Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  “Pull over to the side of the road.”

  Gabriel did as he was told. They were a few miles from the center of Lyon. This time, only two minutes elapsed before the telephone rang.

  “Get back on the road,” she said. “We’re going to Chalon. It’s a—”

  “I know where Chalon is. It’s just south of Dijon.”

  He waited for an opening in the traffic, then accelerated back onto the Autoroute.

  “I can’t decide whether you’re a very courageous man or a fool,” she said. “You could have walked away from me in Marseilles. You could have saved yourself.”

  “She’s my wife,” he said. “She’ll always be my wife.”

  “And you’re willing to die for her?”

  “You’re going to die for her, too.”

  “At seven o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you make up this time? Why seven o’clock?”

  “You don’t know anything about the man you’re working for, do you? I feel sorry for you, Palestina. You’re a very foolish girl. Your leader has betrayed you, and you’re the one who’ll pay the price.”

  She lifted the gun to hit him again, but thought better of it. Gabriel kept his eyes on the road. The door was ajar.

  They stopped for gas south of Chalon. Gabriel filled the tank and paid with cash given to him by the girl. When he was behind the wheel again, she ordered him to park next to the toilets.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  She was gone only a moment. Gabriel slid the car into gear, but the girl removed the satellite phone from her bag and ordered him to wait. It was two-fifty-five p.m.

  “We’re going to Paris,” he said.

  “Oh, really?”

  “He’ll send us one of two ways. The Autoroute splits at Beaune. If we take that cutoff, we can head straight into the southern suburbs. Or we can stay to the east—Dijon to Troyes, Troyes to Reims—and come in from the northeast.”

  “You seem to know everything. Tell me which way he’s going to send us.”

  Gabriel made a show of consulting his watch.

  “He’ll want to keep us moving, and he won’t want us at the target too early. I’m betting for the eastern route. I say he sends us to Troyes and tells us to wait there for instructions. He’ll have options if he sends us to Troyes.”

  Just then the telephone rang. She listened in silence, then severed the connection.

  “Get back on the Autoroute,” she said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just drive,” she said.

  He asked for permission to turn on the radio.

  “Sure,” she said affably.

  He pressed the power button, but nothing happened. A slight smile appeared on her lips.

  “Nicely played,” said Gabriel.

  “Thank you.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Surely you’re joking.”

  “Actually, I’m quite serious.”

  “I’m Palestina,” she said. “I have no choice.”

  “You’re wrong. You do have a choice.”

  “I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re trying to wear me down with your suggestions of death and suicide. You think you can make me have a change of heart, that you can make me lose my nerve.”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. We’ve been fighting each other for a long time. I know that you’re intensely courageous and that you rarely lose your nerve. I just want to know why: Why are you here? Why not get married and raise a family? Why not live your life?”

  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 Holocaust is 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 agreement we violate all the time, with the tacit understanding of our brethren in the French services. But a tacit understanding is 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 telephone console. “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 moment meeting with the German chancellor in the ornate Lounge of Portraits in the
Élysée Palace. An aide-decamp slipped 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 followed his 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 Frenchman said. “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 members of 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-five p.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 increase 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 Napoleon adjourned, 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 arriving in 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 ancient Provence. 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, standing frozen before the television screen, for the next ten minutes.

  The Israelis had chosen to alert the French. Martineau had 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 a
t 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.”