Tariq said in Arabic: “Peace be with you, President Arafat. One of your aides asked me to bring these to you.”

“Dates! How marvelous.” He took one, inspected it briefly, and bit into it. “This date is from Tunisia, I’m sure of it.”

“I believe you’re right, President Arafat.”

“You speak Arabic with the accent of a Palestinian.”

“That’s because I am from Palestine.”

“What part of Palestine?”

“My family lived in the Upper Galilee before al-Nakba. I grew up in the camps of Lebanon.”

Tariq placed the plate of dates on the desk and unbuttoned his jacket so that he could get at his Makarov. Arafat cocked his head slightly and touched his lower lip. “You are not well, my brother?”

“I’m just a bit tired. I’ve been working very hard lately.”

“I know what fatigue looks like, my brother. I’ve seen what lack of sleep has done to me over the years. I’ve seen what it’s done to the men around me. But you are not suffering only from fatigue. You’re sick, my brother. I can see it. I have a very powerful instinct for these things.”

“You’re correct, President Arafat. I am not well these days.”

“What is the nature of your illness, my brother?”

“Please, President Arafat-you are far too busy, and too important, to worry about the problems of a common man like me.”

“That’s where you are wrong, my brother. I’ve always thought of myself as the father of all the Palestinian people. When one of my people suffers, I suffer.”

“Your concern means the world to me, President Arafat.”

“It is a tumor, isn’t it, my brother? You are sick from a cancer of some sort?”

Tariq said nothing. Arafat abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. “Tell me something, my friend. Which one of my aides asked you to bring me those dates?”

Tariq thought, So, his survival instincts are still as strong as ever. He thought of a night in Tunis a long time ago. An interminable meeting, a typical Arafat session, beginning at midnight and stretching till dawn. At some point a package arrived, addressed to Arafat himself, from an Iraqi diplomat in Amman. It sat on his desk for some time, unopened, until finally Arafat stood up and said, “There is a bomb in that package, Tariq! I can smell it! Take it away!” Tariq removed the package and gave it to a Fatah engineer to inspect. The old man had been right. The Israelis had managed to place a bomb in a senior PLO staff meeting. If Arafat had opened the package, all the top leadership would have been liquidated.

Tariq said, “He didn’t tell me his name. He just told me to bring the dates.”

Arafat reached out and took another date from Tariq’s tray. “It’s strange, but you seem very familiar. Have we met before?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Are you sure about that? You see, I never forget a face.”

“I’m certain, President Arafat.”

“You remind me of an old comrade-a man who served at my side during the good times and the bad.”

“I’m afraid I’m just a laborer.”

“I owe my life to this man. He protected me from my enemies. He saved my life more times than I care to remember.” Arafat lifted his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes for a moment. “I remember one night in particular. I had been summoned to Damascus for a meeting with the brother of President Assad. This friend of mine begged me not to go. It was in the old days, when Assad and his secret police wanted me dead. The meeting went off fine, but as we were about to board our motorcade for the drive back to Beirut, this friend of mine tells me it is not safe. You see, he had learned that the Syrians intended to ambush the motorcade and assassinate me. We sent the motorcade on its way as a decoy, and this man managed to hide me in Damascus, right under the noses of the Syrians. Late that night we received word that Syrian special forces had attacked the motorcade outside Damascus and that several of my men were killed. It was a very sad night, but I was still alive, thanks to this man.”

“A very interesting story, President Arafat.”

“Will you allow me to indulge in another?”

“I should probably be going,” Tariq said, reaching for the Makarov.

“Please, it will only take a moment.”

Tariq hesitated and said, “Of course, President Arafat. I’d love to hear the story.”

“Sit down, my friend. You must be tired.”

“It would not be appropriate.”

“As you wish,” Arafat replied. “It was during the siege of Beirut. The Israelis were trying to finish off the PLO once and for all. They wanted me dead, too. Everywhere I went Israeli bombs and rockets fell. It was as if they knew where I was all the time. So this friend of mine starts investigating. He discovers that Israeli intelligence has recruited several spies among my staff. He discovers that the Israelis have given the spies radio beacons, so they know where I am all the time. He detains the spies and convinces them to confess their crimes. He wants to send a message to other potential spies that this sort of betrayal will not be tolerated. He asks me to sign death warrants so the spies can be executed.”

“And did you?”

“I did not. I told this man that if I executed the traitors, I would be making enemies of their brothers and cousins. I told this man that they would be punished in a different way-that they would be cut off from the revolution. Banished. Exiled. For me, this would be a punishment worse than death. But I told him one other thing. I told him that no matter how serious their crimes, we Palestinians cannot be killing each other. We have too many enemies as it is.”

“And how did this man react?”

“He was angry with me. He told me I was a fool. He was the only one of my senior staff who had the courage to speak to me that way. He had the heart of a lion, this man.” Arafat paused, then said, “I have not seen him in many years. I hear he’s very sick. I hear he does not have long to live.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“When we have our own state, I will repay him for all the great things he did for the movement. When we have our own state, and our own schools, the children of Palestine will learn about all his heroic deeds. In the villages they will tell stories about this man around the fires at night. He will be a great hero of the Palestinian people.” Arafat lowered his voice. “But not if he does something foolish now. Then he will be remembered as just another fanatic.”

Arafat looked into Tariq’s eyes and said calmly, “If you must do this thing, my brother, then do it and get it over with. If you have no stomach for it, then I suggest you leave here, and quickly, and find some way to end your life with dignity.”

Arafat lifted his chin slightly. Tariq lowered his gaze, smiled slightly, and slowly buttoned his coat. “I believe you’ve mistaken me for another man. Peace be with you, my brother.”

Tariq turned and walked out of the room.

Arafat looked at the bodyguard and said, “Come in here and close the door, you idiot.” Then he let out a long breath and tried to quiet his trembling hands.

They entered the apartment, Gabriel and Jacqueline side by side, surrounded by the group of security men. The sudden appearance of five very agitated people sent a shock wave through the guests, and the party immediately fell silent. Gabriel had his hand inside his jacket, fingers wrapped around the butt of the Beretta. He looked quickly around the room; there were at least a half-dozen white-jacketed waiters moving through the crowd. He looked at Jacqueline. She shook her head.

Douglas Cannon joined the group as they moved from the entrance hall to the large living room overlooking Fifth Avenue and the park. Three waiters were moving through the guests, passing out hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. Two of the waiters were women. Jacqueline looked at the man. “Not him.”

At that moment she spotted a white-jacketed man disappear into the kitchen. She had seen him for just an instant, but she was certain of it. “Gabriel! There he is!”