“Did you meet Arabs when you were growing up in Europe?”

“Of course.”

“Boys? Girls?”

“Both?”

“What sort of Arabs?”

“Arabs who walk on two legs. Arabs from Arab countries.”

“You’re more sophisticated than that, Sarah.”

“Lebanese. Palestinians. Jordanians. Egyptians.”

“What about Saudis? Did you ever go to school with Saudis?”

“There were a couple of Saudi girls at my school in Switzerland.”

“They were rich, these Saudi girls?”

“We were all rich.”

“Were you friends with them?”

“They were hard to get to know. They were standoffish. They kept to themselves.”

“And what about Arab boys?”

“What about them?”

“Were you ever friends with any of them?”

“I suppose.”

“Ever date any of them? Ever sleep with any of them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I guess my taste didn’t run to Arab men.”

“You had French boyfriends?”

“A couple.”

“British?”

“Sure.”

“But no Arabs?”

“No Arabs.”

“Are you prejudiced against Arabs?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“So it’s conceivable you could have dated an Arab. You just didn’t.”

“I hope you’re not going to ask me to serve as bait in a honey trap because-”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why are you asking me these questions?”

“Because I want to know whether you’d be comfortable in a social and professional setting with Arab men.”

“The answer is yes.”

“You don’t automatically see a terrorist when you see an Arab man?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that, Sarah?”

“I suppose it depends on the sort of Arab you have in mind.”

He looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m sure poor Sarah is famished.” He drew a heavy red line across his page of hieroglyphics. “Let’s order some food, shall we? Sarah will feel better after she has something to eat.”

THEY ORDERED KEBABS from a carryout in the heart of Georgetown. The food came twenty minutes later, delivered by the same black Suburban that had brought Sarah to the town house three hours earlier. Gabriel treated its arrival as a signal to begin the night session. For the next ninety minutes he focused on her education and her knowledge of art history. His questions came at such a rapid-fire pace she scarcely had time for her food. As for his own, it sat untouched next to his yellow legal pad. He’s an ascetic, she thought. He can’t be bothered with food. He lives in a bare room and subsists on coarse bread and a few drops of water a day. Shortly after midnight he carried his plate into the kitchen and deposited it on the counter. When he returned to the dining room he stood for a moment behind his chair, with one hand pressed to his chin and his head tilted slightly to one side. The light from the chandelier had turned his eyes to emerald, and they were flashing restlessly over her like searchlights. He can see the summit, she thought. He’s preparing himself for the final assault.

“I SEE FROM YOUR file that you’re unmarried.”

“Correct.”

“Are you involved with anyone at the moment?”

“No.”

“Sleeping with anyone?”

She looked at Carter, who gazed sadly back at her, as if to say, I told you things might get personal.

“No, I’m not sleeping with anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Have you ever lost someone close to you?”

The dark look that came suddenly over his face, combined with Carter’s restless shifting in his chair, alerted her that she had strayed into some forbidden zone.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t-”

“It’s Ben, I take it? Ben is the reason you’re not involved with anyone?”

“Yes, it’s Ben. Of course it’s Ben.”

“Tell me about him.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “You don’t get to know about Ben. Ben is mine. Ben isn’t part of the deal.”

“How long did you date?”

“I told you-”

“How long did you see him, Sarah? It’s important, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

“About nine months.”

“And then it ended?”

“Yes, it ended.”

“You ended it, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Ben was in love with you. Ben wanted to marry you.”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t feel the same way. You weren’t interested in marriage. Maybe you weren’t interested in Ben.”

“I cared about him very much…”

“But?”

“But I wasn’t in love with him.”

“Tell me about his death.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m quite serious.”

“I don’t talk about his death. I never talk about Ben’s death. Besides, you know how Ben died. He died at nine-oh-three A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, live on television. Everyone in the world watched Ben die. Did you?”

“Some of the passengers from Flight 175 managed to make phone calls.”

“That’s correct.”

“Was Ben one of them?”

“Yes.”

“Did he call his father?”

“No.”

“Did he call his mother?”

“No.”

“His brother? His sister?”

“No.”

“Who did he call, Sarah?”

Her eyes welled with tears.

“He called me, you son of a bitch.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He told me the plane had been hijacked. He told me they’d killed the flight attendants. He told me the plane was making wild movements. He told me he loved me and that he was sorry. He was about to die, and he told me he was sorry. And then we lost the connection.”

“What did you do?”

“I turned on the television and saw the smoke pouring from the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It was a few minutes after Flight 11 struck. No one was really sure then what had happened. I called the FAA and told them about Ben’s call. I called the FBI. I called the Boston police. I felt so utterly fucking helpless.”

“And then?”

“I watched television. I waited for the phone to ring again. It never did. At 9:03 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time, the second plane hit the World Trade Center. The South Tower was burning. Ben was burning.”

A single tear spilled onto her cheek. She punched it away and glared at him.

“Are you satisfied?”

He was silent.

“Now it’s my turn to ask a question, and you’d better answer it truthfully, or I’m leaving.”

“Ask me anything you like, Sarah.”

“What do you want from me?”

“We want you to quit your job at the Phillips Collection and go to work for Jihad Incorporated. Are you still interested?”

IT WAS LEFT to Carter to place the contract in front of her. Carter with his Puritan righteousness and corduroy blazer. Carter with his therapeutic demeanor and American-accented English. Gabriel slipped out like a night thief and crossed the street to Carter’s battered Volvo. He knew what Sarah’s answer would be. She had given it to him already. The South Tower was burning, she had said. Ben was burning. And so Gabriel was not concerned by the gallows expression on her face, twenty minutes later, when she emerged stoically from the town house and descended the steps to the waiting Suburban. Nor was he disturbed by the sight of Carter, five minutes after that, ambling morosely across the street like a pallbearer making for the casket. He climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. “We have a plane at Andrews waiting to take you back to Israel,” he said. “We need to make one stop along the way. There’s someone who’d like a word with you before you leave.”

IT WAS AFTER midnight; K Street had been abandoned to the overnight delivery trucks and the taxicabs. Carter was driving at a faster pace than usual and making repeated glances at his wristwatch. “She doesn’t come for free, you know. There’ll be costs to using her. She’ll have to be resettled when this is over and protected for a long time.”