The Fallen Angel

by Daniel Silva

  “When I finish telling you what you’re up against, you’ll realize you have no other option.”

  “Perhaps you would be good enough to tell us the source of your information.”

  “Rule number one about working with the Office,” said Gabriel. “Don’t ask too many questions.”

  If Gabriel’s unorthodox opening remarks had one effect, it was to render his audience speechless. Indeed, as he relayed the information that had been given to him by Massoud, the Austrians emitted no sound except for the occasional gasp of disbelief. Gabriel could scarcely blame them, for at that moment a four-member team of Hezbollah operatives was holed up in an apartment at Koppstrasse 34, preparing to carry out the worst terrorist attack in Austria’s history. Each member of the cell would be armed with a semiautomatic pistol and a suicide vest filled with dozens of pounds of explosives and lethal shrapnel. They would use their pistols to overpower the security guards who stood watch over the historic complex during services. Once the guards were neutralized, the team would split in half—two for the synagogue, two for the community center located directly across the narrow street. They intended to detonate their explosives simultaneously. Allahu Akbar.

  “Why shouldn’t we simply move in and arrest them now?” asked Kessler.

  “Because they’re not amateurs from the Muslim slums of Western Europe. These are hardened Hezbollah terrorists who cut their teeth fighting the Israeli military in southern Lebanon.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They went fully operational several hours ago. If you try to enter that apartment, they’ll detonate their explosives. The same thing will happen if you try to quietly evacuate the building or try to take them into custody at any stage along their journey to Paradise.”

  “Why not simply cancel services this evening?”

  “Nothing would make us happier. But if the terrorists arrive to find the synagogue closed, they’ll go in search of another target. At that hour, I’m sure they won’t have any trouble finding one. In fact, if I had to guess, they’ll go to the Kärntnerstrasse and kill as many innocent Austrians as they can.”

  The Kärntnerstrasse was a busy pedestrian boulevard that ran from the State Opera House to the Stephansdom cathedral. The economic and social heart of Vienna, the street was lined with cafés, exclusive shops, and department stores. On a Friday evening, an attack there would be devastating. Jonas Kessler understood that, of course, which explained why he looked as though he had just swallowed his cuff links. When he finally spoke again, his voice contained none of its previous sarcasm. In fact, Gabriel thought he could detect the slightest trace of gratitude.

  “What are you suggesting, Herr Allon?”

  “I’m afraid there’s only one possible course of action.”

  “And that is?”

  “We wait for the terrorists to approach the synagogue and declare their intentions. And then we put them down before they can hit their detonation switches.”

  “Kill them?”

  Gabriel made no response. Neither did Shamron or Navot.

  “We have a highly capable tactical police unit that is more than up to a job like this.”

  “Einsatzkommando Cobra,” Shamron interjected. “Better known as EKO Cobra.”

  Kessler nodded. “They’ve trained for just this kind of scenario.”

  “With all due respect, Herr Kessler, when was the last time a member of EKO Cobra shot a living, breathing terrorist through the brain stem so he couldn’t detonate his bomb with a dying twitch of his fingers?”

  Kessler was silent.

  “I thought so,” Shamron said. “Do you happen to recall when EKO Cobra was formed, Herr Kessler?”

  “It was shortly after the Munich Olympics massacre.”

  “That’s correct,” Shamron said. “And I was there that night, Herr Kessler. We begged the Germans to let us handle the rescue operation at Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base, but they refused. I had to listen to the screams of my people as they were being butchered. It was . . .” Shamron’s voice trailed off, as though he were searching for the appropriate word. Finally, he said, “It was unbelievable.”

  “The people who will enter that synagogue tonight are Austrian citizens.”

  “That’s true,” Shamron said. “But they’re also Jews, which means that we are their guardians. And we’re going to make sure they come out of that synagogue alive.”

  34

  VIENNA

  AFTER THAT, THE DEBATE ENDED, and the two sides settled down to the business of hammering out an operational accord. Within a few minutes, they had the broad outlines of an agreement. Gabriel and Mikhail would see to the takedown; EKO Cobra, the surveillance. At Kessler’s insistence, the Austrians reserved the right to move against the terrorists at any point prior to their arrival in the Jewish Quarter if the opportunity presented itself. Otherwise, they were to give the Hezbollah team a wide berth—or, as Shamron put it, they were to quietly escort them to death’s door. Gabriel made the Austrians’ job easier by telling Kessler the exact route the terrorists would take to the synagogue, including the streetcars they would use. Kessler was clearly impressed. He suggested a café on the Rotenturmstrasse that Gabriel could use as a staging post. Gabriel smiled and said he would use the one next door instead.

  “Why?”

  “Better view.”

  “When exactly was the last time you were in Vienna?”

  “It slips my mind.”

  Which left only the rules of engagement. On this point, there was no room for debate. Gabriel and Mikhail were to take no lethal action until the terrorists drew their guns—and if they killed unarmed men, they would be prosecuted to the full extent of Austrian law, and any other law Kessler could think of. Gabriel agreed to the provision and even signed his name to a hastily drafted document. After adding his own signature to the agreement, Kessler handed over several miniature radios preset to the frequency the EKO Cobra teams would be using that night.

  “Weapons?” asked Kessler.

  “It’s a little too early in the day for me,” said Gabriel.

  Kessler frowned. “Your intelligence is very precise,” he said. “Let us hope it is also accurate.”

  “It usually is. That’s how we’ve managed to survive in a very dangerous neighborhood.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me your source?”

  “It would only complicate matters.”

  “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with that missing Iranian diplomat.”

  “What missing diplomat?”

  By then, it was approaching noon. Shamron gave Gabriel a cardkey to a hotel room in the Innere Stadt and told him to get a few hours of rest. Gabriel wanted to survey the battlefield in daylight first, so he set out on foot along the Kärntnerstrasse, trailed not so discreetly by a pair of oafs from Kessler’s service. In the Stephansplatz, large crowds wandered a Lenten street fête. Gabriel briefly considered entering the cathedral to see an altarpiece he had once restored. Instead, he sliced his way through the colorful stalls and made his way to the Jewish Quarter.

  Before the Second World War, the tangle of narrow streets and alleys had been the center of one of the most vibrant and remarkable Jewish communities in the world. At its height it numbered 192,000 people, but by November 1942 only 7,000 remained, the rest having fled or been murdered in the extermination camps of Nazi Germany. But the Holocaust was not the first destruction of Vienna’s Jews. In 1421, the entire Jewish population was burned to death, forcibly baptized, or expelled after a scurrilous charge of ritual murder swept the city. The Austrians, it seemed, felt compelled to slaughter their Jews from time to time.

  The heart of the Jewish Quarter was the Stadttempel synagogue. Built in the early nineteenth century, when an edict by Emperor Joseph II required non-Catholic houses of worship to be hidden from public view, it was tucked away behind a façade of old houses on a tiny cobbled lane called the Seitenstettengasse. On Kristallnacht, the organized spasm of anti-Jewish violence t
hat swept Germany and Austria in November 1938, the synagogues of Vienna went up in flames as firefighters looked on and did nothing. But not the Stadttempel. Setting it alight would have destroyed the neighboring structures, so the mobs had to be content with merely smashing its windows and vandalizing its glorious sanctuary. It was the only synagogue or prayer room in the entire city to survive that night.

  Gabriel approached the synagogue along the same route the terrorists would take later that evening. At sunset, most of the congregants would be gathered inside, but a few would surely be clustered around the entrance. Protecting them from collateral harm would be Gabriel’s primary challenge. It meant that he and Mikhail would have to be extremely accurate and rapid in their use of firepower. Gabriel reckoned they would have only two seconds to act once the terrorists drew their weapons—two seconds to render four battle-hardened terrorists harmless. It was not the sort of thing that could be taught in a classroom or on a firing range. It took years of training and experience. And even then, an instant of hesitation could mean the difference between life and death, not only for the targets of the attack but for Gabriel and Mikhail as well.

  He remained in the street until he had committed every crack and cobble to memory, then made his way to a quaint square lined with restaurants. One was the Italian restaurant where he had eaten his last meal with Leah and Dani, and in an adjacent street was the spot where their car had exploded. Gabriel stood motionless for a long moment, paralyzed by memories. He tried to control them but could not; it was as if he had contracted Leah’s merciless affliction. Finally, he felt a gentle tap on his elbow and, turning sharply, saw the powdered face of an elderly Austrian woman. He calculated her age. It was his other affliction.

  “Are you lost?” she asked in German.

  “Yes,” he replied forthrightly.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Café Central,” he answered without hesitation.

  She pointed to the southwest, toward the Hofburg Quarter. Gabriel walked in that direction until he was out of the woman’s sight. Then he turned and made his way back toward the cathedral. The hotel where the Office had booked a room for him was one street over. As Gabriel entered, he saw Yaakov and Eli Lavon drinking coffee in the lobby. Ignoring them, he walked over to the concierge to say he would be going upstairs to his room.

  “Your wife arrived a few minutes ago,” the concierge said.

  Gabriel felt as though a stone had been laid over his heart. “My wife?”

  “Yes,” the concierge said. “Tall, long dark hair, dark eyes.”

  “Italian?”

  “Very.”

  Gabriel felt himself breathe again. Turning, he walked past Yaakov and Lavon without a word and headed upstairs to his room.

  A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the door latch. Gabriel inserted his cardkey into the slot and slipped quietly inside. From the bathroom came the sound of water splashing in the shower. Chiara was singing softly to herself. The tune was melancholy, her voice low and sultry. Gabriel padded over to the foot of the bed, where a change of his own clothing lay in a neat pile. Next to it was a gun, a sound suppressor, a box of ammunition, and a shoulder holster. The gun was a .45-caliber Beretta, larger than the 9mm he generally preferred but necessary for a quick and decisive kill. The ammunition was hollow-point, which would help to alleviate the threat of collateral casualties due to overpenetration. Gabriel loaded ten rounds into the magazine and inserted it into the butt. Then he screwed the suppressor into the end of the barrel and, extending his arm, checked the weapon for balance.

  “What do you suppose normal people do when they come to Vienna?” Chiara asked.

  “They have coffee and listen to music.”

  Gabriel lowered the Beretta and looked at her. She was leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom, her body wrapped in a toweling robe, her face flushed from the heat of the shower.

  “I thought I told you to stay in Jerusalem.”

  “You did.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I didn’t want you to have to come back here alone.”

  Gabriel ejected the magazine from the Beretta and unscrewed the suppressor.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  “Because the Austrians have never dealt with a scenario like this before. And even if they had, I wouldn’t be willing to entrust them with Jewish lives.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Why else would I be doing it?”

  Chiara sat on the edge of the bed and studied him carefully. “You look dreadful,” she said.

  “Thank you, Chiara. You look lovely as always.”

  She ignored his remark. “I don’t know what that night was really like,” she said, “but I have a fairly good idea. You relive it in your dreams more often than you realize. I hear everything. I hear you weeping over Dani’s body. I hear you telling Leah that the ambulance will be there soon.”

  She lapsed into silence and brushed a tear from her cheek. “But sometimes,” she continued, “everything turns out differently. You kill the terrorists before they can set off the bomb. Leah and Dani are unharmed. You live happily ever after. No explosion. No funeral for a child.” She paused. “No Chiara.”

  “It’s just a dream.”

  “But it’s how you wish things had turned out.”

  “You’re right, Chiara. I do wish Dani hadn’t been killed that night. And I do wish Leah—”

  “I don’t blame you, Gabriel,” she said, cutting him off. “I knew that when I fell in love with you. I always knew I would only have part of your heart. The rest would always belong to Leah.”

  Gabriel reached down and touched her face. “What does any of this have to do with tonight?”

  “Because you’re right about one thing, Gabriel. It is only a dream. Killing those terrorists tonight won’t bring Dani back to life. And it won’t make Leah the way she was. In fact, the only thing you might achieve is getting yourself killed in the same city where your son died.”

  “The only people who are going to die tonight are the terrorists.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe you’ll make a mistake, and I’ll leave Vienna a widow.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

  “I’m not a poet. And I’m not going to make a mistake.”

  She exhaled heavily in capitulation and pulled the robe tightly across her breasts. “I don’t suppose you have room for one more person on your team tonight?”

  Gabriel stared at her blankly.

  “I thought that would be your answer.” She took hold of his hand. “How will I know, Gabriel? How will I know if you’re alive or dead?”

  “If you hear explosions, you’ll know I’m dead. But if you hear sirens . . .” He shrugged.

  “What?”

  “It will all be over.” He kissed her lips and whispered, “And then we’ll go home and live happily ever after.”

  Gabriel showered and tried to sleep, but it was no good. His mind was aflame with too many memories of the past, his nerves too brittle with anxiety about what the next few hours would bring. And so he lay quietly next to Chiara as the afternoon shadows grew thin upon the bed, listening to the chatter over the radio that Jonas Kessler had given to him. EKO Cobra had established an observation post outside the apartment house on the Koppstrasse and, using a thermographic camera, had confirmed the presence of at least four people inside. Additional EKO Cobra teams were posted at various points along the route from the Koppstrasse to the Innere Stadt. It meant the terrorists would be running a gauntlet—a gauntlet that would lead them directly to the guns of Gabriel and Mikhail.

  Sunset that evening was at 6:12. At half past four, Gabriel drank two cups of coffee—enough to make him alert, but not enough to make his hands shake—and dressed in the clothing that Chiara had brought from Jerusalem. Faded blue jeans, a dark woolen pullover, a shoulder holster: the uniform of a soldier of the night. He reassembled and loaded the Be
retta and inserted it into the holster. Then, as Chiara looked on in silence, he repeatedly practiced drawing the weapon and firing two shots in rapid succession, both at a sharp upward trajectory.

  When he felt ready, he holstered the gun and pulled on his leather jacket. Then he removed his wedding band and handed it to Chiara. She didn’t ask why; she didn’t need to. Instead, she kissed him one last time and tried not to cry as he slipped silently out the door. When he was gone, she stood alone in the window, her face wet with tears, and prayed for the screaming of sirens.

  35

  VIENNA

  AUSTRIA’S FEDERAL MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR occupied a magnificent old Hapsburg palace at Herengasse 7. Deep within the massive structure was a crisis center and situation room that had been constructed in the tense days after 9/11, when everyone in Europe, including the Austrians, assumed they were next on al-Qaeda’s hit list. Fortunately, Jonas Kessler had set foot in the crisis center only one time. It was the night Erich Radek was captured by the same man who now held Kessler’s career in the palm of his hand.

  The center was arranged like a small amphitheater. On the lower level, in a space the staff referred to as “the pit,” liaison officers from the various branches of the Austrian Federal Police and security services sat at three common tables crowded with phones and computers. The more senior staff sat in an ascending staircase of workstations, with the uppermost deck reserved for chiefs, ministers, and, if necessary, the federal chancellor himself.

  At 5:35, Jonas Kessler settled into his assigned seat, with the interior minister on one side and Uzi Navot on the other. Next to Navot was Ari Shamron. He was twirling his old Zippo lighter between his fingertips and staring at the largest image on the video display wall. It showed the exterior of the apartment house at Koppstrasse 34. At 5:50, the exact time Gabriel had predicted, four young Lebanese men emerged from the entrance. Each wore a heavy woolen overcoat. Their faces were clean-shaven, a sign they had ritually prepared themselves for the virginal delights that awaited them in Paradise.