The Heist (38 page)

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.

“
What exactly do you need me to do?
”

“
It’s quite simple, really. I just need you to meet a client at the Hotel Métropole. He’ll give you a packet of documents, and you’ll carry those documents back to Linz
.”

“
And the client’s name?
”

“
Kemel al-Farouk.
”

STOP.

“Who is he?” asked Jihan.

Gabriel smiled. “Kemel al-Farouk holds the keys to the kingdom,” he said. “Kemel al-Farouk is the reason you have to go to Geneva.”

T
HEY ADJOURNED TO THE TERRACE
and sat beneath the shade of a parasol. A passing motorboat opened a wound in the lake; then the boat was gone and they were alone again. It might have seemed possible that they were the last two people in the world were it not for the sound of Waleed al-Siddiqi’s voice streaming from the laptop computer in the drawing room.

“I see you’ve acquired another boat,” Jihan said, nodding toward the sloop.

“Actually, my colleagues acquired it on my behalf.”

“Why?”

“I was driving them crazy.”

“Over what?”

“You, Jihan. I wanted to make sure we were doing everything possible to keep you safe.”

She was silent for a moment. “The sailing must be very different here than it is on the Baltic.” She looked at him and smiled. “That
is
where you did your sailing, isn’t it? The Baltic?”

He nodded slowly.

“I never liked it,” she said.

“The Baltic?”

“Sailing. I don’t like the feeling of not being in control.”

“I can go anywhere in that little sailboat.”

“Then you must be good at controlling things.”

Gabriel made no reply.

“Why?” Jihan asked after a moment. “Why is it so important that we get those documents from Kemel al-Farouk?”

“Because of his relationship to the ruling family,” answered Gabriel. “Kemel al-Farouk is Syria’s deputy foreign minister. In fact, he’ll be seated at the negotiating table when the talks convene Monday afternoon. But his title belies the scope of his influence. The ruler never makes a move without first talking to Kemel, political or financial. We believe there’s more money out there,” Gabriel added. “Much more. And we believe Kemel’s documents can show us the way.”

“Believe?”

“There are no guarantees in this business, Jihan.”

“And what business is that?”

Again Gabriel was silent.

“But why does Mr. al-Siddiqi want
me
to collect the documents?” Jihan asked. “Why not do it himself?”

“Because once the Syrian delegation arrives in Geneva, they’re going to be under constant surveillance by Swiss intelligence, not to mention the Americans and their European allies. There’s no way al-Siddiqi can go near that delegation.”

“I don’t want to go near them, either. They are the same people who destroyed my town, the same people who murdered my family. I am speaking to you in German because of men like them.”

“So why not join the Syrian rebellion, Jihan? Why not avenge the murder of your family by bringing us those documents?”

From the drawing room came the sound of Waleed al-Siddiqi laughing.

“Isn’t eight billion dollars enough?” she asked after a moment.

“It’s a great deal of money, Jihan, but I want more.”

“Why?”

“Because it will allow us to have more influence over his actions.”

“The ruler’s?”

He nodded.

“Forgive me,” she said with a smile, “but that doesn’t sound like something a German tax collector would say.”

He gave an evasive smile but said nothing.

“How would it work?” she asked.

“You’ll do everything Mr. al-Siddiqi asks,” Gabriel replied. “You’ll fly to Geneva early Monday morning. You’ll take a chauffeured car from the airport to the Hotel Métropole and collect the documents. And then you’ll go back to the airport and return to Linz.” He paused, then added, “And at some point along the way, you’ll photograph the documents with your mobile phone and send them to me.”

“Then what?”

“If, as we suspect, those documents are a list of additional accounts, we’ll attack them while you’re in the air. By the time your plane touches down in Vienna, it will be over. And then we’ll make you disappear.”

“Where?” she asked. “Where are you going to take me?”

“Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one can hurt you.”

“I’m afraid that’s not good enough,” she said. “I want to know where you intend to take me when this is over. And while you’re at it, you can tell me who you really are. And this time, I want the truth. I’m a child of Hama. I don’t like it when people lie to me.”

They boarded the motorboat with the strained civility of a quarreling couple and headed southward down the lake. Jihan sat rigidly in the aft, her legs crossed, her arms folded, her eyes boring two holes into the back of his neck. She had absorbed his confession in an enraged silence, a wife listening to a husband’s admission of an infidelity. For now, he had nothing more to say. It was her turn to speak.

“You bastard,” she said at last.

“Do you feel better now?”

He spoke these words without turning to face her. Apparently, she didn’t find them worthy of a reply.

“And what if I had told you the truth in the beginning?” he asked. “What would you have done?”

“I would have told you to go straight to hell.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re just like they are.”

He allowed a moment to pass before responding. “You have a right to be angry, Jihan. But don’t you dare compare me to the butcher boy of Damascus.”

“You’re worse!”

“Spare me the bumper-sticker slogans. Because if the conflict in Syria has proven anything, it is that we truly are different from our adversaries. A hundred and fifty thousand dead, millions turned into refugees, all at the hands of brother Arabs.”

“You did the same thing!” she shot back.

“Bullshit.” He still hadn’t turned to face her. “You might find this hard to believe,” he said, “but I want the Palestinians to have a state of their own. In fact, I intend to do everything in my power to make that a reality. But for the moment, it’s not possible. It takes two sides to make peace.”

“You’re the ones occupying their land!”

He didn’t bother to offer a reply, for he had learned long ago that such debates almost always assumed the quality of a cat chasing its own tail. Instead, he switched off the engine and swiveled his chair around to face her.

“Take off that disguise,” she said. “Let me see your face.”

He removed the false eyeglasses.

“Now the wig.”

He did as she asked. She leaned forward and stared into his face.

“Take out those contact lenses. I want to see your eyes.”

He removed the lenses in turn and flicked them into the lake.

“Satisfied, Jihan?”

“Why do you speak German so well?”

“My ancestors were from Berlin. My mother was the only one to survive the Holocaust. When she arrived in Israel, she didn’t speak Hebrew. German was the first language I ever heard.”

“What about Ingrid?”

“Her parents had six children, one for each million murdered in the Holocaust. Her mother and two of her sisters were killed by a Hamas suicide bomber. Ingrid was severely wounded. That’s why she walks with a limp. That’s why she never wears shorts or a dress.”

“What’s her real name?”

“It’s not important.”

“What’s yours?”

“What difference does it make? You hate me because of who I am. You hate me because of
what
I am.”

“I hate you because you lied to me.”

“I had no choice.”

The wind stirred and brought with it the scent of roses.

“Did you really never suspect we were from Israel?”

“I did,” she admitted.

“Why didn’t you ask?”

She made no reply.

“Maybe you didn’t ask because you didn’t want to know the answer. And maybe now that you’ve had a chance to yell at me and call me names, we can get back to work. I’m going to turn the butcher of Damascus into a pauper. I’m going to see to it he never uses poison gas against his own people again, that he never turns another city into rubble. But I can’t do it alone. I need your help.” He paused, then asked, “Will you help me, Jihan?”

She was trailing her hand, childlike, in the water. “Where will I go when it’s over?”

“Where do you think?”

“I couldn’t possibly live there.”

“It’s not as bad as you’ve been led to believe. In fact, it’s rather nice. But don’t worry,” he added, “you won’t have to stay long. As soon as it’s safe to leave, you can live wherever you want.”

“Are you telling me the truth this time, or is this another one of your lies?”

Gabriel said nothing. Jihan scooped water from the lake and allowed it to run through her fingers. “I’ll do it,” she said at last, “but I need something from you in return.”

“Anything, Jihan.”

She looked at him for a moment in silence. Then she said, “I need to know your name.”

“It’s not important.”

“It is to me,” she replied. “Tell me your name, or you can find someone else to collect those documents in Geneva.”

“It’s not the way things are done in our business.”

“Tell me your name,” she said again. “I’ll write it in the water, and then I’ll forget it.”

He smiled at her and spoke his name.

“Like the archangel?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Like the archangel.”

“And your last name?”

He told her that, too.

“It’s familiar to me.”

“It should be.”

She leaned over the side of the boat and carved his name into the black surface of the lake. Then a gust of wind swept down from the Mountains of Hell and it was gone.

W
HEN IT WAS OVER
, G
ABRIEL
would be able to recall little of the next twenty-four hours, for they were a whirlwind of planning, heated family quarrels, and tense conversations carried out over secure channels. At King Saul Boulevard, his emergency demand for additional safe properties and clean transport caused a brief rebellion, which Uzi Navot managed to suppress with a hard glare and a few stern words. Only Banking did not bristle at Gabriel’s request for more funding. His operation was already running at a substantial profit, with windfall earnings expected in the fourth quarter.

Jihan Nawaz would know nothing of the internecine battles raging within the Office, only the requirements of her last assignment on its behalf. She returned to the Attersee safe house Sunday afternoon for a final preoperational briefing, and to rehearse photographing documents under Gabriel’s unique brand of simulated pressure. Afterward, she gathered with the team for a luncheon on the lawn overlooking the lake. The false flag they had flown since her recruitment had been lowered and packed away for good. They were Israelis now, operatives of an intelligence service that most Arabs regarded with a paradoxical mixture of hatred and awe. There was the bookish Yossi, the false bureaucrat from Britain’s Revenue and Customs service. There was the rumpled little figure who had first come to her as Feliks Adler. There were Mikhail, Yaakov, and Oded, her three guardians on the streets of Linz. And there was Ingrid Roth, her neighbor, her confidante, her wounded secret sharer, who had suffered a loss that Jihan understood only too well.

And at the far end of the table, silent and watchful, was the green-eyed man whose name she had written on the water. He was not the monster the Arab press had made him out to be; none of them were. They were charming. They were witty. They were intelligent. They loved their country and their people. They were deeply sorry for what had happened to Jihan and her family at Hama. Yes, they admitted, Israel had made mistakes since its founding, terrible mistakes. But it wanted nothing more than to live in peace and to be accepted by its neighbors. The Arab Spring had briefly held the promise of change in the Middle East, but sadly it had reverted into a death struggle between Sunni and Shiite, between the global jihadists and the old order of Arab strongmen. Surely, they agreed, there was a middle ground, a modern Middle East where religious and tribal ties were less important than decent governance and progress. For a few hours that afternoon on the shores of the Attersee, it seemed anything was possible.

She left them for the last time in early evening and, accompanied by her friend Ingrid, returned to her apartment. Keller alone watched over her that night, for the rest of the team had commenced a hurried battlefield transition that one Office wit would later refer to as the great westward migration. Gabriel and Eli Lavon traveled by car together, Gabriel driving, Lavon fretting and worrying, the same way they had done it a thousand times before. But that night was different. Their target was not a terrorist with Israeli blood on his hands; it was billions of dollars that rightfully belonged to the people of Syria. Lavon the asset hunter could scarcely contain his excitement. Control the butcher’s money, he said, and they could bend him to their will. They could
own
him.

They arrived in Geneva in the uncertain hour between darkness and dawn and made their way to an old Office safe flat on the boulevard de Saint-Georges. Mordecai had been there before them, and in the sitting room he had constructed a command post, complete with computers and a secure radio. Gabriel sent a brief activation message to the Ops Center at King Saul Boulevard. Then, shortly before seven, he listened to a weary-sounding Waleed al-Siddiqi boarding Austrian Air Flight 411 at Vienna’s Schwechat Airport. As his plane was passing over Linz, a black sedan eased to the curb outside an apartment house on the fringes of the Innere Stadt. And five minutes after that, Jihan Nawaz, the child of Hama, stepped into the street.

For the next three hours, Gabriel’s world shrank to the fifteen luminous inches of his computer screen. There was no war in Syria, no Israel, no Palestine. His wife was not pregnant with twins. In fact, he did not have a wife. There were only the winking red lights depicting the positions of Jihan Nawaz and Waleed al-Siddiqi, and the winking blue lights depicting the positions of his team. It was ordered, sanitary, a world without danger. It seemed nothing could go wrong.