by Daniel Silva
“They look like containers waiting to be loaded into a cargo ship.”
“The architect wanted to create an atmosphere of discomfort and confusion. It’s supposed to represent the orderly extermination of millions amid the chaos of war.”
“Is that what you see?”
“I see a small miracle that such a memorial even exists on this spot. They could have tucked it away in a field in the countryside. But they put it here, in the heart of a reunited Berlin, right next to the Brandenburg Gate.”
“You give them too much credit, my son. After the war, they all pretended they hadn’t noticed their neighbors disappearing in the middle of the night. It wasn’t until we captured the man who worked right over there that Germany and the rest of the world truly understood the horror of the Holocaust.”
He was pointing across the Tiergarten, in the general direction of the Kurfürstenstrasse. It was there, in an imposing building that had once housed a Jewish mutual aid society, that Adolf Eichmann had made his headquarters. Gabriel’s eyes, however, were still fixed on the gray boxcar-shaped stones of the memorial.
“You should write it all down.” He paused and looked at Shamron. “Before it’s too late.”
“I’m not going anywhere yet.”
“Even you won’t live forever, Ari. You should spend some time with a pen in your hand.”
“I’ve always found the memoirs of spies to be tedious reading. Besides, what good would it do?”
“It would remind the world why we live in Israel instead of Germany and Poland.”
“The world doesn’t care,” Shamron responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And the Holocaust isn’t the only reason we have a home in the Land of Israel. We’re there because it was ours in the beginning. We belong there.”
“Even some of our friends aren’t so sure of that anymore.”
“That’s because the Palestinians and their allies have managed to convince much of the world that we are appropriators of Arab land. They like to pretend that the ancient kingdoms of Israel were a myth, that the Temple of Jerusalem was nothing but a Bible story.”
“You sound like Eli.”
Shamron gave a brief smile. “In his own way, your friend Eli is waging war in those excavation trenches beneath the Western Wall. Our Muslim brothers have conveniently forgotten that their great Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque are built on the ruins of the First and Second Jewish Temples. The political battle for Palestine is now a religious war for Jerusalem. And we have to prove to the world that we were there first.”
A gust of wind moaned amid the stones of the memorial. Shamron turned up his coat collar and rounded the corner into a street named for Hannah Arendt, the philosopher and political theorist who coined the phrase “the banality of evil” to describe Eichmann’s role in the extermination of six million European Jews. Shamron, who had spent hours alone with the murderer in a Buenos Aires safe house, regarded the characterization as misguided at best. He entered a coffeehouse, then, after noticing the No Smoking sign, sat at a table outside.
“Healthy Germans,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Just what the world needs.”
“I thought you’d forgiven them.”
“I have,” Shamron said, “but I’m afraid I’ll never forget. I also wish their government would consider putting some distance between itself and the Islamic Republic of Iran. But I learned long ago not to pray for impossible things.”
Shamron fell silent as the waitress, a beautiful girl with milk-white skin, delivered their coffee. When she was gone, he looked around the busy street and treated himself to a smile.
“What’s so funny?” asked Gabriel.
“When you came out of that Saudi prison, you told me you would never do another job for the Office. And now you’re about to carry out one of our most daring operations ever, all because some girl took a nasty fall in St. Peter’s Basilica.”
“She had a name,” Gabriel replied. “And she didn’t fall. She was pushed by Carlo Marchese.”
“We’ll deal with Carlo when we’re finished with Massoud.”
“I assume you’ve reviewed the plan?”
“Thoroughly. And my instincts tell me you have no more than thirty seconds to get Massoud into the first car.”
“We’ve rehearsed it at twenty. But in my experience, things always go faster when they’re live.”
“Especially when you’re involved,” Shamron quipped. “But tonight you’ll only be a spectator.”
“A very nervous spectator.”
“You should be. If this goes wrong, it will be a diplomatic disaster, not to mention a major propaganda victory for the Iranians. The world doesn’t seem to notice or care that they target our people whenever it suits them. But if we respond in kind, we’re branded as rogue gunslingers.”
“There are worse things they could call us.”
“Like what?”
“Weak,” replied Gabriel.
Shamron nodded in agreement and stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “Getting Massoud out of his car and into yours is going to be the easiest part of this operation. Convincing him to talk is going to be another thing altogether.”
“I’m sure you have a suggestion. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
Shamron acknowledged the remark with a nod of his head. “Massoud isn’t the sort of man who scares easily. The only way you’ll succeed is to present him with a fate worse than death. And then you have to throw him a lifeline and hope that he grasps it.”
“And if he does?”
“The temptation will be to get every drop of information you can. But in my humble opinion, that would be a mistake. Besides,” he added, “there isn’t time for that. Get the intelligence you need to stop this attack. And then . . .”
Shamron’s voice trailed off. Gabriel finished the thought for him.
“Let him go.”
Frowning, Shamron nodded slowly. “We are not our enemies. And that means we do not kill men who carry diplomatic passports, even if they have the blood of our children on their hands.”
“And even if we know he will kill again in the future?”
“You have no choice but to make a deal with the devil. Massoud has to believe you won’t betray him. And I’m afraid trust like that can’t be earned using blindfolds and balaclavas. You’ll have to show him that famous face of yours and look him directly in the eye.” Shamron paused, then added, “Unless you would like someone else to take your seat at the interrogation table.”
“Who?”
Shamron said nothing.
“You?”
“I’m the most logical choice. If Massoud looks across the table and sees you, he’ll have good reason to fear he might not survive the ordeal. But if he sees me instead . . .”
“He’ll feel warm all over?”
“He’ll know he’s dealing with the very top levels of the Israeli government,” Shamron answered. “And it just might make him more willing to talk.”
“I appreciate the spirit of the offer, Abba.”
“But you have no intention of accepting it.” Shamron paused, then asked, “You realize that he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to kill you.”
“He’ll have to get in line.”
“You could always move back to Israel.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“It’s not in my nature.”
“What would I do for a living?”
“You could help me write my book.”
“We’d kill each other.”
Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette, signaling the time had come to leave. “It’s rather appropriate, don’t you think?”
“What’s that?”
“That your last operation should take place here in the city of spies.”
“It’s a city of the dead,” Gabriel said. “And I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
“Take Massoud as a souvenir. And whatever you do, don’t get caught.”
>
“Shamron’s Eleventh Commandment.”
“Amen.”
They parted beneath the Brandenburg Gate. Shamron headed to his room at the Hotel Adlon; Gabriel, to the footpaths of the Tiergarten. He remained there until he was certain he was not being followed, then returned to the safe house in Wannsee. Entering, he found the members of his team going through a final checklist. At dusk, they began slipping out at careful intervals, and by six o’clock they were all at their final holding points. Gabriel scoured the rooms of the old house, searching for any trace of their presence. Afterward, he sat alone in the darkness, a notebook computer open on his lap. On the screen was a high-resolution shot of the Iranian Embassy, courtesy of a miniature camera concealed in a car parked legally across the street. At twelve minutes past eight o’clock, the embassy’s security gate slid slowly open, and a black Mercedes sedan nosed into view. It turned left and passed within a few inches of the camera—so close, in fact, that Gabriel felt as though he could reach out and pluck the single passenger from the backseat. Instead, he lifted a radio to his lips and informed his team the devil was heading their way.
30
BERLIN
THE TAQIYYA BEGAN TWO MINUTES LATER, at 8:14 p.m. local time, when the Berlin police received a call concerning a suspicious package found inside the Europa Center, the indoor shopping mall and office complex located next to the remnants of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. The package was actually a battered canvas rucksack of the sort often carried by goths, skinheads, anarchists, radical environmentalists, and other assorted troublemakers. It had been placed at the foot of a bench a few feet from the center’s famous water clock, a popular gathering spot, especially for young children. Later, witnesses would describe the person who left it behind as a Muslim woman in her early thirties. They were correct about her age, but not her ethnicity. They were to be forgiven for the mistake, for she had been wearing a hijab at the time.
The caller who reported the suspicious rucksack described the contents as looking like an explosive device, and the first uniformed police officers to arrive concurred. They immediately ordered an evacuation of the area around the water clock, followed soon after by the entire mall and all the surrounding buildings. By 8:25, several thousand people were streaming into the streets, and police units were converging on the scene from every quarter of Berlin.
Even within the serene and stately confines of the Hotel Adlon, it was clear Berlin was in the grips of a citywide emergency. In the famed lobby bar and lounge, where senior Nazi henchmen had once held court, nervous guests sought explanations from management, and a few stepped outside onto the sidewalk to watch the police cruisers roaring down the Unter den Linden. One guest, however, appeared oblivious to all the excitement. A well-dressed gentleman of advanced years, he calmly signed for a whisky he had scarcely touched and rode an elevator to his suite on the hotel’s uppermost floor. There he stood in the window, watching the light show as if it all had been arranged for his private amusement. After a moment, he pulled a mobile phone from the breast pocket of his suit and auto-dialed a number that had been preloaded for him by a child who understood such things. He heard a series of clicks and tones. Then a male voice greeted him with little more than a grunt.
“What am I looking at?” asked Ari Shamron.
“The prelude,” replied Uzi Navot.
“When does the curtain rise on the first act?”
“A minute, maybe less.”
Shamron severed the connection and gazed out at the blue lights flashing across the city. It was a beautiful sight, he thought. By way of deception, thou shalt do war.
At that same moment, some three miles to the west of Shamron’s unique observation post, Yossi Gavish and Mikhail Abramov sat astride a pair of motorcycles at the edge of a small park on the Hagenstrasse. At that hour, the park was long deserted, but warm lights burned in the bottle-glass windows of the miniature Teutonic castles lining the street. Mikhail was rubbing his sore knee. Yossi was so motionless he looked as though he had been cast in bronze.
“Relax, Yossi,” Mikhail said softly. “You have to relax.”
“You’re not the one with a bomb in your pocket.”
“It’s not going to explode until ten seconds after you attach it to the car.”
“What if it malfunctions?”
“They never do.”
“There’s always a first time.”
A green-and-white police van flashed past, siren screaming. Yossi had yet to move a muscle.
“Breathe,” Mikhail ordered. “Otherwise, the police are liable to think you’re about to kidnap an Iranian diplomat.”
“I don’t know why I have to attach the bomb.”
“Someone has to do it.”
“I’m an analyst,” Yossi said. “I don’t blow up cars. I read books.”
“Would you rather take out the driver instead?”
“And how am I supposed to do that? Dazzle him with my wit and intellect?”
Before Mikhail could respond, he heard a crackle in his miniature earpiece, followed by three short bursts of tone. Looking up the street, he saw the headlights of an approaching Mercedes. As it swept past their position, he could see Massoud in the backseat, catching up on a bit of paperwork by the glow of his executive reading lamp. A few seconds later came a BMW, Rimona driving, Yaakov and Oded seated ramrod straight in back. Finally, Eli Lavon rattled past in a Passat station wagon, clutching the wheel as though he were piloting an oil tanker through icy seas. Mikhail and Yossi eased into the trailing position and waited for the next signal.
They had come to the point that Shamron liked to describe as the operational fork in the road. Until now, no line had been crossed and no crime committed, save for a minor bomb scare in the Europa Center. The team could still abort, regroup, reassess, and try another night. In many respects, it was the easier decision to make—the decision to sheathe the sword rather than swing it. Shamron called it “the coward’s escape hatch.” But then, Shamron had always believed that far more operations had been sunk by hesitation than by recklessness.
On that night, however, the decision was not Shamron’s to make. Instead, it was in the hands of a battered secret warrior sitting alone in an empty house in Wannsee. He was staring at the screen of his computer, watching his team and his target as they approached the point of no return. It was the Königsallee, a street running from the parkland of the Grunewald to the busy Kurfürstendamm—and once Massoud crossed it, he would be beyond their reach. Gabriel keyed into his secure radio and asked whether anyone had any last-minute objections. Hearing nothing, he gave the order to proceed. Then he closed his eyes and listened to the sirens.
Afterward, there were some at King Saul Boulevard who would bemoan the fact that no videotape had been made. Shamron, however, took the opposite view. He believed that operational videotapes, like suicide missions, should be left to Israel’s enemies. Besides, he said, no piece of video could capture the perfection of the maneuver. It was a piece of epic poetry, a fable to be told to successive generations by the glow of a desert campfire.
It began with an almost imperceptible movement of two vehicles—one driven by Rimona, the other by Eli Lavon. Simultaneously, both slowed and moved slightly to the right, leaving Yossi a clear pathway to the rear bumper of the Mercedes. He took it with a twist of his throttle and within a few seconds was staring over the devil’s left shoulder. Carefully, he reached into his coat pocket and flipped the activation toggle on the magnetic grenade. Then he stared straight ahead and waited for the girl to step into the street.
She was wearing a neon-green jacket with reflective stripes on the sleeves and pushing a bicycle with a lamp aglow on the handlebars. An hour earlier, she had been carrying the canvas rucksack that had caused so much distress in central Berlin. Now, as she entered a well-lit pedestrian crosswalk, limping slightly, she carried nothing but a false passport and a boundless hatred for the man riding in the backseat of the approaching Mercedes se
dan.
For an instant, they all feared that Massoud’s driver intended to use his diplomatic immunity to run her down. But finally, he slammed on the brakes, and the big black car came skidding to a halt amid a cloud of blue-gray smoke. Yossi swerved to his left to avoid the car’s rear bumper and then shouted a few obscenities through the driver’s-side window before covertly attaching the grenade inside the front wheel well. By now, the girl had safely reached the other side of the street. Massoud’s driver actually gave her a small wave of apology as he drove off. The girl accepted it with a smile, all the while moving away with what seemed to be inordinate haste.
Six seconds later, the device exploded. Its carefully shaped and calibrated charge sent the entire force of the detonation inward, leaving no chance of collateral damage or casualties. Its bark was definitely worse than its bite, though the blast was powerful enough to shred the car’s left-front tire and blow open its hood. Now blinded and confused, the driver lurched the car instinctively to the right. It bounded over the curb and smashed through an iron fence before beaching itself in the Hagenplatz, a small triangle of green that the team affectionately referred to as Ice Cream Square.
If the plan had a weakness, it was the bus shelter located a few feet away from the intersection. On that evening, five people waited there—an elderly German couple, two young men of Turkish descent, and a woman in her twenties who was so thin and pale she might have just stumbled from a building that had been bombed by the Allies. What they saw next appeared to be nothing more than an act of kindness carried out by three good Samaritans who just happened upon the scene. One of the men, a tall, slender motorcyclist, immediately rushed to the aid of the stricken driver—or so it seemed to the witnesses in the bus shelter. They did not notice, however, that the motorcyclist quickly removed a pistol from the driver’s shoulder holster. Nor did they notice that he injected a dose of powerful sedative into the driver’s left thigh.
