by Daniel Silva
Jacqueline thought: My God, I’ve made a complete fool of myself.
Five minutes later he came back to the bed and sat down by her side. Then he leaned forward and whispered into her ear: “I want to make love to you too, but I can’t. I’m married.”
“I don’t care.”
“When the operation is over, you’ll never see me again.”
“I know.”
He was just as she imagined: skilled and artful, meticulous and gentle. In his hands she felt like one of his paintings. She could almost feel his eyes touching her. She felt a stupid pride that she had been able to break through his walls of self-control and seduce him. She wanted the operation to go on forever. It couldn’t, of course, and the night they left Tunis was the saddest of her life.
After Tunis she threw herself into her modeling. She told Marcel to accept every offer that came in. She worked nonstop for six months, pushing herself to the point of exhaustion. She even tried dating other men. None of it worked. She thought about Gabriel and Tunis constantly. For the first time in her life she felt obsession, yet she was absolutely helpless to do anything about it. At her wits’ end, she went to Shamron and asked him to put her in touch with Gabriel. He refused. She began to have a terrible fantasy about the death of Gabriel’s wife. And when Shamron told her what had happened in Vienna, she felt unbearable guilt.
She had not seen or spoken to Gabriel since that night in Tunis. She couldn’t imagine why he would want to see her now. But one hour later, as she watched his car pulling into her drive, she felt a smile spreading across her face. She thought: Thank God you’re here, Gabriel, because I can use a little restoration myself.
SEVENTEEN
Tel Aviv
The CIA’s executive director, Adrian Carter, was a man who was easily underestimated. It was a trait he had used to great effect during his long career. He was short and thin as a marathoner. His sparse hair and rimless spectacles gave him a slightly clinical air, his trousers and blazer looked like they’d been slept in. He seemed out of place in the cold, modern conference room at King Saul Boulevard, as if he had wandered into the building by mistake. But Ari Shamron had worked with Carter when he was the head of the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center. He knew Carter was a seasoned operative—a man who spoke six languages fluently and could melt into the back alleys of Warsaw or Beirut with equal ease. He also knew that his talents in the field were matched only by his skills in the bureaucratic trenches. A worthy opponent indeed.
“Any breaks in the Paris investigation?” Carter asked.
Shamron shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not.”
“Nothing at all, Ari? I find that difficult to believe.”
“The moment we hear anything you’ll be the first to know. And what about you? Any interesting intercepts you’d care to share? Any friendly Arab services tell you anything they’d be reluctant to share with the Zionist entity?”
Carter had just completed a two-week regional tour, conferring with intelligence chiefs from the Persian Gulf to North Africa. King Saul Boulevard was his last stop. “Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said. “But we’ve heard a few whispers from some of our other sources.”
Shamron raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“They tell us that the word on the street is that Tariq was behind the attack in Paris.”
“Tariq has been quiet for some time. Why would he pull something like Paris now?”
“Because he’s desperate,” Carter said. “Because the two sides are getting closer to a deal, and Tariq would like nothing better than to spoil the party. And because Tariq sees himself as a man of history, and history is about to pass him by.”
“It’s an interesting theory, but we’ve seen no evidence to suggest Tariq was involved.”
“If you did receive such evidence, you’d share it with us, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t need to remind you that an American citizen was murdered along with your ambassador. The president has made a promise to the American people that her killer will be brought to justice. I plan to help him keep that promise.”
“You can count on the support of this service,” Shamron said piously.
“If it was Tariq, we’d like to find him and bring him to the United States for trial. But we won’t be able to do that if he turns up dead someplace, filled with twenty-two-caliber bullet holes.”
“Adrian, what are you trying to say to me?”
“What I’m saying is that the man in the big white house on Pennsylvania Avenue wants the situation handled in a civilized fashion. If it turns out Tariq was the one who killed Emily Parker in Paris, he wants him tried in an American courtroom. No eye-for-an-eye bullshit on this one, Ari. No back-alley execution.”
“We obviously have a difference of opinion about how best to deal with a man like Tariq.”
“The president also believes a reprisal killing at this time might not be in the best interests of the peace process. He believes that if you were to respond with an assassination, you’d be playing into the hands of those who wish to bring it down.”
“And what would the president have us do when terrorists murder our diplomats in cold blood?”
“Show some fucking restraint! In our humble opinion it might be wiser for you to lean on the ropes for a couple of rounds and absorb a few blows to the body if you have to. Give the negotiators room to maneuver. If the radicals hit after you have a deal in place, then by all means hit back. But don’t make matters worse now by seeking revenge.”
Shamron leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “I can assure you, Adrian, that neither the Office nor any other branch of the Israeli security services is planning any operation against any member of any Arab terror group—including Tariq.”
“I admire your prudence and courage. So will the president.”
“And I respect you for your bluntness.”
“I’d like to offer a friendly piece of advice if I may.”
“Please,” said Shamron.
“Israel has entered into agreements with several Western intelligence services pledging it would not conduct operations on the soil of those countries without first notifying the host intelligence service. I can assure you, the Agency and its friends will react harshly if those agreements are breached.”
“That sounds more like a warning than a word of advice between friends.”
Carter smiled and sipped his coffee.
The prime minister was working through a stack of papers at his desk when Shamron entered the room. Shamron sat down and quickly briefed him on his meeting with the man from the CIA. “I know Adrian Carter too well,” Shamron said. “He’s a good poker player. He knows more than he’s saying. He’s telling me to back off or there’s going to be trouble.”
“Or he suspects something but doesn’t have enough to come straight out with it,” the prime minister said. “You have to decide which is the case.”
“I need to know if you still want me to carry out the operation under these new circumstances.”
The prime minister finally looked up from his paperwork. “And I need to know whether you can carry out the operation without the CIA finding out about it.”
“I can.”
“Then do it, and don’t fuck it up.”
EIGHTEEN
Valbonne, Provence
The afternoon had turned colder. Jacqueline made sandwiches while Gabriel stacked olive wood in the fireplace and set it alight with newspaper. He was squatting on his haunches, watching the thin flames lick the wood. Every few seconds he would reach into the fire and make some minor adjustment in the disposition of the kindling or the attitude of one of the larger pieces of wood. He seemed capable of holding the hot wood for a long time without discomfort. Finally he stood upright and patted his hands together to remove the remnants of wood dust and soot. He moves with such ease, Jacqueline thought—a dancer lifting from a deep knee bend. He seemed somehow younger. Less gray in his hair,
eyes clearer and brighter.
She placed the food on a tray and carried it into the living room. For years she had imagined a scene like this. In a sense she had made this room for Gabriel, decorated it in a way she imagined he might like—the stone floor, the rustic rugs, the comfortable furnishings.
She placed the tray on a coffee table and sat down on the couch. Gabriel sat next to her and spooned sugar into his coffee. Yes, this is how it would be if we had ended up together. A simple meal, a drive into the mountains, a stroll through an ancient hill town. Perhaps down to the coast to wander the Old Port of Cannes or take in a film at the cinema. Then home to make love in the firelight. Stop it, Jacqueline.
Gabriel said, “I’m working for the Office again, and I need your help.”
So, it was just business after all. Gabriel had been pulled back in, and he needed her for a job. He was going to pretend the past had never happened. Perhaps it was easier that way.
“Ari told me you’d left the Office.”
“He asked me to come back for one job. You know how Shamron can be when he wants something.”
“I remember,” Jacqueline said. “Listen, Gabriel, I don’t know quite how to say this, so I’ll just say it. I’m very sorry about what happened in Vienna.”
He looked away, his eyes cold and expressionless. Clearly, Leah was off-limits. Jacqueline had seen a photograph of her once. Gabriel’s wife looked just the way she had imagined—a dark-haired Sabra, brimming with the kind of fire and confidence that Jacqueline had longed to possess when she was a Jew growing up in France. The fact that he had chosen a woman like Leah had only made Jacqueline love Gabriel more.
He abruptly changed the subject. “I assume you heard about the attack on our ambassador in Paris?”
“Of course. It was terrible.”
“Shamron is convinced Tariq was behind the attack.”
“And he wants you to find him?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Why you, Gabriel? You’ve been out of the game so long. Why not use one of his other katsas?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, the Office has had more disasters than successes lately.”
“Tariq has managed to stay one step ahead of the Office for years. How are you supposed to find him now?”
“Shamron has identified one of his agents in London. I’ve put a tap on his telephone at work, but I need to bug his flat so I can find out who he’s talking to and what he’s saying. If we’re lucky, we might be able to learn where Tariq is planning to strike next.”
“Why do you need me?”
“I need you to help me get inside his flat.”
“Why do you need my help? You know how to pick a lock and plant a bug.”
“That’s just the point. I don’t want to have to pick his lock. Break-ins are risky. If he figures out someone has been in his flat, then we lose the advantage. I want you to get inside his flat for me, make a copy of his keys, and check out what kind of telephone he has so I can produce a duplicate.”
“And how am I supposed to get inside his flat?” She knew the answer, of course. She just wanted to hear him say it.
Gabriel stood up and added another piece of wood to the fire. “Yusef likes women. He enjoys the London nightlife. I want you to meet him in a bar or a disco and make friends with him. I want you to encourage him to invite you back to his flat.”
“Sorry, Gabriel. I’m not interested. Let Ari give you one of his new girls.”
He turned and looked at her.
She thought, He’s surprised I said no to him. He didn’t expect that.
“I’m offering you a chance to help me track down Tariq al-Hourani before he kills any more Jews and does any more damage to the peace process.”
“And I’m telling you that I’ve done my bit. Let another girl have a turn.”
He sat down again.
“I understand why Shamron would want to pull you back in,” Jacqueline said. “You’re the best at what you do. But I don’t understand why you need me.”
“Because you’re good too,” he said. Then he added, “And because I can trust you.”
She thought: What are you trying to tell me, Gabriel Allon? She said, “I have to go to the Caribbean for a shoot in three weeks.”
“I’ll only need you for a few days.”
“I’m not going to do this for nothing.”
“I want you, and I won’t settle for anyone else,” Gabriel said. “Therefore, you are in a position to name your price.”
She looked toward the ceiling, calculating how much she would need. Rent, renovations, advertising…
“Fifty thousand.”
“Francs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gabriel. Dollars.”
He pulled his face into a frown. Jacqueline crossed her arms defiantly. “Fifty thousand, or you can call Shamron and ask him for a new girl.”
“Fifty thousand,” he said.
Jacqueline smiled.
* * *
Jacqueline telephoned Marcel Lambert in Paris and told him to cancel all her shoots for the next two weeks.
“Jacqueline, have you lost your mind? You can’t be serious. A woman in your tenuous position does not go around making matters worse by canceling shoots. That’s how one earns a reputation in this business.”
“Marcel, I’ve been in this business for seventeen years, and I’ve never had a reputation for blowing off shoots. Something’s come up, and I need to go away for a few days.”
“That’s what you expect me to tell the people who’ve been good enough to hire you? ”Something’s come up.“ Come on, darling. You’ll have to do much better than that.”
“Tell them I’ve come down with something.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Leprosy,” she said.
“Oh, yes, marvelous.” His voice turned suddenly serious. “Tell me something, Jacqueline. You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you? You know you can trust me. I’ve been there from the beginning, remember. I know all your secrets.”
“And don’t forget that I know all yours, Marcel Lambert. And no, I’m not in any sort of trouble. There’s just something I need to take care of, and it won’t wait.”
“You’re not sick, are you, Jacqueline?”
“I’m in perfect health.”
“It’s not the coke again, is it?” Marcel whispered.
“Marcel!”
“Surgery? An eye job?”
“Fuck you.”
“A man. Is it a man? Has someone finally managed to put a dent in that iron heart of yours?”
“I’m hanging up now, Marcel. I’ll call you in a few days.”
“So I’m right! It is a man!”
“You’re the only man for me, Marcel.”
“I wish it were so.”
“À tout à l’heure.”
“Ciao.”
They set out in the late afternoon and followed the winding highway north into the mountains. Breakaway clouds hovered over the ravines. As they rose higher into the hills, fat balls of rain pounded the windshield of Gabriel’s rented Peugeot. Jacqueline reclined her seat and watched tributaries of rainwater racing over the moon roof, but already her mind was focused on London and the target. She lit a cigarette and said, “Tell me about him.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t want anything in your head that might place you in a compromising situation.”
“You came for me because I know what I’m doing, Gabriel. Tell me something about him.”
“His name is Yusef. He grew up in Beirut.”
“Where in Beirut?”
“Shatila.”
“Jesus,” she said, closing her eyes.
“His parents were refugees in ‘forty-eight. They used to live in the Arab village of Lydda, but during the war they fled across the border to Lebanon. They stayed in the south for a while, then moved to Beirut in search of work and settled in the Shatila camp.”
“How did he end up in London?”
“An uncle brought him to England. He made sure Yusef was educated and learned to speak perfect English and French. He became a political radical. He felt Arafat and the PLO had surrendered. He supported the Palestinian leaders who wanted to continue the war until Israel was erased from the map. He came to the attention of Tariq’s organization. He’s been an active member for several years.”
“Sounds charming.”
“He is, actually.”
“Any hobbies?”
“He likes Palestinian poetry and European women. And he helps Tariq kill Israelis.”
Gabriel turned off the motorway and followed a small road east into the mountains. They passed through a sleeping village and turned onto a rutted mud track lined with bare, dripping plane trees. He followed the track until he spotted a broken wooden gate leading to a patch of cleared land. He stopped the car, climbed out, pushed the gate open wide enough to accommodate the Peugeot. He drove into the clearing and shut off the engine, leaving the headlights on. He reached into Jacqueline’s handbag and took out her Beretta and spare clip. Then he grabbed one of her glossy fashion magazines and ripped off the front and back covers.
“Get out.”
“It’s raining.”
“Too bad.”
Gabriel climbed out and walked a few yards across the sodden earth toward a tree where the tattered remains of a No Trespassing sign hung from a bent, rusting nail. He shoved the magazine cover over the head of the nail and walked back toward the car. Jacqueline was silhouetted against the yellow headlights, hood up against the rain, arms folded. It was quiet except for the ticking of the Peugeot’s radiator and the distant barking of a farm dog. Gabriel removed the clip from the Beretta, checked to make certain the chamber was empty, then handed the gun and ammunition to Jacqueline.
“I want to know if you can still handle one of these.”
“But I know the girl on that cover.”
