Page 134 of The New Girl

She insisted the meeting take place in Berlin. The embassy, of course, was out of the question, and she wasn’t comfortable with the idea of going to the ambassador’s residence or even a hotel. It was Khalid who suggested the apartment she had once shared with Omar in the old East Berlin neighborhood of Mitte. His agents had been regular visitors and knew it well. Even so, a thorough search—a ransacking, actually—would be required before his arrival. There would be no recording of the encounter, and no public statements afterward. And, no, he would not be taking refreshment of any kind. He was worried the Russians were plotting to kill him the same way they had killed his uncle. His fears, thought Gabriel, were entirely justified.

And so it was that on a warm and windless Berlin afternoon in early July, with the leaves hanging limply on the linden trees and the clouds low and dark, a line of black Mercedes motorcars arrived like a funeral procession in the street beneath Hanifa Khoury’s window. Frowning, she checked the time. It was half past three. He was an hour and a half late.

KBM time...

Several car doors opened. From one emerged Khalid. As he crossed the pavement to the entrance of the building, he was trailed by a single bodyguard. He wasn’t afraid, thought Hanifa. He trusted her, the way she had trusted him that afternoon in Istanbul. The afternoon she had seen Omar for the last time.

She stepped away from the window and surveyed the sitting room of the apartment. There were photographs of Omar everywhere. Omar in Baghdad. Omar in Cairo. Omar with Khalid.

Omar in Istanbul...

That morning, a team from the Saudi Embassy had torn the apartment to pieces, looking for what, they did not say. They had neglected to check the large clay flowerpot on the terrace overlooking the internal courtyard. Oh, they had brutalized Hanifa’s geraniums, but they had failed to probe the damp soil beneath.

The object she had hidden there, wrapped in an oily cloth, zipped into a waterproof plastic bag, was now in the palm of her hand. She had acquired it from Tariq, a troubled kid from the Palestinian community, a petty criminal, a failed rapper, a thug. She had told Tariq it was for a story she was working on for ZDF. He hadn’t believed her.

Her building was old and the lift was fickle. Two or three minutes passed before she finally heard heavy male footfalls in the corridor. A male voice, too. The voice of the devil. It sounded as though he was on his phone. She only hoped he was talking to the Israeli. Such perfect poetry, she thought. Darwish himself could not have written it any better.

As she moved into the entrance hall, she saw Omar walking into the consulate at 1:14 p.m. She could only imagine what had happened next. Had they feigned a brief moment of cordiality, or had they set upon him instantly like wild beasts? Did they wait until he was dead before taking him apart, or was he still alive and conscious when the blade carved into his flesh? Such an act could not be forgiven, only avenged. Khalid knew this better than anyone. He was an Arab, after all. A son of the desert. And yet he was walking toward her with only a single bodyguard to protect him. Perhaps he was still the same reckless KBM after all.

At last, the knock. Hanifa reached for the latch. The bodyguard lunged, the devil shielded his face.Omar, thought Hanifa as she raised the gun and fired.The password is Omar...