“He’s a German Jew, our Gabriel. Even though he was born in Israel, he learned to speak German before Hebrew. That’s why he has such a pronounced Berlin accent. He picked it up from his mother.” Mikhail pointed toward a modern apartment block with windows that shone like polished onyx. “When she was a child, she lived in a building that stood right there. In the autumn of 1942, she was shipped to Auschwitz in a cattle car along with the rest of her family. She was the only one to survive.”
A tear spilled onto Sarah’s cheek. “Is there a reason you wanted me to see this?”
“Because the safe flat is right there.” Mikhail pointed toward the building opposite. “Gabriel took out a long-term lease when he became chief.”
“Does he come often?”
“To Berlin?” Mikhail shook his head. “He hates the place.”
“So why are we here?”
“Hanifa,” answered Mikhail as he opened the car door. “We’re here because of Hanifa.”
42
Berlin
It was 8:15 p.m.when Hanifa Khoury, a veteran field producer for the German state broadcaster ZDF, stepped onto the damp pavements of Unter den Linden. A cold wind blew through the leafless trees that gave the famous boulevard its name. Shivering, Hanifa wrapped a black-and-white checkered keffiyeh tightly around her neck. Unlike most Germans, she did not wear the garment for reasons of fashion or anti-Israeli politics; Hanifa was of Palestinian lineage. Her eyes scanned the street in both directions. Having worked as a journalist throughout the Middle East, she was adept at spotting surveillance, especially when carried out by fellow Arabs. She saw nothing suspicious. In fact, it had been several weeks since she had noticed anyone watching her. Perhaps, she thought, they had finally decided to leave her alone.
She followed Unter den Linden to Friedrichstrasse and turned left. Near the old Checkpoint Charlie was the café-bar where she used to meet Omar after work. An attractive woman, blond, early forties, was sitting at their usual table, the one in the back corner with an unobstructed view of the front door. She was reading a volume of poetry by Mahmoud Darwish, the bard of the Palestinian national movement. As Hanifa approached, the woman lifted her eyes from the page, smiled, and looked down again.
Hanifa stopped suddenly. “Are you enjoying it?”
The woman was slow in responding. “I’m sorry,” she said in English. “I don’t speak German.”
The accent was unmistakably American. Hanifa considered feigning incomprehension and finding a table as far away from the attractive blond woman as possible—or perhaps, she thought, in another café altogether. The only people Hanifa despised more than Americans were Israelis, though at times, depending on the whims of American policy in the Middle East, it was a close contest.
“The book,” she said, this time in English. “I asked whether you were enjoying it.”
“Can one truly enjoy such painful verse?”
The remark surprised Hanifa, pleasantly. “I met him not long before he died.”
“Darwish? Really?”
“I produced one of the last interviews he ever gave.”
“You’re a journalist?”
Hanifa nodded. “ZDF. And you?”
“At the moment I’m on an extended holiday.”
“Lucky you.”
“Hardly.”
“You’re an American?”
“I’m afraid so.” The woman contemplated the black-and-white keffiyeh around Hanifa’s neck. “I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Why would it be?”
“We’re not terribly popular right now.” The woman placed the book upon the table so Hanifa could see the open page. “Are you familiar with this one?”
“Of course. It’s very famous.” Hanifa recited the poem’s opening words from memory. “‘Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time...’” She smiled. “It sounds much better in the original Arabic.”
“You’re from Palestine?”
