by Daniel Silva
“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. “You should see it when a bomb goes off.”
“Are you saying that the great Gabriel Allon is afraid of suicide bombers?”
“Yes, I am. You can’t stop living, but there are sensible things you can do. How did you get home?”
Chiara looked at him sheepishly.
“Damn it, Chiara!”
“I couldn’t find a cab.”
“Do you know a bus was just bombed in Rehavia?”
“Of course. We heard the explosion inside Makhane Yehuda. That’s why I decided to take the bus home. I figured the odds were in my favor.”
Such macabre calculations, Gabriel knew, were a daily facet of modern Israeli life.
“From now on, take bus number eleven.”
“Which one is that?”
He pointed two fingers toward the floor and moved them in a walking motion.
“Is that an example of your fatalistic Israeli sense of humor?”
“You have to have a sense of humor in this country. It’s the only way to keep from going crazy.”
“I liked you better when you were an Italian.” She pushed him gently from the kitchen. “Go take a shower. We’re having guests for dinner.”
Ari Shamron had alienated all those who loved him most. He had wagered, foolishly as it turned out, that his lifelong commitment to the defense of his country granted him immunity when it came to his children and his friends. His son, Yonatan, was a tank commander in the Israel Defense Forces and seemed gripped by an almost suicidal need to die in battle. His daughter had moved to New Zealand and was living on a chicken farm with a gentile. She avoided his calls and refused his repeated demands to return to the land of her birth.
Only Gilah, his long-suffering wife, had remained faithfully at his side. She was as calm as Shamron was temperamental and blessed with a myopic ability to see only the good in him. She was the only person who ever dared to scold him, though to spare him needless embarrassment she usually did so in Polish—as she did when Shamron tried to light a cigarette at the dinner table after finishing his plate of roasted chicken and rice pilaf. She knew only the vaguest details of her husband’s work and suspected his hands were unclean. Shamron had spared her the worst, for he feared that Gilah, if she knew too much, would abandon him the way his children had. She viewed Gabriel as a restraining influence and treated him kindly. She also sensed that Gabriel loved Shamron in the turbulent way in which a son loves a father, and she loved him in return. She did not know that Gabriel had killed men on orders from her husband. She believed he was a clerk of some sort who had spent a great deal of time in Europe and knew much about art.
Gilah helped Chiara with the dishes while Gabriel and Shamron adjourned to the study to talk. Shamron, shielded from Gilah’s gaze, lit a cigarette. Gabriel opened the window. Night rain beat a gentle rhythm on the street, and the sharp scent of wet eucalyptus leaves filled the room.
“I hear you’re chasing Khaled,” Shamron said.
Gabriel nodded. He had briefed Lev on Dina’s findings that morning, and Lev had immediately gone to Jerusalem to see the prime minister and Shamron.
“To be honest with you, I never put much stock in the Khaled myth,” Shamron said. “I always assumed the boy had changed his name and had chosen to live out his life free from the shadow of his grandfather and father—free of the shadow of this land.”
“So did I,” said Gabriel, “but the case is compelling.”
“Yes, it is. Why didn’t anyone ever make the connection between the dates of Buenos Aires and Istanbul?”
“It was assumed to be a coincidence,” Gabriel said. “Besides, there wasn’t enough evidence to close the circle. No one ever thought to look at Beit Sayeed until now.”
“She’s very good, this girl Dina.”
“I’m afraid it’s something of an obsession with her.”
“You’re referring to the fact she was at Dizengoff Square the day the Number Five exploded?”
“How did you know that?”
“I took the liberty of reviewing the personnel files of your team. You chose well.”
“She knows a lot about you, including a few things you never told me.”
“Such as?”
“I never knew it was Rabin who drove the getaway car after you killed Sheikh Asad.”
“We were very close after that, Rabin and I, but I’m afraid we parted company over Oslo. Rabin believed that Arafat was down and that it was time to strike a deal. I told him Arafat was striking a deal because he was down, that Arafat intended to use Oslo as a way to wage war against us by other means. I was right, of course. For Arafat, Oslo was just another step in his ‘phased strategy’ to bring about our destruction. He said so in his own words, when he was speaking in Arabic to his people.”
Shamron closed his eyes. “I take no satisfaction in being proven correct. Rabin’s death was a terrible blow to me. His opponents called him a traitor and a Nazi, and then they killed him. We murdered one of our own. We succumbed to the Arab disease.” He shook his head slowly. “Still, I suppose it was all necessary, this delusional attempt to make peace with our sworn enemies. It’s steeled our spine for the steps we’ll need to take if we are to survive in this land.”
The next subject, the demolition of Beit Sayeed, Gabriel approached with great caution.
“It was a Palmach operation, was it not?”
“What exactly do you want to know, Gabriel?”
“Were you there?”
Shamron exhaled heavily, then nodded once. “We had no choice. Beit Sayeed was a base of operations for Sheikh Asad’s militia. We couldn’t leave such a hostile village in our midst. After the sheikh’s death, it was necessary to deal the remnants of his force a fatal blow.”
Shamron’s gaze grew suddenly distant. Gabriel could see he wished to discuss the matter no further. Shamron drew heavily on his cigarette, then told Gabriel about the premonition of disaster he’d had the night before the bombing. “I knew it was something like this. I could feel it the moment it happened.” Then he corrected himself. “I could feel it before it happened.”
“If Khaled is trying to punish us, why didn’t he kill me in Venice when he had the chance?”
“Maybe he intended to. Daoud Hadawi was only a few miles up the road in Milan when the Italians found him. Maybe Hadawi was the one who was supposed to kill you.”
“And Rome?” Gabriel asked. “Why did Khaled choose Rome?”
“Maybe it was because Rome served as the European headquarters of Black September.” Shamron looked at Gabriel. “Or maybe he was trying to speak directly to you.”
Wadal Abdel Zwaiter, thought Gabriel. The Piazza Annabaliano.
“Keep in mind something else,” Shamron said. “Within a week of the bombing, there was a massive demonstration in central Rome, not against Palestinian terror, but against us. The Europeans are the best friends the Palestinians have. The civilized world has abandoned us to our fate. We would never have come back to this land if we weren’t pushed here by the hatred of Europe’s Christians, and now that we’re here, they won’t let us fight, lest we antagonize the Arabs in their midst.”
A silence fell between them. From the kitchen came the clatter of china and the gentle laughter of the women. Shamron sank lower into his chair. The patter of the rain and the strong scent of the eucalyptus trees seemed to have the effect of a sedative on him.
“I brought some papers for you to sign,” he said.
“What sort of papers?”
“The kind that will quietly dissolve your marriage to Leah.” Shamron placed a hand on Gabriel’s forearm. “It’s been fourteen years. She’s lost to you. She’s never coming back. It’s time for you to get on with your life.”
“It’s not as easy as that, Ari.”
“I don’t envy you,” Shamron said. “When are you planning to bring her home?”
“Her doctor is opposed to the idea. He’s concerned that being back in Israel will on
ly make her condition worse. I finally managed to convey to him that it’s nonnegotiable, but he’s insisting she be given adequate time to prepare for the transition.”
“When?”
“A month,” Gabriel said. “Maybe a bit less.”
“Tell her doctor she’ll be well cared for here. Unfortunately, we have a fair amount of experience when it comes to treating the victims of terrorist bombs.”
Shamron abruptly changed course. “Are you comfortable in this flat?”
Gabriel indicated that he was.
“It’s big enough for a child or two.”
“Let’s not get carried away, Ari. I’ll never see fifty again.”
“Chiara will want children, if you marry, of course. Besides, you have to do your patriotic duty. Haven’t you heard about the demographic threat? Soon we’ll be a minority people between the River Jordan and the sea. The prime minister is encouraging all of us to contribute by having more children. Thank God for the Haredim. They’re the only reason we’re still in the game.”
“I’ll try to contribute in other ways.”
“It’s yours, you know,” Shamron said.
“What?”
“The flat.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You own it now. It was purchased on your behalf by a friend of the Office.”
Gabriel shook his head. He had always been amazed at Shamron’s gangsterlike access to money.
“I can’t accept it.”
“It’s too late. The deed is being sent over in the morning.”
“I don’t want to be in anyone’s debt.”
“It is we who are in your debt. Accept it graciously and in the spirit with which it is given.” Shamron patted Gabriel’s shoulder. “And fill it with children.”
Gilah poked her head around the half-open door. “Dessert is on the table,” she said, then she looked at Shamron and, in Polish, ordered him to put out his cigarette.
“April eighteenth,” he murmured, when Gilah had gone. “That’s not much time.”
“I’m already watching the clock.”
“It’s occurred to me there’s one person who might know where Khaled is.”
“Arafat?”
“He is Khaled’s father. Besides, he owes you a favor. You did save his life once.”
“Yasir Arafat is the last person I want to see. Besides, he’s a liar.”
“Yes, but sometimes his lies can lead us in the direction of the truth.”
“He’s off-limits. Lev would never grant me authorization.”
“So don’t tell him.”
“I don’t think it would be wise for me to just show up and knock on Arafat’s front door. And the only way I’m going to Ramallah is in an armored personnel carrier.”
“Arafat doesn’t really have a door. The IDF took care of that.” Shamron permitted himself to smile at the sinking fortunes of his old adversary. “As for the armored car, leave that to me.”
Gabriel climbed into bed and inched carefully toward the middle. He reached out in the darkness and draped his arm across Chiara’s abdomen. She remained motionless.
“What were you and Ari talking about in the study?”
“The case,” he replied absently.
“Is that all?”
He told her that the apartment was now theirs.
“How did that happen?”
“Shamron and his moneyed friends. I’ll tell Housekeeping to remove the old furniture. Tomorrow, you can buy us a proper bed.”
Chiara’s arm rose slowly. Gabriel, in the darkness, could see the talisman swinging from her fingertips.
“What is this?”
“A Corsican good-luck charm. They say it wards off the evil eye.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s classified.”
He reached for the talisman. Chiara, with a deft movement of her hand, twirled the talisman so that it wrapped securely around her fingertips, in the manner in which Arabs often toy with their prayer beads.
“A gift from one of your old lovers?” she asked.
“An old enemy, actually. A man who’d been hired to kill me and a woman I was protecting.”
“Anna Rolfe?”
Yes, Gabriel said, Anna Rolfe.
“Why did you keep it?” she asked. “To remind you of her?”
“Chiara, don’t be ridiculous.”
She tossed the talisman in his direction. The red-coral hand landed on his chest.
“Is something wrong, Chiara?”
“What were those papers that Shamron gave you before he left tonight? Or is that classified, too?”
Gabriel answered the question truthfully.
“Did you sign them yet?”
“I thought I should read them first.”
“You know what they say.”
“I’ll sign them,” Gabriel said.
“When?”
“When I’m ready to sign them.”
Just then the apartment block shook with the clap of a thunderous explosion. Chiara climbed out of bed and rushed to the window. Gabriel remained motionless on the bed.
“It’s close,” she said.
“Ben Yehuda Mall, I’d say. Probably a café.”
“Turn on the radio.”
“Just count the sirens, Chiara. You can tell how bad it is by the number of ambulances they call.”
A moment passed, still and deathly quiet. Gabriel closed his eyes and imagined, with the clarity of videotape, the nightmare taking place a few blocks from his new home. The first siren sounded, then a second, a third, a fourth. After seventeen, he lost count, for the night had become a symphony of sirens. Chiara returned to bed and clung to his chest.
“Sign the papers when you’re ready,” she said. “I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”
10
JERUSALEM: MARCH 22
The army colonel waiting near the walls of the Old City did not look much like Ari Shamron, but then Gabriel did not find this at all surprising. There was something about Israel—the sunlight, the intense social cohesiveness, the crackling tension of the atmosphere—that had the power to dramatically alter the appearance of its citizenry even within the space of a single generation. Yonatan Shamron was six inches taller than his famous father, strikingly handsome, and possessed none of the old man’s natural physical defensiveness—a result, Gabriel knew, of having been raised here instead of Poland. Only when the colonel leapt from the armored jeep and advanced on Gabriel with his hand out like a trench knife did Gabriel catch a faint glimpse of Shamron the Elder. His gait was not so much a walk as a death charge, and when he shook Gabriel’s hand fiercely and clapped him between the shoulder blades, Gabriel felt as though he’d been struck by a chunk of Herodion stone.
They set out along Road Number One, the old border between East and West Jerusalem. Ramallah, the nominal seat of Palestinian power, lay just ten miles to the north. A checkpoint appeared before them. On the opposite side lay the Kalandiya refugee camp—ten thousand Palestinians piled into a few hundred square yards of breeze-block apartments. To the right, spread over a small hill, were the orderly red roofs of the Psagot Jewish settlement. Rising above it all was an enormous portrait of Yasir Arafat. The inscription, in Arabic, read: ALWAYS WITH YOU.
Yonatan jerked his thumb toward the backseat and said, “Put those things on.”
Gabriel, looking over his shoulder, saw an armored vest with a high collar and a metal combat helmet. He’d not worn a helmet since his brief stint in the IDF. The one Yonatan had brought along was too big, and it fell forward over his eyes. “Now you look like a real soldier,” Yonatan said. Then he smiled. “Well, almost.”
An infantryman waved them through the checkpoint, then, seeing who was behind the wheel, smiled and said, “Hey, Yonatan.” Discipline within the ranks of the IDF, like the Office, was notoriously lax. First names were the norm, and a salute was a
lmost unheard of.
Gabriel, through his cloudy bulletproof window, studied the scene on the other side of the checkpoint. A pair of soldiers, weapons leveled, were ordering men to open their coats and lift their shirts to make certain they weren’t wearing bomb belts beneath their clothing. Women underwent the same search behind a barrier that shielded them from the eyes of their men. Beyond the checkpoint snaked a line several hundred yards in length—a wait, Gabriel calculated, of three to four hours. The suicide bombers had inflicted misery on both sides of the Green Line, but it was the honest Palestinians—the workers trying to get to jobs in Israel, the farmers who wanted only to sell their produce—who had paid the highest price in sheer inconvenience.
Gabriel looked beyond the checkpoint, toward the Separation Fence.
“What do you think of it?” Yonatan asked.
“It’s certainly nothing to be proud of.”
“I think it’s an ugly scar across this beautiful land of ours. It’s our new Wailing Wall, much longer than the first, and different because now people are wailing on both sides of the wall. But I’m afraid we have no other choice. With good intelligence we’ve managed to stop most of the suicide attacks, but we’ll never be able to stop them all. We need this fence.”
“But it’s not the only reason we’re building it.”
“That’s true,” Yonatan said. “When it’s finished, it will allow us to turn our backs on the Arabs and walk away. That’s why they’re so afraid of it. It’s in their interest to remain chained to us in conflict. The wall will let us disengage, and that’s the last thing they want.”
Road Number One turned to Highway 60—a ribbon of smooth black asphalt that ran northward through the dusty gray landscape of the West Bank. More than thirty years had passed since Gabriel had last been to Ramallah. Then, as now, he had come by way of armored vehicle, with an IDF helmet on his head. Those early years of the occupation had been relatively calm—indeed, Gabriel’s biggest challenge each week had been finding a ride from his post back home to his mother’s house in the Jezreel Valley. For most West Bank Arabs, the end of Jordanian occupation had led to a marked improvement in the quality of their lives. With the Israelis had come access to a vibrant economy, running water, electricity, and education. Infant mortality rates, once among the highest in the world, plummeted. Literacy rates, among the world’s lowest, increased dramatically. Radical Islam and the influence of the PLO would eventually turn the West Bank into a seething cauldron and place IDF soldiers in daily confrontations with rock-throwing children, but for Gabriel, army service had been largely an exercise in boredom.