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

by Daniel Silva

  They took her by the arms and waist and dragged her. Her legs trailed behind, and her feet carved twin trenches in the snow. Soon they were ablaze with the cold. She tried to remember what shoes she had put on that morning. Flat-soled sandals, she remembered suddenly—the ones Nadia had bought for her in Gustavia to go with the outfit she’d worn to Le Tetou.

  They went to the back of the chalet. Here the trees were closer, no more than thirty yards from the structure, and a single frozen sentry was standing watch, smoking a cigarette and stamping his boots against the cold. The outer wall of the house was overhung by the eaves of the roof and stacked with firewood. They dragged her through a doorway, then down a flight of cement stairs. Still unable to walk, Sarah’s frozen feet banged on each step. She began to cry in pain, a shivering tremulous wail to which her tormentors paid no heed.

  They came to another door, which was tightly closed and secured by a padlock. A guard opened the lock, then the door, then threw a light switch. Muhammad entered the room first. The guards brought Sarah next.

  A SMALL square chamber, no more than ten feet on either side. Porcelain-white walls. Photographs. Arab men at Abu Ghraib. Arab men in cages at Guantánamo Bay. A hooded Muslim terrorist holding the severed head of an American hostage. In the center of the room a metal table bolted to the floor. In the center of the table an iron loop. Attached to the loop a pair of handcuffs. Sarah screamed and flailed against them. It was useless, of course. One pinned her arms to the table while the second secured the handcuffs to her wrists. A chair was thrust into the back of her legs. Two hands forced her into it. Muhammad tore the veil from her face and slapped her twice.

  “ARE YOU ready to talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “No more lies?”

  She shook her head.

  “Say it, Sarah. No more lies.”

  “No—more—lies.”

  “You’re going to tell me everything you know?”

  “Every—thing.”

  “You’re cold?”

  “Freezing.”

  “Would you like something warm to drink?”

  She nodded.

  “Tea? You drink tea, Sarah.”

  Another nod.

  “How do you take your tea, Sarah?”

  “You can’t—be serious.”

  “How do you take your tea?”

  “With cyanide.”

  He smiled mirthlessly. “You should be so lucky. We’ll have tea, then we’ll talk.”

  THEY ALL THREE exited the room. Muhammad closed the door and put the padlock back into place. Sarah lowered her head to the table and closed her eyes. In her mind an image formed—the image of a clock counting down the minutes to her execution. Muhammad was bringing her tea. Sarah opened the glass cover of her imaginary clock and moved the hands back five minutes.

  34.

  Canton Uri, Switzerland

  THEY BROUGHT THE TEA Arab-style in a small glass. Sarah’s hands remained cuffed. To drink she had to lower her head toward the table and slurp noisily while Muhammad gazed at her in revulsion. His own tea remained untouched. It stood between his open notebook and a loaded pistol.

  “You can’t make me vanish and expect no one to notice,” she said.

  He looked up and blinked several times rapidly. Sarah, free of the abaya, examined him in the harsh light of the interrogation chamber. He was bald to the crown of his angular head, and his remaining hair and beard were cropped to precisely the same length. His dark eyes were partially concealed behind a pair of academic spectacles, which flashed with reflected light each time he looked up from his notepad. His expression was open and strangely earnest for an interrogator, and his face, when he was not screaming or threatening to strike her, was vaguely pleasant. At times he seemed to Sarah like an eager young journalist posing questions to a politician standing at a podium.

  “Everyone in London knows I went to the Caribbean with Zizi,” she said. “I spent almost two weeks on Alexandra. I was seen with him at restaurants on Saint Bart’s. I went to the beach with Nadia. There’s a record of my departure from Saint Maarten and a record of my arrival in Zurich. You can’t just make me disappear in Switzerland. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “But that’s not the way it happened,” Muhammad said. “You see, shortly after your arrival tonight, you checked into your room at the Dolder Grand Hotel. The clerk examined your passport, as is customary here in Switzerland, and forwarded the information to the Swiss police, as is also customary. In a few hours you will awaken and, after taking coffee in your room, you will go to the hotel gym for your morning workout. Then you will shower and dress for your appointment. A car will collect you at 9:45 and take you to Herr Klarsfeld’s residence on the Zurichberg. There you will be seen by several members of Herr Klarsfeld’s household staff. After viewing the Manet painting, you will place a call to Mr. al-Bakari in the Caribbean, at which point you will inform him that you cannot reach accord on a sale price. You will return to the Dolder Grand Hotel and check out of your room, then proceed to Kloten Airport, where you will board a commercial flight back to London. You will spend two days relaxing at your apartment in Chelsea, during which time you will make several telephone calls on your phone and make several charges on your credit cards. And then, unfortunately, you will vanish inexplicably.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Suffice it to say she bears a vague resemblance to you, enough so she can travel on your passport and slip in and out of your apartment without attracting suspicion from the neighbors. We have helpers here in Europe, Sarah, helpers with white faces.”

  “The police will still come after Zizi.”

  “No one comes after Zizi al-Bakari. The police will have questions, of course, and they will be answered in due time by Mr. al-Bakari’s lawyers. The matter will be handled quietly and with tremendous discretion. It is one of the great advantages of being a Saudi. We truly are above the law. But back to the matter at hand.”

  He looked down and tapped the tip of his pen impatiently against the blank page of his notebook.

  “You will answer my questions now, Sarah?”

  She nodded.

  “Say yes, Sarah. I want you to get in the habit of speaking.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’ll answer your questions.”

  “Is your name Sarah Bancroft?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Are the place of birth and date of birth correct on your passport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was your father really an executive for Citibank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are your parents now truly divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you attend Dartmouth University and later pursue graduate studies at the Courtauld Institute in London?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you the Sarah Bancroft who wrote a well-received dissertation on German Expressionism while earning a Ph.D. from Harvard?”

  “I am.”

  “Were you also working for the Central Intelligence Agency at this time?”

  “No.”

  “When did you join the CIA?”

  “I never joined the CIA.”

  “You’re lying, Sarah.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “When did you join the CIA?”

  “I’m not CIA.”

  “Who do you work for, then?”

  She was silent.

  “Answer the question, Sarah. Who are you working for?”

  “You know who I’m working for.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I am working for the intelligence service of the State of Israel.”

  He removed his eyeglasses and stared at her for a moment.

  “Are you telling me the truth, Sarah?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be able to tell if you’re lying again.”

  “I know.”

  “Would you care for some
more tea?”

  She nodded.

  “Answer me, Sarah. Would you like some more tea?”

  “Yes, I would like some more tea.”

  Muhammad leaned back in his chair and slapped his palm on the door of the chamber. It opened immediately and outside Sarah saw two men standing watch. “More tea,” Muhammad said to them in English, then turned to a fresh page in his notebook and looked up at her with his eager, open face. Sarah lifted her hand to her imaginary clock and added ten more minutes.

  THOUGH SARAH did not know it, the setting of her interrogation was the largely Roman Catholic canton of Uri, in the region of the country the Swiss fondly refer to as Inner Switzerland. The chalet was located in a narrow gorge cut by a tributary of the Reuss River. There was only one road in the gorge and a single slumbering village at the top. Uzi Navot inspected it quickly, then turned around and headed back down the gorge. The Swiss, he knew from experience, were some of the most vigilant people on the planet.

  The Saudis had tried to evade him in Zurich, but Navot had been prepared. He had always believed that when tailing a professional who is expecting surveillance, it is best to let him think that he is indeed being followed—and more important, that his countermeasures are working. Navot had sacrificed three of his watchers in northern Zurich in service to that cause. It was Navot himself who had watched the Mercedes with diplomatic plates turn into the warehouse in the Industrie-Quartier, and it was Navot who had followed it out of Zurich twenty minutes later.

  His team had regrouped along the shores of the Zürichsee and joined him in the pursuit southward toward Uri. The foul weather had granted them an additional layer of protection, as it did now for Navot, as he climbed out of his car and stole quietly through the dense trees toward the chalet, a gun in his outstretched hands. Thirty minutes later, after conducting a cursory survey of the property and the security, he was back behind the wheel, heading down the gorge to the Reuss River valley. There he parked in a turnout by the riverbank and waited for Gabriel to arrive from Zurich.

  “WHO IS YOUR control officer?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “I’m going to ask you one more time. What is the name of your control officer?”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t know his name. At least not his real name.”

  “By what name do you know him?”

  Don’t give him Gabriel, she thought. She blurted the first that came into her mind.

  “He called himself Ben.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes, Ben.”

  “You’re sure? Ben?”

  “It’s not his real name. It’s just what he called himself.”

  “How do you know it’s not his real name?”

  She embraced the precision of his inquiry, for it allowed her to add more minutes to her imaginary clock.

  “Because he told me it wasn’t his real name.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I suppose I had no reason not to.”

  “When did you meet this man?”

  “It was December.”

  “Where?”

  “In Washington.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “In the evening.”

  “He came to your house. Your place of work.”

  “It was after work. I was on the way home.”

  “Tell me how it happened, Sarah. Tell me everything.”

  And she did, morsel by morsel, drop by drop.

  “WHERE WAS this house they brought you?”

  “In Georgetown.”

  “Which street in Georgetown?”

  “It was dark. I don’t remember.”

  “Which street in Georgetown, Sarah?”

  “It was N Street, I think.”

  “You think, or you know?”

  “It was N Street.”

  “The address?”

  “There was no address on it.”

  “Which block?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Was it east of Wisconsin Avenue or west, Sarah?”

  “You know Georgetown?”

  “East or West?”

  “West. Definitely West.”

  “Which block, Sarah?”

  “Between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth.”

  “Which side of the street?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Which side of the street, Sarah? North or south?”

  “South. Definitely south.”

  IT WAS 2:45 A.M. when Navot spotted the Audi coming up the road at a rate of speed incompatible with the inclement conditions. As it sped past in a blur of blowing snow and road spray, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the four tense-looking men inside. He picked up his phone and dialed. “You just drove by me,” he said calmly, then he looked up into the mirror and watched as the Audi nearly crashed turning around. Easy, Gabriel, he thought. Easy.

  “WHO WAS the first to interview you? The CIA man or the Jew?”

  “The American.”

  “What sorts of things did they ask you?”

  “We talked in general terms about the war on terrorism.”

  “For example?”

  “He asked me what I thought should be done with terrorists. Should they be brought to America for trial or killed in the field by men in black?”

  “Men in black?”

  “That’s what he called them.”

  “Meaning special forces? CIA assassins? Navy SEALs?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

  And so she told him, one small spoonful at a time.

  THEY STOOD in a circle along the riverbank while Navot quickly told Gabriel everything he knew.

  “Are there more guards on the grounds or just the two at the front gate?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How many inside the house?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see where they took her?”

  “No.”

  “Has there been any other traffic on the road?”

  “It’s a very quiet road.”

  “It’s not enough information, Uzi.”

  “I did the best I could.”

  “I know.”

  “As I see it you have only two options, Gabriel. Option number one: carry out another reconnaissance operation. It will take time. It’s not without risk. If they see us coming, the first thing they’ll do is kill Sarah.”

  “Option two?”

  “Go straight in. I vote for option two. Only God knows what Sarah’s going through in there.”

  Gabriel looked down at the snow and deliberated a moment. “We go in now,” he said. “You, Mikhail, Yaakov, and me.”

  “Hostage rescue isn’t my thing, Gabriel. I’m an agent-runner.”

  “It’s definitely not Eli’s thing, and I want at least four men. Moshe and Eli will stay with the cars. When I send the signal, they’ll come up the road and get us.”

  “WHEN DID the Jew come?”

  “I can’t remember the precise time.”

  “Approximate?”

  “I can’t remember. It was about a half hour after I arrived, so that would make it around seven, I suppose.”

  “And he called himself Ben?”

  “Not right away.”

  “He used another name at first?”

  “No. He had no name at first.”

  “Describe him for me, please.”

  “He’s on the small side.”

  “Was he thin or fat?”

  “Thin.”

  “Very thin.”

  “He was fit.”

  “Hair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Color?”

  “Dark.”

  “Long or short.”

  “Short.”

&
nbsp; “Was any part of his hair gray?”

  “No.”

  Muhammad calmly laid his pen on his notebook. “You’re lying to me, Sarah. If you lie to me again, our conversation will end and we will go about this by other means. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded. “Answer me, Sarah.”

  “Yes, I understand you.”

  “Good.”

  “Now give me a precise description of this Jew who called himself Ben.”

  35.

  Canton Uri, Switzerland

  LET’S RETURN TO THE appearance of his hair. You say it was short,

  Sarah? Like mine?”

  “A little longer.”

  “And dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s gray in places, isn’t it? At the temples, to be precise.”

  “Yes, his temples are gray.”

  “And now the eyes. They’re green, aren’t they. Abnormally so.”

  “His eyes are very green.”

  “He has a special talent, this man?”

  “Many.”

  “He has the ability to restore paintings?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re absolutely certain you never heard a name?”

  “I told you. He called himself Ben.”

  “Yes, I know, but did he ever refer to himself by any other name?”

  “No, never.”

  “You’re sure, Sarah?”

  “Positive. He called himself Ben.”

  “It’s not his real name, Sarah. His name is Gabriel Allon. And he is a murderer of Palestinians. Now please tell me what happened after he arrived at the house in Georgetown.”

  THERE WAS a sign at the entrance of the track leading to the chalet. It read PRIVATE. The security gate was three hundred yards into the trees. Gabriel and Navot moved on one side of the track, Mikhail and Yaakov on the other. The snow had been deep along the edge of road coming up the gorge, but in the trees there was much less. Seen through the night-vision goggles, it glowed ghostly luminous green while the trunks of the pine and fir were dark and distinct. Gabriel crept forward, careful to avoid fallen limbs that might have cracked beneath the weight of his step. It was deathly silent in the forest. He was aware of his own heart banging against his rib cage and the sound of Navot’s footfalls behind him. He held his Beretta in both hands. He wore no gloves.