“Obviously, Tariq’s made other arrangements.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t intend to take her across the border. Maybe he’s going to kill her first.”

“That’s why you should have taken the shot, Gabriel.”

FORTY

Sabrevois, Quebec

Jacqueline had tried to follow the road signs. Route 40 through Montreal. Route 10 across the river. Route 35 into the countryside. Now this: Route 133, a two-lane provincial road stretching across the tabletop of southern Quebec. Strange how quickly cosmopolitan Montreal had given way to this vast empty space. A brittle moon floated above the horizon, ringed by a halo of ice. Wind-driven snow swirled across the asphalt like a sandstorm. Occasionally an object floated out of the gloom. A grain silo poking above the snow cover. A dimly lit farmhouse. A blacked-out agricultural sup-ply store. Ahead she saw neon lights. As they drew closer she could see that the lights formed the outlines of women with enormous breasts: a strip joint in the middle of no-where. She wondered where they got the girls. Maybe they enjoyed watching their sisters and girlfriends dance topless. Desolation, she thought. This is why the word was created.

After an hour of driving they were just a few miles from the U.S. border. She thought: How’s he going to take me across when my passport and the rest of my things are laying back on the rue St-Denis in Montreal?

My passport and the cigarette lighter with the beacon…

It had all happened so quickly. After spotting Gabriel she had looked away and prepared herself for what she thought would happen next. Then the car appeared, and he pushed her inside so roughly that her handbag fell from her grasp. As the car sped away she yelled at him to go back and let her get her bag, but he ignored her and told the driver to go faster. It was then that Jacqueline noticed the woman she knew as Leila was driving the car. A few blocks away they switched cars. The driver was the same man who had left his briefcase for Tariq in the underground coffee bar. This time they drove several blocks to the part of Montreal known as Outremont. There they switched cars one last time. Now Tariq was driving.

He was sweating. Jacqueline could see the shine on his skin in the lime-colored glow of the dashboard lights. His face had turned deathly white, dark circles beneath his eyes, right hand shaking.

“Would you like to explain to me what happened back there in Montreal?”

“It was a routine security precaution.”

“You call that routine? If it was so routine, why didn’t you let me go back and get my purse?”

“From time to time I find myself under surveillance by Israeli intelligence and by their friends in the West. I’m also monitored by my enemies within the Palestinian movement. My instincts told me that someone was watching us in Montreal.”

“That charade cost me my handbag and everything in it.”

“Don’t worry, Dominique. I’ll replace your things.”

“Some things can’t be replaced.”

“Like your gold cigarette lighter?”

Jacqueline felt a stab of pain in her abdomen. She remembered Yusef toying with the lighter on the way to the council flat in Hounslow. Christ, he knows. She changed the subject. “Actually, I was thinking about my passport.”

“Your passport can be replaced too. I’ll take you to the French consulate in Montreal. You’ll tell them that it was lost or stolen, and they’ll issue a new one.”

No, they’ll discover it was forged, and I’ll end up in a Canadian jail.

“Why do these people watch you?”

“Because they want to know where I’m going and who I am meeting with.”

“Why?”

“Because they don’t want me to succeed.”

“What are you trying to accomplish that would make them so concerned?”

“I’m just trying to bring a little justice to the so-called peace process. I don’t want my people to accept a sliver of our ancestral land just because the Americans and a handful of Israelis are willing to let us have it now. They offer us crumbs that fall from their table. I don’t want the crumbs, Dominique. I want the entire loaf.”

“Half a loaf is better than nothing.”

“I respectfully disagree.”

A highway sign floated out of the swirling snow. The border was three miles ahead.

Jacqueline said, “Where are you taking me?”

“To the other side.”

“So how do you intend to get me across the border without a passport?”

“We’ve made other arrangements.”

“Other arrangements? What kind of other arrangements?”

“I have another passport for you. A Canadian passport.”

“How did you get a Canadian passport?”

Another sign: the border was now two miles ahead.

“It’s not yours, of course.”

“Hold on a minute! Yusef promised you wouldn’t ask me to do anything illegal.”

“You’re not doing anything illegal. It’s an open border, and the passport is perfectly valid.”

“It might be valid, but it’s not mine!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s not yours. No one’s going to question you.”

“I’m not going to enter the United States on a false passport! Stop the car! I want out!”

“If I let you out here you’ll freeze to death before you ever reach safety.”

“Then drop me somewhere! Just let me out!”

“Dominique, this is why we brought you from London: to help me get across this border.”

“You lied to me! You and Yusef!”

“Yes, we found it necessary to mislead you slightly.”

“Slightly!”

“But none of that matters now. What matters is that I need to get across this border, and I need your help.”

The border was now a mile away. Ahead she could see the bright white lights of the crossing. She wondered what to do. She supposed she could simply tell him no. Then what would he do? Turn around, kill her, dump her body into the snow, and cross the border on his own. She considered deceiving him: saying yes and then alerting the officer at the crossing point. But Tariq would just kill her and the border patrolman. There would be an investigation, the Office’s role in the affair would come to light. It would be an embarrassing fiasco for Ari Shamron. She had only one option. Play the game a little longer and find some way to alert Gabriel.

She said, “Let me see the passport.”

He handed it to her.

She opened it and looked at the name: Hélène Sarrault. Then she looked at the photograph: Leila. The likeness was vague but convincing.

“You’ll do it?”

Jacqueline said, “Keep driving.”

He entered the plaza at the border crossing and braked to a halt. A border patrolman stepped out of his booth and said, “Good evening. Where are you headed this evening?”

Tariq said, “ Burlington.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“My sister is ill, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry to hear that. How long are you planning to stay?”

“One day, two at the most.”

“Passports, please.”

Tariq handed them across. The officer opened them and examined the photographs and the names. Then he looked into the car and glanced at each of their faces.

He closed the passports and handed them back. “Have a pleasant stay. And drive carefully. Weather report says there’s a big storm coming in later tonight.”

Tariq took the passports, dropped the car into gear, and drove slowly across the border into Vermont. He placed the passports in his pocket and a moment later, when they were well clear of the border, he removed a Makarov pistol and placed the barrel against the side of her head.