Khalid looked at Gabriel, perplexed. “What is it?”
“Something to replace that Leonardo of yours.”
Gabriel nodded toward Raphael and Irene. With Chiara’s help, they removed the black shroud. Khalid swayed slightly and placed a hand over his heart.
“My God,” he whispered.
“Forgive me, I should have warned you.”
“She looks...” Khalid’s voice trailed off. He stretched a hand toward Reema’s face, then toward the letter. “What is it?”
“A message for her father.”
“What does it say?”
“That’s between the two of you.”
Khalid studied the bottom right corner of the canvas. “There’s no signature.”
“The artist wished to remain anonymous so as not to overshadow his subject.”
Khalid looked up. “He’s famous, the artist?”
Gabriel smiled sadly. “In certain circles.”
They ate outside on the terrace, watched over by Reema’s portrait. The meal was a sumptuous affair of Israeli and Arab cuisine, including Gilah Shamron’s famous chicken with Moroccan spices, which Khalid decreed the finest dish he had ever tasted. Discreetly, he declined Gabriel’s offer of wine. He would soon be the custodian of the two holy mosques of Mecca and Medina, he explained. His days of even moderate alcohol consumption were over.
Surrounded by Gabriel and his division chiefs, Khalid spoke not of the past but the future. The road ahead, he cautioned, would be difficult. For all its riches, his country was traditional, backward, and in many ways barbaric. What’s more, another Arab Spring was stirring. He made it clear he would never tolerate an open rebellion against his rule. He asked them to be patient, to maintain realistic expectations, and to make life bearable for the Palestinians. Somehow, someday, the occupation of Arab land had to end.
Shortly before eleven o’clock, sirens sounded along the lakeshore. A moment later a Hezbollah rocket arced over the Golan, and from an Iron Dome battery in the Galilee a missile rose to meet it. Afterward, Gabriel and Khalid stood alone along the balustrade of the terrace, watching a single craft beating up the lake, its stern aglow with a green running light.
“It’s rather small,” said Khalid.
“The lake?”
“No, the boat.”
“It probably doesn’t have a discotheque.”
“Or a snow room.”
Gabriel laughed quietly. “Do you miss it?”
Khalid shook his head. “I only miss my daughter.”
“I hope the portrait helps.”
“It’s the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. But you have to let me pay for it.”
Gabriel waved his hand dismissively.
“Then allow me to give you this.” Khalid held up a flash drive.
“What is it?”
“A bank account in Switzerland with one hundred million dollars in it.”
“I have a better idea. Use the money to establish the Omar Nawwaf School of Journalism in Riyadh. Train the next generation of Arab reporters, editors, and photographers. Then give them the freedom to write and publish whatever they want, regardless of whether it hurts your feelings.”
