“It belongs to a Saudi prince. And over there,” said Dina, “is the Four Seasons.”

She slowed so Gabriel could have a look. At the gated entrance to the grounds, two security guards in dark suits were searching the undercarriage of an arriving car for explosives. Only if it passed inspection would it be allowed to proceed along the drive to the hotel’s covered motor court.

“There’s a magnetometer just inside the door,” said Dina. “All bags and guests, no exceptions. We’ll have to bring the guns in from the beach. It won’t be a problem.”

“Think the boys from Salafia Jihadia know that, too?”

“I hope not,” said Dina with a rare smile.

They continued along the Corniche past the massive Hassan II Mosque, the outer walls of the ancient medina, and the sprawling port. Finally, they entered Casablanca’s old French colonial center, with its wide curving boulevards and its unique blend of Moorish, Art Nouveau, and Art Deco architecture. It had once been a place where cosmopolitan Casablancans strolled elegant colonnades dressed in the latest fashions from Paris, and dined in some of the world’s finest restaurants. Now it was a monument to decay and danger. Soot blackened the floral stucco facades; rust rotted the wrought-iron balustrades. The smart set kept to the trendy quartiers of Gauthier and Maarif, leaving old Casablanca to the robed, the veiled, and the street vendors who sold spoiled fruit and cheap cassettes of sermons and Koranic verses.

The one sign of progress was the shining new streetcar that snaked along the boulevard Mohammed V, past the boarded-up shops and the arcades where the homeless dozed on beds of cardboard. Dina followed a tram for several blocks and then turned into a narrow side street and parked. On one side was an eight-story apartment building that looked as though it were about to collapse beneath the weight of the satellite dishes sprouting like mushrooms from the balconies. On the other was a crumbling, vine-covered wall with a once-ornate cedar door. Guarding it was a panting feral dog.

“Why are we stopping?” asked Gabriel.

“We’re here.”

“Where?”

“The command post.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

Gabriel eyed the canine warily. “What about him?”

“He’s harmless. It’s the rats you have to worry about.”

Just then, one scurried past along the pavement. It was the size of a raccoon. The dog recoiled in fear. So did Gabriel.

“Maybe we should go back to the Four Seasons.”

“It’s not safe.”

“Neither is this place.”

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

“What’s it like on the inside?”

Dina switched off the engine. “It’s haunted. But otherwise it’s quite nice.”

They sidestepped the panting dog and passed through the cedar doorway, into a hidden paradise. There was an azure-blue swimming pool, a red clay tennis court, and a seemingly endless garden of bougainvillea, hibiscus, banana trees, and date palms. The immense house was built in the Moroccan tradition, with tiled interior courtyards where the incessant murmur of Casablanca faded to silence. The labyrinthine rooms seemed frozen in time. It might have been 1967, the year the owner tossed a few belongings into a bag and fled to Israel. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, it was a more genteel age. An age when everyone in the neighborhood spoke French and worried about how long it would be before the Germans were parading down the Champs-élysées.

The two caretakers were named Tarek and Hamid. They had purchased the job from the previous caretakers, who had grown too old to look after the place. They avoided the interior of the house, keeping to the gardens and the small guest cottage instead. Their wives, children, and grandchildren lived in a nearby Bidonville.

“We’re the new owners,” said Gabriel. “Why can’t we just fire them?”

“Bad idea,” said Yaakov Rossman. Before transferring to the Office, Yaakov had worked for Shabak, Israel’s internal security service, running agents in the West Bank and Gaza Strip. He spoke fluent Arabic and was an expert on Arab and Islamic cultures. “If we try to let them go, it will cause an uproar. It would be bad for our cover.”

“So we’ll give them a generous severance package.”

“That’s an even worse idea. Every relative they have from every corner of the country will be pouring through our door looking for money.” Yaakov shook his head reproachfully. “You really don’t know much about these people, do you?”

“So we keep the caretakers,” said Gabriel. “But what’s this nonsense about the place being haunted?”

They were standing in the cool silence of the house’s main internal courtyard. Yaakov glanced nervously at Dina, who in turn looked at Eli Lavon. It was Lavon, Gabriel’s oldest friend in the world, who eventually answered.

“Her name is Aisha.”

“Muhammad’s wife?”

“Not that Aisha. Different Aisha.”

“Different how?”

“Aisha is a jinn.”

“A what?”

“A demon.”

Gabriel looked to Yaakov for a fuller explanation.

“Muslims believe that Allah fashioned man out of clay. The jinns he made from fire.”