Prince of fire ga-5

by Daniel Silva

  Azouri signaled the waiter and ordered another bottle of the French champagne. Refusing an offer of work wasn’t going to keep him from having a good meal on the Office tab. Gabriel tossed an envelope onto the table. Azouri eyed it thoughtfully but made no move for it.

  “How much is in there, Mike?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “What flavor?”

  “Dollars.”

  “So what’s the deal? Half now, half on delivery? I’m just a dumb Arab, but two thousand and two thousand add up to four thousand, and I’m not going into Ein al-Hilweh for four thousand dollars.”

  “Two thousand is only the retainer.”

  “And how much for delivery of the information?”

  “Another five.”

  Azouri shook his head. “No, another ten.”

  “Six.”

  Another shake of the head. “Nine.”

  “Seven.”

  “Eight.”

  “Done,” said Gabriel. “Two thousand in advance, another eight on delivery. Not bad for an afternoon’s work. If you behave yourself we’ll even throw in gas money.”

  “Oh, you’ll pay for the gas, Mike. My expenses are always separate from my fee.” The waiter brought the second bottle of champagne. When he was gone again, Azouri said, “So what do you want to know?”

  “I want you to find someone.”

  “There are forty-five thousand refugees in that camp, Mike. Help me out a little bit.”

  “He’s an old man named al-Tamari.”

  “First name?”

  “We don’t know it.”

  Azouri sipped his wine. “It’s not a terribly common name. It shouldn’t be a problem. What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s a refugee from the Western Galilee.”

  “Most of them are. Which village?”

  Gabriel told him.

  “Family details?”

  “Two sons were killed in eighty-two.”

  “In the camp?”

  Gabriel nodded. “They were Fatah. Apparently his wife was killed, too.”

  “Lovely. Go on.”

  “He had a daughter. She ended up in Europe. I want to know everything you can find out about her. Where she went to school. What she studied. Where she lived. Who she slept with.”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Age?”

  “Early thirties, I’d say. Spoke decent French.”

  “Why are you looking for her?”

  “We think she may have been involved in the attack on the Gare de Lyon.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  Gabriel shook his head. Azouri looked out at the beach for a long moment. “So you think that by tracing the background of the girl, you’re going to get to the big boss? The brains behind the operation?”

  “Something like that, Nabil.”

  “How do I play it with the old man?”

  “Play it any way you want to,” Gabriel said. “Just get me what I need.”

  “This girl,” the Lebanese said. “What did she look like?”

  Gabriel handed Azouri a magazine he’d brought down from his room. Azouri opened it and leafed through the pages until he came upon the sketch Gabriel had made aboard Fidelity.

  “She looked like that,” Gabriel said. “She looked exactly like that.”

  He heard nothing from Nabil Azouri for three days. For all Gabriel knew, the Lebanese had absconded with the down payment or had been killed trying to get into Ein al-Hilweh. Then, on the fourth morning, the telephone rang. It was Azouri, calling from Beirut. He would be at the Palm Beach Hotel in time for lunch. Gabriel hung up the phone, then he went down to the beach and took a long run at the water’s edge. His bruises were beginning to fade, and much of the soreness had left his body. When he had finished, he returned to his room to shower and change. By the time he arrived at the poolside restaurant, Azouri was working on his second glass of champagne.

  “What a fucking place, Mike. Hell on earth.”

  “I’m not paying you ten thousand dollars for a report on conditions at Ein al-Hilweh,” Gabriel said. “That’s the UN’s job. Did you find the old man? Is he still alive?”

  “I found him.”

  “And?”

  “The girl left Ein al-Hilweh in 1990. She’s never been back.”

  “Her name?”

  “Fellah,” said Azouri. “Fellah al-Tamari.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She was a smart girl, apparently. Earned a UN grant to study in Europe. The old man told her to take it and never come back to Lebanon.”

  “Where did she study?” Gabriel asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

  “France,” Azouri said. “Paris first, then she went somewhere in the south. The old man wasn’t sure. Apparently there were long periods with no contact.”

  “I’m sure there were.”

  “He didn’t seem to fault his daughter. He wanted a better life for her in Europe. He didn’t want her wallowing in the Palestinian tragedy, as he put it to me.”

  “She never forgot about Ein al-Hilweh,” Gabriel said absently. “What did she study?”

  “She was an archaeologist.”

  Gabriel remembered the appearance of her fingernails. He’d had the impression then that she was a potter or someone who worked with her hands outdoors. An archaeologist certainly fit that description.

  “Archaeology? You’re certain.”

  “He seemed very clear on that point.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah,” Azouri said. “Two years ago she sent him a very strange letter. She told him to destroy all the letters and photographs she’d sent from Europe over the years. The old man disobeyed his daughter’s wishes. The letters and photos were all he had left of her. A couple of weeks later, a bully boy shows up in his room and burned the things for him.”

  A friend of Khaled, Gabriel thought. Khaled was trying to erase her past.

  “How did you play it with him?”

  “You got the information you wanted. Leave the operational details to me, Mike.”

  “Did you show him the sketch?”

  “I showed him. He wept. He hadn’t seen his daughter in fifteen years.”

  An hour later, Gabriel checked out of the hotel and drove to the airport, where he waited until the evening flight to Tel Aviv. It was after midnight by the time he returned to Narkiss Street. Chiara was asleep. She stirred as he climbed into bed, but did not wake. When he pressed his lips against her bare shoulder, she murmured incoherently and rolled away from him. He looked at his nightstand. The papers were gone.

  35

  TEL MEGIDDO, ISRAEL

  Next morning Gabriel went to Armageddon.

  He left his Skoda in the parking lot of the visitors center and hiked up the footpath to the top of the mount through the searing sunlight. He paused for a moment to gaze out across the Jezreel Valley. For Gabriel the valley was the place of his birth, but biblical scholars and those obsessed by endtime prophesies believed it would be the setting for the apocalyptic confrontation between the forces of good and evil. Regardless of what calamity might lay ahead, Tel Megiddo had already witnessed much bloodshed. Located at the crossroads between Syria, Egypt, and Mesopotamia, it had been the site of dozens of major battles over the millennia. Assyrians, Israelites, Canaanites, Egyptians, Philistines, Greeks, Romans, and Crusaders-all had shed blood beneath this hillock. Napolean defeated the Ottomans there in 1799, and a little more than a century later General Allenby of the British army defeated them again.

  The soil on the top of the hill was cut by a labyrinth of trenches and pits. Tel Megiddo had been under intermittent archaeological excavation for more than a century. So far, researchers had discovered evidence that the city atop the mount had been destroyed and rebuilt some twenty-five times. A dig was under way at the moment. From one of the trenches came the sound of English spoken with an American acc
ent. Gabriel walked over and looked down. Two American college students, a boy and a girl, were hunched over something in the soil. Bones, thought Gabriel, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “I’m looking for Professor Lavon.”

  “He’s working in K this morning.” It was the girl who’d spoken to him.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The excavation trenches are laid out in a grid pattern. Each plot is lettered. That way we can chart the location of every artifact. You’re standing next to F. See the sign? Professor Lavon is working in K.”

  Gabriel made his way over to the pit marked K and looked down. At the bottom of the trench, two meters below the surface, crouched an elfin figure wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat. He was scratching at the hard subsoil with a small pick and appeared thoroughly engrossed in his work, but then he usually did.

  “Find anything interesting, Eli?”

  The picking stopped. The figure looked over his shoulder.

  “Just a few pieces of broken pottery,” he said. “How about you?”

  Gabriel reached down into the trench. Eli Lavon took hold of Gabriel’s hand and pulled himself out.

  They sat in the shade of a blue tarpaulin and drank mineral water at a folding table. Gabriel, his eyes on the valley below, asked Lavon what he was doing at Tel Megiddo.

  “There’s a popular school of archaeological thought these days called biblical minimalism. The minimalists believe, among other things, that King Solomon was a mythical figure, something of a Jewish King Arthur. We’re trying to prove them wrong.”

  “Did he exist?”

  “Of course,” said Lavon, “and he built a city right here at Megiddo.”

  Lavon removed his floppy hat and used it to beat the gray-brown dust from his khaki trousers. As usual he seemed to be wearing all of his clothing at once-three shirts, by Gabriel’s count, with a red cotton handkerchief knotted at his throat. His sparse, unkempt gray hair moved in the faint breeze. He pushed a stray lock from his forehead and appraised Gabriel with a pair of quick brown eyes.

  “Isn’t it a little soon for you to be up here in this heat?”

  The last time Gabriel had seen Lavon, he’d been lying in a hospital bed in the Hadassah Medical Center.

  “I’m only a volunteer. I work for a few hours in the early morning. My doctor says it’s good therapy.” Lavon sipped his mineral water. “Besides, I find this place provides a valuable lesson in humility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “People come and go from this place, Gabriel. Our ancestors ruled it briefly a very long time ago. Now we rule it again. But one day we’ll be gone, too. The only question is how long will we be here this time, and what will we leave behind for men like me to unearth in the future? I hope it’s something more than the footprint of a Separation Fence.”

  “I’m not ready to give it up just yet, Eli.”

  “So I gather. You’ve been a busy boy. I’ve been reading about you in the newspapers. That’s not a good thing in your line of work-being in the newspapers.”

  “It was your line of work, too.”

  “Once,” he said, “a long time ago.”

  Lavon had been a promising young archaeologist in September 1972 when Shamron recruited him to be a member of the Wrath of God team. He’d been an ayin, a tracker. He’d followed the Black Septembrists and learned their habits. In many ways his job had been the most dangerous of all, because he had been exposed to the terrorists for days on end with no backup. The work had left him with a nervous disorder and chronic intestinal problems.

  “How much do you know about the case, Eli?”

  “I’d heard through the grapevine you were back in the country, something to do with the Rome bombing. Then Shamron showed up at my door one evening and told me you were chasing Sabri’s boy. Is it true? Did little Khaled really do Rome?”

  “He’s not a little boy anymore. He did Rome, and he did Gare de Lyon. And Buenos Aires and Istanbul before that.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. Terrorism is in Khaled’s veins. He drank it with his mother’s milk.” Lavon shook his head. “You know, if I’d been watching your back in France, like I did in the old days, none of this would have happened.”

  “That’s probably true, Eli.”

  Lavon’s street skills were legendary. Shamron always said that Eli Lavon could disappear while shaking your hand. Once a year he went to the Academy to pass along the secrets of his trade to the next generation. Indeed, the watchers who’d been in Marseilles had probably spent time sitting at Lavon’s feet.

  “So what brings you to Armageddon?”

  Gabriel laid a photograph on the tabletop.

  “Handsome devil,” Lavon said. “Who is he?”

  Gabriel laid a second version of the same photo on the table. This one included the figure seated at the subject’s left, Yasir Arafat.

  “Khaled?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I think you and Khaled might have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gabriel looked out at the excavation trenches.

  A TRIO OF American students joined them beneath the shade of the tarpaulin. Lavon and Gabriel excused themselves and walked slowly around the perimeter of the dig. Gabriel told him everything, beginning with the dossier discovered in Milan and ending with the information Nabil Azouri had brought out of Ein al-Hilweh. Lavon listened without asking questions, but Gabriel could see, in Lavon’s clever brown eyes, that he was already making connections and searching for further avenues of exploration. He was more than just a skilled surveillance artist. Like Gabriel, Lavon was the child of Holocaust survivors. After the Wrath of God operation, he had settled in Vienna and opened a small investigative bureau called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. Operating on a shoestring budget, he had managed to track down millions of dollars in looted Jewish assets and had played a significant role in prying a multibillion-dollar settlement from the banks of Switzerland. Five months earlier a bomb had exploded at Lavon’s office. Lavon’s two assistants were killed; Lavon, seriously injured, had been in a coma for several weeks. The man who planted the bomb had been working for Erich Radek.

  “So you think Fellah al-Tamari knew Khaled?”

  “Without question.”

  “It seems a bit out of character. To remain hidden all those years, he must have been a careful chap.”

  “That’s true,” Gabriel said, “but he knew that Fellah would be killed in the bombing of the Gare de Lyon and that his secret would be protected. She was in love with him, and he lied to her.”

  “I see your point.”

  “But the most compelling piece of evidence that they knew each other comes from her father. Fellah told him to burn the letters and the photographs she’d sent over the years. That means Khaled must have been in them.”

  “As Khaled?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “It was more threatening than that. She must have mentioned him by his other name-his French name.”

  “So you think Khaled met the girl under ordinary circumstances and recruited her sometime after?”

  “That’s the way he’d play it,” Gabriel said. “That’s how his father would have played it, too.”

  “They could have met anywhere.”

  “Or they could have met somewhere just like this.”

  “A dig?”

  “She was an archaeology student. Maybe Khaled was, too. Or maybe he was a professor, like you.”

  “Or maybe he was just some good-looking Arab guy she met in a bar.”

  “We know her name, Eli. We know she was a student and that she studied archaeology. If we follow the trail of Fellah, it will lead us back to Khaled. I’m sure of it.”

  “So follow the trail.”

  “For obvious reasons, I can’t go back to Europe just yet.”

  “Why not turn it over to the Office and let their searchers do the job?”

  “
Because after the fiasco in Paris there’s not going to be an appetite for having another go at Khaled on European soil-at least not officially. Besides, I am the Office, and I’m giving it to you. I want you to find him, Eli. Quietly. That’s your special gift. You know how to do these sorts of things without making a racket.”

  “True, but I’ve lost a step or two.”

  “Are you fit enough to travel?”

  “As long as there’s no rough stuff. That’s your department. I’m the bookish one, you’re the muscle Jew.”

  Lavon dug a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, cupping his hand against the breeze. He looked out over the Valley of Jezreel for a moment before speaking again.

  “But you always were, weren’t you, Gabriel?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The muscle Jew. You like to play the role of the sensitive artist, but deep down you’re more like Shamron than you realize.”

  “He’s going to kill again. Maybe he’ll wait until next April, or maybe a target will come along sooner-something that will allow him to temporarily quench his thirst for Jewish blood.”

  “Maybe you suffer from the same thirst?”

  “A little,” Gabriel conceded, “but this isn’t about revenge. It’s about justice. And it’s about protecting the lives of innocents. Will you find him for me, Eli?”

  Lavon nodded. “Don’t worry, Gabriel. I’ll find him-before he can kill again.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, looking down at the land.

  “Did we drive them out, Eli?”

  “The Canaanites?”

  “No, Eli. The Arabs.”

  “We certainly didn’t ask them to stay,” Lavon said. “Maybe it was easier that way.”

  A blue sedan was idling in Narkiss Street. Gabriel recognized the face of the man seated behind the wheel. He entered the apartment house and climbed quickly up the stairs. Two suitcases stood on the landing, outside the half-open door. Chiara was seated in the living room, dressed in a smart black European two-piece suit and high-heeled shoes. Her face had makeup on it. Gabriel had never seen Chiara with makeup before.