Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (31 page)

But as he watched her now he knew there was something wrong. She had been on edge all day. She had refused to leave the gallery. He had invited her to lunch at Wilton’s—nothing suspicious, mind you: no ulterior motives—but she had declined and ordered a sandwich delivered from the café instead. Perhaps it had something to do with that Arab boy who’d come to the gallery the other night—Yusef, she had called him.
Or perhaps it was Gabriel.
Isherwood was certain of one thing. If Gabriel ever hurt her, the way he hurt that little boy in Cornwall—God, what was his name? Pearl? Puck? No, Peel it was—
well
… . Unfortunately, there was not much he could do to Gabriel except never forgive him.

Outside, he heard two short bursts of an automotive horn. He stood and walked to the window. Below him, on the bricks of Mason’s Yard, was a delivery van standing just outside the sealed doors of the loading bay.

Funny, there were no deliveries scheduled for today. The driver honked again, long and loud this time.
For Christ’s sake,
Isherwood thought.
Who the hell are you? What do you want?

Then he peered down through the front windshield. Because of the angle he could not see the driver’s face, he could only see a pair of hands, wrapped around the steering wheel. He would have recognized those hands anywhere. Best hands in the business.

They rode the lift to the upper gallery, Jacqueline between them like a prisoner, Gabriel to her left, Shamron to her right. She tried to catch Gabriel’s eye, but he was looking straight ahead. When the door opened, Shamron guided her to the viewing bench as though he were placing a witness in the dock. She sat with her legs crossed at the ankles, elbows resting on her knees, her chin resting on her hands. Gabriel stood behind her. Shamron paced the length of the gallery like a prospective buyer unimpressed with the merchandise.

He spoke for twenty minutes without pausing. As Jacqueline watched him, she thought about the night he asked her to join the Office. She felt the same sense of purpose and duty she had felt that night. Shamron’s taut little body portrayed so much strength that her fears seemed to melt away. On its face what he was asking of her was outrageous—accompany the world’s most dangerous terrorist on a mission—but she was able to evaluate his words without the cumbersome emotion of fear. She thought:
Shamron is not afraid; therefore I am not afraid.
She had to admit that she was enthralled by the mere idea of it. Imagine, the girl from Marseilles whose grandparents were murdered in the Holocaust, helping to destroy Tariq al-Hourani and preserve the security of Israel. It would be the perfect end to her career with the Office, the fulfillment of every desire that made her join in the first place. It would also prove to Gabriel that she could be brave too.

“You have every right to tell us no,” Shamron said. “You signed up for a very different operation than this—one much shorter in duration and with considerably less physical risk. But the situation has changed. Sometimes operations are like that.”

He stopped pacing and stood directly in front of her. “But I can assure you of one thing, Jacqueline. Your safety will be our first priority. You’ll never be alone. We’ll walk you to the airplane and be waiting at the other end when you come off. We’ll go wherever you go. And the first time an opportunity presents itself, we’ll move in and end things. You also have my word that if your life is in danger, we will move in at that moment, regardless of the consequences. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

She nodded. Shamron reached into his briefcase, withdrew a small gift box, about two inches by two inches, and handed it to Jacqueline. She opened it. A gold lighter, nestled in white cotton filler.

“It sends out a beacon with a range of thirty miles. Which means if something goes wrong—if we lose contact with you for some reason—we’ll always be able to find you again.”

Jacqueline removed the lighter from the box and snapped the hammer. The lighter expelled a slender tongue of flame. When she slipped the lighter into the breast pocket of her blouse, Shamron’s face broke into a brief smile. “I feel obligated to inform you that your friend Gabriel has serious reservations about this whole thing.” He was on the move again, this time standing before the landscape by Claude. “Gabriel is afraid you may be walking straight into a trap. Usually I trust Gabriel’s opinion. We have a considerable history between us. But in this case I find myself in respectful disagreement with him.”

“I understand,” Jacqueline murmured, but she was thinking of the night she had brought Yusef to this very room.

“Claude was born in France, but he lived almost his entire life in Venice, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Actually, you’re mistaken. Claude lived and worked in Rome.”

Perhaps he was testing her, even then.

Shamron continued, “I could tell you many things. I could tell you that Tariq is an animal with the blood of hundreds of Jews on his hands. I could remind you that he killed our ambassador and his wife in cold blood in Paris. I could remind you that he murdered a great friend of Israel and his wife in Amsterdam. I could tell you that he’s planning to strike again. That you will be doing a great service to the State of Israel and the Jewish people. I could tell you all these things, but I can’t tell you to do this.”

Jacqueline looked at Gabriel, but he was standing in front of the del Vaga, craning his neck sideways, as if he was looking for flaws in the last restoration. Don’t look at me, he was saying. This is your decision, yours alone.

Shamron left them alone. Gabriel crossed the room and stood where Shamron had been. Jacqueline wanted him closer, but Gabriel seemed to require a buffer zone. His face had already changed. It was the same change that had come over him in Tunis. There had been two Gabriels in Tunis. The Gabriel of the surveillance phase, when they had been lovers, and Gabriel the night of the assassination. She remembered the way he had looked during the drive from the beach to the villa: part grim determination, part dread. He looked the same way now. It was his killing face. When he spoke, he resumed where Shamron had left off. Only the quality of his voice was different. When Shamron spoke Jacqueline could almost hear drums beating. Gabriel spoke softly and quietly, as if he were telling a story to a child at bedtime.

“Your link to the Office will be the telephone in your flat here in London. The line will be routed through to headquarters in Tel Aviv on a secure link. When you arrive at your destination, tell Tariq you need to check your messages. When you call, the people in the Office will see the number you’re dialing from and locate it. If you’re alone you can even talk to them and pass along messages to us. It will be very secure.”

“And what if he refuses to let me use the telephone?”

“Then you throw a fit. You tell him that Yusef never said you wouldn’t be allowed to use the telephone. You tell him Yusef never said you were going to become a prisoner. Tell him that unless you’re allowed to check your messages you’re leaving. Remember, as far as you know, this man is a Palestinian dignitary of some sort. He’s on a diplomatic mission. He’s not someone you’re supposed to fear. If he senses you’re afraid of him, he’ll suspect you know more than you should know.”

“I understand.”

“Don’t be surprised if you hear messages on your machine. We’ll place a few there. Remember, according to the rules laid down by Yusef, no one but Julian Isherwood is allowed to know that you’ve gone away. Perhaps Isherwood will call and ask when you’re planning to return. Perhaps he’ll have some sort of emergency at the gallery that will require your attention. Perhaps a family member or a friend will call from Paris to see how things are going for you in London. Maybe a man will call and ask you to dinner. You’re an attractive woman. It would be suspicious if there weren’t other men pursuing you.”

She thought:
So why not you, Gabriel?

“Tonight, before you give him your answer, I want you to express serious doubts about the whole thing one more time. To Jacqueline Delacroix the concept of traveling with a strange man might sound reasonable, but to Dominique Bonard it sounds like utter lunacy. I want you to quarrel with him. I want you to force him to make assurances about your safety. In the end, of course, you’ll agree to go, but not without a fight. Do you understand me?”

Jacqueline nodded slowly, mesmerized by the serene intensity of Gabriel’s voice.

“Make sure you have this conversation in his flat. I want to hear what he has to say. I want to listen to his voice one last time. After you agree to do it, don’t be surprised if he refuses to allow you to leave his presence. Don’t be surprised if he moves you to another location for the night. Dominique Bonard may want to complain about it—she may want to make idle threats about walking out—but Jacqueline Delacroix should not be surprised in any way. And no matter where he takes you, we’ll be close by. We’ll be watching. I’ll be watching.”

He paused for a moment and, like Shamron before him, began to pace the length of the gallery slowly. He paused in front of the Luini and gazed upon the image of Venus. Jacqueline wondered whether he was capable of appreciating the beauty in a piece of art or whether he had been condemned to search only for flaws. He turned around and sat down next to her on the bench. “I want to tell you one more thing. I want you to be prepared for how it’s going to end. It may happen someplace quiet, completely out of sight, or it may happen in the middle of a busy street. The point I’m trying to make is that you’ll never know when it’s going to end. You may see me coming, you may not. If you do see me, you’re not to look at me. You’re not to flinch or call out my name. You’re not to make a sound. You must do nothing that alerts him to my presence. Otherwise we both might end up dead.”

He paused for a moment, then added, “He won’t die right away. A twenty-two-caliber Beretta isn’t that kind of weapon. It takes several shots in the right place. After I knock him down I’ll have to finish the job. There’s only one way to do that.”

He fashioned his hand into the shape of a pistol and placed his forefinger against the side of her temple.

“I don’t want you to watch me when I do this. It’s not who I am.”

She reached up and took his hand away from the side of her head. She folded his forefinger into his palm, so that his hand was no longer shaped like a Beretta. Then, finally, Gabriel leaned forward and kissed her lips.

“How is she?” asked Shamron as Gabriel turned into Oxford Street and headed east.

“She’s resolute.”

“And you?”

“My feelings are immaterial at this point.”

“You’re not excited in any way? You’re not thrilled by the prospect of going into battle? The chase does not make you feel completely alive?”

“I lost those feelings a long time ago.”

“You and I are different, Gabriel. I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I live for this moment. I live for the moment that I can place my foot against the throat of my enemy and crush the wind out of him.”

“You’re right. You and I
are
very different.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had feelings for her.”

“I’ve always liked her.”

“You’ve never
liked
anyone or anything in your life. You feel love, you feel hate, or you feel nothing at all. There’s no middle ground for you.”

“Is this what the psychiatrists at headquarters used to say about me?”

“I didn’t need a psychiatrist to tell me something so obvious.”

“Can we please change the subject?”

“All right, we’ll change the subject. How do you feel about
me,
Gabriel? Is it love, hate, or nothing at all?”

“Some things are better left unsaid.”

Gabriel crossed Tottenham Court Road and entered Holborn. At New Square he pulled to the curb. Shamron removed a thin file from his briefcase and held it up for Gabriel. “This has every known photograph of Tariq. There aren’t many, and the ones we do have are dated. Have a look at them anyway. It would be rather embarrassing if we shot the wrong man.”

“Like Lillehammer,” Gabriel said.

Shamron grimaced at the mere mention of Lillehammer, a Norwegian skiing village and the site of the worst operational fiasco in the history of Israeli intelligence. In July 1973, a pair of
kidons
from Shamron’s team assassinated a man they believed to be Ali Hassan Salameh, Black September’s chief of operations and the master-mind of the Munich massacre. It turned out to be a tragic case of mistaken identity—the man was not Salameh but a Moroccan waiter who was married to a Norwegian woman. After the murder Gabriel and Shamron escaped, but several members of the hit team fell into the hands of the Norwegian police. Shamron barely managed to salvage his career. At King Saul Boulevard the Lillehammer disaster became known as Leyl-ha-Mar, Hebrew for “the night of bitterness.”

Shamron said, “Please, do you really think now is a good time to mention Leyl-ha-Mar?” He paused, then smiled with surprising warmth. “I know you think I’m a monster. I know you think I’m a man completely without morals. Perhaps you’re right. But I always loved you, Gabriel. You were always my favorite. You were my prince of fire. No matter what happens, I want you to remember that.”

“Where are you going, by the way?”

“We’re going to need an airplane tomorrow. I thought I’d book a reservation on Air Stone.”

“Ari, you’re not drinking! Unfair!”

“Sorry, Benjamin, but I have a long night ahead of me.”

“Work?”

Shamron inclined his head slightly to indicate the affirmative.

“So what brings you here?”

“I need a favor.”

“Course you need a favor. Wouldn’t be here otherwise. Hope you haven’t come looking for money, because the Bank of Stone is temporarily closed, and your account is badly overdrawn. Besides, money’s gone. Creditors are singing a bloody aria. They want what’s rightfully theirs. Funny how creditors can be. And as for my lenders, well, let’s just say they’re heading for calmer waters. What I’m trying to say to you, Ari, my old stick, is that I am in
serious
fucking financial trouble.”