By nine o’clock the children began to squirm and slump. Chiara shepherded them off to bed while Gabriel and Khalid finished the last of the wine on the terrace. Khalid sat in Shamron’s usual chair. The smell of eucalyptus was intoxicating.
“Is this part of hiding in plain sight?”
“I’m afraid my address is the worst-kept secret in Israel.”
“And your first wife? Where is she?”
Gabriel gazed toward the west. The hospital, he explained, was located in the old Arab village of Deir Yassin, where Jewish fighters from the Irgun and Lehi paramilitary groups massacred more than a hundred Palestinians on the night of April 9, 1948.
“How terribly poignant she should live in a place like that.”
“Such is life,” replied Gabriel, “in the twice-promised land.”
Khalid smiled sadly. “Did you see it happen?”
“What’s that?”
“The bomb that killed your child and wounded your wife?”
Gabriel nodded slowly.
“You spared me such a memory. I suppose I should be grateful.” Khalid drank some of the wine. “Do you remember the things you said to the kidnappers when you were negotiating Reema’s return?”
“I have the recordings.”
“And what about the words you were shouting after the bomb went off?”
Gabriel said nothing.
“I must admit,” said Khalid, “I have thought of nothing else since that night.”
“You know what they say about vengeance?”
“What’s that?”
“‘If you live to seek revenge, dig a grave for two.’”
“That’s a very old Arab proverb.”
“It’s Jewish, actually.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Khalid with a flash of his old arrogance. “Have you made any attempt to find them?”
“We’ve made inquiries,” answered Gabriel vaguely.
“Have any borne fruit?”
Gabriel shook his head.
“Neither have mine.”
“Perhaps we should pool our resources.”
“I agree,” said Khalid. “Where should we begin?”
“Omar Nawwaf.”
“What about him?”
