by Daniel Silva
A horse came across the pasture toward them at an easy canter, ridden by a woman with golden hair. The swelling in her face had receded, and her features had returned to normal. All except for the smudges of darkness beneath her eyes, thought Gabriel. In Sarah’s eyes there were still traces of the nightmare she had endured at the chalet in Canton Uri. She guided the horse expertly alongside the car and peered down at Gabriel. A smile appeared on her face, and for an instant she looked like the same beautiful woman he had seen walking down Q Street in Washington last autumn. Then the smile faded and with two precise jabs of her boot heel she sent the horse galloping across the meadow toward the house.
“She has good days and bad days,” Carter said as he watched her go. “But I’m sure you understand that.”
“Yes, Adrian, I understand.”
“I’ve always found personal grudges counterproductive in a business like ours, but I’ll never forgive Zizi for what he did to her.”
“Neither will I,” said Gabriel. “And I do hold grudges.”
THEY HAD a quiet lunch together in the cool sunlight on the back porch. Afterward Carter saw to the dishes while Gabriel and Sarah set out for a walk through the shadowed woods. A CIA security agent tried to follow them, but Gabriel took the agent’s sidearm and sent him back to the house. Sarah wore jodhpurs and riding boots and a fleece jacket. Gabriel was still dressed in the dark-gray suit he had worn to the Senate hearing. He carried the agent’s Browning Hi-Power in his right hand.
“Adrian doesn’t seem terribly pleased by your performance before the committee.”
“He isn’t.”
“Someone had to deliver the message about our friends the Saudis. Who better than you? After all, you saved the president’s life.”
“No, Sarah, it was you who saved the president. Maybe someday the country will find out what a debt they owe you.”
“I’m not planning to go public any time soon.”
“What are your plans?”
“Adrian didn’t tell you? I’m joining the Agency. I figured the art world could survive without one more curator.”
“Which side? Operations or Intelligence?”
“Intelligence,” she said. “I’ve had enough fieldwork for a lifetime. Besides, it will never be safe for me out there. Zizi made it very clear to me what happens to people who betray him.”
“He has a long reach. What about your security here in America?”
“They’re giving me a new name and a new identity. I get to pick the name. I was wondering whether you would allow me to use your mother’s name?”
“Irene?” Gabriel smiled. “I’d be honored. She was like you—a remarkably courageous woman. The next time you come to Israel, I’ll let you read about what happened to her during the war.”
Sarah paused to finger the blossom of a dogwood, then they walked on through the trees.
“And what about you, Gabriel? What are your plans?”
“I think you and I might be moving in opposite directions.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say anything more right now.”
She pouted and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re not going to start keeping secrets from me now, are you?”
“Now that you’re working for the intelligence service of another country, I’m afraid our relationship will have to take on certain…” He paused, searching for the right word in English. “Parameters.”
“Please, Gabriel. We share a bond that extends far beyond the rules of engagement governing contact between known operatives of other services.”
“I see you’ve started your training.”
“Little by little,” she said. “It helps to relieve the boredom of living alone on this farm.”
“Are you well, Sarah?”
“The days are all right, but the nights are very hard.”
“They will be for a long time. Working for the Agency will help, though. Do you know where they’re going to put you?”
“The Saudi desk,” she said. “I insisted.”
The woods shook with the rumble of distant thunder. Sarah asked about Julian Isherwood.
“At the moment his situation is very similar to yours.”
“Where have you got him?”
“Sarah.”
“Come on, Gabriel.”
“He’s tucked away in an old house near Land’s End in Cornwall.”
“And the gallery?”
“It’s closed at the moment. Your departure from London caused quite a scandal. The boys at the bar in Green’s restaurant miss you very much.”
“I miss them, too. But I miss your team more.”
“Everyone sends their best.” Gabriel hesitated. “They also asked me to apologize to you.”
“For what?”
“We let you down, Sarah. It’s obvious that we were spotted by bin Shafiq or Zizi’s security men.”
“Maybe it was my fault.” She shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. We all came out alive, and we got eleven of them in that house. And we foiled a plot to assassinate the president. Not bad, Gabriel.”
There was another rumble of thunder, this one closer. Sarah looked up at the sky.
“I have to ask you a few questions, Sarah. There are some things we need to know before we can close the books on the operation.”
Her gaze remained skyward. “You need to know what I told them in that house in Switzerland.”
“I know you were filled with drugs. I know you’ve probably tried to purge it from your memory.”
She looked at him and shook her head. “I haven’t tried to forget,” she said. “In fact, I remember every word.”
The first raindrops began to fall. Sarah seemed not to notice. They walked on through the trees, and she told him everything.
CARTER DROVE Gabriel to Dulles Airport and shepherded him through security. They sat together in a special diplomatic lounge and waited for the flight to be called. Carter passed the time by watching the evening news. Gabriel’s attention was focused on the man seated on the opposite side of the lounge: Prince Bashir, the Saudi ambassador to the United States.
“Don’t even think about it, Gabriel.”
“Public confrontations aren’t my style, Adrian.”
“Maybe not, but Bashir rather enjoys them.”
As if on cue the Saudi rose and walked across the lounge. He stood over Gabriel but did not extend his hand. “I hear you made quite a spectacle of yourself on Capitol Hill this morning, Mr. Allon. Jewish lies and propaganda but amusing nonetheless.”
“The testimony was supposed to be secret, Bashir.”
“Nothing happens in this town that I don’t know about. And it’s Prince Bashir.” The ambassador looked at Carter. “Were you responsible for this circus today, Adrian?”
“The senators issued the subpoena, Your Royal Highness. The Agency had nothing to do with it.”
“You should have done something to prevent it.”
“This isn’t Riyadh, Mr. Ambassador.”
Bashir glared at Carter, then returned to his seat.
“I guess I won’t be eligible for the Saudi retirement plan.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” said Carter.
Ten minutes later Gabriel’s flight was called. Carter walked him to his gate.
“Oh, I nearly forgot something. The president called while you were talking to Sarah. He wanted to say thank you. He said he’ll catch you another time.”
“Tell him not to worry about it.”
“He also said he wanted you to move forward on that matter you discussed on the South Lawn.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure about what?”
“Are you sure the president used those words?”
“Positive,” said Carter. “What did you two talk about that night, anyway?”
“Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”
“Good man,” said Carter.
T
hey shook hands, then Gabriel turned and boarded the plane.
40.
Tiberias, Israel
THE NEXT NIGHT WAS SHABBAT. Gabriel slept until early afternoon, then showered and dressed and drove with Chiara to the Valley of Jezreel. They stopped briefly at Tel Megiddo to collect Eli Lavon, then continued on to the Sea of Galilee. It was nearly sunset by the time they reached the honey-colored limestone villa perched on a ledge overlooking the sea. Shamron greeted them at the front door. His face looked thin and drawn, and he moved with the help of a cane. It was olive wood and very handsome.
“The prime minister gave it to me this morning when I left the rehabilitation center in Jerusalem. I nearly hit him with it. Gilah thinks it makes me look more distinguished.” He showed them inside and looked at Gabriel. “I see you’re wearing my jacket. Now that it’s clear I’m going to live for a very long time, I’d like it back.”
Gabriel removed the coat and hung it on a hook in the entrance hall. From inside the villa he heard the voice of Gilah calling them to the table for supper. When they entered the dining room she was already starting to light the candles. Yonatan and his wife were there. So were Rimona and her husband. Ronit sat next to her father and tactfully filled his plate from the serving dishes as they were passed round the table. They did not speak of the bin Shafiq operation or the Vatican. Instead they talked about Gabriel’s appearance before the American Congress. Judging from Shamron’s sour expression, he did not approve. This was made clear to Gabriel after supper, when Shamron led him out onto the terrace to talk in private.
“You were right to reject the subpoena the first time, Gabriel. You should have never changed your mind. The thought of you seated before that congressional committee, even in secret, set back my rehabilitation six months.”
“The wellspring of global jihad is Saudi Arabia and Wahhabism,” Gabriel said. “The Senate needed to be told that. So did the American people.”
“You could have put your thoughts in a secret cable. You didn’t have to sit there before them answering questions—like a mere mortal.”
They sat down in a pair of comfortable chairs facing the balustrade. A full moon was reflected in the calm surface of the Sea of Galilee, and beyond the lake, black and shapeless, loomed the Golan Heights. Shamron liked it best on his terrace because it faced eastward, toward his enemies. He reached beneath his seat cushion and came out with a silver cigarette case and his old Zippo lighter.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Ari.”
“I couldn’t while I was at Hadassah and the rehabilitation center. This is my first since the night of the attack.”
“Mazel tov,” said Gabriel bitterly.
“If you breathe a word to Gilah, I’ll cane you.”
“You think you can fool Gilah? She knows everything.”
Shamron brought the topic of conversation back to Gabriel’s testimony in Washington.
“Perhaps you had an ulterior motive,” Shamron said. “Perhaps you wanted to do more than just tell the American people the truth about their friends the Saudis.”
“And what might my ulterior motive have been?”
“After your performance at the Vatican, you were arguably the most famous intelligence officer in the world. And now…” Shamron shrugged. “Ours is a business that does not look fondly on notoriety. You’ve made it nearly impossible for us ever to use you again in a covert capacity.”
“I’m not taking the Special Ops job, Ari. Besides, they’ve already offered it to Uzi.”
“Uzi is a fine officer, but he’s not you.”
“Uzi is the reason Sarah Bancroft is alive. He’s exactly the right man to lead Special Ops.”
“You should have never used an American girl.”
“I wish we had two more just like her.”
Shamron seemed to have lost interest in his cigarette. He slipped it back into the case and asked Gabriel about his plans.
“I have some unfinished business, starting with the van Gogh. I promised Hannah Weinberg I’d get it back for her. It’s a promise I intend to keep, regardless of my newfound notoriety.”
“Do you know where it is?”
Gabriel nodded. “I inserted a beacon into the stretcher during the restoration,” he said. “The painting is in Zizi’s mansion on the Île de la Cité.”
“After everything you’ve been through with the French, you’re planning to steal a painting in Paris?” Shamron shook his head. “It would be easier for you to break into the house of your friend the American president than one of Zizi’s mansions.”
Gabriel dismissed the old man’s concerns with a Shamronian wave of his hand.
“And then?”
Gabriel was silent.
“Ronit has decided to come home,” Shamron said, “but I get the feeling you’re about to leave us again.”
“I haven’t made any decisions yet.”
“I hope you’ve made a decision about Chiara.”
“We’re going to marry as soon as possible.”
“When are you planning to break the news to Leah?”
Gabriel told him.
“Take Gilah with you,” Shamron said. “They spent a great deal of time together when you were in the field. Leah needs a mother at a time like this. Gilah is the ultimate mother.”
GABRIEL AND CHIARA spent the night at the villa in a room facing the lake. In the morning they all gathered for breakfast on the sunlit terrace, then went their separate ways. Yonatan headed north to rejoin his unit; Rimona, who had returned to duty at Aman, went south to rejoin hers. Gilah came with Gabriel and Chiara. They dropped Lavon at the dig at Tel Megiddo, then continued on to Jerusalem.
It was late morning when they arrived at the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital. Dr. Bar-Zvi, a rabbinical-looking man with a long beard, was waiting for them in the lobby. They went to his office and spent an hour discussing the best way to tell Leah the news. Her grasp on reality was tenuous at best. For years images of Vienna had played ceaselessly in her memory, like a loop of videotape. Now she tended to drift back and forth between past and present, often within the span of a few seconds. Gabriel felt obligated to tell her the truth but wanted it to be as painless as possible.
“She seems to respond to Gilah,” the doctor said. “Perhaps we should talk to her alone before you do.” He looked at his watch. “She’s outside in the garden right now. It’s her favorite place. Why don’t we do it there.”
SHE WAS SEATED in her wheelchair, in the shade of a stone pine. Her hands, scarred and twisted, held a sprig of olive branch. Her hair, once long and black, was cropped short and nearly all gray. Her eyes remained vacant as Gilah and the doctor spoke. Ten minutes later they left her. Gabriel walked down the garden path and knelt before the wheelchair, holding the remnants of her hand. It was Leah who spoke first.
“Do you love this girl?”
“Yes, Leah, I love her very much.”
“You’ll be good to her?”
The tears rolled onto his cheeks. “Yes, Leah, I’ll be good to her.”
She looked away from him. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”
“God, how I hate this city, but the snow makes it beautiful. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain on Tel Aviv.” She looked at him again. “You’ll still come visit me?”
“Yes, Leah, I’ll visit you.”
And then she looked away again. “Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat tightly. The streets are slippery.”
“He’s fine, Leah. Be careful driving home.”
“I’ll be careful, Gabriel. Give me a kiss.”
Gabriel pressed his lips against the scar tissue on her ruined cheek and closed his eyes.
Leah whispered, “One last kiss.”
THE WALLS of Gabriel’s bedroom were hung with paintings. There were three paintings by his grandfather—the only surviving works Gabriel had ever been able to find—an
d more than a dozen by his mother. There was also a portrait, painted in the style of Egon Schiele, that bore no signature. It showed a young man with prematurely gray hair and a gaunt face haunted by the shadow of death. Gabriel had always told Chiara that the painting was a self-portrait. Now, as she lay beside him, he told her the truth.
“When did she paint it?” Chiara asked.
“Right after I returned from the Black September operation.”
“She was amazing.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, looking at the painting. “She was much better than me.”
Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “How long are we going to stay here?”
“Until we find him.”
“And how long is that going to take?”
“Maybe a month. Maybe a year. You know how these things go, Chiara.”
“I suppose we’re going to need some furniture.”
“Why?”
“Because we can’t live with only a studio and a bed.”
“Yes, we can,” he said. “What else do we need?”
41.
Paris: August
THE SECURITY SYSTEM DETECTED the intrusion at 2:38 A.M. It was sensor number 154, located on one of fourteen pairs of French doors leading from the rear garden into the mansion. The system was not connected to a commercial security company or to the Paris police, only to a central station within the mansion, staffed round the clock by a permanent detachment of security men, all former members of the Saudi National Guard.
The first security man arrived at the open French door within fifteen seconds of the silent alarm and was knocked unconscious by one of the six masked intruders. Two more guards arrived ten seconds later, guns drawn, and were shot to death by the same intruder. The fourth guard to arrive on the scene, a twenty-eight-year-old from Jeddah who had no wish to die for the possessions of a billionaire, raised his hands in immediate surrender.