“God didn’t print them on an HP LaserJet.”
“And you believe this nonsense?”
“I’m willing to debate the authenticity of the tablets,” said Gabriel. “But not the rest of it.”
“The so-called Temple of Solomon never existed. It is a lie used by Zionists to justify the Jewish conquest of Arab Palestine.”
“The Temple was described in great detail in the Torah long before the advent of Zionism.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that it is untrue.” Khalid was clearly enjoying the debate. “I remember a few years ago when your government claimed to have found the pillars of the so-called Temple.”
“I remember it, too,” said Gabriel.
“They were placed in the Israel Museum, were they not?” Khalid shook his head disdainfully. “That exhibit is a piece of crude propaganda designed to justify your existence on Muslim lands.”
“My wife designed that exhibit.”
“Did she?”
“And I was the one who discovered the pillars.”
This time, Khalid offered no objection.
“The Waqf had hidden them in a chamber one hundred and sixty-seven feet beneath the surface of the Temple Mount.” The Waqf was the Islamic religious authority that administered the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque. “They assumed no one would ever find them. They were mistaken.”
“Another lie,” said Khalid.
“Come to Israel,” suggested Gabriel. “I’ll take you to the chamber.”
“Me? Visit Israel?”
“Why not?”
“Can you imagine the reaction?”
“Yes, I can.”
“I must admit, it would be a great privilege to pray in the Noble Sanctuary.” The Noble Sanctuary was how Muslims referred to the Temple Mount.
“We can do that, too.”
Khalid sat down along one side of the small conference table and glanced around the interior of the room. “How fortunate we were both in London at the same time.”
“Yes,” agreed Gabriel. “I’m searching desperately for your daughter, and you’re having dinner with Uncle Abdullah and staying in the most expensive suite at the Dorchester.”
“How did you know I saw my uncle?”
Ignoring the question, Gabriel held out a hand and asked to see the demand letter. Khalid placed it on the table. It was a photocopy. The original, he said, had been delivered to the Saudi Embassy in Paris. The typeface and margins were identical to those of the first letter. So was the flat, matter-of-fact wording. Khalid had until midnight the following evening to abdicate. If he refused, he would never see his daughter again.
“Was there any proof of life?”
Khalid handed over a copy of the photograph. The child was holding the previous day’s edition of theTelegraphand staring directly into the lens of the camera. She had her father’s eyes. She looked exhausted and unkempt, but not at all frightened.
Gabriel returned the photograph. “No father should ever have to see a picture like that.”
“Perhaps I deserve it.”
“Perhaps you do.” Gabriel laid a photograph of his own on the table. A man sitting in a café in Annecy. “Do you recognize him?”
