by Daniel Silva
Gabriel made no reply.
“So who gets to push the button?” asked Navot.
“It’s a job for the chief, Uzi.”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was your operation from beginning to end.”
“How about a compromise candidate?” asked Gabriel.
“Who do you have in mind?”
“The country’s preeminent expert on Syria and the Baathist movement.”
“She might like that.” Navot was looking out his window again. “I wish you could be the one to tell Jihan that she’s been working for us.”
“So do I, Uzi. But there isn’t time.”
“What if she doesn’t get on the plane?”
“She will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because she has no other choice.”
“I’d like to put Waleed al-Siddiqi on a plane, too,” Navot said. “Preferably in a wooden box.”
“Something tells me Evil Incorporated will take care of Waleed for us when they discover eight billion dollars of their money is missing.”
“How long do you think he has left to live?”
Gabriel looked at his watch.
It did not take long for word to spread through Israel’s close-knit security and defense fraternity that an event of great magnitude was about to occur. The uninitiated could only guess at what it was. The initiated could only shake their heads in wonder. It was, they declared, an achievement of Shamronian proportions, perhaps the finest of his career. Surely it was time to put poor Uzi Navot out of his misery and make the change at King Saul Boulevard that everyone knew was coming.
If Navot was aware of such talk, he gave no sign of it during his meeting with the prime minister. He was brisk, authoritative, and sober about the implications of what it would mean to make $8 billion vanish into thin air. It was a bold move, he said, that would surely invite retaliation if it ever became known who was behind the operation. He advised the prime minister to place the IDF’s Northern Command on heightened alert and to tighten security at all Israeli embassies worldwide, especially those in cities where Hezbollah and Syrian intelligence were most active. The prime minister agreed to both steps. He also ordered an increase of security at all essential Israeli computer and communications networks. Then, with little more than a nod, he gave his final approval.
“Would you like to be the one to push the button?” asked Navot.
“It’s tempting,” replied the prime minister with a smile, “but probably unwise.”
By the time Navot returned to King Saul Boulevard, Gabriel had issued his final set of instructions to the team. It was his intention to seize the assets at nine p.m. Linz time, ten p.m. in Tel Aviv. Once the money had arrived at its final destination, a process that was expected to take just five minutes, he would send a flash message to Dina and Christopher Keller instructing them to take Jihan into their possession. Housekeeping and Transport would quietly clean up the mess.
By nine p.m. Tel Aviv time, there was nothing left to do but wait. Gabriel spent that final hour locked away in Room 414C, listening to the hackers explain for the twentieth time how $8 billion was going to move from dozens of accounts around the globe into a single account at the Israel Discount Bank, Ltd., without leaving so much as a puff of digital smoke. And for the twentieth time, he pretended to comprehend what they were telling him, when all the while he was wondering how such a thing was truly possible. He did not understand the language the hackers spoke, nor did he particularly want to. He was only glad they were on his side.
The work that took place in Room 414C was so sensitive that even the director of the Office did not know the cipher code that opened the door. As a result, Uzi Navot had to knock in order to gain admittance. Accompanied by Bella and Chiara, he entered the room at 9:50 Tel Aviv time and was given the same briefing that Gabriel had received a few minutes earlier. Unlike Gabriel, who regarded himself as a man of the sixteenth century, Navot actually knew how computers and the Internet functioned. He posed several insightful questions, asked for one final set of assurances regarding deniability, and then formally issued the order to seize the assets.
Bella sat down at the designated computer and waited for Gabriel’s command to press the button. It was 9:55 p.m. in Tel Aviv, 8:55 p.m. in Linz. Jihan Nawaz was alone in her apartment, humming softly to herself to hide her fear. Two minutes later, at 8:57 local time, she received a telephone call from Waleed al-Siddiqi. The conversation that followed was ten minutes in length. And even before it had ended, Gabriel issued the order to stand down. No one would be pushing any buttons, he said. Not tonight.
49
THE ATTERSEE, AUSTRIA
LATER THAT EVENING, ANOTHER CIVIL war erupted in the Middle East. It was smaller than the others, and fortunately there were no bombings or bloodshed, for this war was a war of words, fought among people of the same faith, children of the same God. Even so, the battle lines were stark and clearly drawn. One side wanted to cash out while they were still playing with house money. The other wanted one more roll of the dice, one more glimpse into Evil Incorporated. For better or worse, the leader of this faction was Gabriel Allon, the future chief of Israel’s secret intelligence service. And so, after a quarrel lasting the better part of the night, he boarded El Al Flight 353 bound for Munich, and by early afternoon he was once again in the sitting room of the Attersee safe house, dressed as a nameless tax collector from Berlin. A laptop computer stood open on the coffee table, its speakers emitting the distinct sound of Waleed al-Siddiqi speaking in Arabic. He lowered the volume only slightly as Jihan and Dina entered.
“Jihan,” he called out, as though he had not been expecting her so soon. “Welcome home. It’s good to see you looking so well. You’ve succeeded beyond our wildest expectations. Truly. We can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done.”
He had given this speech in his Berlin-accented German, through a hotelier’s vacant smile. Jihan glanced at Dina, then at the laptop computer. “Is that why you brought me here again?” she asked finally. “Because you wanted to thank me?”
“No,” was all he said.
“Then why am I here?”
“You’re here,” he said, approaching her slowly, “because of the phone call you received at eight fifty-seven last evening.” He cocked his head inquisitively to one side. “You do remember the phone call you received last night, don’t you?”
“It was impossible to forget.”
“We feel the same way.” His head was still tilted to one side, though now his right hand was pressed thoughtfully to his chin. “The timing of the call was remarkable, to say the least. Had it arrived a few minutes later, you would have never received it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you would have been gone. And so would a great deal of money,” he added quickly. “Eight-point-two billion dollars, to be precise. All because of the brave work you’ve done.”
“Why didn’t you seize it?”
“It was very tempting,” he replied. “But if we had, it would have made it impossible to consider the opportunity Mr. al-Siddiqi has presented.”
“Opportunity?”
“Were you listening to the things he said to you last night?”
“I tried not to.”
Gabriel appeared genuinely perplexed by her answer. “Why is that?”
“Because I can’t stand the sound of his voice any longer.” She paused, then added, “There’s no way I can walk through the doors of that bank again. Please make the money disappear. And then make me disappear as well.”
“Let’s listen to the recording of the conversation together, shall we? And if you still feel the same way, we’ll leave Austria together this afternoon, all of us, and never come back.”
“I haven’t packed.”
“You don’t need to. We’ll take care of everything.”
“Where are you planning to take me?”
“Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one will find you.”
“Where?” she asked again, but Gabriel made no response other than to sit down in front of the computer. With a click of the mouse, he silenced the voice of Waleed al-Siddiqi. Then, with another click, he opened an audio file labeled INTERCEPT 238. It was 8:57 p.m. the previous evening. Jihan was alone in her apartment, humming softly to herself to hide her fear. And then her phone began to ring.
It rang four times before she answered, and when she did she sounded slightly out of breath.
“Hello.”
“Jihan?”
“Mr. al-Siddiqi?”
“I’m sorry to call you so late. Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“No, not at all.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“No, why?”
“You sound as though you’re upset about something.”
“I had to run for the phone, that’s all.”
“You’re sure? You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?”
Gabriel clicked the PAUSE icon.
“Is he always so concerned about your well-being?”
“It is a recent obsession of his.”
“Why did you allow the phone to ring so many times?”
“Because when I saw who was calling, I didn’t want to answer.”
“You were afraid?”
“Where are you going to take me?”
Gabriel clicked PLAY.
“I’m fine, Mr. al-Siddiqi. How can I help you?”
“I have something important to discuss with you.”
“Of course, Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“Would it be possible for me to stop by your apartment?”
“It’s late.”
“I realize that.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s really not a good time. Can it wait until Monday?”
Gabriel clicked PAUSE.
“I wish to congratulate you on your tradecraft. You managed to put him off quite easily.”
“Tradecraft?”
“It is a term of art from the world of intelligence.”
“I didn’t realize this was an intelligence operation. And it wasn’t tradecraft,” she added. “A Sunni Muslim girl from Hama would never allow a married man to come to her apartment unaccompanied, even if the married man also happened to be her employer.”
Gabriel smiled and clicked PLAY.
“I’m afraid it can’t wait until Monday. I need you to take a trip for me on Monday.”
“Where?”
“Geneva.”
STOP.
“Has he ever asked you to travel on his behalf?”
“Never.”
“Do you know what else is happening in Geneva on Monday?”
“Everyone in the world knows that,” she answered. “The Americans, the Russians, and the Europeans are going to attempt to broker a peace agreement between the regime and the Syrian rebels.”
“A milestone, yes?”
“It will be a dialogue of the deaf.”
Another smile.
PLAY.
“Why Geneva, Mr. al-Siddiqi?”
“I need you to collect some documents for me. You’ll only be there for an hour or two. I’d do it myself, but I have to be in Paris that day.”
STOP.
“For the record,” said Gabriel, “Mr. al-Siddiqi hasn’t purchased an airline ticket for a flight to Paris on Monday.”
“He always does it at the last minute.”
“And why do the documents have to be collected by hand?” asked Gabriel, ignoring her. “Why not ship them by overnight delivery service? Why not transmit them via electronic mail?”
“It’s not unusual for confidential financial records to be delivered by hand.”
“Especially when they’re being given to a man like Waleed al-Siddiqi.”
PLAY.
“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.”
50
THE ATTERSEE, AUSTRIA
THEY 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.”
