You are my Maimonides . . .

In the bedroom, the satin sheets were still in disarray. Evidently, the Alpha Group maids had not found time in their busy schedule to put the room in order. Natalie smiled guiltily. This was the one room in the house where she and Mikhail made no attempt to conceal their true feelings for one another. Strictly speaking, their actions the previous evening had been a violation of Office regulations, which forbade intimate relations between operatives in the field. It was famously one of the least enforced rules in the entire service. Indeed, the current chief and his wife were known to have disregarded the rule on numerous occasions. Besides, thought Natalie as she straightened the sheets, their lovemaking was for the sake of their cover. Even quarreling spouses were not immune to the dark pull of desire.

The walk-in closet was overflowing with designer clothing, shoes, and accessories, all paid for by the murderous ruler of Syria. Only the best for Madame Sophie. From a drawer she removed a pair of Lycra leggings and a sports bra. Her Nike trainers were on the shoe rack, next to a pair of Bruno Magli pumps. Dressed, she walked down a cool marble hall to the fitness room and stepped onto the treadmill. She hated running indoors but had no other option. Madame Sophie was not permitted to run outside. Madame Sophie had security issues. So, too, did Natalie Mizrahi.

She slipped on a pair of headphones and set out at an easy jog, but with each kilometer she increased the speed of the belt until she was clipping along at a brisk pace. Her breathing remained controlled and steady; the many weeks she had spent at the farm in Nahalal had left her in peak fitness. She finished with a final sprint and spent thirty minutes lifting weights before returning to the bedroom to shower and dress. White capri pants, a snug-fitting stretch pullover that flattered her breasts and slender waist, gold flat-soled sandals. Standing before the mirror, she thought again of the last operation, the hijab and pious clothing of Dr. Leila Hadawi. Leila, she thought, would not have approved of Sophie Antonov. In that, she and Natalie were in complete agreement.

She stepped onto the balcony and peered down toward the terrace where Mikhail was stretched on a chaise longue, exposing his colorless skin to the morning rays of the sun. In ten days his pallor had not changed. He seemed to be incapable of tanning.

“Sure you won’t join me?” she called down.

“I’m busy.”

Natalie dropped her Office mobile into her handbag and headed downstairs to the forecourt, where the Antonovs’ black Maybach limousine waited next to the splashing fountain, an Alpha Group driver behind the wheel. In the backseat was a second officer of the Alpha Group. His name was Roland Girard. During the first operation he had served as the director of the small clinic in Aubervilliers where Dr. Leila Hadawi had practiced medicine. Now he was Madame Sophie’s favorite bodyguard. There were rumors they were having a torrid affair, rumors that had reached the ears of Monsieur Antonov. Several times he had tried to fire the bodyguard, but Madame Sophie would not hear of it. As the Maybach eased through the imposing security gate, she lit another Gitane and stared moodily out her window. This time she could not suppress the urge to cough.

“You know,” said Girard, “you don’t have to smoke those wretched things when it’s just the two of us.”

“It’s the only way I’ll ever get used to them.”

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“The market.”

“And then?”

“I was hoping to have lunch with my husband, but it seems he can’t be bothered.”

Girard smiled but said nothing. Just then, Natalie’s mobile pinged with an incoming message. After reading it she returned the device to her handbag and, coughing, smoked the last of the Gitane. It was nearly time for Madame Sophie to meet Madame Olivia. She needed the practice.

28

Saint-Tropez, France

As they passed the turnoff for the Plage de Pampelonne, Natalie was overcome by memories. This time they were not Leila’s memories, they were her own. It is a perfect morning in late August. Natalie and her parents have made the difficult drive from Marseilles to Saint-Tropez because no other beach in France—or the world, for that matter—will do. The year is 2011. Natalie has completed her medical training and has embarked on what promises to be a successful career in France’s state-run health care system. She is a model French citizen; she cannot imagine living anywhere else. But France is changing rapidly beneath her feet. It is no longer a place where it is safe to be a Jew. Each day, it seems, brings news of another horror. Another child beaten or spat upon, another shop window broken, another synagogue sprayed with graffiti, another gravestone toppled. And so on that day in late August, on the beach at Pampelonne, Natalie and her parents do their best to conceal their Jewishness. They cannot, and the day does not pass without scornful looks and a murmured insult by the waiter who grudgingly serves their lunch. During the drive back to Marseilles, Natalie’s parents make a fateful decision. They will leave France and settle in Israel. They ask Natalie, their only child, to join them. She agrees without hesitation. And now, she thought, gazing out the tinted window of the Maybach limousine, she was back again.

Beyond the beaches were newly planted vineyards and tiny villas shaded by cypress and umbrella pine. Once they reached the outer edges of Saint-Tropez, however, the villas were concealed by high walls covered in flowering vines. These were the homes of the merely rich, not the superrich like Dmitri Antonov or Ivan Kharkov before him. As a child Natalie had dreamed of living in a grand house surrounded by walls. Gabriel had granted her wish. Not Gabriel, she thought suddenly. It was Saladin.