by Daniel Silva
“With Jacqueline’s life hanging in the balance. I’m not prepared to take that chance. I don’t want her to end up like all the others.”
“She won’t. She’s a professional, and we’ll be with her every step of the way.”
“Two weeks ago she was working as a model. She hasn’t been in the field in years. She may be a professional, but she’s not prepared for something like this.”
“Allow me to let you in on a little secret, Gabriel. No one is ever completely prepared for something like this. But Jacqueline can look after herself.”
“I don’t like their ground rules either. We’re supposed to let her go to Charles de Gaulle and get on a plane, but we don’t know where the plane is going. We’ll be playing catch-up from the moment the game begins.”
“We’ll know where they’re going the moment they go to the gate, and we’ll be watching them the moment they step off the plane at the other end. She won’t be out of our sight for a minute.”
“And then?”
“When the moment presents itself, you’ll take Tariq down, and it will be over.”
“Let’s arrest him at Charles de Gaulle.”
Shamron pursed his lips and shook his head.
Gabriel said, “Why not?”
Shamron held up a thick forefinger. “Number one, because it would require involving the French, something I’m not prepared to do. Number two, no one has managed to build a case against Tariq that’s going to stand up in a courtroom. Number three, if we tell the French and our friends in Langley that we know where Tariq is going to be on a certain day, they’re going to want to know how we came by this information. It would also mean confessing to our brethren in London that we’ve been running an operation on their soil and neglected to tell them about it. They’re not going to be pleased about that. Finally, the last thing we need is Tariq behind bars, a symbol for all those who would like to see the peace process destroyed. I would rather he disappear quietly.”
“How about a snatch job?”
“Do you really think we could take Tariq from the middle of a crowded terminal at Charles de Gaulle? Of course not. If we want Tariq, we’re going to have to play by his rules for a few hours.”
Shamron lit a cigarette and violently waved out the match. “It’s up to you, Gabriel. An operation like this requires the direct approval of the prime minister. He’s in his office right now, waiting to hear whether you’re prepared to go through with it. What should I tell him?”
32
ST. JAMES’S, LONDON
The middle afternoon, Julian Isherwood had decided, was the cruelest part of the day. What was it exactly? The fatigue of a good lunch? The early dark of London in winter? The sleepy rhythm of the rain rattling against his windows? This nether region of the day had become Isherwood’s personal purgatory, a heartless space of time wedged between the sentimental hope he felt each morning when he arrived at the gallery and the cold reality of decline he felt each evening as he made his way back home to South Kensington. Three o’clock, the hour of death: too early to close up—that would feel like complete capitulation—too many hours to fill with too little meaningful work.
So he was seated at his desk, his left hand wrapped around the comforting shape of a warm mug of tea, his right flipping morosely through a stack of papers: bills he could not pay, notices of good pictures coming onto the market he could not afford to buy.
He lifted his head and peered through the doorway separating his office from the anteroom, toward the creature seated behind the headmasterly little desk. A striking figure, this girl who called herself Dominique: a real work of art, that one. At least she had made things at the gallery more interesting, whoever she was.
In the past he had insisted on keeping the doorway separating the two offices tightly closed. He was an important man, he liked to believe—a man who had important discussions with important people—and he had wanted a rampart between himself and his secretary. Now he found he preferred to keep it open. Oh, that he were twenty years younger, at the height of his powers. He could have had her back then. He’d had a good many back then, girls just like her. It wasn’t just the money, or the villa in St-Tropez, or the yacht. It was the art. The paintings were a better aphrodisiac than cocaine.
In his copious spare time, Isherwood had concocted all sorts of fantasies about her. He wondered whether she was French at all or just one of those Israelis who could pass herself off as almost anything. He had also discovered that he found her vaguely intimidating, which made it quite impossible to even contemplate the physical act of love with her. Or is it just me? he thought. Is this how we cope with the decay of aging? With the dwindling of our power? The deterioration of our skills? Does the mind mercifully release us from desire so we can step aside gracefully for the younger generation and not make complete jackasses of ourselves over women like Dominique Bonard?
But as he watched her now he knew there was something wrong. She had been on edge all day. She had refused to leave the gallery. He had invited her to lunch at Wilton’s—nothing suspicious, mind you: no ulterior motives—but she had declined and ordered a sandwich delivered from the café instead. Perhaps it had something to do with that Arab boy who’d come to the gallery the other night—Yusef, she had called him. Or perhaps it was Gabriel. Isherwood was certain of one thing. If Gabriel ever hurt her, the way he hurt that little boy in Cornwall—God, what was his name? Pearl? Puck? No, Peel it was—well. . . . Unfortunately, there was not much he could do to Gabriel except never forgive him.
Outside, he heard two short bursts of an automotive horn. He stood and walked to the window. Below him, on the bricks of Mason’s Yard, was a delivery van standing just outside the sealed doors of the loading bay.
Funny, there were no deliveries scheduled for today. The driver honked again, long and loud this time. For Christ’s sake, Isherwood thought. Who the hell are you? What do you want?
Then he peered down through the front windshield. Because of the angle he could not see the driver’s face, he could only see a pair of hands, wrapped around the steering wheel. He would have recognized those hands anywhere. Best hands in the business.
They rode the lift to the upper gallery, Jacqueline between them like a prisoner, Gabriel to her left, Shamron to her right. She tried to catch Gabriel’s eye, but he was looking straight ahead. When the door opened, Shamron guided her to the viewing bench as though he were placing a witness in the dock. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on her knees, her chin resting on her hands. Gabriel stood behind her. Shamron paced the length of the gallery like a prospective buyer unimpressed with the merchandise.
He spoke for twenty minutes without pausing. As Jacqueline watched him, she thought about the night he asked her to join the Office. She felt the same sense of purpose and duty she had felt that night. Shamron’s taut little body portrayed so much strength that her fears seemed to melt away. On its face what he was asking of her was outrageous—accompany the world’s most dangerous terrorist on a mission—but she was able to evaluate his words without the cumbersome emotion of fear. She thought: Shamron is not afraid; therefore I am not afraid. She had to admit that she was enthralled by the mere idea of it. Imagine, the girl from Marseilles whose grandparents were murdered in the Holocaust, helping to destroy Tariq al-Hourani and preserve the security of Israel. It would be the perfect end to her career with the Office, the fulfillment of every desire that made her join in the first place. It would also prove to Gabriel that she could be brave too.
“You have every right to tell us no,” Shamron said. “You signed up for a very different operation than this—one much shorter in duration and with considerably less physical risk. But the situation has changed. Sometimes operations are like that.”
He stopped pacing and stood directly in front of her. “But I can assure you of one thing, Jacqueline. Your safety will be our first priority. You’ll never be alone. We’ll walk you to the airplane and be waiting at the
other end when you come off. We’ll go wherever you go. And the first time an opportunity presents itself, we’ll move in and end things. You also have my word that if your life is in danger, we will move in at that moment, regardless of the consequences. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”
She nodded. Shamron reached into his briefcase, withdrew a small gift box, about two inches by two inches, and handed it to Jacqueline. She opened it. A gold lighter, nestled in white cotton filler.
“It sends out a beacon with a range of thirty miles. Which means if something goes wrong—if we lose contact with you for some reason—we’ll always be able to find you again.”
Jacqueline removed the lighter from the box and snapped the hammer. The lighter expelled a slender tongue of flame. When she slipped the lighter into the breast pocket of her blouse, Shamron’s face broke into a brief smile. “I feel obligated to inform you that your friend Gabriel has serious reservations about this whole thing.” He was on the move again, this time standing before the landscape by Claude. “Gabriel is afraid you may be walking straight into a trap. Usually I trust Gabriel’s opinion. We have a considerable history between us. But in this case I find myself in respectful disagreement with him.”
“I understand,” Jacqueline murmured, but she was thinking of the night she had brought Yusef to this very room.
“Claude was born in France, but he lived almost his entire life in Venice, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Actually, you’re mistaken. Claude lived and worked in Rome.”
Perhaps he was testing her, even then.
Shamron continued, “I could tell you many things. I could tell you that Tariq is an animal with the blood of hundreds of Jews on his hands. I could remind you that he killed our ambassador and his wife in cold blood in Paris. I could remind you that he murdered a great friend of Israel and his wife in Amsterdam. I could tell you that he’s planning to strike again. That you will be doing a great service to the State of Israel and the Jewish people. I could tell you all these things, but I can’t tell you to do this.”
Jacqueline looked at Gabriel, but he was standing in front of the del Vaga, craning his neck sideways, as if he was looking for flaws in the last restoration. Don’t look at me, he was saying. This is your decision, yours alone.
Shamron left them alone. Gabriel crossed the room and stood where Shamron had been. Jacqueline wanted him closer, but Gabriel seemed to require a buffer zone. His face had already changed. It was the same change that had come over him in Tunis. There had been two Gabriels in Tunis. The Gabriel of the surveillance phase, when they had been lovers, and Gabriel the night of the assassination. She remembered the way he had looked during the drive from the beach to the villa: part grim determination, part dread. He looked the same way now. It was his killing face. When he spoke, he resumed where Shamron had left off. Only the quality of his voice was different. When Shamron spoke Jacqueline could almost hear drums beating. Gabriel spoke softly and quietly, as if he were telling a story to a child at bedtime.
“Your link to the Office will be the telephone in your flat here in London. The line will be routed through to headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. When you arrive at your destination, tell Tariq you need to check your messages. When you call, the people in the Office will see the number you’re dialing from and locate it. If you’re alone you can even talk to them and pass along messages to us. It will be very secure.”
“And what if he refuses to let me use the telephone?”
“Then you throw a fit. You tell him that Yusef never said you wouldn’t be allowed to use the telephone. You tell him Yusef never said you were going to become a prisoner. Tell him that unless you’re allowed to check your messages you’re leaving. Remember, as far as you know, this man is a Palestinian dignitary of some sort. He’s on a diplomatic mission. He’s not someone you’re supposed to fear. If he senses you’re afraid of him, he’ll suspect you know more than you should know.”
“I understand.”
“Don’t be surprised if you hear messages on your machine. We’ll place a few there. Remember, according to the rules laid down by Yusef, no one but Julian Isherwood is allowed to know that you’ve gone away. Perhaps Isherwood will call and ask when you’re planning to return. Perhaps he’ll have some sort of emergency at the gallery that will require your attention. Perhaps a family member or a friend will call from Paris to see how things are going for you in London. Maybe a man will call and ask you to dinner. You’re an attractive woman. It would be suspicious if there weren’t other men pursuing you.”
She thought: So why not you, Gabriel?
“Tonight, before you give him your answer, I want you to express serious doubts about the whole thing one more time. To Jacqueline Delacroix the concept of traveling with a strange man might sound reasonable, but to Dominique Bonard it sounds like utter lunacy. I want you to quarrel with him. I want you to force him to make assurances about your safety. In the end, of course, you’ll agree to go, but not without a fight. Do you understand me?”
Jacqueline nodded slowly, mesmerized by the serene intensity of Gabriel’s voice.
“Make sure you have this conversation in his flat. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to listen to his voice one last time. After you agree to do it, don’t be surprised if he refuses to allow you to leave his presence. Don’t be surprised if he moves you to another location for the night. Dominique Bonard may want to complain about it—she may want to make idle threats about walking out—but Jacqueline Delacroix should not be surprised in any way. And no matter where he takes you, we’ll be close by. We’ll be watching. I’ll be watching.”
He paused for a moment and, like Shamron before him, began to pace the length of the gallery slowly. He paused in front of the Luini and gazed upon the image of Venus. Jacqueline wondered whether he was capable of appreciating the beauty in a piece of art or whether he had been condemned to search only for flaws. He turned around and sat down next to her on the bench. “I want to tell you one more thing. I want you to be prepared for how it’s going to end. It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street. The point I’m trying to make is that you’ll never know when it’s going to end. You may see me coming, you may not. If you do see me, you’re not to look at me. You’re not to flinch or call out my name. You’re not to make a sound. You must do nothing that alerts him to my presence. Otherwise we both might end up dead.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “He won’t die right away. A twenty-two-caliber Beretta isn’t that kind of weapon. It takes several shots in the right place. After I knock him down I’ll have to finish the job. There’s only one way to do that.”
He fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his forefinger against the side of her temple.
“I don’t want you to watch me when I do this. It’s not who I am.”
She reached up and took his hand away from the side of her head. She folded his forefinger into his palm, so that his hand was no longer shaped like a Beretta. Then, finally, Gabriel leaned forward and kissed her lips.
“How is she?” asked Shamron as Gabriel turned into Oxford Street and headed east.
“She’s resolute.”
“And you?”
“My feelings are immaterial at this point.”
“You’re not excited in any way? You’re not thrilled by the prospect of going into battle? The chase does not make you feel completely alive?”
“I lost those feelings a long time ago.”
“You and I are different, Gabriel. I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I live for this moment. I live for the moment that I can place my foot against the throat of my enemy and crush the wind out of him.”
“You’re right. You and I are very different.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had feelings for her.”
“I’ve always liked her.”
“You’ve never liked anyone or anything in yo
ur life. You feel love, you feel hate, or you feel nothing at all. There’s no middle ground for you.”
“Is this what the psychiatrists at headquarters used to say about me?”
“I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me something so obvious.”
“Can we please change the subject?”
“All right, we’ll change the subject. How do you feel about me, Gabriel? Is it love, hate, or nothing at all?”
“Some things are better left unsaid.”
Gabriel crossed Tottenham Court Road and entered Holborn. At New Square he pulled to the curb. Shamron removed a thin file from his briefcase and held it up for Gabriel. “This has every known photograph of Tariq. There aren’t many, and the ones we do have are dated. Have a look at them anyway. It would be rather embarrassing if we shot the wrong man.”
“Like Lillehammer,” Gabriel said.
Shamron grimaced at the mere mention of Lillehammer, a Norwegian skiing village and the site of the worst operational fiasco in the history of Israeli intelligence. In July 1973, a pair of kidons from Shamron’s team assassinated a man they believed to be Ali Hassan Salameh, Black September’s chief of operations and the master-mind of the Munich massacre. It turned out to be a tragic case of mistaken identity—the man was not Salameh but a Moroccan waiter who was married to a Norwegian woman. After the murder Gabriel and Shamron escaped, but several members of the hit team fell into the hands of the Norwegian police. Shamron barely managed to salvage his career. At King Saul Boulevard the Lillehammer disaster became known as Leyl-ha-Mar, Hebrew for “the night of bitterness.”
Shamron said, “Please, do you really think now is a good time to mention Leyl-ha-Mar?” He paused, then smiled with surprising warmth. “I know you think I’m a monster. I know you think I’m a man completely without morals. Perhaps you’re right. But I always loved you, Gabriel. You were always my favorite. You were my prince of fire. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that.”