Mikhail and Keller managed to get a few hours of sleep, but Gabriel remained at Khalid’s side. He had never believed in the fairy tale of KBM the great Arabian reformer, and yet when confronted with the terrible choice of losing his throne or his child, Khalid had acted like a human being rather than the spoiled, unimaginably rich tyrant whose lust for power and possessions had known no bounds. Whether he knew it or not, thought Gabriel, there was hope for Khalid yet.
Finally, a dirty gray dawn crept into the magnificent sitting room. An hour or so later, while standing in one of the windows overlooking the Place de la Concorde, Gabriel witnessed a most remarkable spectacle. From the Musée du Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe, police fought running battles with thousands of protesters, all clad in the yellow vests of street sweepers. Before long, the entire first arrondissement was hung with a dense cloud of tear gas. Gabriel switched the television to France 2 and was informed that the “Yellow Vests” were enraged at the French president over a recent increase in the price of fuel.
“This is what democracy looks like,” sneered Khalid. “The barbarians are at the gates.”
Perhaps he had been mistaken, thought Gabriel. Perhaps Khalid was a lost cause after all.
And there they stood, the spymaster and the fallen monarch, watching as the great experiment known broadly as Western civilization crumbled beneath their feet. Khalid was so entranced that for once he didn’t hear the ringing of his phone. Gabriel walked over to the coffee table and saw the device shivering amid the rubbish of the long night of waiting. He looked at the screen. The caller was not identified and there was no number.
He tappedacceptand raised the device to his ear. “It’s about time,” he said in English, making no effort to conceal his Israeli accent. “Now listen very carefully.”
32
Paris
When dealing with kidnappers, be they criminals or terrorists, it is customary for the negotiator to hear out their demands. But that presumes the negotiator has something to offer in return for the captive’s freedom—money, for example, or a jailed comrade in arms. Gabriel, however, had nothing of value with which to barter, leaving him no choice but to immediately go on offense. He informed the kidnappers that Princess Reema would be free by day’s end. If she were harmed in any way—or if any attempt were made on Gabriel’s life or the life of the former Saudi crown prince—Israeli intelligence would hunt down every last member of the conspiracy and kill them. The best course of action, he concluded, would be to wrap things up as quickly as possible, with no melodrama or last-minute snags. Then he severed the connection and handed the phone to Khalid.
“Are you mad?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”
“Do you realize what you’ve just done?”
“I’ve given us a very slim chance of getting your daughter back without getting us killed in the process.”
“Did they give you any instructions?”
“I didn’t give them a chance.”
“Why not?”
“I thought Arabs were supposed to be good negotiators.”
Khalid’s eyes widened with rage. “They’ll never call back now!”
“Of course they will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Gabriel walked calmly to the window and watched the riot below. “Because I wasn’t bluffing. And they know it.”
Much to Gabriel’s relief, he had to endure a wait of only twenty minutes before being proven at least partially correct. The instructions were delivered by a recorded text-to-speech message, in the manner of a spam call. The voice was female, cheerful, and vaguely erotic. It said that Gabriel and the former crown prince were to board the noon TGV from Paris to Marseilles. Additional instructions would be conveyed while they were in transit. They were not to involve the French police. Nor were they to travel with a security detail. Any deviation from the instructions would result in the child’s death. “You are being watched,” the voice warned before the connection went dead.
The terms were hardly equitable, but under the circumstances they were the best Gabriel could expect. Besides, he had no intention of honoring them, and neither for that matter did the kidnappers.
Khalid arranged for a hotel limousine. As they crawled eastward across Paris, they were jeered, cursed, and spat upon by the yellow-vested protesters. Tear gas stung their eyes as they hurried through the entrance of the Gare de Lyon. Mikhail and Keller were standing like strangers beneath the departure board, each looking in a different direction.
Khalid gazed upward toward the glass atrium in wonder. “Wasn’t there a terrorist attack in this station a few years ago?”
“Keep moving,” said Gabriel. “Otherwise, we’re going to miss our train.”
“There’s the memorial,” said Khalid suddenly, pointing toward a black slab of polished granite.
The departure board clattered with an update. The train for Marseilles was boarding. Gabriel led Khalid to an automated ticket kiosk and instructed him to purchase two first-class seats. Khalid stared at the contraption, mystified.
“I’m not sure I would know—”
“Never mind.” Gabriel slid a credit card into the reader. His fingers moved deftly over the touchscreen, and the machine ejected two tickets and a receipt.
