The Messenger
Page 30
“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 wi
th 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.”
“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.
Fifteen minutes after entering the trees, he glimpsed the house for the first time. There were lights burning in the ground-floor windows, and a single window was illuminated on the second story. The guards were sheltering in the warmth of one of the jeeps. The engine was running and the headlights were doused. The gate was open.
“Do you have a clean shot, Mikhail?”
“Yes.”
“Which one is best from your angle?”
“The driver.”
“It’s nearly fifty yards, Mikhail. Can you get him cleanly?”
“I can get him.”
“A head shot, Mikhail. We need to do it quietly.”
“I have the shot.”
“Line it up and wait for my signal. We shoot together. And God help us if we miss.”
“SO ALLON asked you to help him?”
“Yes.”
“And you agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Instantly?”
“Yes.”
“No hesitation.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re evil. And I hate you.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“You wanted the truth.”
“What happened next?”
“I quit my job at the Phillips Collection and moved to London.”
GABRIEL TOOK careful aim at the man in the passenger seat.
“Are you ready, Mikhail?”
“Ready.”
“Two shots, on my mark, in five, four, three, two…”
Gabriel squeezed the trigger twice. Four holes appeared almost simultaneously in the windshield of the jeep. He sprinted up the track through the knee-deep snow, Navot at his heels, and approached the jeep cautiously with the Beretta in his outstretched hands. Mikhail had managed two fatal head shots on the driver, but Gabriel’s man had been hit in the cheek and upper chest and was still semiconscious.
Gabriel shot him twice through the passenger-side window, then stood motionless for an instant, scanning the terrain for any sign their presence had been detected. It was Navot who noticed the guard coming out of the trees at the left side of the house and Mikhail who dropped him with a single head shot that sprayed blood and brain tissue across the virgin snow. Gabriel turned and headed across the clearing toward the chalet, with the other three men at his back.
“TELL ME ABOUT this man Julian Isherwood.”
“Julian is a dear sweet man.”
“He is a Jew?”
“Never came up.”
“Julian Isherwood is a longtime agent of Israeli intelligence?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“So after leaving the Phillips Collection you went immediately to work as Julian Isherwood’s assistant director?”
“That’s correct.”
“But you were a complete amateur. When were you trained?”
“At night.”
“Where?”
“At
a country house south of London.”
“Where was this country house?”
“Surrey, I think. I never caught the name of the village.”
“It was a permanent Israeli safe house?”
“A rental. Very temporary.”
“There were other people there besides Allon?”
“Yes.”
“They used other people to help train you?”
“Yes.”
“Give me some of their names.”
“The people who came from Tel Aviv never gave me their names.”
“And what about the other members of Allon’s London team?”
“What about them?”
“Give me their names.”
“Please don’t make me do this.”
“Give me their names, Sarah.”
“Please, don’t.”
He hit her hard enough to knock her from her chair. She hung there a moment, the handcuffs carving into her wrists, while he screamed at her for names.
“Tell me their names, Sarah. All of them.”
“There was a man named Yaakov.”
“Who else?”
“Yossi.”
“Give me another name, Sarah.”
“Eli.”
“Another.”
“Dina.”
“Another.”
“Rimona.”
“And these were the same people who followed you in Saint Bart’s?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the man who first approached you on the beach at Saline?”
“Yaakov.”
“Who was the woman who left the message in the bathroom for you at the restaurant in Saline?”
“Rimona.”
“Who was girl with the limp who came to Le Tetou restaurant right before you went to the restroom?”
“Dina.”
“They’re all Jews, these people.”
“Would that come as a surprise to you?”
“And what about you, Sarah? Are you a Jew?”
“No, I’m not a Jew.”
“Then why did you help them?”
“Because I hate you.”
“Yes, and look what it’s gotten you.”
THEY ENCOUNTERED one more guard before reaching the chalet. He came from their right, around the corner of the house, and foolishly stepped into the open with his weapon still at his side. Gabriel and Mikhail fired together. The shots were muffled by the silencers, but the guard emitted a single piercing scream as the volley of rounds tore into his chest. Two faces, like figures in a shooting gallery, appeared suddenly in the illuminated windows of the house—one in a ground-floor window directly in front of Gabriel, a second on the upper floor at the peak of the roof. Gabriel took out the man in the first-floor window while Mikhail saw to the one on the second.