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

by Daniel Silva

  “What happens when he gets to Tre Scalini?”

  “If he’s under watch, we walk away.”

  “And if he’s clean?”

  “We’ll tell him where to go next.”

  “And where’s that? A safe flat?”

  Navot shook his head. “I don’t want him near any of our properties. I’d rather do it someplace public—someplace where it will look like you’re just two strangers chatting.” He hesitated, then added, “Someplace a man with a gun can’t follow.”

  “Ever heard of the Moscow Rules, Uzi?”

  “I live by them.”

  “Perhaps you recall rule three: Assume everyone is potentially under opposition control. It’s quite possible we’re going to a great deal of trouble to meet with a man who’s going to spoon-feed us a pile of Russian shit.” Gabriel looked down at the photograph. “Are we sure this man is really Boris Ostrovsky?”

  “Moscow Station says it’s him.”

  Gabriel returned the photograph to the envelope and looked around the Lower Church. “In order to get back into the country, I had to make a solemn promise to the Vatican and the Italian services. No operational work of any kind on Italian soil.”

  “Who says you’re going to operate? You’re just going to have a conversation. ”

  “With a Russian editor who just lost one of his reporters to a professional assassin in Courchevel.” Gabriel shook his head slowly. “I don’t know about you, Uzi, but I don’t think it’s exactly good karma to lie to a pope.”

  “Shamron is our pope and Shamron wants it done.”

  Gabriel led Navot from the basilica, and they walked together through the darkened streets, with the bat leveyha trailing quietly after them. He didn’t like it but he had to admit he was curious about the nature of the message the Russian wanted to deliver. The assignment had one other potential windfall. It could be used as leverage to get Shamron off his back once and for all. As they crossed the Piazza del Commune, he listed his demands.

  “I listen to what he has to say, then I file a report and I’m done with it.”

  “That’s it.”

  “I go back to my farm in Umbria and finish my painting. No more complaints from Shamron. No more warnings about my security.”

  Navot hesitated, then nodded his head.

  “Say it, Uzi. Say it before God, here in the sacred city of Assisi.”

  “You can go back to Umbria and restore paintings to your heart’s content. No more complaints from Shamron. No more warnings from me or anyone else about the legion of terrorists who wish you dead.”

  “Is Ostrovsky under surveillance by assets from Rome Station?”

  “We put him under watch within an hour of the first contact.”

  “Tell them to back off. Otherwise, you run the risk of inadvertently telegraphing our interest to the Italian security services and anyone else who might be watching him.”

  “Done.”

  “I need a watcher I can trust.”

  “Someone like Eli?”

  “Yes, someone like Eli. Where is he?”

  “On a dig somewhere near the Dead Sea.”

  “Get him on the sunrise express out of Ben-Gurion. Tell him to meet me at Piperno. Tell him to have a bottle of Frascati and a plate of filetti di baccalà waiting.”

  “I love fried cod,” Navot said.

  "Piperno makes the best filetti in Rome. Why don’t you join us for lunch?”

  “Bella says I have to stay away from fried food.” Navot patted his ample midsection. “She says it’s very fattening.”

  5

  LLADEIFIORI, UMBRIA

  To restore an Old Master painting, Gabriel always said, was to surrender oneself body and soul to the canvas and the artist who had produced it. The painting was always the first thing in his thoughts when he woke and the last thing he saw before dropping off to sleep. Even in his dreams, he could not escape it; nor could he ever walk past a restoration in progress without stopping to examine his work.

  He switched off the halogen lamps now and climbed the stone steps to the second floor. Chiara was propped on one elbow in bed, leafing distractedly through a thick fashion magazine. Her skin was dark from the Umbrian sun and her auburn hair was moving faintly in the breeze of the open window. A dreadful Italian pop song was issuing from the bedside clock radio; two Italian celebrities were engaged in a deep but silent conversation on the muted television. Gabriel pointed the remote at the screen and fired.

  “I was watching that,” she said without looking at him.

  “Oh, really? What was it about?”

  “Something to do with a man and a woman.” She licked her forefingerand elaborately turned the page of her magazine. “Did you boys have a nice time?”

  “Where’s your gun?”

  She lifted the corner of the bedcover and the walnut grip of a Beretta 9mm shone in the light of her reading lamp. Gabriel would have preferred the weapon be more accessible, but he resisted the impulse to chide her. Despite the fact that she had never handled a gun before her recruitment, Chiara routinely outscored him in accuracy on the basement firing range at King Saul Boulevard—a rather remarkable achievement, considering the fact she was the daughter of the chief rabbi of Venice and had spent her youth in the tranquil streets of the city’s ancient Jewish Ghetto. Officially, she was still an Italian citizen. Her association with the Office was a secret, as was her marriage to Gabriel. She covered the Beretta again and flipped another page.

  “How’s Uzi?”

  “He and Bella are going to get married.”

  “Is it serious or just idle talk?”

  “You should see the eyeglasses she has him wearing.”

  “When a man lets a woman choose his eyeglasses, it’s only a matter of time before he’s standing under a chuppah with his foot on a glass.” She looked up and scrutinized him carefully. “Maybe it’s time you had your eyes checked, Gabriel. You were squinting last night when you were watching television.”

  “I was squinting because my eyes were fatigued from working all day.”

  “You never used to squint. You know, Gabriel, you’ve reached an age when most men—”

  “I don’t need glasses, Chiara. And, when I do, I’ll be sure to consult you before choosing the frames.”

  “You look very distinguished when you wear false eyeglasses for cover.” She closed her magazine and lowered the volume on the clock radio. “So is that why Uzi came all the way to Italy to see you? To tell you he was getting married?”

  “The Sword of Allah has hung a contract around my neck. Shamron is concerned about our security.”

  “That sounds like something that could have been handled with a phone call, darling. Surely Uzi had more to say than that.”

  “He wants me to run an errand for him in Rome.”

  “Really? What sort of errand?”

  “It’s need-to-know, Chiara.”

  “Good, Gabriel, because I need to know why you would interrupt our honeymoon to run off on an assignment.”

  “It’s not an assignment. I’ll be back tomorrow night.”

  “What’s the job, Gabriel? And don’t hide behind silly Office rules and regulations. We’ve always told each other everything.” She paused. “Haven’t we?”

  Gabriel sat down on the edge of the bed and told her about Boris Ostrovsky and his unorthodox request for an audience.

  “And you agreed to this?” She gathered her hair into a bun and patted the bed distractedly for a clasp. “Am I the only one who’s considered the possibility that you’re walking straight into a trap?”

  “It may have crossed my mind.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell them to send a stand-in? Surely Uzi can find someone from Special Ops who looks enough like you to fool a Russian journalist who’s never seen you in person before.” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Chiara supplied her own answer. “Because you’re curious what this Russian has to say.”

  “Aren’t you?”

 
“Not enough to interrupt my honeymoon.” Chiara gave up trying to find the clasp and allowed her hair to tumble about her shoulders once more. “Uzi and Shamron will always dream up something to keep pulling you back into the Office, Gabriel, but you only get one honeymoon.”

  Gabriel walked over to the closet and took down a small leather overnight bag from the top shelf. Chiara watched him silently as he filled it with a change of clothing. She could see that further debate was futile.

  “Did Uzi have a bat leveyha?”

  “A very pretty one, actually.”

  “We’re all pretty, Gabriel. You middle-aged Office hacks love to go into the field with a pretty girl on your arm.”

  “Especially when she has a big gun in her handbag.”

  “Who was it?”

  “He said her name was Tamara.”

  “She is pretty. She’s also trouble. Bella better keep an eye on her.” Chiara looked at Gabriel packing his bag. “Will you really be back tomorrow night?”

  “If everything goes according to plan.”

  “When was the last time one of your assignments went according to plan?” She took hold of the Beretta and held it out toward him. “Do you need this?”

  “I have one in the car.”

  “Who’s going to be watching your back? Not those idiots from Rome Station.”

  “Eli’s flying to Rome in the morning.”

  “Let me come with you.”

  “I’ve already lost one wife to my enemies. I don’t want to lose another. ”

  “So what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

  “Make sure no one steals the Poussin. His Holiness will be rather miffed if it vanishes while in my possession.” He kissed her and started toward the door. “And whatever you do, don’t try to follow me. Uzi put a security detail at the front gate.”

  “Bastard,” she murmured as he started down the steps.

  “I heard that, Chiara.”

  She picked up the remote and pointed it at the television.

  “Good.”

  6

  ROME

  To call it a safe flat was no longer accurate. Indeed, Gabriel had spent so much time in the pleasant apartment near the top of the Spanish Steps that the lords of Housekeeping, the division of the Office that handled secure accommodations, referred to it as his Rome address. There were two bedrooms, a large, light-filled sitting room, and a spacious terrace that looked west toward the Piazza di Spagna and St. Peter’s Basilica. Two years earlier, Gabriel had been standing in the shadow of Michelangelo’s dome, at the side of His Holiness Pope Paul VII, when the Vatican was attacked by Islamic terrorists. More than seven hundred people were killed that October afternoon, and the dome of the Basilica had nearly been toppled. At the behest of the CIA and the American president, Gabriel had hunted down and killed the two Saudis who masterminded and financed the operation. The pope’s powerful private secretary, Monsignor Luigi Donati, knew of Gabriel’s involvement in the killings and tacitly approved. So, too, Gabriel suspected, did the Holy Father himself.

  The flat had been fitted with a system capable of recording the time and duration of unwanted entries and intrusions. Even so, Gabriel inserted an old-fashioned telltale between the door and the jamb as he let himself out. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the geniuses in the Office’s Technical division; he was simply a man of the sixteenth century at heart and clung to antiquated ways when it came to matters of tradecraft and security. Computerized telltales were wonderful devices, but a scrap of paper never failed, and it didn’t require an engineer with a Ph.D. from MIT to keep it running.

  It had rained during the night, and the pavements of the Via Gregoriana were still damp as Gabriel stepped from the foyer. He turned to the right, toward the Church of the Trinità dei Monti, and descended the Spanish Steps to the piazza, where he drank his first cappuccino of the day. After deciding that his return to Rome had gone unnoticed by the Italian security services, he hiked back up the Spanish Steps and climbed aboard a Piaggio motorbike. Its little four-stroke engine buzzed like an insect as he sped down the graceful sweep of the Via Veneto.

  The Excelsior Hotel stood near the end of the street, near the Villa Borghese. Gabriel parked on the Corso d’Italia and locked his helmet in the rear storage compartment. Then he put on a pair of dark wraparound sunglasses and a ball cap and headed back to the Via Veneto on foot. He walked nearly the length of the boulevard to the Piazza Barberini, then crossed over to the opposite side and headed back toward the Villa Borghese. Along the way, he spotted four men he assumed to be plainclothes American security—the U.S. Embassy stood at Via Veneto 121—but no one who appeared to be an agent of Russian intelligence.

  The waiters at Doney were setting the sidewalk tables for lunch. Gabriel went inside and drank a second cappuccino while standing at the bar. Then he walked next door to the Excelsior and lifted the receiver of a house phone near the elevators. When the operator came on the line, he asked to speak to a guest named Boris Ostrovsky and was connected to his room right away. Three rings later, the phone was answered by a man speaking English with a pronounced Russian accent. When Gabriel asked to speak to someone named “Mr. Donaldson, ” the Russian-speaking man said there was no one there by that name and immediately hung up.

  Gabriel left the connection open for a few seconds and listened for the sound of a transmitter on the line. Hearing nothing suspicious, he hung up and walked to the Galleria Borghese. He spent an hour looking at paintings and checking his tail for signs of surveillance. Then, at 11:45, he climbed aboard the Piaggio motorbike again and set off toward a quiet square at the edge of the old ghetto. The filetti and Frascati were waiting when he arrived. And so was Eli Lavon.

  I thought you were supposed to be on your honeymoon.”

  "Shamron had other ideas.”

  "You need to learn how to set boundaries.”

  "I could build a Separation Fence and it still wouldn’t stop him.”

  Eli Lavon smiled and pushed a few strands of wispy hair from his forehead. Despite the warmth of the Roman afternoon, he was wearing a cardigan sweater beneath his crumpled tweed jacket and an ascot at his throat. Even Gabriel, who had known Lavon for more than thirty years, sometimes found it difficult to believe that the brilliant, bookish little archaeologist was actually the finest street surveillance artist the Office had ever produced. His ties to the Office, like Gabriel’s, were tenuous at best. He still lectured at the Academy—indeed, no Office recruit ever made it into the field without first spending a few days at Lavon’s legendary feet—but these days his primary work address was Jerusalem’s Hebrew University, where he taught biblical archaeology and regularly took part in digs around the country.

  Their close bond had been formed many years earlier during OperationWrath of God, the secret Israeli intelligence operation to hunt down and kill the perpetrators of the 1972 Munich Olympics massacre. In the Hebrew-based lexicon of the team, Gabriel was known as an aleph. Armed with a .22 caliber Beretta pistol, he had personally assassinated six of the Black September terrorists responsible for Munich, including a man named Wadal Abdel Zwaiter, whom he had killed in the foyer of an apartment building a few miles from where they were seated now. Lavon was an ayin—a tracker and surveillance specialist. They had spent three years stalking their prey across Western Europe, killing both at night and in broad daylight, living in fear that, at any moment, they would be arrested by European police and charged as murderers. When they finally returned home, Gabriel’s temples were the color of ash and his face was that of a man twenty years his senior. Lavon, who had been exposed to the terrorists for long periods of time with no backup, suffered from innumerable stress disorders, including a notoriously fickle stomach. Gabriel winced inwardly as Lavon took a very large bite of the fish. He knew the little watcher would pay for it later.

  “Uzi tells me you’re working in the Judean Desert. I hope it wasn’t something too important.”

  “Only one of the most signi
ficant archaeological expeditions in Israel in the last twenty years. We’ve gone back into the Cave of Letters. But instead of being there with my colleagues, sifting through the relics of our ancient past, I’m in Rome with you.” Lavon’s brown eyes flickered around the piazza. “But, then, we have a bit of history here ourselves, don’t we, Gabriel? In a way, this is where it began for the two of us.”

  “It began in Munich, Eli, not Rome.”

  “I can still smell that damn fig wine he was carrying when you shot him. Do you remember the wine, Gabriel?”

  “I remember, Eli.”

  “Even now, the smell of figs turns my stomach.” Lavon took a bite of the fish. “We’re not going to kill anyone today, are we, Gabriel?”

  “Not today, Eli. Today, we just talk.”

  “You have a picture?”

  Gabriel removed the photograph from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table. Lavon shoved on a pair of smudged half-moon reading glasses and scrutinized the image carefully.

  “These Russians all look the same to me.”

  “I’m sure they feel the same way about you.”

  “I know exactly how they feel about me. Russians made the lives of my ancestors so miserable that they chose to live beside a malarial swamp in Palestine instead. They supported the creation of Israel to begin with, but in the sixties they threw in their lot with those who were sworn to destroy us. The Russians like to portray themselves as allies of the West in the war against international terrorism, but we should never forget they helped to create international terrorism in the first place. They encouraged leftist terror groups across Western Europe in the seventies and eighties, and, of course, they were the patron saints of the PLO. They gave Arafat and his killers all the weapons and explosives they wanted, along with freedom of movement behind the Iron Curtain. Don’t forget, Gabriel, the attack on our athletes in Munich was directed from East Berlin.”

  “Are you finished, Professor?”

  Lavon slipped the photo into the breast pocket of his jacket. Gabriel ordered two plates of spaghetti con carciofi and briefed Lavon on the assignment as they ate the last of the fish.