Daniel Silva - Prince of fire

Seated now in Arafat’s presence, Gabriel’s chest ached for the first time in many years. No single person, other than perhaps Shamron, had influenced the course of Gabriel’s life more than Yasir Arafat. For thirty years they had been swimming together in the same river of blood. Gabriel had killed Arafat’s most trusted lieutenants; Arafat had ordered the “reprisal” against Gabriel in Vienna. But were Leah and Dani the targets or had the bomb actually been meant for him? Gabriel had been obsessed by the question for thirteen years. Arafat certainly knew the answer. It was one of the reasons why Gabriel had so readily accepted Shamron’s suggestion to visit Ramallah.

“Shamron said you wished to discuss an important matter with me,” Arafat said. “I agreed to see you only as a courtesy to him. We are the same age, Shamron and I. History threw us together in this land, and unfortunately we have fought many battles. Sometimes I got the better of him, sometimes he bested me. Now we are both growing old. I had hopes we might see a few days of peace before we died. My hopes are fading.”

If that was the case, thought Gabriel, why then did you walk away from a deal that would have given you a state in Gaza and 97 percent of the West Bank with East Jerusalem as its capital? Gabriel knew the answer, of course. It was evidenced in the cloth map of “Palestine” Arafat wore on his shoulder. He’d wanted it all.

Gabriel had no chance to respond, because Colonel Kemel returned holding a small silver tray with two glasses of tea. The colonel then settled himself in a chair and glared at Gabriel with his one good eye. Arafat explained that the aide spoke fluent Hebrew and would assist with any translation. Gabriel had hoped to meet with Arafat alone, but a translator would probably prove useful. Gabriel’s Arabic, while passable, did not possess the nuance or flexibility necessary for a conversation with a man like Yasir Arafat.

Arafat, with a trembling hand, placed his glass of tea back into its saucer and asked Gabriel what had brought him to Ramallah. Gabriel’s one-word answer left Arafat momentarily off balance, just as Gabriel had intended.

“Khaled?” Arafat repeated, recovering his footing. “I know many men named Khaled. I’m afraid it is a rather common Palestinian name. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Feigned ignorance, Gabriel well knew, was one of Arafat’s favorite negotiating tactics. Gabriel pressed his case.

“The Khaled I’m looking for, Chairman Arafat, is Khaled al-Khalifa.”

“President Arafat,” said the Palestinian.

Gabriel nodded indifferently. “Where is Khaled al-Khalifa?”

The blotchy skin of Arafat’s face colored suddenly, and his lower lip began to tremble. Gabriel looked down and contemplated his tea. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Colonel Kemel shifting nervously in his seat. Arafat, when he spoke again, managed to keep his legendary temper in check.

“I take it you’re referring to the son of Sabri al-Khalifa?”

“Actually, he’s your son now.”

“My adopted son,” Arafat said, “because you murdered his father.”

“His father was killed on the field of battle.”

“He was murdered in cold blood on the streets of Paris.”

“It was Sabri who turned Paris into a battlefield, President Arafat, with your blessing.”

A silence fell between them. Arafat seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I always knew that, one day, you would come up with some sort of provocation to target Khaled for elimination. That’s why, after Sabri’s funeral, I sent the boy far away from here. I gave him a new life, and he took it. I haven’t seen or heard from Khaled since he was a young man.”

“We have evidence to suggest Khaled al-Khalifa was involved in the attack on our embassy in Rome.”

“Nonsense,” said Arafat dismissively.

“Since Khaled had nothing to do with Rome, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind telling us where we can find him.”

“As I said before, I don’t know where Khaled is.”

“What’s his name?”

A guarded smile. “I went to extraordinary lengths to protect the boy from you and your vengeful service. What on earth makes you think I would tell you his name now? Do you really believe that I would play the role of Judas Iscariot and hand over my son to you for trial and execution?” Arafat shook his head slowly. “We have many traitors in our midst, many who work right here in the Mukata, but I am not one of them. If you want to find Khaled, you’ll do it without my help.”

“There was a raid on a pensione in Milan shortly after the bombing. One of the men hiding there was named Daoud Hadawi, a Palestinian who used to be a member of your Presidential Security Service.”

“So you say.”

“I would appreciate a copy of Hadawi’s personnel file.”

“Several hundred men work in the Presidential Security Service. If this man-” He faltered. “What was his name?”

“Daoud Hadawi.”

“Ah, yes, Hadawi. If he ever worked for the service, and if we still have a personnel file on him, I’ll be glad to give it to you. But I think the odds of us finding something are rather slim.”

“Really?”

“Let me make this clear to you,” Arafat said. “We Palestinians had nothing to do with the attack on your embassy. Maybe it was Hezbollah or Osama. Maybe it was neo-Nazis. God knows, you have many enemies.”

Gabriel placed his palms on the arms of the chair and prepared to stand. Arafat raised his hand. “Please, Jibril,” he said, using the Arabic version of Gabriel’s name. “Don’t leave yet. Stay a little longer.”

Gabriel, for the moment, relented. Arafat fidgeted with his kaffiyeh, then looked at Colonel Kemel and in quiet Arabic instructed him to leave them alone.

“You’ve not touched your tea, Jibril. Can I get you something else? Some sweets, perhaps.”

Gabriel shook his head. Arafat folded his tiny hands and regarded Gabriel in silence. He was smiling slightly. Gabriel had the distinct sense Arafat was enjoying himself.

“I know what you did for me in New York a few years ago. If it weren’t for you, Tariq might very well have killed me in that apartment. In another time you might have hoped for him to succeed.” A wistful smile. “Who knows? In another time it might have been you, Jibril, standing there with a gun in your hand.”

Gabriel made no reply. Kill Arafat? In the weeks after Vienna, when he had been unable to picture anything but the charred flesh of his wife and the mutilated body of his son, he had thought about it many times. Indeed, at his lowest point, Gabriel would have gladly traded his own life for Arafat’s.

“It’s strange, Jibril, but for a brief time we were allies, you and I. We both wanted peace. We both needed peace.”

“Did you ever want peace, or was it all part of your phased strategy to destroy Israel and take the whole thing?”

This time it was Arafat who allowed a question to hang in the air unanswered.

“I owe you my life, Jibril, and so I will help you in this matter. There is no Khaled. Khaled is a figment of your imagination. If you keep chasing him, the real killers will escape.”

Gabriel stood abruptly, terminating the meeting. Arafat came out from behind the desk and placed his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders. Gabriel’s flesh seemed ablaze, but he did nothing to sever the Palestinian’s embrace.

“I’m glad we finally met formally,” Arafat said. “If you and I can sit down together in peace, perhaps there’s hope for us all.”

“Perhaps,” said Gabriel, though his tone revealed his pessimism.

Arafat released Gabriel and started toward the door, then stopped himself suddenly. “You surprise me, Jibril.”