Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  He met Shamron the following morning in a tea shop on the rue Mouffetard. Shamron paid his tab, and they walked slowly up the hill through the markets and street vendors. “I want to pull her out,” Gabriel said.

  Shamron paused at a fruit stand, picked up an orange, studied it for a moment before placing it gently back in the bin. Then he said, “Tell me you didn’t bring me all the way to Paris for this insanity.”

  “Something doesn’t feel right. I want her out before it’s too late.”

  “She’s not blown, and the answer is still no.” Shamron looked at Gabriel carefully and added, “Why is your face fallen, Gabriel? Are you listening to the tapes before you send them to me?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Can’t you hear what’s going on? The endless lectures on the suffering of the Palestinians? The ruthlessness of the Israelis? The recitation of Palestinian poetry? All the old folklore about how beautiful life was in Palestine before the Jews?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Either the boy is in love, or he has something else on his mind.”

  “It’s the second possibility that concerns me.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe Yusef thinks of her as more than just a pretty girl? Has it ever occurred to you that he thinks of her as an impressionable girl who might be useful to Tariq and his organization?”

  “It has, but she’s not prepared for that kind of operation. And frankly, neither are we.”

  “So you want to fold up your tent and go home?”

  “No, I just want to pull Jacqueline out.”

  “And then what happens? Yusef gets nervous. Yusef gets suspicious and tears apart his flat. If he’s disciplined, he throws out every electrical appliance in the place. And your microphones go with them.”

  “If we handle her departure skillfully, he’ll never suspect a thing. Besides, when I hired her, I promised her a short-term job. You know she has other commitments.”

  “None more important than this. Pay her wages, full price. She stays, Gabriel. End of discussion.”

  “If she stays, I go.”

  “Then go!” Shamron snapped. “Go back to Cornwall and bury your head in your Vecellio. I’ll send in someone to take over for you.”

  “You know I’m not going to leave her in your hands.”

  Shamron quickly moved for appeasement. “You’ve been working around the clock for a long time. You don’t look so good. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like. Forget about Yusef for a few hours. He’s not going anywhere. Take a drive. Do something to clear your head. I need you at your best.”

  On the train back to London, Gabriel entered the lavatory and locked the door. He stood for a long time in front of the mirror. There were new lines around his eyes, a sudden tightness at the corners of his mouth, a knife edge to his cheekbones. Beneath his eyes were dark circles, like smudges of charcoal.

  I haven’t forgotten what it’s like.

  The Black September operation . . . They had all come down with something: heart problems, high blood pressure, skin rashes, chronic colds. The assassins suffered the worst. After the first job in Rome, Gabriel found it impossible to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he heard bullets tearing through flesh and shattering bone, saw fig wine mingling with blood on a marble floor. Shamron found a doctor in Paris, a sayan, who gave Gabriel a bottle of powerful tranquilizers. Within a few weeks he was addicted to them.

  The pills and the stress made Gabriel look shockingly older. His skin hardened, the corners of his mouth turned down, his eyes turned the color of ash. His black hair went gray at the temples. He was twenty-two at the time but looked at least forty. When he went home, Leah barely recognized him. When they made love she said it was like sleeping with another man—not an older version of Gabriel but a complete stranger.

  He splashed cold water on his face, scrubbed vigorously with a paper towel, then studied his reflection once more. He contemplated the chain of events—the bizarre roulette wheel of fate—that had led him to this place. Had there been no Hitler, no Holocaust, his parents would have remained in Europe instead of fleeing to a dusty agricultural settlement in the Jezreel Valley. Before the war his father had been an essayist and historian in Munich, his mother a gifted painter in Prague, and neither had adjusted well to the collectivism of the settlement or the Zionist zeal for manual labor. They had treated Gabriel more as a miniature adult than a boy with needs different from their own. He was expected to entertain and look after himself. His earliest childhood memory was of their small two-room house on the settlement: his father reading in his chair, his mother at her easel, Gabriel on the floor between them, building cities with crude blocks.

  His parents detested Hebrew, so when they were alone they used the languages they had spoken in Europe: German, French, Czech, Russian, Yiddish. Gabriel absorbed them all. To his European languages he added Hebrew and Arabic. From his father he also took a flawless memory, from his mother unshakable patience and attention to detail. Their disdain for the collective had bred in him arrogance and a lone wolf attitude. Their secular agnosticism had encumbered him with no sense of Jewish morality or ethics. He preferred hiking to football, reading to agriculture. He had an almost pathological fear of getting his hands dirty. He had many secrets. One of his teachers described him as “cold, selfish, unfeeling, and altogether brilliant.” When Ari Shamron went looking for soldiers in the new secret war against Arab terror in Europe, he came upon the boy from the Jezreel Valley who, like his namesake, the Archangel Gabriel, had an unusual gift for languages and the patience of Solomon. Shamron found one other valuable personality trait: the emotional coldness of a killer.

  Gabriel left the lavatory and went back to his seat. Beyond his window was East London: rows of crumbling Victorian warehouses, all shattered windows and broken brick. He closed his eyes. Something else had made them all sick during the Black September operation: fear. The longer they remained in the field, the higher the risk of exposure—not only to the intelligence services of Europe but to the terrorists themselves. That point was driven home in the middle of the operation, when Black September murdered a katsa in Madrid. Suddenly every member of the team knew that he too was vulnerable. And it taught Gabriel the most valuable lesson of his career: when agents are operating far from home, in hostile territory, hunters can easily become the hunted.

  The train pulled into Waterloo. Gabriel strode across the platform, sliced his way through the crowded arrivals hall. He had left his car in an underground car park. He dropped his keys, engaged in his ritualistic inspection, then climbed inside and drove to Surrey.

  There was no sign at the gate. Gabriel had always wanted a place with no sign. Beyond the wall was a well-tended lawn with evenly spaced trees. At the end of a meandering drive stood a rambling redbrick Victorian mansion. He lowered the car window and pressed the button of the intercom. The lens of a security camera stared down at him like a gargoyle. Gabriel instinctively turned his face away from the camera and pretended to fish something from the glove compartment.

  “May I help you?” Female voice, Middle European accent.

  “I’m here to see Miss Martinson. Dr. Avery is expecting me.”

  He raised the window, waited for the automatic security gate to roll aside; then he entered the grounds and headed slowly up the drive. Late afternoon, cold and gray, light wind chasing through the trees. As he drew closer to the house, he began to see a few of the patients. A woman sitting on a bench, dressed in her Sunday best, staring blankly into space. A man in an oilskin and Wellington boots strolling on the arm of a towering Jamaican orderly.

  Avery was waiting in the entrance hall. He wore expensive corduroy trousers, the color of rust and neatly pressed, and a gray cashmere pullover sweater that looked more suited to the golf links than a psychiatric hospital. He shook Gabriel’s hand with a cold formality, as though Gabriel were the representative of an occupying power, then led him down a long carpeted hallway.


  “She’s been speaking quite a bit more this month,” Avery said. “We’ve actually had a meaningful conversation on a couple of occasions.”

  Gabriel managed a tense smile. In all these years she had never spoken to him. “And her physical health?” he asked.

  “No change, really. She’s as fit as can be expected.”

  Avery used a magnetic card to pass through a secure door. On the other side was another hall, terra-cotta tiling instead of carpet. Avery discussed her medication as they walked. He had increased the dosage of one drug, reduced another, taken her off a third altogether. There was a new drug, an experimental, that was showing some promising results in patients suffering from a similar combination of acute post-traumatic stress syndrome and psychotic depression.

  “If you think it will help.”

  “We’ll never know unless we try.”

  Clinical psychiatry, Gabriel thought, was rather like intelligence work.

  The terra-cotta hall ended in a small room. It was filled with gardening tools—pruning shears, hand shovels, trowels—and bags of flower seed and fertilizer. At the other end of the cutting room was a pair of double doors with circular portholes.

  “She’s in her usual place. She’s expecting you. Please don’t keep her long. I should think a half hour would be appropriate. I’ll come for you when it’s time.”

  A solarium, oppressively hot and moist. Leah in the corner, seated in a straight-backed garden chair of wrought iron, young potted roses at her feet. She wore white. The white rollneck sweater Gabriel had given her for her last birthday. The white trousers he had bought for her during a summer holiday in Crete. Gabriel tried to remember the year but couldn’t. There seemed to be only Leah before Vienna and Leah after Vienna. She sat with a schoolgirl’s primness, looking away across the expanse of the lawn. Her hair had been cut institutionally short. Her feet were bare.

  She turned her head as Gabriel stepped forward. For the first time he could see the swath of scarring on the right side of her face. As always it made him feel violently cold. Then he saw her hands, or what was left of her hands. The hard white scar tissue reminded him of the exposed canvas of a damaged painting. He wished he could simply mix a bit of pigment on his palette and put her back to normal.

  He kissed her forehead, smelled her hair for the familiar traces of lavender and lemon, but instead there was only the oppressive moisture of the solarium and the stench of plants in an enclosed space. Avery had left a second chair, which Gabriel pulled a few inches closer. Leah flinched as the wrought-iron legs scraped over the floor. He murmured an apology and sat down. Leah looked away.

  It was always like this. It wasn’t Leah sitting next to him, only a monument to Leah. A gravestone. He used to try to talk to her, but now he was content to just sit in her presence. He followed her gaze across the misty landscape and wondered what she was looking at. There were days, according to Avery, when she just sat and relived it over and over again in excruciatingly vivid detail, unable, or unwilling, to make it stop. Gabriel couldn’t imagine her suffering. He had been permitted to carry on with some semblance of his life, but Leah had been stripped of everything—her child, her body, her sanity. Everything but her memory. Gabriel feared that her grip on life, however tenuous, was somehow linked to his continued fidelity. If he allowed himself to fall in love with someone else, Leah would die.

  After forty-five minutes he stood and pulled on his jacket; then he crouched at her feet with his hands resting on her knees. She looked over his head for a few seconds before lowering her eyes and meeting his gaze. “I have to go,” he said. Leah made no movement.

  He was about to stand when suddenly she reached out and touched the side of his face. Gabriel tried not to recoil at the sensation of the scar tissue sliding along the skin at the corner of his eye. She smiled sadly and lowered her hand. She placed it in her lap, covered it with the other, resumed the frozen pose Gabriel had found her in.

  He stood and walked away. Avery was waiting for him outside. He walked Gabriel to his car. Gabriel sat behind the wheel for a long time before starting the engine, thinking about her hand on his face. So unlike Leah, touching him like that. What did she see there? The strain of the operation? Or the shadow of Jacqueline Delacroix?

  28

  LISBON

  Tariq appeared in the doorway of the fado house. Once again he was dressed like a dockworker. Ghostly pale, hand trembling as he lit his cigarette. He crossed the room and sat down next to Kemel. “What brings you back to Lisbon?”

  “It turns out we have a rather serious bottleneck in our Iberian distribution chain. I may be forced to spend a great deal of time in Lisbon over the next few days.”

  “That’s all?”

  “And this.” Kemel laid a large color photograph on the table. “Meet Dominique Bonard.”

  Tariq picked up the photograph, studied it carefully. “Come with me,” he said calmly. “I want to show you something that I think you’ll find interesting.”

  Tariq’s flat was high in the Alfama. Two rooms, sagging wooden floors, a tiny veranda overlooking a quiet courtyard. He fixed tea Arab style, strong and sweet, and they sat near the open door of the veranda, rain smacking on the stones of the courtyard.

  Tariq said, “Do you remember how we found Allon in Vienna?”

  “It was a long time ago. You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

  “My brother was in bed when he was killed. He had a girl with him—a German student, a radical. She wrote a letter to my parents a few weeks after Mahmoud was killed and told them how it happened. She said she would never forget the face of the assassin as long as she lived. My father took the letter to the PLO security officer in the camp. The security officer turned it over to PLO intelligence.”

  “This all sounds vaguely familiar,” Kemel said.

  “After Abu Jihad was murdered in Tunis, PLO security conducted an investigation. They worked from a simple premise. The killer seemed to know the villa well, inside and out. Therefore he must have spent time around the villa conducting surveillance and planning the attack.”

  “A brilliant piece of detective work,” Kemel said sarcastically. “If PLO security had been doing their job right to begin with, Abu Jihad would still be alive.”

  Tariq went into the bedroom, returned a moment later holding a large manila envelope. “They began reviewing all the videotape from the surveillance cameras and found several shots of a small, dark-haired man.” Tariq opened the envelope and handed Kemel several grainy prints. “Over the years PLO intelligence had kept track of the German girl. They showed her these photographs. She said it was the same man who had killed Mahmoud. No doubt about it. So we started looking for him.”

  “And you found him in Vienna?”

  “That’s right.”

  Kemel held out the photographs to Tariq. “What does this have to do with Dominique Bonard?”

  “It goes back to the investigation of the Tunis affair. PLO security wanted to find out where the assassin had stayed in Tunis while he was planning the attack. They knew from past experience that Israeli agents tend to pose as Europeans during jobs like this. They assumed that a man posing as a European had probably stayed in a hotel. They started calling on their spies and informants. They showed the photographs of the assassin to a concierge at one of the beachfront hotels. The concierge said the man had stayed in the hotel with his French girlfriend. PLO security went back to the tapes and began looking for a girl. They found one and showed her to the concierge.”

  “Same girl?”

  “Same girl.”

  Then Tariq reached into the envelope and removed one more surveillance photograph: this one of a beautiful dark-haired girl. He handed it to Kemel, who compared it with the photograph of the woman in London.

  “I could be mistaken,” Tariq said. “But it looks to me like Yusef’s new girlfriend has worked with Gabriel Allon before.”

  They reviewed the plan one last time as they walked through the tw
isting alleys of the Alfama.

  “The prime minister and Arafat leave for the United States in five days,” Kemel said. “They’re going to Washington first for a meeting at the White House, then it’s off to New York for the signing ceremony at the United Nations. Everything is in place in New York.”

  “Now I just need a traveling companion,” Tariq said. “I think I’d like a beautiful French woman—the type of woman who would look good on the arm of a successful entrepreneur.”

  “I think I know where I can find a woman like that.”

  “Imagine, killing the peace process and Gabriel Allon in one final moment of glory. We’re going to shake the world, Kemel. And then I’m going to leave it.”

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “You’re not concerned about my safety at this point?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Why? You know what’s happening to me.”

  “Actually, I try not to think about it.”

  At the bottom of the hill they came to a taxi stand. Tariq kissed Kemel’s cheeks, then gripped his shoulders. “No tears, my brother. I’ve been fighting for a long time. I’m tired. It’s best this way.”

  Kemel released his grip and opened the door to the waiting taxi.

  Tariq said, “He should have killed the girl.”

  Kemel turned around. “What?”

  “Allon should have killed the German girl who was with my brother. It would all have ended there.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “It was a stupid mistake,” Tariq said. “I wouldn’t have made a mistake like that.”

  Then he turned and walked slowly up the hill into the Alfama.

  29

  ST. JAMES’S, LONDON

  When the security buzzer sounded, Jacqueline turned and peered into the monitor: a bicycle courier. She looked at her watch: six-fifteen. She pressed the buzzer to let him in, then walked from her desk into the hallway to sign for the package. A large manila envelope. She went back to her office, sat down at the desk, sliced open the envelope with the tip of her forefinger. Inside was a single piece of executive-sized letter paper, light gray in color, folded crisply in half. The letterhead bore the name Randolph Stewart, private art dealer. She read the handwritten note: Just back from Paris. . . . Very good trip. . . . No problems with the acquisition. . . . Continue with sale as planned. She placed the letter in Isherwood’s shredder and watched it turn to paper linguine.