The Secret Servant (33 page)

He stood and wheeled her back into the hospital.

H
e drove back to Narkiss Street through a cloudburst and entered his apartment to find the table set for four and the air scented with roasted chicken and Gilah Shamron’s famous eggplant with Moroccan spice. A small, thin woman with sad eyes and unruly gray hair, she was seated on the couch next to Chiara looking at photographs of wedding dresses. When Gabriel kissed her cheek it smelled of lilac and was smooth as silk.

“Where’s Ari?” he asked.

She pointed to the balcony. “Tell him not to smoke so much, Gabriel. You’re the only one he listens to.”

“You must have me confused with someone else, Gilah. Your husband has a well-honed ability to hear only what he wants to hear, and the last person he listens to is me.”

“That’s not what Ari says. He told me about your terrible quarrel in London. He said he didn’t even try to talk you out of delivering the money because he knew you had your mind made up.”

“I would have been wise to take his advice.”

“But then the American girl would be dead.” She shook her head. “No, Gabriel, you did the right thing, no matter what they’re saying about you now in London and Amsterdam. When the storm is over, they’ll come to their senses and thank you.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Gilah.”

“Go sit with him. I think he’s a little depressed. It’s not easy to grow old.”

“Tell me about it.”

He poured himself a glass of red wine and carried it out onto the balcony. Shamron was seated in a wrought-iron chair beneath the stripped awning, watching rainwater dripping from the leaves of the eucalyptus tree. Gabriel plucked the cigarette from his fingertips and tossed it over the balustrade onto the wet sidewalk.

“It’s against the law in this country to litter,” Shamron said. “Where have you been?”

“You tell me.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m having you followed?”

“I’m not
suggesting
anything. I know you’re having me followed. Therefore it is merely a statement of fact.”

“Just because you’re home doesn’t mean you’re safe. You have far too many enemies to wander around without bodyguards—and far too many enemies to be working in plain view in an artist’s studio overlooking the walls of the Old City.”

“Chiara wouldn’t let me work in the apartment.” Gabriel sat down in the chair next to Shamron. “Are you angry because I’m working in a studio near the Old City, or are you angry because I’m working and it’s not for you?”

Shamron pointedly lit another cigarette but said nothing.

“The restoration helps, Ari. It always helps. It makes me forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Killing three men in Hyde Park. Killing a man on the lawn of Westminster. Killing Ishaq in a field in Essex. Shall I go on?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Shamron. “And when this Rembrandt is finished? What then?”

“I’m lucky to be alive, Ari. I hurt everywhere. Let me heal. Let me enjoy life for a few days before you begin hounding me about coming back to the Office.”

Shamron smoked his cigarette and watched the rain in silence. Devoutly secular, he marked the passage of time not by the Jewish festivals but by the rhythms of the land—the day the rains came, the day the wildflowers exploded in the Galilee, the day in early autumn when the cool winds returned. To Gabriel, he seemed to be wondering how many more such cycles he would be witnessing.

“Our ambassador in London received a rather humorous letter from the British Home Office this morning,” he said.

“Let me guess,” said Gabriel. “They would like me to testify before the commission of inquiry into the kidnapping and recovery of Elizabeth Halton.”

Shamron nodded. “We’ve made it very clear to the British that they will have to conduct their formal inquiry without our cooperation. There will be no replays of your testimony before Congress after the affair at the Vatican. The only way you’re going to set foot in England is to collect your knighthood.” Shamron smiled to himself. “Can you imagine?”

“East London would burn,” said Gabriel. “But what about our relationships with MI5 and MI6? Won’t they go into the deep freeze if I refuse to cooperate in the inquiry?”

“Quite the opposite, actually. We’ve been in contact with the heads of both services in recent days, and they’ve made it clear that the last thing they want is for you to testify. Graham Seymour sends his best, by the way.”

“There’s another good reason for me to stay away from London,” Gabriel said. “If I agree to testify, the inquiry will naturally focus on us and the sins of the Israelis. If I stay away, it might just force them to confront the real problem.”

“Which is?”

“Londonistan,” said Gabriel. “They have allowed their capital to become a breeding ground, a spiritual mecca, and a safe haven for Islamic terrorists of every stripe. And it’s a threat to us all.”

Shamron nodded his head in agreement, then looked at Gabriel. “So what else have you been doing besides cleaning this Rembrandt and spending time on Mount Herzl with Leah?”

“I see your little surveillance men give you detailed watch reports.”

“As they were instructed to do,” said Shamron. “How is she?”

“She’s lucid at times,” Gabriel said. “
Very
lucid. Sometimes she sees things more clearly than I do. She always did.”

“Please tell me you’re not planning to get cold feet again.”

“Quite the opposite. Didn’t your watchers tell you about my search for a site for the ceremony?”

“They did, actually. I took the liberty of asking Shabak to draw up a contingency security plan for a public wedding of such proportions. I’m afraid the requirements will be such that it will not seem much like a wedding at all.” He crushed out his cigarette slowly. “Will you take some advice from an old man?”

“I’d like nothing more.”

“Perhaps you and Chiara should consider something smaller and more intimate.”

“We already have.”

“Do you have a date in mind?”

Gabriel told him.

“May? Why are you waiting until May? Did you learn nothing from this affair? Life is precious, Gabriel, and terribly short. I may not even be alive in May.”

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to hang in there, Ari. Chiara needs time to plan the reception. We can’t do it any sooner.”

“Plan? What plan? You and I could do it in an afternoon.”

“Weddings aren’t operations, Ari.”

“Whoever said that?”

“Chiara.”

“Of course weddings are operations.” He brought his fist down on the arm of the chair. “Chiara has had to put up with considerable dithering and nonsense on your part. If I were you, I’d plan the wedding myself and surprise her.”

“She’s an Italian Jew, Ari. She has something of a temper and doesn’t like surprises.”

“All women like surprises, you dolt.”

Gabriel had to admit he liked the idea. “I’ll need help,” he said.

“So we’ll get you some help.”

“Where?”

Shamron smiled. “Silly boy.”

They were the dark side of a dark service, the ones who did the jobs no one else wanted, or dared, to do. But never before in the storied history of Special Ops had they ever planned a wedding, at least not a real one.

They gathered the following morning in Room 456C, Gabriel’s subterranean lair at King Saul Boulevard: Yaakov and Yossi, Dina and Rimona, Mordecai and Oded, Mikhail and Eli Lavon. Gabriel walked to the front of the room and tacked a photograph of Chiara to his bulletin board. “Ten days from now, I am going to marry this woman,” he said. “The wedding must be everything she wants and she must not know or suspect a thing. We must work quickly and we will make no mistakes.”

Like all good operations it started with intelligence gathering. They scoured her bridal magazines for telltale markings and interrogated Gabriel carefully about everything she had ever said to him. Alarmed by the poor quality of his answers, Dina and Rimona scheduled a crash luncheon meeting with Chiara the following afternoon at a trendy Tel Aviv restaurant. They returned to King Saul Boulevard slightly drunk but armed with all the information they needed to proceed.

The following morning Gabriel and Chiara were awakened at Narkiss Street by an officer from Personnel who informed Chiara that she was alarmingly overdue for a complete physical. There was an opening that morning, said the man from Personnel. Could she come to King Saul Boulevard immediately? Having nothing better to do that day, she complied with the request and by ten o’clock was being subjected to rather close scrutiny by two Office-affiliated physicians—one of whom was not a physician at all but a tailor from Identity. He was less interested in matters such as blood pressure and heart rate and more concerned with the length of her arms and legs and the size of her waist and bust. Later that afternoon he slipped down to Room 456C to ask Gabriel whether he was to leave room in the garment for a weapon. Gabriel said that would not be necessary.

With three days remaining, everything was in place with one notable exception: Chiara herself. For this phase of the operation Gabriel drafted none other than Gilah Shamron, who telephoned Chiara later that evening and asked whether they could come to Tiberias for a surprise birthday party for Shamron that Saturday. She agreed to Gilah’s request without even bothering to check with Gabriel and told him about their plans for the weekend that night over dinner.

“How old is he going to be?” she asked.

“It’s a carefully guarded state secret, but rumor has it he fought in the rebellion against Roman rule.”

“Did you know his birthday was in March?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said hastily.

It was in late August, actually, and the last person who had tried to throw Shamron a surprise party still walked with a limp. But Chiara didn’t know that. Chiara didn’t know anything.

It had rained steadily all week, a contingency for which they had not planned, but by midmorning Saturday the sun was shining brightly and the newly washed air was scented with stone pine and jasmine and eucalyptus. They slept late and ate a leisurely breakfast on the balcony, then packed a few things into an overnight bag and set out for the Galilee.

Gabriel drove down the Bab al-Wad to the Coastal Plain, then north to the Valley of Jezreel. They stopped there for a few minutes to collect Eli Lavon from the dig atop Tel Megiddo, then continued on to Tiberias. Shamron’s honey-colored villa was just a few miles north of the city, on a ledge overlooking the Sea of Galilee. Two dozen cars lined the steep drive, and in the forecourt was a large American Suburban with diplomatic license plates. Adrian Carter and Sarah Bancroft were standing at the balustrade of Shamron’s terrace, chatting with Uzi Navot and Bella.

“Gilah never told me Carter was coming,” Chiara said.

“She must have forgotten to mention it.”

“How do you forget to mention that the deputy director of the CIA is coming all the way from Washington? And what is Sarah doing here?”

“Gilah’s old, Chiara. Give her a break.”

Gabriel climbed out before she could pose another question, then retrieved the overnight bag from the trunk and led her up the steps. Gilah was standing in the entrance hall as they came inside. The large rooms had been emptied of their furniture and several round tables put in their place. Chiara stared at the place settings and the flower arrangements, then walked past Gilah and stepped on the terrace, where a hundred white chairs stood in neat rows around a chuppah hung with flowers. She spun round, mouth open, and looked at Gabriel.

“What’s going on here?”

Gabriel held up the overnight bag and said, “I’m going to take this up to our room.”

“Gabriel Allon, come back here.”

She followed quickly after him and chased him down the corridor to their room. As she stepped inside, she saw the dress laid out on the bed.

“My God, Gabriel, what have you done?”

“Made amends for all my mistakes, I hope.”

She threw her arms around him and kissed him, then ran a hand through her hair.

“It’s a mess. What am I going to do?”

“We brought a hair stylist from Tel Aviv. A very good one.”

“What about my family?”

He looked at his watch. “We flew them out of Venice aboard a charter. They landed at Ben-Gurion twenty minutes ago. We’re bringing them up here by helicopter.”

“And the rings?”

He pulled a small jewelry box from his coat pocket and opened it.

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “You thought of everything.”

“Weddings are operations.”

“No, they’re not, you dolt.” She slapped his arm playfully. “What time is the ceremony?”

“Whenever you want it to be.”

“What time is sundown?”

“Five-oh-eight.”

“We’ll start at five-oh-nine.” She kissed him again. “And don’t be late.”

Y
ou and your team ran a very nice operation,” said Adrian Carter.

“Which one?”

“The wedding, of course. Too bad London didn’t go as smoothly.”

“If it had gone smoothly, we wouldn’t have gotten Elizabeth back.”

“This is true.”

A waiter approached their table and freshened Carter’s coffee. Gabriel turned and looked toward the walls of the Old City, which were glowing softly in the gentle sunlight. It was Monday morning. Carter had rung Gabriel’s apartment at seven on the off chance he was free for breakfast. Gabriel had agreed to meet him here, the terrace restaurant of the King David Hotel, knowing full well that Adrian Carter never did anything on the off chance.

“Why are you still in Jerusalem, Adrian?”

“Officially, I am here to conduct meetings with our generously staffed CIA station. Unofficially, I stayed in order to see you.”

“Is Sarah still here?”

“She left yesterday. Poor thing had to fly commercial.” Carter raised his coffee cup to his lips and stared at Gabriel for a moment without drinking. “Did anything ever happen between you two that I should know about?”

“No, Adrian, nothing happened between us, during this operation or the last one.” Gabriel made swirls in his Israeli yogurt. “Is that why you stayed in Jerusalem? To ask me whether I slept with one of your officers?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you here, Adrian?”

He reached into the breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers blazer, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to Gabriel. The front bore no markings, but when he turned it over he saw
THE WHITE HOUSE
printed on the flap in simple lettering.

“What’s this? An invitation to a White House barbecue?”

“It’s a note,” said Carter, then he added somewhat pedantically: “From the president of the United States.”

“Yes, I can see that, Adrian. What’s the topic of the letter?”

“I’m not in the habit of reading other people’s mail.”

“You should be.”

“I assume the president wrote to you in order to thank you for what you did in London.”

“It might have been helpful if he had said something publicly a month ago, while I was twisting in the wind.”

“Trust me, Gabriel. If he had spoken out on your behalf, you would have been in more trouble than you are now. These things have a way of blowing themselves out, and sometimes the best course of action is to take no action at all.”

A cloud passed in front of the sun, and for a moment it seemed several degrees colder. Gabriel opened the note, read it quickly, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

“What does it say?”

“It is private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”

“Good man,” said Carter.

“Did you get one, too?”

“A note from the president?” Carter shook his head. “I’m afraid that my position is somewhat tenuous at the moment. Isn’t it amazing? We got Elizabeth back and now we are under siege.”

“This, too, shall pass, Adrian.”

“I know,” he said. “But it doesn’t make it any more pleasant to go through. There are a band of Young Turks at Langley who think I’ve been running the DO for too long. They say I’ve lost a step. They say I should have never agreed to turn over so much of the operation to you.”

“Do you have any intention of ceding power?”

“None,” said Carter forcefully. “The world is too dangerous a place to be left to Young Turks. I intend to stay until this war against terrorism is won.”

“I hope longevity runs in your family.”

“My grandfather lived to be a hundred and four.”

“What about Sarah? Has she been hurt by this in any way?”

“None whatsoever,” Carter replied. “Only a handful of people even knew she was a part of it.”

The sun emerged from behind the clouds again. Gabriel slipped on his wraparound glasses while Carter pulled a second envelope from the pocket of his blazer. “This is from Robert Halton,” he said. “I’m afraid I know what’s inside that one.”

Gabriel withdrew the contents: a brief handwritten note and a check made out in Gabriel’s name for the sum of ten million dollars. Gabriel kept the letter and handed the check back to Carter.

“Are you sure you don’t want to think about that for a minute?” Carter asked.

“I don’t want his money, Adrian.”

“You’re entitled to it. You risked your life to save his daughter’s—not once but
twice
.”

“It’s what we do,” Gabriel said. “Tell him thanks but no thanks.”

Carter left the check on the table.

“You have anything else in your pocket for me, Adrian?”

Carter turned his gaze toward the Old City walls. “I have a name,” he said.

“The Sphinx?”

Carter nodded. The Sphinx.

His voice, already underpowered, fell to an almost inaudible level. It seemed that Carter, before coming to Israel for Gabriel’s wedding, had made a brief stopover in the South of France, not for the purposes of recreation—Carter hadn’t taken a proper holiday since 9/11—but for an operation. The target of this operation was none other than Prince Rashid bin Sultan, who had come to the French Riviera himself for a spot of gambling in the casinos of Monaco. The prince had played poorly and lost mightily, a fact the puritanical Carter seemed to find most offensive, and upon returning to the airport at Nice early the next morning in a highly inebriated state had found Carter and a team of CIA paramilitary officers relaxing in the luxurious confines of his private 747. Carter had presented the prince, now irate, with a CIA dossier detailing his many sins—sins that included financial support for al-Qaeda, the foreign fighters and Sunni insurgents in Iraq, and a militant Egyptian group called the Sword of Allah, which had just carried out the abduction of the goddaughter of the president of the United States. Carter had then given the prince a choice of destinations: Riyadh or Guantánamo Bay, Cuba.

“That sounds like something we would do,” Gabriel said.

“Yes, it did have a very Office-like quality to it.”

“I take it the prince chose Riyadh as his destination.”

“It was the only wise bet he made all night.”

“How much did the ride home cost him?”

“A name,” Carter said. “The question now is, what do we do with this name? Option one, we work with our Egyptian brethren and bring this fellow to trial in United States. Justice will be served if we follow this course but at a considerable price. A trial will expose the underside of our relationship with the Egyptian security services. It will also leave us saddled with another Sword of Allah prisoner whom they will almost certainly attempt to get back, thus placing American lives at risk.”

“And we can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t,” agreed Carter. “Which brings us to option number two: dealing with the matter quietly.”

“Our preferred method.”

“Indeed.”

Gabriel held out his hand. Carter delved into his pocket again and came out with a slip of paper. Gabriel read what was written there and smiled.

“Can you make him go away?” asked Carter.

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” Gabriel said. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to spread a little money around Cairo to make it happen.”

Carter held up Robert Halton’s check. “Will this be enough to get the job done?”

“More than enough. But what should I do with the change?”

“Keep it.”

“Can I kill the prince, too?”

“Maybe next time,” said Carter. “More coffee?”