The Girl in Black

Chapter 2

Suddenly Massoudi felt something. It was like the change that always appeared every time he moved from one life to another. His pulse quickened, his senses sharpened, Massoudi stealthily observed the smallest details around him. A bald young man was walking towards him. His hand held an umbrella and the look lingered for a moment on Massoudi"s face. A newspaper salesman looked shamelessly into Massoudi"s eyes as he bought the Evening Standard. Or the taxi driver who watched him as he tossed the newspaper he"d bought into the trash can in Upper Woburn. A bus passed him. As it slowly passed, Massoudi glanced at the fog-filled car windows. He saw a dozen tired faces, mostly black or brown. New Londoners, he thought, and for a moment the Professor of global governance and social theory wrestled with these thoughts. How many people silently sympathize with his cause? How many people will sign if you put in front of them the death contract.

Following the bus, on the other side of the road was a lone pedestrian: raincoat, thick ponytail, eyebrows two straight lines. Massoudi recognized him immediately. This young man had attended the conference, he was sitting in the same row as Hamida but on the opposite side of the room. That morning he sat there as well, listening to Massoudi raise his voice in protest as he discussed before the Council the ban on Israeli scholars from European territory.

Massoudi lowered his eyes and continued walking, his left hand touching the shoulder pad on the strap of his briefcase. Are you being followed? If true, by whom? MI5 is probably the most likely explanation. Most logical, he reminded himself, not the only one. Perhaps the German Intelligence Service followed him from Bremen to London. Or perhaps he was being watched by the CIA.

But the fourth possibility made Massoudi"s heart suddenly pound against the chest wall. What if the young man watching him wasn"t British, German, or American? Suppose he works for some intelligence agency that is not afraid to kill the enemy, even on the streets of another country. An intelligence organization with a history of using women as bait. He recalled Hamida"s words that afternoon.

“I grew up mostly in Toronto.”

“What about before that?”

“In Amman when I was very young. Then lived for a year in Hamburg. I"m Palestinian, Professor. My home is a suitcase."

Massoudi turned unexpectedly out of Woburn onto Pancras side street. After a few steps, he slowed down and glanced over his shoulder. The young man in the raincoat had crossed the street to follow him.

He walked faster, turning left and right many times. Through low rows of houses, past apartment buildings, past empty squares dotted with dry leaves. Massoudi was almost lost. He was trying to navigate, he knew the main streets of London quite well, but the narrow streets were a mystery to him. He ignored the secretive observational tricks of the intelligence profession and kept looking back. Each time, he seemed to feel the distance between him and the man narrow by a step or two.

He came to the intersection, on the left was Euston Street with the bustling traffic moving, on the opposite side was King"s Cross station and Pancras Road. He turned in Euston"s direction, and a few seconds later he looked over his shoulder again. The young man had already crossed the bend and was approaching him.

He started running. He had never been an athlete, and years of academic pursuits had taken the last bit of strength out of his body. The weight of the computer held back like an anchor. The briefcase nudged his hip with every step he took. He used one elbow to steady himself and the other to hold the strap, but this position made his strides uneven and slowed his pace. Massoudi briefly thought about tossing the machine lightly, but instead held it tighter. In the wrong hands, this laptop can be a treasure trove of information. Personal photos, tracking photos, contact links, bank accounts...

He tripped and stopped at Euston Street. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his followers still behind, hands in pockets, eyes down. He looked to the left, he walked to the bend.

The truck horn was the last sound Ali Massoudi heard. Due to the impact, the briefcase was thrown from him. It flew through the air, hit the ground a few times, and then fell with a thud. The young man in the raincoat barely slowed as he bent down to pick up the briefcase. He slung it neatly over his shoulder, crossed Euston Street, then merged with the crowd and disappeared into King"s Cross station.

The briefcase arrived in Paris at dawn, and at eleven o"clock it was carried into an unassuming office on King Saul Avenue in Tel Aviv. Here, the Professor"s personal belongings are meticulously inspected while the computer"s hard drive is hacked by a group of technical experts. At three o"clock on the same day..., the first packet of information was delivered to the Prime Minister"s office in Jerusalem, and by five o"clock the file containing the most alarming document was lying on the back seat of an armored limousine heading towards Narkiss Road, a quiet street with fallen leaves, not far from Ben Yehuda shopping center.

The car stopped in front of the small apartment building number 16. Ari Shamron, who was twice the Director of Israel"s security department, now serves as a special adviser to the Prime Minister in all security-related matters. and intelligence, got out of the car from the back seat. Rami, the captain of the guard with black eyes gently followed in his footsteps. Shamron has had numerous enemies throughout his long tumultuous career. Due to the complexities of Israel"s population, the enemy has many opportunities to get close to their target. Therefore, even in a mansion like a fortress, Shamron was always surrounded by security guards.

He paused a moment on the garden path and looked up. This was a shabby three-story building of Jerusalem limestone, the large eucalyptus tree in front of the house casting cool shade on the balcony. The branches were swaying in the first cold wind of autumn, and from the open third-floor window came the sharp smell of diluted paint.