by Daniel Silva
Gabriel darted from the room. In the hallway was Abu Jihad’s wife, clutching their small son in her arms, and his teenage daughter. She closed her eyes and held the boy more tightly, waiting for Gabriel to shoot her.
“Go back to your room!” he shouted in Arabic. Then he turned to the daughter. “Go and take care of your mother.”
Gabriel dashed from the house, followed by the entire Sayaret team. They piled into the minibus and the Peugeots and sped away. They drove through Sidi Boussaid back to Rouad, where they abandoned the vehicles at the beach and boarded the dinghies. A moment later they were speeding over the black surface of the Mediterranean toward the lights of a waiting Israeli patrol boat.
“Thirteen seconds, Gabriel! You did it in thirteen seconds!”
It was the girl. She reached out to touch him, but he recoiled from her. He watched the lights of the ship drawing closer. He looked up into the ink-black sky, searching for the command plane, but saw only a fingernail moon and a spray of stars. Then he saw the faces of Abu Jihad’s wife and children, staring at him with hatred burning in their eyes.
He tossed the Beretta into the sea and began to shake.
The fight next door had gone quiet. Gabriel wanted to think about something besides Tunis, so he imagined sailing his ketch down the Helford Passage to the sea. Then he thought of the Vecellio, stripped of dirty varnish, the damage of the centuries laid bare. He thought of Peel, and for the first time that day he thought of Dani. He remembered pulling what remained of his body from the flaming wreckage of the car in Vienna, checking to see if somehow he had survived, thanking God that he had died quickly and not lingered with one arm and one leg and half a face.
He stood up and paced the room, trying to make the image go away, and for some reason found himself thinking of Peel’s mother. Several times during his stay in Port Navas he’d found himself fantasizing about her. It began the same way each time. He would bump into her in the village, and she would volunteer that Derek was out for a long walk on the Lizard trying to repair the second act. “He’ll be gone for hours,” she would say. “Would you like to come over for tea?” He would say yes, but instead of serving tea she would take him upstairs to Derek’s bed and allow him to pour nine years of self-imposed abstinence into her supple body. Afterward she would lie with her head on his stomach, damp hair spread across his chest. “You’re not really an art restorer, are you?” she would say in his fantasy. And Gabriel would tell her the truth. “I kill people for the government of Israel. I killed Abu Jihad in front of his wife and children. I killed three people in thirteen seconds that night. The prime minister gave me a medal for it. I used to have a wife and a son, but a terrorist put a bomb under their car because I had an affair with my bat leveyha in Tunis.” And Peel’s mother would run screaming from the cottage, body wrapped in a white bedsheet, the bedsheet stained with the blood of Leah.
He returned to his chair and waited for Yusef. The face of Peel’s mother had been replaced by the face of Vecellio’s Virgin Mary. To help fill the empty hours, Gabriel dipped an imaginary brush into imaginary pigment and tenderly healed her wounded cheek.
Yusef came home at 3:00 A.M. A girl was with him, the girl who had given him her telephone number that afternoon at the restaurant. Gabriel watched them disappear through the front entrance. Upstairs in the flat the lights flared briefly before Yusef made his nightly appearance in the window. Gabriel bid him good night as he disappeared behind the curtain. Then he fell onto the couch and closed his eyes. Today he had watched. Tomorrow he would begin to listen.
13
AMSTERDAM
Three hours later a slender young woman named Inge van der Hoff stepped out of a bar in the red-light district and walked quickly along a narrow alley. Black leather skirt, black leggings, black leather jacket, boots clattering over the bricks of the alley. The streets of the Old Side were still dark, a light mist falling. She lifted her face skyward. The mist tasted of salt, smelled of the North Sea. She passed two men, a drunk and a hash dealer, lowered her head, kept moving. Her boss didn’t like her walking home in the morning, but after a long night of serving drinks and fending off the advances of drunken customers, it always felt good to be alone for a few minutes.
Suddenly she felt very tired. She needed to crash. She thought: What I really need is a fix. I hope Leila scored tonight.
Leila. . . . She loved the sound of her name. Loved everything about her. They had met two weeks earlier at the bar. Leila had come for three consecutive nights, each time alone. She would stay for an hour, have a shot of jenever, a Grolsch, a few hits of hash, listen to the music. Each time Inge went to her table she could feel the girl’s eyes on her. Inge had to admit that she liked it. She was a stunningly attractive woman, with lustrous black hair and wide brown eyes. Finally, on the third night, Inge introduced herself and they began to talk. Leila said that her father was a businessman and that she had lived all over the world. She said she was taking a year off from her studies in Paris, just traveling and living life. She said Amsterdam enchanted her. The picturesque canals. The gabled houses, the museums, and the parks. She wanted to stay for a few months, get to know the place.
“Where are you staying?” Inge had asked.
“In a youth hostel in south Amsterdam. It’s horrible. Where do you live?”
“A houseboat on the Amstel.”
“A houseboat! How wonderful.”
“It’s my brother’s, but he’s in Rotterdam for a few months working on a big construction project.”
“Are you offering to let me crash on your houseboat for a few days?”
“I’m offering to let you stay as long as you want. I don’t like coming home to an empty place.”
Dawn was breaking over the river, first lights burning in the houseboats lining the embankment. Inge walked a short distance along the quay, then stepped onto the deck of her boat. The curtains were drawn over the windows. She crossed the deck and entered the salon. She expected to find Leila in bed asleep, but instead she was standing at the stove making coffee. On the floor next to her was a suitcase. Inge closed the door, trying to hide her disappointment.
“I called my brother in Paris last night while you were at work,” Leila said. “My father is very ill. I have to go home right away to be with my mother. I’m sorry, Inge.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“A week, two at the most.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Of course I’m coming back!” She kissed Inge’s cheek and handed her a cup of coffee. “My flight leaves in two hours. Sit down. I need to talk to you about something.”
They sat in the salon. Leila said, “A friend of mine is coming to Amsterdam tomorrow. His name is Paul. He’s French. I was wondering if he could stay here for a few days until he finds his own place.”
“Leila, I don’t—”
“He’s a good man, Inge. He won’t try anything with you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“So you’ll let Paul stay here for a few days?”
“How many days is a few days?”
“A week, maybe.”
“And what do I get in return?”
Leila reached into her pocket, pulled out a small bag of white powder, and held it in front of her between her thumb and forefinger.
Inge reached out and snatched it from her. “Leila, you’re an angel!”
“I know.”
Inge went into her bedroom and pulled open the top drawer of her dresser. Inside was her kit: pack of syringes, candle, spoon, length of rubber to tie around her arm. She cooked the drug while Leila packed the last of her things. Then she loaded the drug into the syringe and carefully slipped the needle into a vein in her left arm.
An instant later her body was overcome by an intensely pleasant sensation of numbness. And the last thing she remembered before slipping into unconsciousness was the sight of Leila, her beautiful lover, sl
ipping out the door and floating across the deck of the houseboat.
14
BAYSWATER, LONDON
Randall Karp, formerly of the Office of Technical Services, Langley, Virginia, lately of the dubiously named Clarendon International Security, Mayfair, London, arrived at Gabriel’s flat in Sussex Gardens in the still moments just before dawn. He wore a fleece pullover against the morning cold, pale blue jeans, and suede sandals with the thick woolen socks of an outdoorsman. From the end of each spiderlike arm hung a canvas duffel bag, one containing his kit, the other the tools of his trade. He set down his bags in the living room with an air of quiet complacency and appraised his surroundings.
“I like what you’ve done with the place, Gabe.” He spoke with a flat Southern California accent and, since Gabriel had seen him last, had grown a ponytail to compensate for his rapidly encroaching baldness. “It even has the right smell. What is it? Curry? Cigarettes? A bit of spoiled milk? I think I’m going to like it here.”
“I’m so pleased.”
Karp moved to the window. “So, where’s our boy?”
“Third floor, directly above the entrance. White curtains.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a Palestinian who wishes to harm my country.”
“I could have figured that out myself. Can you elaborate? Hamas? Hezbollah? Islamic Jihad?”
But Gabriel said nothing, and Karp knew better than to press. Karp was a consummate audio tech, and techs were used to working with only half the picture. He had achieved legendary status within the Western intelligence community by successfully monitoring a meeting between a Russian and an agent in Prague by attaching a bug to the collar of the Russian’s dog. Gabriel had met him in Cyprus during a joint American-Israeli surveillance of a Libyan agent. After the operation, at Shamron’s suggestion, Gabriel hired a yacht and took Karp for a sail around the island. Karp’s seamanship was as good as his surveillance work, and during their three-day cruise they built a professional and personal bond.
“Why me, Gabe?” said Karp. “Your boys have the best toys in the business. Beautiful stuff. Why do you need an outsider like me to do a simple job like this?”
“Because our boys haven’t been able to do a job like this lately without getting their fingers burned.”
“So I’ve read. I’d rather not end up in jail, Gabe, if you get my drift.”
“No one’s going to jail, Randy.”
Karp turned and gazed out the window. “What about the boy across the street? Is he going to jail, or do you have other plans for him?”
“What are you asking?”
“I’m asking if this one’s going to end up in an alley filled with twenty-two-caliber bullet holes. People have a funny way of ending up dead whenever you come around.”
“It’s a straight surveillance job. I want to know who he’s talking to, what he’s saying. The usual.”
Karp folded his arms and studied the angles. “Is he a pro?”
“He seems to be good. Very disciplined on the street.”
“I could try a windowpane pickoff, but if he’s a pro he’ll take countermeasures and make life miserable for us. Besides, the laser is not very discriminating. It reads the vibrations of the glass and converts them into sound. Traffic makes the glass vibrate, the wind, the neighbors, his CD player. It’s not the best way to do it.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I could get his telephone from the subscriber interface box.”
“The subscriber interface?”
Karp raised his hand and pointed toward the block of flats. “That metal box on the wall just to the left of the entrance. That’s where the British Telecom lines enter the building. From there, the lines branch out to the individual subscribers. I can put a rather simple r/f bug on his line right there. It would transmit an analog signal, and we could listen to his phone conversations from here with an ordinary FM radio.”
“I need room coverage, too.”
“If you want good room coverage, you’re going to have to get inside his flat.”
“So we’ll get inside his flat.”
“That’s how people end up in jail, Gabe.”
“No one’s going to jail.”
“Does our boy have a computer?”
“I assume so. He’s a part-time student.”
“I could Tempest him.”
“Forgive me, Randy, but I’ve been out of the game for a few years.”
“It’s a system that was developed by a Dutch scientist called Van Eyck. The computer communicates with the monitor by transmitting signals over the cable. Those signals have frequency and can be captured by a properly tuned receiver. If he’s doing business on the computer, we can watch him from here. It will be like standing over his shoulder while he works.”
“Do it,” Gabriel said. “I want his work phone, too.”
“Where does he work?”
“A restaurant on the Edgware Road.”
“An r/f bug will never be able to transmit from the Edgware Road to here. The path loss is too great. I’ll need to set up a repeater—a relay point between the restaurant and here to boost the signal.”
“What do you need?”
“A vehicle of some sort.”
“Will a car do?”
“A car will be fine.”
“I’ll get you one today.”
“Clean?”
“Clean.”
“Are you going to get it from one of your little helpers?”
“Don’t worry about how I get it.”
“Just don’t steal it, please. I don’t want to be driving hot wheels.”
At that moment Yusef appeared in the window and engaged in his morning inspection of the street below.
“So that’s our boy?” Karp asked.
“That’s him.”
“Tell me something, Gabe. Exactly how are you planning on getting inside his flat?”
Gabriel looked at Karp and smiled. “He likes girls.”
At two o’clock the following morning Gabriel and Karp slipped into the alley behind the Kebab Factory. To reach the subscriber interface box, Karp had to balance himself atop a large rolling rubbish bin filled with rotting garbage. He picked the lock, pulled open the little door, and for two minutes worked silently by the thin beam of a penlight held between his front teeth.
Gabriel stood guard below, his attention focused on the entrance of the alley. “How much longer?” he murmured.
“One minute if you shut up. Two if you insist on talking to me.”
Gabriel looked down again and spotted two men in leather jackets walking toward him. One picked up a bottle and shattered it against a wall. His friend nearly fell over with laughter.
Gabriel moved a few feet away from Karp, leaned against a wall, and pretended to be sick. The two men approached him. The larger of the two grabbed his shoulder. He had a raised white scar along his right cheek and stank of beer and whiskey. The other grinned stupidly. He was thin and had shaved his head. His pale skin glowed in the dim light of the alley.
“Please, I don’t want any trouble,” Gabriel said in French-accented English. “I’m just sick. Too much to drink, you know?”
“A bloody Frog,” sang the bald one. “And he looks queer, too.”
“Please, I don’t want trouble,” Gabriel repeated.
He reached into his pocket, removed several crumpled twenty-pound notes, and held them out. “Here, take my money. Just leave me alone.”
But the big man with the scar slapped the money from Gabriel’s hand. Then he drew back his fist and threw a wild roundhouse punch toward Gabriel’s head.
Ten minutes later they were back in the flat. Karp was seated in front of his equipment at the dining room table. He picked up a cell phone and dialed the restaurant. While the line was ringing he set down the phone and turned up the volume on his receiver. He could hear a recorded message saying the Kebab Factory was closed and would not reopen until eleven-thirty the follo
wing day. He dialed the number a second time, and once again he could hear the message over the receiver. The bug and the repeater were working perfectly.
As he put away his tools, he thought about Gabriel’s contribution to that evening’s work. It had lasted precisely three seconds by Karp’s calculation. He saw none of it—his attention had remained fixed on his work—but he had heard the whole thing. There had been four sharp blows. The last was the most vicious. Karp had definitely heard bone shattering. He had looked down only after he finished the installation and closed the box. He would never forget the sight: Gabriel Allon, bending over each of his victims, tenderly checking each throat for a pulse, making certain he hadn’t killed them.
Next morning Gabriel went out to buy the paper. He walked through a light drizzle to the Edgware Road and purchased a copy of The Times from a newsstand. He tucked the paper into his jacket and walked across the street to a small market. There he bought glue, scissors, and a second copy of The Times.
Karp was still sleeping when Gabriel returned to the flat. He sat at the table with two sheets of plain paper in front of him. At the top of one page he wrote the security clearance—top secret—and the recipient—Rom, the code name for the chief.
For fifteen minutes Gabriel wrote, right hand scratching rhythmically across the page, left pressed to his temple. His prose was terse and economical, the way Shamron liked it.
When he was finished he took one copy of The Times, turned it to page eight, and carefully cut out a large advertisement for a chain of men’s clothing stores. He threw away the remainder of the paper, then took the second copy and opened it to the same page. He placed his report over the advertisement, then glued the cutout over the report. He folded the newspaper and slipped it into the side flap of a black overnight travel bag. Then he pulled on a coat, shouldered the bag, and went out.