Whatever the case, she was soon rushing into the bathroom to be sick. Afterward, her head throbbed with the opening shots of an encroaching migraine. Today of all days, she thought. She swallowed two tablets of pain reliever with a handful of tap water and stood for several minutes beneath a cool shower. Then, wrapped in a thin toweling robe, she went into the small sitting room and prepared a cup of strong black coffee with the Nespresso automatic. Madame Sophie’s cigarettes beckoned from the end table. She smoked one for the sake of her cover, or so she told herself. It did nothing for her head.

You are very brave, Maimonides. Too brave for your own good . . .

If only that were true, she thought. How many might still be alive if she had found the courage to let him die? Washington, London, Paris, Amsterdam, Antwerp, and all the others. Yes, the Americans wanted him. But Natalie wanted him, too.

She went into the walk-in closet. Her clothing for the day lay folded on a shelf. Otherwise, her bags were packed. So were Mikhail’s. The labels spoke of exclusive manufacture, but the luggage, like Dmitri Antonov himself, was counterfeit. The smallest contained a false bottom. In the hidden compartment were a Beretta 92FS, two magazines loaded with 9mm rounds, and a sound suppressor.

After Natalie agreed to work for the Office, Mikhail had trained her to properly load and discharge a firearm. Now, crouched on the floor of the closet, she quickly threaded the aluminum suppressor into the end of the barrel, rammed one of the magazines into the grip, and chambered the first round. Then she raised the weapon, holding it with two hands, the way Mikhail had taught her, and took aim at the man holding her head in his hand.

Go ahead, Maimonides, make a liar of me . . .

“What are you doing?” came a voice from behind her.

Startled, Natalie pivoted and pointed the gun at Mikhail’s chest. She was breathing heavily; the grip of the Beretta was wet in her trembling hands. Mikhail stepped forward and slowly, gently, lowered the barrel of the gun toward the floor. Natalie relaxed her grip and watched while he swiftly returned the Beretta to its original state and placed it in the hidden compartment of the counterfeit bag.

Rising, he placed a forefinger to Natalie’s lips and pointed toward the ceiling to indicate the presence of Moroccan DST transmitters. Then he led her outside, onto the terrace, and held her close.

“Who are you?” he whispered into her ear, in Russian-accented English.

“I’m Sophie Antonov,” she answered dully.

“What are you doing in Morocco?”

“My husband is putting together a deal with Jean-Luc Martel.”

“What kind of business is your husband in?”

“He used to do minerals. Now he’s an investor.”

“And Jean-Luc Martel?”

She didn’t answer. She felt suddenly cold.

“Would you like to explain to me what that was all about?”

“Nightmares.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

She told him.

“It was just a dream.”

“It almost happened once.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“You don’t know that,” she said. “You don’t know how good he is.”

“We’re better.”

“Are we really?”

There was a silence.

“Send a message to the command post,” Natalie whispered finally. “Tell them I can’t do it. Tell them I can’t be around him. I’m afraid I’ll bring down the entire operation.”

“No,” said Mikhail. “I will send no such message.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the only one who can identify him.”

“You saw him, too. In the restaurant in Georgetown.”

“Actually,” replied Mikhail, “I was trying very hard not to look at him. I barely remember his face.”

“What about the security video from the Four Seasons?”

“It’s not good enough.”

“I can’t be in his presence,” she said after a moment. “He’ll remember me. Why wouldn’t he? I was the one who saved his miserable life.”

“Yes,” said Mikhail. “And now you’re going to help us kill him.”

He took her back to bed and did his best to make her forget the dream. Afterward, they showered together and dressed. Natalie spent a long time arranging and rearranging her hair in the mirror.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Like a Jew from Marseilles,” said Mikhail with a smile.

Upstairs, the hotel staff was clearing away the last of the breakfast buffet. Over coffee and bread, Mikhail read the morning papers on his tablet while Natalie, affecting tedium, contemplated the ancient chaos of the medina. Finally, shortly before eleven, they went downstairs to the lobby, where Martel and Christopher Keller were seeing to the bill. Outside, Olivia was watching the porters tossing luggage into the waiting cars.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“Never better,” said Natalie.

She ducked into the back of the second car and took her place next to the window. A face she did not recognize stared back at her in the glass.

Maimonides . . . So good to see you again . . .

52