The Fallen Angel

by Daniel Silva

  “Nothing for you?” he asked, nodding toward the empty table in front of Gabriel.

  “I wouldn’t be able to keep it down.”

  “Don’t be so judgmental, Allon. We’re professionals, you and I.”

  “You’re a murderer.”

  “So are you.”

  Gabriel glanced at Yaakov, and the food was removed. Massoud showed no anger.

  “First rule of interrogation, Allon. Don’t let the subject get under your skin.”

  “Second rule, Massoud. Don’t piss off the interrogator.”

  “I’d like to smoke.”

  “No.”

  “Then perhaps you would be good enough to allow me to pray.”

  “If you must.”

  “I must,” replied Massoud. “What time is it?”

  “Isha.”

  “Which direction is Mecca?”

  Gabriel pointed to the right. Massoud smiled.

  “Third rule of interrogation, Allon. Don’t tell the subject where he is.”

  “You’re in hell, Massoud. And the only way you’re going to get out is to tell me the truth.”

  He prayed for thirty minutes. When he was finished, Mikhail and Yaakov started to secure him to the metal chair, but Gabriel intervened and in Hebrew said the restraints would not be necessary. Massoud furrowed his brow, as though he did not understand, which Gabriel suspected was not the case. He permitted the Iranian to eat the remainder of his dinner. Then, afterward, he gave him a fresh glass of warm tea.

  “How beneficent of you,” remarked Massoud.

  “I assure you my motives are entirely selfish,” Gabriel responded. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

  “Where would you like to start?”

  “The beginning.”

  “In the beginning,” Massoud recited, “God created the heavens and the earth. Then he created the Jews and ruined the whole thing.”

  “Let’s advance the calendar a few years, shall we?”

  “How far?”

  “David Girard,” answered Gabriel, “aka Daoud Ghandour.”

  It was not possible to tell the story of Daoud Ghandour, he said, without first telling the story of Israel’s ill-fated occupation of Lebanon. At first, Gabriel was reluctant to give Massoud a platform to engage in triumphalist breast-beating, but he quickly realized it was a rare opportunity that could not be spurned. And so he sat patiently, his hands folded on the table, as Massoud recounted how the Iranians had skillfully exploited the chaos in Lebanon to create a death trap for hundreds of Israeli soldiers. “You came to Lebanon to destroy the PLO,” he said, taunting Gabriel ever so slightly, “and in its place you left Hezbollah.”

  As Massoud continued, he shed the mantle of the aggrieved political hostage and adopted the air of a university professor leading a small seminar. Watching him, Gabriel understood why he had prospered in the cutthroat world of the Revolutionary Guard and VEVAK. In a parallel universe, Massoud might have been a renowned jurist or a statesman from a decent country. Instead, the turbulent history of Islam and the Middle East had conspired to turn him into a facilitator of mass murder. Even so, Gabriel couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for him. To anesthetize himself, he glanced frequently at the enlarged photographs of Massoud’s handiwork. So did Massoud. He seemed proudest of one in particular—the one that showed smoke rising from the U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut. The event, he said, had been a watershed in the history of American involvement in the Middle East. It had shown America to be a paper tiger that would cut and run at the first sight of blood. And it had made a profound impression on a young Lebanese Shiite named Daoud Ghandour.

  “Within a few hours of the attack, he went to see the Hezbollah recruiter in his neighborhood in south Beirut. But there was one problem,” Massoud added. “Ghandour had just been accepted at the Sorbonne in Paris. He said he wanted to stay in Lebanon to fight the Jews and the Americans instead. The recruiter had a better idea. He told Ghandour to get his education. And then he called me.”

  “So Ghandour was an Iranian asset from the beginning?”

  “You’re being far too linear in your thinking, Allon. Remember, we were active at nearly every level of Hezbollah from the beginning. Hezbollah itself was an Iranian asset.”

  “Who ran him?”

  “Our station in Paris. When he wasn’t studying, he helped us keep tabs on all the Iranian exiles and dissidents who set up shop in France after the fall of the Shah.”

  “And when he went to England?”

  “London handled him while he finished his doctorate at Oxford. By the time he started working at Sotheby’s, I’d shed my fatigues and was a respectable diplomat.”

  “You took control of him?”

  Massoud nodded. “But now, he was no longer Daoud Ghandour, a poor boy from southern Lebanon. He was David Girard, an antiquities expert who traveled the world on behalf of a respected international auction house.”

  “Your dream come true.”

  “Yours, too, I imagine.”

  “How did you use him?”

  “Carefully. He could go places I couldn’t go and talk to people who couldn’t come within a mile of me.”

  “So you used him as a courier?”

  “He was my own private Federal Express. If VEVAK wanted a Hezbollah cell in, say, Istanbul to carry out an attack, we could do it at arm’s length through David. He would serve as the conduit for communications with the cell and see to its financial needs. In some cases, he even coordinated the shipment of explosives and other weapons. It was perfect.” Massoud paused. “And then there was the money.”

  “From trading in illicit antiquities?”

  Massoud nodded. “David came up with the idea while he was working at Sotheby’s. He knew there was a great deal of money to be made by those willing to ignore the law. He also knew that much of the trade was controlled by one man.”

  “Carlo Marchese.”

  “Friend of the Vatican,” Massoud added contemptuously. “But Carlo’s organization had one flaw. It was very strong in Europe, but it needed product from the Middle East.”

  “Product that Hezbollah was able to supply.”

  “Not only Hezbollah. Many of the antiquities were pieces from the Persian Empire that had come out of the ground in Iran. Within a short time, the operation was generating several million dollars a month, all of which went directly into Hezbollah’s coffers.”

  “Then a curator at the Vatican started asking too many questions.”

  “Yes,” Massoud agreed. “And the party was over.”

  When Massoud requested a cigarette a second time, Gabriel relented and gave him one of Yaakov’s Marlboros. He smoked it slowly, as though he suspected he would not receive another, and was careful to direct his exhalations away from Gabriel. VEVAK, it seemed, was aware of Gabriel’s aversion to tobacco.

  But that was not all it knew about him. It knew, Massoud boasted, that Monsignor Luigi Donati, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, had asked Gabriel to investigate the death of Claudia Andreatti. It also knew that Gabriel had discovered the body of a tomb raider named Roberto Falcone. It knew this, Massoud said, because Carlo Marchese had told his business partner David Girard.

  “Carlo was aware of your investigation from the very beginning,” Massoud explained. “And he believed correctly that you were a threat to him. When the other members of the network started to get jumpy, he told them not to worry, that he would find an Italian solution to the problem.”

  “Killing me?”

  Massoud nodded. “But first, he wanted to get a sense of how much you knew about his operation. So he threw a dinner party in your honor. Then he tried to kill you as you were walking home.” He shook his head slowly. “Frankly, we weren’t surprised when the attempt on your life failed. The man Carlo sent to do the job might have been good enough to earn a living in Italy, but not in our world.”

  “So you decided to do it yourself.”

  “We looked upon t
he situation as a unique opportunity to cause a scandal for your service at a time it could least afford one. We also regarded it as a chance to exact some revenge over the damage you did to our nuclear program.”

  “How did you know we would find Girard?”

  “Let’s just say that we had great faith in your ability, though we never imagined you’d have a stolen Greek amphora in your back pocket. That was a masterstroke, Allon.”

  “I can’t tell you how much your approval means to me,” Gabriel said. “But you were about to explain how the two professional assassins you sent to St. Moritz to kill me muffed the job.”

  “We felt it was important that your body be clearly recognizable. If you’d been blown to bits, your service would have been able to deny you were ever there.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  The Iranian shrugged off Gabriel’s sarcasm.

  “So you killed one of Hezbollah’s top operatives in order to kill me under circumstances that were embarrassing to our service?”

  Massoud nodded. “Once Hezbollah’s links to Carlo’s smuggling network had been exposed, Girard had outlived his usefulness. He was expendable.”

  “So are you,” Gabriel replied. “We know a big attack is coming, and you’re going to help me stop it. Otherwise, I’m going to do to you what I did to those secret uranium-enrichment plants. I’m going to blow you to bits. And then I’m going to send you home to your masters in Tehran in a box.”

  He tried to wriggle out of the noose, but then, Gabriel expected nothing less. He denied, he deferred, he deflected, and, finally, he spun several fabrications that he hoped would satisfy his small but attentive audience. With his expression, Gabriel made it plain he had seen such performances before. His demands were clear and unyielding. He wanted verifiable details of the pending attack—the time, the place, the target, the weapons, the members of the action cell. Once the attack had been interdicted, Massoud would be quietly released. But if he refused to provide the information, or if he attempted to run out the clock, Gabriel would destroy him.

  “As your only friend in the world,” said Gabriel, “I would advise you to accept our generous offer. All you have to do is surrender the details of a single attack. In return, you’ll be free to maim and murder to your heart’s content.”

  “Rest assured, you’ll be at the top of my list, Allon.”

  “That’s why I would also advise you to accept a desk job at VEVAK headquarters in Tehran,” Gabriel countered. “Because if you ever set foot outside Iran again, my friends and I are going to hunt you down and kill you.”

  “How can I be sure you won’t kill me in any case?”

  “Because we’re not like you, Massoud. When we enter into an agreement, we mean it. Besides,” Gabriel added, “killing hostages in cold blood has never been our style.”

  Massoud’s gaze traveled over the photographs of his handiwork before settling once again on Gabriel.

  “I have no idea what day it is.”

  “It’s Friday,” answered Gabriel.

  Massoud’s expression darkened. “What time on Friday?”

  “That depends.”

  “Central European.”

  Gabriel woke his BlackBerry and looked at the screen. “Two-twelve a.m.”

  “Good,” Massoud said. “That means there’s still a bit of time.”

  “When is the attack?”

  “Tonight, shortly after sundown.”

  “The Sabbath?”

  Massoud nodded.

  “What’s the target?”

  “A city you know well, Allon. In fact,” the Iranian said, smiling, “we chose it in your honor.”

  33

  VIENNA

  THERE WAS A SIX-THIRTY A.M. flight from Copenhagen that arrived in Vienna midmorning. After entering Austria on an American passport that he had conveniently forgotten to return to Adrian Carter, Gabriel went to an airport café and read the morning papers for an hour until he spotted Mikhail, Oded, Yaakov, and Eli Lavon crossing the arrivals hall. He followed them outside and watched as they climbed into four separate taxis. Then he walked over to a black sedan with Vienna registration and ducked into the back. Seated on the opposite side was Ari Shamron. He had shed the tailored worsted-and-silk clothing of Herr Heller and was once again dressed in khaki, oxford cloth, and leather. He tossed his cigarette out the window as the car lurched forward.

  “You look as though you haven’t slept in a week.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Just a few more hours, my son. Then it will all be over.”

  The car turned onto the A4 Ost Autobahn and headed toward central Vienna. The weather was miserable, windblown rain mixed with ice pellets and snow.

  “How much have we told the Austrians?” asked Gabriel.

  “Uzi woke Jonas Kessler, the chief of the Austrian security service, early this morning and told him that his country was to be the target of a terrorist attack it had done nothing to provoke.”

  “How did Kessler take it?”

  “After delivering the obligatory lecture about how Israel is making the world less safe by its actions, he demanded to know the origin of the intelligence. As you might expect, Uzi was rather vague in his response, which didn’t sit well with Kessler.”

  “Does he know the time frame?”

  “He knows we’re talking about hours rather than days, but Uzi insisted on telling him the rest in person. Actually,” Shamron added, “we thought it might be a good idea if you handled the briefing.”

  “Me?”

  Shamron nodded. “Some of our fickle allies here in Europe are under the impression that we feed them information about potential plots simply to bolster our own standing. But if the warning comes from you, it would send a clear message that we’re serious. Deadly serious.”

  “Because they know I wouldn’t set foot here unless lives were at stake?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And when they ask about the source of the intelligence?”

  “You say that a little bird told you. And then you move on.”

  Gabriel was silent for a moment. “If Massoud is telling us the truth,” he said finally, “the situation is probably beyond the capabilities of the Austrians. This needs to be handled properly, Ari. Otherwise, people will die. Lots of people.”

  “Then perhaps we can come to an equitable solution.”

  “How equitable?”

  “We’ll save the lives, and they’ll take the credit.”

  Gabriel smiled. Then he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

  As usual, there was an inter-service spat over the venue. Uzi Navot wanted to hold the conference in a secure room at the Israeli Embassy, but Jonas Kessler chose an imposing government building in Vienna’s elegant Innere Stadt, just around the corner from the State Opera House. A temporary sign in the lobby declared the premises were to be used that day for a conference having something to do with sustainable agriculture, but at the entrance to the main salon was a plastic bin where arriving guests were instructed to deposit their mobile phones and other electronic devices. The chamber itself was a Hapsburg monstrosity hung with gold curtains and crystal chandeliers that floated overhead like candlelit clouds. As Gabriel and Shamron entered, Navot was hovering over a buffet table piled high with Viennese cakes and cream-filled tarts. Kessler, an angular figure with dark hair combed close to the scalp, stood on the opposite end of the room, surrounded by a protective cordon of aides. He was staring at his watch, as if wondering whether he could wrap things up in time for his midday workout.

  At Kessler’s suggestion, they took their assigned seats at a formal rectangular table that looked more suited to Cold War summitry than a gathering of spies. Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot sat on one side, the Austrians on the other. Most were from the counterterrorism division of the security service, but there were also several senior officers from the Bundespolizei, Austria’s national police force. Kessler didn’t bother with introductions. Nor were there any is
sues regarding language; Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot all spoke fluent German. In fact, Navot’s had the faint trace of a Viennese accent. His ancestors had lived in Vienna when the Germans annexed Austria in 1938. Those who managed to escape were first robbed of everything—everything but their Viennese accents.

  “We’re honored to have so many distinguished officers from your service here today,” Kessler said without conviction, tapping a silver spoon against the rim of his china coffee cup like a gavel. “Especially you, Herr Allon. It’s been a long time since your last visit to Vienna.”

  “Not as long as you think,” Gabriel remarked.

  Kessler managed a tight smile. “I was working the night the PLO set off that bomb beneath your car,” he said after a moment. “I remember it all as though it were yesterday.”

  “So do I,” Gabriel replied evenly.

  “I imagine,” said Kessler. “I was also working the night you kidnapped Erich Radek from his home in the First District and smuggled him back to Israel.”

  “Radek agreed to go to Israel voluntarily.”

  “Only after you took him to the scene of the crime at Treblinka. But that, as they say, is ancient history.” Another forced smile. “Herr Navot tells me that Hezbollah has set its sights on Vienna.”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “When will this attack occur?”

  “Shortly after sundown.”

  “The target?”

  “The Stadttempel synagogue and community center. If the terrorists are successful, more than a hundred people could die tonight. If, on the other hand, we work together . . .” Gabriel’s voice trailed off, the thought unfinished.

  “Yes?”

  “Only the four terrorists will die.”

  “We haven’t agreed to work with you, Herr Allon. And we’re certainly not going to engage in some sort of targeted killing operation.”