Gabriel Allon: The Black Widow Part 36

"No."

"Where's your phone?"

"She took it from me. Don't try to send me any messages."

"Get out of here."

Natalie switched off the tap and went out. Warily, Safia watched her approach the table. Then her eyes moved to the athletic-looking woman with open-air skin who reclaimed her seat at the bar.

"Did that woman try to talk to you?"

"What woman?"

Safia nodded toward the bar.

"Her?" Natalie shook her head. "She was on the phone the whole time."

"Really?" Safia expertly dressed the salad with the oil and the vinegar. "Bon appet.i.t."

56.

KEY BRIDGE MARRIOTT, ARLINGTON.

THE ROOM WAS A SINGLE, the bed scarcely large enough for two. Safia slept rather well for a woman who knew she would soon be dead, though once during the night she sat bolt upright and engaged in a somniloquous explanation about how to properly wear a suicide vest. Natalie listened carefully to Safia's mumbled words, searching for clues about her target, but soon Safia was asleep again. Eventually, sometime after three in the morning, Natalie slept, too. She woke to find Safia clinging marsupial-like to her back. Outside, the weather was gray and wet, and the overnight change of pressure had left Natalie with a throbbing headache. She swallowed two tablets of pain reliever and drifted into a pleasant half-sleep until the scream of a jetliner woke her a second time. It seemed to pa.s.s within a few feet of their window. Then it banked low over the Potomac and disappeared into the clouds before reaching the end of the runway at Reagan National Airport.

Natalie rolled over and saw Safia sitting up in bed, staring at her mobile phone.

"How did you sleep?" Safia asked, her eyes still on the screen.

"Well. You?"

"Not bad." Safia switched off the phone. "Get dressed. We have work to do."

After showering and dressing, they headed downstairs to the lobby to partake of the complimentary breakfast. Safia had no appet.i.te. Neither for that matter did Natalie. She drank three cups of coffee for the sake of her headache and forced down a container of Greek yogurt. The restaurant was full of tourists and two clean-cut men who looked as though they were in town for business. One of the men couldn't keep his eyes off Safia. The other was watching the news on the overhead television. A network icon in the bottom-right corner of the screen read LIVE. The American and French presidents were seated before the fireplace in the Oval Office. The American president was speaking. The French president didn't look happy.

"What's he saying?" asked Safia.

"Something about working with our friends and allies in the Middle East to defeat ISIS."

"Is he serious?"

"Our president doesn't seem to think so."

Safia's eyes met the eyes of her not-so-secret admirer on the other side of the restaurant. She looked quickly away.

"Why does that man keep looking at me?"

"He finds you attractive."

"Are you sure that's all it is?"

Natalie nodded.

"It's annoying."

"I know."

"I wish I could put on my hijab."

"It wouldn't help."

"Why not?"

"Because you'd still be beautiful." Natalie sc.r.a.ped the last of the yogurt from the bottom of the plastic container. "You really should eat something."

"Why?"

Natalie had no answer. "Where are we going this morning?" she asked.

"Shopping."

"What do we need?"

"Clothes."

"I have clothes."

"Nice clothes."

Safia glanced at the television screen, where the White House press secretary was herding the reporters from the Oval Office. Then she stood without another word and walked out of the restaurant. Natalie followed a few paces behind, her handbag over her right shoulder. Outside, the rain had subsided to a cold drizzle. They hurried across the parking lot and climbed into the Impala. Natalie shoved the key into the ignition and started the engine while Safia pulled her mobile from her purse and thumbed TYSONS CORNER into Google Maps. When the blue route line appeared on the screen, she pointed toward Lee Highway. "Make a right."

On the Operations Floor at the NCTC, Gabriel and Adrian Carter watched as the bright red Impala eased into a westbound lane of I-66, followed by a Ford Explorer containing two officers from the FBI's Special Surveillance Group. On the neighboring video screen, the blue light of the beacon flashed on a giant digital map of metropolitan Washington.

"What are you going to do?" asked Gabriel.

"It's not my call. Not even close."

"Whose call is it?"

"His," said Carter, nodding toward a CNN live shot from the Oval Office. "He's on his way down to the Situation Room. All the national security princ.i.p.als are there."

Just then, the phone in front of Carter rang. It was a decidedly one-sided conversation. "Understood," was all Carter said. Then he hung up and stared at the winking blue light moving west along I-66.

"What's the decision?" asked Gabriel.

"We're going to let them run."

"Good call."

"Maybe," said Carter. "Or maybe not."

Natalie followed I-66 to the Beltway and the Beltway to the Tysons Corner Center shopping mall. There were several s.p.a.ces available on the coveted first level of Lot B, but Safia directed Natalie to the second level instead. "There," she said, pointing to a deserted distant corner of the lot. "Park over there."

"Why so far from the mall?"

"Just do what I tell you," Safia hissed.

Natalie pulled into the s.p.a.ce and killed the engine. Safia scrutinized the instrument panel as a Ford Explorer pa.s.sed behind them. It parked at the end of the same row, and two all-American males in their early thirties climbed out and headed toward the mall. Safia didn't seem to notice them. She was looking at the instrument panel again.

"Does this car have an internal trunk release?"

"There," said Natalie, pointing toward the b.u.t.ton near the center of the dash.

"Leave the doors unlocked."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to."

Safia climbed out without another word. Together, they made their way to the stairwell and descended to the Bloomingdale's entrance of the mall. The all-Americans were pretending to shop for winter coats. Safia followed the signs to the women's department and spent the next thirty minutes moving from boutique to boutique, rack to rack. Natalie explained to the saleswoman that her friend was looking for something appropriate for a business dinner-a skirt and jacket, but the jacket couldn't be too tight. Safia tried on several of the saleswoman's suggestions but rejected all of them.

"Too tight," she said in labored English, running her hands over her shapely hips and flat stomach. "Looser."

"If I had a body like yours," the saleswoman said, "I'd want it as tight as possible."

"She wants to make a good impression," explained Natalie.

"Tell her to try Macy's. She might have more luck there."

She did. Within a few minutes she found a five-b.u.t.ton car-length jacket by Tahari that she declared suitable. She selected two-one red, the other gray, both size six.

"They're much too big for her," said the saleswoman. "She's a four at most."

Natalie wordlessly swiped her credit card through the scanner and scribbled her signature on the touch screen. The saleswoman covered the two jackets in a white plastic bag emblazoned with the Macy's logo and handed them over. Natalie accepted the garment bag and followed Safia from the store.

"Why did you buy two jackets?"

"One is for you."

Natalie felt suddenly ill. "Which one?"

"The red one, of course."

"I've never looked good in red."

"Don't be silly."

Outside in the mall, Safia checked her phone.

"Do you need anything?" she asked.

"Like what?"

"Makeup? Some jewelry?"

"You tell me."

"How about some coffee?"

Natalie didn't feel much like drinking coffee, but she didn't want to earn another reproach from Safia, either. They went next door to Starbucks, ordered two lattes, and sat in the seating area outside in the mall. Several Muslim women, all veiled, were conversing softly in Arabic, and many other women in hijabs, some middle-aged, some mere girls, were strolling the arcades. Natalie felt as though she were back in her banlieue. She looked at Safia, who was staring vacantly into the middle distance. She held her mobile phone tightly in her hand. Her coffee stood on the table next to her, untouched.

"I need to use the restroom," said Natalie.

"You can't."

"Why not?"

"It's not allowed."

Safia's phone pulsed. She read the message and stood abruptly.

"We can go now."

They returned to Lot B and climbed the stairs to the second level. The distant corner was now filled with other cars. As they approached the red Impala, Natalie popped the trunk with her fob, but Safia quickly closed it again.

"Hang the clothes in the back."

Natalie did as instructed. Then she slid behind the wheel and started the engine while Safia thumbed KEY BRIDGE MARRIOTT into Google Maps. "Follow the signs to the exit," she said. "And then make a left."

The bullet-point reports from the FBI surveillance teams flashed onto the video screens at the NCTC like updates on an airport departure board. SUBJECTS PURCHASING GARMENTS AT MACY'S . . . SUBJECTS HAVING COFFEE AT STARBUCKS . . . SUBJECTS DEPARTING MALL . . . ADVISE . . . Huddled in the White House Situation Room, the president and his national security team had delivered their verdict. Listen, watch, wait. Let them run.

"Good call," said Gabriel.

"Maybe," said Adrian Carter. "Or maybe not."

At twelve fifteen the red Impala turned into the parking lot of the Key Bridge Marriott and slid into the same s.p.a.ce it had abandoned two hours earlier. The hotel security cameras told part of the story. The terse dispatches from the FBI watchers told the rest. The subjects were exiting the vehicle. Subject one, the Israeli agent, collected the Macy's bag from the backseat. Subject two, the Frenchwoman, lifted two large paper bags from the trunk.