Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  Tariq said in Arabic: “Peace be with you, President Arafat. One of your aides asked me to bring these to you.”

  “Dates! How marvelous.” He took one, inspected it briefly, and bit into it. “This date is from Tunisia, I’m sure of it.”

  “I believe you’re right, President Arafat.”

  “You speak Arabic with the accent of a Palestinian.”

  “That’s because I am from Palestine.”

  “What part of Palestine?”

  “My family lived in the Upper Galilee before al-Nakba. I grew up in the camps of Lebanon.”

  Tariq placed the plate of dates on the desk and unbuttoned his jacket so that he could get at his Makarov. Arafat cocked his head slightly and touched his lower lip. “You are not well, my brother?”

  “I’m just a bit tired. I’ve been working very hard lately.”

  “I know what fatigue looks like, my brother. I’ve seen what lack of sleep has done to me over the years. I’ve seen what it’s done to the men around me. But you are not suffering only from fatigue. You’re sick, my brother. I can see it. I have a very powerful instinct for these things.”

  “You’re correct, President Arafat. I am not well these days.”

  “What is the nature of your illness, my brother?”

  “Please, President Arafat—you are far too busy, and too important, to worry about the problems of a common man like me.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, my brother. I’ve always thought of myself as the father of all the Palestinian people. When one of my people suffers, I suffer.”

  “Your concern means the world to me, President Arafat.”

  “It is a tumor, isn’t it, my brother? You are sick from a cancer of some sort?”

  Tariq said nothing. Arafat abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. “Tell me something, my friend. Which one of my aides asked you to bring me those dates?”

  Tariq thought, So, his survival instincts are still as strong as ever. He thought of a night in Tunis a long time ago. An interminable meeting, a typical Arafat session, beginning at midnight and stretching till dawn. At some point a package arrived, addressed to Arafat himself, from an Iraqi diplomat in Amman. It sat on his desk for some time, unopened, until finally Arafat stood up and said, “There is a bomb in that package, Tariq! I can smell it! Take it away!” Tariq removed the package and gave it to a Fatah engineer to inspect. The old man had been right. The Israelis had managed to place a bomb in a senior PLO staff meeting. If Arafat had opened the package, all the top leadership would have been liquidated.

  Tariq said, “He didn’t tell me his name. He just told me to bring the dates.”

  Arafat reached out and took another date from Tariq’s tray. “It’s strange, but you seem very familiar. Have we met before?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Are you sure about that? You see, I never forget a face.”

  “I’m certain, President Arafat.”

  “You remind me of an old comrade—a man who served at my side during the good times and the bad.”

  “I’m afraid I’m just a laborer.”

  “I owe my life to this man. He protected me from my enemies. He saved my life more times than I care to remember.” Arafat lifted his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes for a moment. “I remember one night in particular. I had been summoned to Damascus for a meeting with the brother of President Assad. This friend of mine begged me not to go. It was in the old days, when Assad and his secret police wanted me dead. The meeting went off fine, but as we were about to board our motorcade for the drive back to Beirut, this friend of mine tells me it is not safe. You see, he had learned that the Syrians intended to ambush the motorcade and assassinate me. We sent the motorcade on its way as a decoy, and this man managed to hide me in Damascus, right under the noses of the Syrians. Late that night we received word that Syrian special forces had attacked the motorcade outside Damascus and that several of my men were killed. It was a very sad night, but I was still alive, thanks to this man.”

  “A very interesting story, President Arafat.”

  “Will you allow me to indulge in another?”

  “I should probably be going,” Tariq said, reaching for the Makarov.

  “Please, it will only take a moment.”

  Tariq hesitated and said, “Of course, President Arafat. I’d love to hear the story.”

  “Sit down, my friend. You must be tired.”

  “It would not be appropriate.”

  “As you wish,” Arafat replied. “It was during the siege of Beirut. The Israelis were trying to finish off the PLO once and for all. They wanted me dead, too. Everywhere I went Israeli bombs and rockets fell. It was as if they knew where I was all the time. So this friend of mine starts investigating. He discovers that Israeli intelligence has recruited several spies among my staff. He discovers that the Israelis have given the spies radio beacons, so they know where I am all the time. He detains the spies and convinces them to confess their crimes. He wants to send a message to other potential spies that this sort of betrayal will not be tolerated. He asks me to sign death warrants so the spies can be executed.”

  “And did you?”

  “I did not. I told this man that if I executed the traitors, I would be making enemies of their brothers and cousins. I told this man that they would be punished in a different way—that they would be cut off from the revolution. Banished. Exiled. For me, this would be a punishment worse than death. But I told him one other thing. I told him that no matter how serious their crimes, we Palestinians cannot be killing each other. We have too many enemies as it is.”

  “And how did this man react?”

  “He was angry with me. He told me I was a fool. He was the only one of my senior staff who had the courage to speak to me that way. He had the heart of a lion, this man.” Arafat paused, then said, “I have not seen him in many years. I hear he’s very sick. I hear he does not have long to live.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “When we have our own state, I will repay him for all the great things he did for the movement. When we have our own state, and our own schools, the children of Palestine will learn about all his heroic deeds. In the villages they will tell stories about this man around the fires at night. He will be a great hero of the Palestinian people.” Arafat lowered his voice. “But not if he does something foolish now. Then he will be remembered as just another fanatic.”

  Arafat looked into Tariq’s eyes and said calmly, “If you must do this thing, my brother, then do it and get it over with. If you have no stomach for it, then I suggest you leave here, and quickly, and find some way to end your life with dignity.”

  Arafat lifted his chin slightly. Tariq lowered his gaze, smiled slightly, and slowly buttoned his coat. “I believe you’ve mistaken me for another man. Peace be with you, my brother.”

  Tariq turned and walked out of the room.

  Arafat looked at the bodyguard and said, “Come in here and close the door, you idiot.” Then he let out a long breath and tried to quiet his trembling hands.

  They entered the apartment, Gabriel and Jacqueline side by side, surrounded by the group of security men. The sudden appearance of five very agitated people sent a shock wave through the guests, and the party immediately fell silent. Gabriel had his hand inside his jacket, fingers wrapped around the butt of the Beretta. He looked quickly around the room; there were at least a half-dozen white-jacketed waiters moving through the crowd. He looked at Jacqueline. She shook her head.

  Douglas Cannon joined the group as they moved from the entrance hall to the large living room overlooking Fifth Avenue and the park. Three waiters were moving through the guests, passing out hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. Two of the waiters were women. Jacqueline looked at the man. “Not him.”

  At that moment she spotted a white-jacketed man disappear into the kitchen. She had seen him for just an instant, but she was certain of it. “Gabriel! There he is!�
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  Gabriel looked at Cannon. “Where’s Arafat?”

  “In my study using the telephone.”

  “Where’s the study?”

  “At the end of that hall!”

  Gabriel pushed his way past the guests and ran down the hallway. When he burst through the door, he found himself confronted by a bodyguard pointing a pistol directly at his chest. Arafat was seated calmly behind the desk. “I’m afraid he’s come and gone,” Arafat said. “I’m still here, however—no thanks to you.”

  Gabriel turned and ran out of the room.

  Tariq walked quickly through the kitchen. There was a back door, leading onto a set of service stairs. He stepped out the door and quickly closed it. Several cases of champagne stood on the landing. He pushed the cases against the door. They were not heavy enough to block it completely, just heavy enough to slow down whoever was trying to get through, which was his intention. He walked down to the next landing, removed his Makarov, and waited.

  Gabriel charged into the kitchen, Beretta drawn, as the back door was closing. He sprinted across the room and tried to open it. The knob turned, but the door itself wouldn’t move.

  Jacqueline came into the room on the run.

  Gabriel took a step back and then drove his shoulder into the door. It opened a few inches, and on the other side he could hear a loud thud, followed by the sound of shattering glass.

  He pushed the door again. This time it gave way, though there was still some resistance.

  He pushed again, and the door opened completely. Gabriel stepped onto the landing and looked down.

  Tariq stood on the landing below, feet apart, the Makarov in his outstretched hands.

  Gabriel saw the muzzle flashes in the dim light, felt the first bullet tearing into his chest. He thought how fitting it was that it should end like this. He had killed his first man in the stairwell of an apartment house, and now he would die the same way. There was a circular quality about it, like a good piece of music. He wondered if Tariq had planned it this way all along.

  He could hear Tariq running down the stairs. Then he saw Jacqueline’s face leaning over him—Jacqueline’s beautiful face. Then her face turned to water, only to be replaced by the face of the woman in the lost Van Dyck. And then he blacked out.

  As Gabriel slipped into unconsciousness, Jacqueline screamed, “Call an ambulance!” Then she stood and started running down the stairs.

  Above her she heard one of the security officers scream, “Stop!” She ignored him.

  She could hear the pounding of Tariq’s feet echoing up the stairwell toward her. She reached into her pocket and removed the gun she had taken from the apartment in Brooklyn. She thought: I’ve done this twice today. I can do it again.

  She ran. The stairs seemed to go on forever. She tried to remember what floor the apartment had been on. Seventeen—yes, that was it; she was sure of it. She passed a door that said eighth floor.

  She thought: Keep going, Jacqueline. Don’t slow down. He’s sick. He’s dying. You can catch him. Move!

  She thought of Gabriel, his life draining out of him on the landing above her. She forced herself to run even faster. She propelled herself down the stairs so quickly that her feet struggled to stay beneath her body. She imagined that by catching up with Tariq and killing him she might save Gabriel’s life.

  She thought of the day Gabriel had come for her, remembered the bicycle ride she had taken through the hills around Valbonne, the fire in her thighs as she had pushed herself to a new record.

  Do it again!

  She reached the bottom of the stairwell. There was a metal fire door, and it was slowly closing.

  Tariq was right in front of her!

  She ripped open the door and sprinted through it. Ahead of her stretched a corridor about fifty feet long, with another door at the opposite end. Halfway down the corridor was Tariq.

  He was clearly exhausted. His pace was beginning to flag, his strides short and uncoordinated. He turned and looked over his shoulder, his face a mask of pain from the run down the stairs. Jacqueline raised the gun and fired two shots in quick succession. The first appeared to sail harmlessly over his head, but the second struck him high in the left shoulder, knocking him from his feet. As he landed on the ground, his gun fell from his grasp and slid along the corridor until it rattled against the door at the other end. Jacqueline moved forward and fired again, and again, and again, until the gun contained no more bullets and she was quite certain Tariq al-Hourani was dead.

  Then the door at the end of the corridor opened. She leveled the gun at the man coming through, but it was only Ari Shamron. He stepped forward, loosened her grip on the gun, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  “Where’s Gabriel?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “I think so.”

  “Take me to him.”

  Jacqueline looked at the body of Tariq. “What about him?”

  “Let him lie there,” said Shamron. “Let the dogs lap up his blood. Take me to Gabriel. I want to see Gabriel.”

  46

  JERUSALEM: MARCH

  Gabriel awakened. He looked at the luminous face of his watch, closed his eyes: five-fifteen. He lay there trying to calculate how long he had slept. Trying to remember when he had lifted himself from the couch and dragged himself into bed—how long after that had it taken to slip into unconsciousness? Had he really slept? His mind had been so alive with dreams it felt as though he hadn’t.

  He lay very still, waiting to see if sleep would take him again, but it was no good. Then came the sounds: the cry of a muezzin, drifting over the Hinnom Valley from Silwan. A church bell tolling in the Armenian Quarter. The faithful had awakened. The faithless and the damaged had little choice but to join them.

  He probed his chest with his fingertips, testing for pain. Not as bad as yesterday. Each day was a little better. He rolled gingerly out of bed, walked into the kitchen, brewed coffee, toasted some bread. He was a prisoner, and like any prisoner he took comfort in the ritual of routine.

  His cell was not a cell at all, but a pleasant safe flat overlooking Zion Gate: cool tile floors, white throw rugs, white furniture. It reminded Gabriel of a hospital, which in many respects it was. He pulled on a sweater, a gray cotton pullover with a stretched neck, and carried his breakfast through the French doors to the small table on the balcony.

  As he waited for daybreak he sifted through the individual scents that combine to create the unique fragrance of Jerusalem: sage and jasmine, honey and coffee, leather and tobacco, cypress and eucalyptus. Then dawn came. In the absence of his restoration work, Jerusalem at sunrise had become Gabriel’s art. The last stars melted, the sun peeked over the backbone of mountain separating Jerusalem from the desert of the West Bank. The first light seeped down the chalk-colored slope of the Mount of Olives, then ignited a golden fire on the Dome of the Rock. Then the rays fell upon the Church of the Dormition, turning the east-facing surfaces of the church to scarlet and leaving the rest deep in shadow.

  Gabriel finished his breakfast, carried the dishes into the kitchen, washed them fastidiously in the sink, placed them on the basin to dry. What now? Some mornings he stayed indoors and read. Lately he had taken to walking, a little farther on each occasion. Yesterday he’d walked all the way up the slope of Mount Scopus. He found it helped him to think, to sort through the wreckage of the case.

  He showered, dressed, and walked downstairs. As he stepped out of the apartment building and entered the street, he heard a series of sounds: a hoarse stage whisper, a car door closing, a motor turning over. Shamron’s watchers. Gabriel ignored them, zipped his coat against the morning chill, started walking.

  He moved along the Khativat Yerushalayim, entered the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. He wandered through the hectic markets of El Bazaar: piles of chick-peas and lentils, stacks of flatbread, sacks overflowing with aromatic spices and roasted coffee beans, boys hawking silver trinkets and coffeepot
s. An Arab boy pressed an olive wood statue of Jesus into Gabriel’s hand and named an exorbitant price. He had Tariq’s sharp brown eyes. Gabriel gave the statue back to the boy and in flawless Arabic told him it was too much.

  Once free of the noisy market, he meandered through the quiet, twisting alleyways, making his way gradually eastward, toward the Temple Mount. The air warmed slowly. It was nearly spring. Overhead was a sky of cloudless azure, but the sun was still too low to penetrate the labyrinth of the Old City. Gabriel floated among the shadows, a skeptic among the believers in this place where devotion and hatred collided. He supposed like everyone else he was looking for answers. Different answers, but answers nonetheless.

  He wandered for a long time, thinking. He followed the dark, cool passageways wherever they led him. Sometimes he would find himself at a locked gate or an impenetrable wall of Herodian stone. Sometimes he would come upon a courtyard bathed in warm sunlight. For an instant things would seem clear to him. Then he would embark down another twisting passage, the shadows would close in, and he would realize he was still no closer to the truth.

  He came to an alley leading to the Via Dolorosa. A few feet ahead of him a shaft of light fell upon the stones of the path. He watched as two men, a Hasid in a black shtreimel and an Arab in a flowing white kaffiyeh, approached each other. They passed sightlessly, without a nod or glance, and continued their separate ways. Gabriel walked to the Beit ha-Bad and left the Old City through the Damascus Gate.

  Shamron summoned Gabriel to Tiberias that evening for supper. They ate on the terrace beneath a pair of hissing gas heaters. Gabriel didn’t want to be there, but he played the role of gracious guest—listened to the old man’s stories, told a few of his own.