Prince of Fire

by Daniel Silva

  Another smile, this one mocking. “Jews,” she said. “You think you have a patent on pain. You think you have the market cornered on human suffering. My Holocaustis as real as yours, and yet you deny my suffering and exonerate yourself of guilt. You claim my wounds are self-inflicted.”

  “So tell me your story.”

  “Mine is a story of Paradise lost. Mine is a story of a simple people forced by the civilized world to give up their land so that Christendom could alleviate its guilt over the Holocaust.”

  “No, no,” Gabriel said. “I don’t want a propaganda lecture. I want to hear your story. Where are you from?”

  “A camp,” she said, then added: “A camp in Lebanon.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “I’m not asking where you were born, or where you grew up. I’m asking you where you’re from.”

  “I’m from Palestine.”

  “Of course you are. Which part?”

  “The north.”

  “That explains Lebanon. Which part of the north?”

  “The Galilee.”

  “Western? Upper?”

  “The Western Galilee.”

  “Which village?”

  “It’s not there anymore.”

  “What was it called?”

  “I’m not allowed to—”

  “Did it have a name?”

  “Of course it had a name.”

  “Was it Bassa?”

  “No.”

  “What about Zib?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it was Sumayriyya?”

  She made no reply.

  “So, it was Sumayriyya.”

  “Yes,” she said. “My family came from Sumayriyya.”

  “It’s a long way to Paris, Palestina. Tell me your story.”

  23

  JERUSALEM

  When Varash convened again, they did so in person in the office of the prime minister. Lev’s update took only a moment, since nothing much had changed since the last time they’d met by video conference. Only the clock had advanced. It was now five in the afternoon in Tel Aviv, and four o’clock in Paris. Lev wanted to sound the alarm.

  “We have to assume that in three hours, there is going to be a major terrorist attack in France, probably in Paris, and that one of our agents is going to be in the middle of it. Given the situation, I’m afraid we have no recourse but to tell the French.”

  “But what about Gabriel and his wife?” said Moshe Yariv of Shabak. “If the French issue a nationwide alert, Khaled might very well view it as an excuse to kill them both.”

  “He doesn’t need an excuse,” Shamron said. “That’s precisely what he intends to do. Lev is right. We have to tell the French. Morally, and politically, we have no other choice.”

  The prime minister shifted his large body uneasily in his chair. “But I can’t tell them that we sent a team of agents to Marseilles to kill a Palestinian terrorist.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Shamron said. “But any way we play our hand, the outcome is going to be bad. We have an agreement with the French not to operate on their soil without consulting them first. It’s an agreementwe violate all the time, with the tacit understanding of our brethren in the French services. But a tacit understandingis one thing, and getting caught red-handed is quite another.”

  “So what do I tell them?”

  “I recommend staying as close to the truth as possible.We tell them that one of our agents has been abducted by a Palestinian terror cell operating out of Marseilles. We tell them the agent was in Marseilles investigating the bombing of our embassy in Rome. We tell them that we have credible evidence suggesting that Paris is going to be the target of an attack this evening at seven. Who knows? If the French sound the alarm loudly enough, it might force Khaled to postpone or cancel his attack.”

  The prime minister looked at Lev. “What’s the status of the rest of the team?”

  “Fidelity is out of French territorial waters, and the rest of the team members have all crossed international borders. The only one still on French soil is Gabriel.”

  The prime minister punched a button on his telephoneconsole. “Get the French president on the line. And get a translator as well. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”

  The president of the French Republic was at that momentmeeting with the German chancellor in the ornate Lounge of Portraits in the Élysée Palace. An aide-decampslipped quietly into the room and murmured a few words directly into his ear. The French leader could not hide his irritation at being interrupted by a man he loathed.

  “Does it have to be now?”

  “He says it’s a security matter of the highest priority.”

  The president stood and looked down at his guest. “Will you excuse me, Chancellor?”

  Tall and elegant in his dark suit, the Frenchman followedhis aide into a private anteroom. A moment later the call was routed through.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Prime Minister. I take it this isn’t a social call?”

  “No, Mr. President, it isn’t. I’m afraid I have become aware of a grave threat against your country.”

  “I assume this threat is terrorist in nature?”

  “It is, indeed.”

  “How imminent? Weeks? Days?”

  “Hours, Mr. President.”

  “Hours? Why am I being told of this only now?”

  “We’ve just become aware of the threat ourselves.”

  “Do you know any operational details?”

  “Only the time. We believe a Palestinian terror cell intends to strike at seven this evening. Paris is the most likely target, but we can’t say for certain.”

  “Please, Mr. Prime Minister. Tell me everything you know.”

  The prime minister spoke for two minutes. When he was finished, the French president said, “Why do I get the sense I’m being told only part of the story?”

  “I’m afraid we know only part of the story.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were pursuing a suspect on French soil?”

  “There wasn’t time for a formal consultation, Mr. President. It fell into the category of a hot pursuit.”

  “And what about the Italians? Have you informed them that you have a suspect in a bombing that took place on Italian soil?”

  “No, Mr. President, we haven’t.”

  “What a surprise,” the Frenchman said. “Do you have photographs that might help us identify any of the potential bombers?”

  “I’m afraid we do not.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to send along a photo of your missing agent.”

  “Under the circumstances—”

  “I thought that would be your answer,” the Frenchmansaid. “I’m dispatching my ambassador to your office.I’m confident he will receive a full and frank briefing on this entire matter.”

  “He will indeed, sir.”

  “Something tells me there will be fallout from this affair, but first things first. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Good luck, Mr. President.”

  The French leader slammed down the phone and looked at his aide. “Convene the Group Napoleon immediately,” he said. “I’ll deal with the chancellor.”

  Twenty minutes after hanging up, the president of France was taking his usual seat at the cabinet table in the Salon Murat. Gathered around him were the membersof Group Napoleon, a streamlined team of senior intelligence and security officials and cabinet ministers, designed for dealing with imminent threats to the French homeland. Seated directly across the expansive table was the prime minister. Between the two men was an ornate double-faced brass clock. It read four-thirty-fivep.m.

  The president opened the meeting with a concise recounting of what he had just learned. There followed several minutes of somewhat heated discussion, for the source of the information, the Israeli prime minister, was a distinctly unpopular man in Paris. In the end, though, every member of the group concluded that the threat was too credible to ignore. “Obviously, gentlemen, we need to i
ncrease the threat level and take precautions,” the president said. “How high do we go?”

  In the aftermath of al-Qaeda’s attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the government of France devised a four-tiered color-coded system similar to that of the United States. On that afternoon the level stood at Orange, the second level, with only Yellow being lower. The third level, Red, would automatically close vast stretches of French airspace and put in place additional security precautions in the transit systems and at French landmarks such as the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. The highest level, Scarlet, would virtually shut down the country, including its water supply and power grid. No member of Group Napoleon was prepared to do that based on a warning from the Israelis. “The target of the attack is likely to be Israeli or Jewish in nature,” said the interior minister. “Even if it’s on the scale of Rome, it doesn’t justify increasing the level to Scarlet.”

  “I concur,” the president said. “We’ll raise it to Red.”

  Five minutes later, when the meeting of Group Napoleonadjourned, the French interior minister strode out of the Salon Murat to face the cameras and the microphones. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his facial expression grave, “the government of France has received what it believes is credible evidence of a pending terrorist attack against Paris this evening. . . .”

  The apartment house was on the rue de Saules, in the quiet northern end of Montmartre, several streets away from the tourist morass around Sacré-Coeur. The flat was small but comfortable, a perfect pied-à-terre for those occasions when work or romantic pursuits brought Paul Martineau from Provence to the capital. After arrivingin Paris, he’d gone to the Luxembourg Quarter to have lunch with a colleague from the Sorbonne. Then it was over to St-Germain for a meeting with a prospective publisher for his book on the pre-Roman history of ancientProvence. At four-forty-five he was strolling across the quiet courtyard of the building and letting himself into the foyer. Madame Touzet, the concierge, poked her head out of her door as Martineau came inside.

  “Bonjour, Professor Martineau.”

  Martineau kissed her powdered cheeks and presented her with a bunch of lilies he’d bought from a stall on the rue Caulaincourt. Martineau never came to his Paris flat without bringing a small treat for Madame Touzet.

  “For me?” she asked elaborately. “You shouldn’t have, Professor.”

  “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “How long are you in Paris?”

  “Only for one night.”

  “A tragedy! I’ll get your mail.”

  She returned a moment later with a stack of cards and letters, neatly bound, as always, with a scented pink ribbon. Martineau went upstairs to his apartment. He switched on the television, turned to Channel 2, then went into the kitchen to make coffee. Over the sound of running water, he heard the familiar voice of the French interior minister. He shut off the tap and went calmly into the sitting room. He remained there, standingfrozen before the television screen, for the next ten minutes.

  The Israelis had chosen to alert the French. Martineauhad expected they might resort to that. He knew that the increase in the threat level would mean a change in security tactics and procedures at critical sites all around Paris, a development that required one minor adjustment in his plans. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

  “I’d like to change a reservation, please.”

  “Your name?”

  “Dr. Paul Martineau.”

  “Ticket number?”

  Martineau recited it.

  “At the moment you’re scheduled to return to Aix-en-Provence from Paris tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s right, but I’m afraid something has come up and I need to return earlier than expected. Can I still get on an early-evening train tonight?”

  “There are seats available on the seven-fifteen.”

  “First class?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take one, please.”

  “Are you aware of the government’s terror warning?”

  “I’ve never put much stock in those sorts of things,” Martineau said. “Besides, if we stop living, the terrorists win, do they not?”

  “How true.”

  Martineau could hear the tapping of fingers upon a computer keyboard.

  “All right, Dr. Martineau. Your booking has been changed. Your train departs at seven-fifteen from the Gare de Lyon.”

  Martineau hung up the phone.

  24

  TROYES, FRANCE

  “Sumayriyya? You want to know about Sumayriyya? It was Paradise on Earth. Eden. Fruit orchards and olive groves. Melons and bananas, cucumbers and wheat. Sumayriyya was simple. Pure. Our life moved to the rhythms of the planting and the harvest. The rains and the drought. We were eight hundred in Sumayriyya. We had a mosque. We had a school. We were poor, but Allah blessed us with everything we needed.”

  Listen to her, thought Gabriel as he drove. We . . . Our . . . She was born twenty-five years after Sumayriyya was wiped from the face of the map, but she spoke of the village as though she’d lived there her entire life.

  “My grandfather was an important man. Not a muktar, mind you, but a man of influence among the village elders. He had forty dunams of land and a large flock of goats. He was considered wealthy.” A satirical smile. “To be wealthy in Sumayriyya meant that you were only a little bit poor.”

  Her eyes darkened. She looked down at the gun, then at the French farmland rushing past her window.

  “Nineteen forty-seven marked the beginning of the end for my village. In November the United Nations voted to partition my land and give half of it to the Jews. Sumayriyya, like the rest of the Western Galilee, was destined to be part of the Arab state in Palestine. But, of course, that wasn’t to be the case. The war started the day after the vote, and as far as the Jews were concerned, all of Palestine was now theirs for the taking.”

  It was the Arabs who had started the war, Gabriel wanted to say—Sheikh Asad al-Khalifa, warlord of Beit Sayeed, who’d opened the floodgates of blood with his terrorist attack on the Netanya-to-Jerusalem bus. But now was not the time to quibble over the historical record. The narrative of Sumayriyya had cast its spell over her, and Gabrielwanted to do nothing to break it.

  She turned her gaze toward him. “You’re thinking of something.”

  “I’m listening to your story.”

  “With one part of your brain,” she said, “but with the other you’re thinking of something else. Are you thinking about taking my gun? Are you planning your escape?”

  “There is no escape, Palestina—for either one of us. Tell me your story.”

  She looked out the window. “On the night of May 13, 1948, a column of armored Haganah vehicles set out up the coast road from Acre. Their action was code-named Operation Ben-Ami. It was part of Tochnit Dalet.” She looked at him. “Do you know this term, Tochnit Dalet? Plan D?”

  Gabriel nodded and thought of Dina, standing amid the ruins of Beit Sayeed. How long ago had it been? Only a month, but it seemed a lifetime ago.

  “The stated objective of Operation Ben-Ami was the reinforcement of several isolated Jewish settlements in the Western Galilee. The real objective, however, was conquest and annexation. In fact, the orders specifically called for the destruction of three Arab villages: Bassa, Zib, and Sumayriyya.”

  She paused, looked to see if her remarks had provokedany reaction, and resumed her lecture. Sumayriyya was the first of the three villages to die. The Haganah surrounded it before dawn and illuminated the village with the headlamps of their armored vehicles. Some of the Haganah men wore red checkered kaffiyehs. A villagewatchman saw the kaffiyehs and assumed that the attacking Jews were actually Arab reinforcements. He fired shots of celebration into the air and was immediatelycut down by Haganah fire. The news that the Jews were disguised as Arabs sowed panic inside the village. The defenders of Sumayriyya fought bravely, but they were no match for the better-armed Haganah. Within a few minutes, the exodus had b
egun.

  “The Jews wanted us to leave,” she said. “They intentionallyleft the eastern side of the village unguarded to give us an escape route. We had no time to pack any clothing or even to take something to eat. We just started running. But still the Jews weren’t satisfied. They fired at us as we fled across the fields we had tilled for centuries. Five villagers died in those fields. The Haganah sappers went in right away. As we were running away, we could hear the explosions. The Jews were turning our Paradise into a pile of uninhabitable rubble.”

  The villagers of Sumayriyya took to the road and headed north, toward Lebanon. They were soon joined by the inhabitants of Bassa and Zib and several smaller villages to the east. “The Jews told us to go to Lebanon,” she said. “They told us to wait there for a few weeks until the fighting ended, then we would be allowed to return. Return? To what were we supposed to return? Our houses had been demolished. So we kept walking. We walked over the border, into exile. Into oblivion. And behind us the gates of Palestine were being forever barred against our return.”

  Reims: five o’clock.

  “Pull over,” she said.

  Gabriel guided the Mercedes onto the shoulder of the Autoroute. They sat in silence, the car shuddering in the turbulence of the passing traffic. Then the telephone. She listened, longer than usual. Gabriel suspected she was being given final instructions. Without so much as a word, she severed the connection, then dropped the phone back into her bag.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Paris,” she said. “Just as you suspected.”

  “Which way does he want me to go?”

  “The A4. Do you know it?”

  “I know it.”

  “It will take you into—”

  “—into southeast Paris. I know where it will take me, Palestina.”

  Gabriel accelerated back onto the motorway. The dashboard clock read five-oh-five. A road sign flashed past: PARIS 145. One hundred forty-five kilometers to Paris. Ninety-one miles.

  “Finish your story, Palestina.”