as the dealer of record.

His wife, Asma, appeared at his side in public, but Princess Reema, his daughter, was nowhere to be seen. A rumor circulated that she was enrolled at an exclusive school in Switzerland. It was soon put to rest, however, by an explosive exposé in the German newsmagazine Der Spiegel. Based in part on the reporting of Omar Nawwaf, it detailed the series of events that had led to KBM’s dramatic fall from grace and his eventual restoration. Khalid, after several days of silence, offered a tearful confirmation of the report’s authenticity.

Which prompted, mainly in the West, yet another great reassessment. Perhaps the Russians, for all their recklessness, had actually done them a favor. Perhaps it was time to forgive the youthful prince and welcome him back into the fold. From Washington to Wall Street, and from Hollywood to Silicon Valley, there arose a great clamor as all those who had shunned him suddenly pleaded with him to return. One man, however, had stood by him when no one else would. And it was this man’s invitation, on a sultry summer’s evening in June, that Khalid accepted.

The new KBM, like the old, was forever running late. Gabriel expected him at five p.m. but it was approaching half past six when his Gulfstream finally landed at the IAF base in Ramat David. He emerged from the cabin alone, in a trim-fitting blazer and stylish aviator sunglasses that glinted with the early-evening sun. Gabriel offered Khalid his hand, but once again he received a warm embrace instead.

Leaving the airbase, they passed through the town of Gabriel’s birth. His parents, he explained to Khalid, were Holocaust survivors from Germany. Like everyone else in Ramat David, the Allon family had lived in a little breeze-block bungalow. Theirs was filled with photographs of loved ones lost to the fires of the Shoah. To escape the grief of his family home, Gabriel had wandered the Valley of Jezreel, the land given by Joshua to the tribe of Zebulun, one of the twelve tribes of ancient Israel. He had spent most of his adult life living abroad or in Jerusalem. But the valley, he told Khalid, would always be his home.

As they headed east on Highway 77, Khalid’s phone pinged and vibrated without cease. The messages were from the White House. Khalid explained that he and the president were planning to meet briefly in New York during the annual meeting of the UN General Assembly in September. If all went well, he would return to America later in the autumn for a formal summit in Washington.

“It seems all is forgiven.” He looked at Gabriel. “I don’t suppose you had anything to do with this?”

“The Americans didn’t need any encouragement from me. They’re eager to normalize relations.”

“But you’re the one who made me palatable again.” He paused. “You and Omar Nawwaf. That article in Der Spiegel lifted the cloud over me once and for all.”

Khalid finally switched off the phone. For the next thirty minutes, as they crossed the Upper Galilee, he gave Gabriel a most remarkable briefing—a secret guided tour of the Middle East led by none other than the de facto ruler of Saudi Arabia. The Saudi GID was hearing naughty things about the head of Iran’s Revolutionary Guard Corps, something about a financial indiscretion. Raw intelligence would soon be heading King Saul Boulevard’s way. Khalid and the GID were anxious to play a role in Syria now that the Americans were heading for the exits. Perhaps the GID and the Office could undertake a covert program to make life a little less comfortable in Syria for the Iranians and their allies, Hezbollah. Gabriel asked Khalid to intervene with Hamas to stop the rockets and missiles from Gaza. Khalid said he would do what he could.

“But don’t expect much. Those crazies from Hamas hate me almost as much as they hate you.”

“What do you hear about the administration’s Middle East peace plan?”

“Not much.”

“Maybe we should come up with our own peace plan, you and I.”

“Shwaya, shwaya, my friend.”

In time, they came upon the parched plain where, on a scalding afternoon in July 1187, Saladin defeated the thirst-crazed armies of the Crusaders in a climactic battle that would eventually leave Jerusalem once again in Muslim hands. A moment later they glimpsed the Sea of Galilee. They headed north along the shoreline until they came to a fortress-like villa perched atop a rocky escarpment. Several cars and SUVs lined the steeply sloped drive.

“Where are we?” asked Khalid.

Gabriel opened his door and climbed out. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Ari Shamron waited in the entrance hall. He appraised Khalid warily for a moment before finally extending a liver-spotted hand.

“I never thought this day would come.”

“It hasn’t,” replied Khalid conspiratorially. “Not officially, at least.”

Shamron gestured toward the sitting room, where most of the senior staff of the Office were gathered—Eli Lavon, Yaakov Rossman, Dina Sarid, Rimona Stern, Mikhail Abramov and Natalie Mizrahi, Uzi and Bella Navot. Chiara and the children stood next to an oaken easel. Upon it was a painting covered in black baize cloth.