by Daniel Silva
Gabriel was silent.
"Is this the part where you're going to remind me that you demand truthfulness in others while concealing yourself behind a cloak of lies?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss my personal life, Zoe."
"So we're not all going to be friends?"
"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way."
"Too bad," she said. "I always liked her. And, for the record, when we were all in Highgate together you two did a damn lousy job of hiding the fact you're madly in love."
"There is no safe house in Highgate, Zoe."
"Ah, yes, I forgot."
Gabriel changed the subject. "You look lovely, Zoe. New York obviously agrees with you."
"I still haven't managed to find a decent cup of tea."
"No second thoughts about leaving the newspaper business?"
"There is no newspaper business," Zoe said acidly. "What did you think of Martin's performance at Davos?"
"I sleep easier at night knowing that Martin is optimistic about our future."
"Has he been behaving himself?"
"I hear he's been a model prisoner."
"What's going on with the centrifuges?"
"There are no centrifuges, Zoe, at least none where Martin is concerned. Martin never puts a foot wrong. He's pure of heart and noble of intent. He's a saint."
"And to think I actually fell for that bilge."
"From our point of view, we're very glad you did." Gabriel smiled and guided her toward the main building. "Have you heard from him?"
"Martin? Not a peep. But it galls me to no end that he's actually going to get away with it. After what he and Muller did to Mikhail, I wish I could bring them down myself."
"You're still covered by the Official Secrets Act, Zoe. Even here in America."
"The MI6 station in Washington reminds me of that on a regular basis." Zoe smiled and asked about Mikhail.
"From what I hear, he's like new."
"Just like the Rembrandt?"
"I doubt Mikhail needed as much work as the Rembrandt."
"Do send him my best. I'm afraid I still see his face in my dreams every night."
"It won't last forever."
"Yes," she said distantly, "that's what the MI5 psychiatrists told me."
They had reached the gallery's front entrance. Chiara and Isherwood were waiting outside with Lena Herzfeld.
"Who's the woman with your wife?"
"She's the reason we recruited you," Gabriel said.
"Lena?"
Gabriel nodded. "Would you like to meet her?"
"If it's all right with you, I'll just admire her from afar." Zoe hailed a passing taxi. "If you ever need someone to do another dangerous job, you know where to find me."
"Go back to your life."
"I'm trying to," she said, smiling. "But it's just not as bloody interesting as yours."
Zoe kissed his cheek and climbed into the taxi. As it pulled away from the curb, Gabriel felt his phone vibrating in the breast pocket of his jacket. It was an e-mail from King Saul Boulevard, just one word in length.
BOOM...
80
THE LIZARD PENINSULA, CORNWALL
As with nearly every other aspect of Operation Masterpiece, deciding precisely what to do with Martin Landesmann's centrifuges was the source of a contentious internal debate. Roughly speaking, there were three options--only fitting, since the political leadership and intelligence services of three nations were involved. Options one and two involved tampering and bugging while option three imagined a far more decisive course of action. Also known as the Hammer of Shamron, it called for concealing monitoring devices in the centrifuges along with enough high explosives to blow Iran's entire secret enrichment chain to kingdom come if the opportunity presented itself. The benefits, said Shamron, were twofold. Not only would a major act of sabotage deal a severe setback to the program but it would forever make the Iranians think twice about doing their nuclear shopping in Europe.
With the White House still hoping for a negotiated settlement to the Iran issue, the Americans entered the talks in the option two camp and remained there until the end. The British also liked the "wait and watch" approach, although in their mischievous hearts they wanted to do a bit of "messing about" as well. Option three was the most controversial of the plans--hardly surprising given its source--and in the end it was supported by only one country. Because that country also happened to be the one that would forever have to live under direct threat of a nuclear-armed Iran, its vote carried more weight. "Besides," argued Shamron emphatically, "Martin is ours. We found him. We fought for him. And we bled for him. We own those centrifuges. And we can do with them what we please."
A centrifuge cascade is a complex facility. It is also quite fragile, as the Iranians themselves have learned the hard way. One faulty gas centrifuge, spinning at several thousand rotations a minute, can break into deadly shrapnel and blow through a facility like a tornado, destroying adjacent centrifuges along with connective piping and assemblies. Years of painstaking work can be wiped out in an instant by a single fingerprint, smudge, or some other impurity.
In fact, that is precisely what the Iranians first suspected when a calamitous explosion swept through an undisclosed enrichment facility in Yazd at 4:42 a.m. Their suspicions quickly focused on sabotage, however, when a near-simultaneous blast shredded a second undisclosed facility at Gorgan near the Caspian Sea. When reports surfaced of explosions at two other secret enrichment plants, the Iranian president ordered an emergency shutdown of all nuclear facilities, along with an evacuation of nonessential personnel. By dawn Tehran time, the Hammer of Shamron had achieved its first goal. Four previously undisclosed plants lay in ruins. And the mullahs were in a panic.
BUT HOW TO explain the blasts publicly without revealing the great lie that was the Iranian nuclear program? For the first seventy-two hours, it seemed the mullahs and their allies in the Revolutionary Guards had chosen silence. It cracked, however, when rumors of the mysterious explosions reached the ears of a certain Washington Post reporter known for the infallibility of his sources inside the White House. He confirmed the reports with a few well-placed phone calls and published his findings the next morning in a front-page exclusive. The story ignited a firestorm, which is precisely what the men behind it had in mind.
Now under international pressure to explain the events, the Iranians shifted from silence to deception. Yes, they said, there had indeed been a string of unfortunate accidents at a number of civilian and military installations. Precisely how many facilities had been damaged the regime refused to say, only that all were nonnuclear in nature. "But this should come as a surprise to no one," the Iranian president said in an interview with a friendly journalist from China. "The Islamic Republic has no desire to produce nuclear weapons. Our program is entirely peaceful."
But still the leaks kept coming. And still the questions continued to be asked. If the four facilities involved were truly nonnuclear, why were they concealed in tunnels? And if they were for entirely peaceful purposes, why did the regime attempt to keep the explosions a secret? Since the mullahs refused to answer, the International Atomic Energy Agency did so for them. In a dramatic special report, the IAEA stated conclusively that each of the four facilities housed a cascade of centrifuges. There was only one possible conclusion to be drawn from the evidence. The Iranians were enriching uranium in secret. And they were planning to go for nuclear breakout.
The report was an earthquake. Within hours there were calls at the United Nations for crippling sanctions while the president of France suggested it might be time for allied military action--with the Americans taking the lead, of course. Painted into a rhetorical corner by years of deception, the Iranian regime had no option but to lash out, claiming it had been forced into a program of widespread concealment by constant Western threats. Furthermore, said the regime, its own investigation of the explosions had revealed they were caused by sabotage. High on the list of suspects were the Great Satan
and its Zionist ally. "Tampering with our plants was an act of war," said the Iranian president. "And the Islamic Republic will respond in the very near future in a manner of our choosing."
The level of bombast rose quickly, as did the specificity of Iranian accusations of American and Israeli involvement. Sensing an opportunity to strengthen its position internally, the regime called on the Iranian people to protest this wanton violation of sovereignty. What they got instead was the largest rally in the history of the Iranian opposition movement. The mullahs responded by unleashing the dreaded Basij paramilitary forces. By the end of the day, more than a hundred protesters were dead and thousands more were in custody.
If the mullahs thought a display of naked brutality would end the protests, they were mistaken, for in the days to come, the streets of Tehran would become a virtual war zone of Green Movement rage and dissent. In the West, commentators speculated that the days of the regime might be numbered while security experts predicted a coming wave of Iranian-backed terrorism. Two questions, however, remained unanswered. Who had actually carried off the act of sabotage? And how had they managed to do it?
There were many theories, all wildly inaccurate. Not one referred to a long-lost Rembrandt now hanging in the National Gallery in Washington, or a former British newspaper reporter who was now a star on American cable news, or a Swiss financier known to all the world as Saint Martin who was anything but. Nor did they mention a man of medium build with gray temples who was often seen hiking alone along the sea cliffs of Cornwall--sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by a broad-shouldered youth with matinee-idol good looks.
On a warmish afternoon in early June, while nearing the southern end of Kynance Cove, he spotted an elderly, bespectacled figure standing on the terrace of the Polpeor Cafe at Lizard Point. For an instant, he considered turning in the opposite direction. Instead, he lowered his head and kept walking. The old man had traveled a long way to see him. The least he could do was say a proper good-bye.
81
LIZARD POINT, CORNWALL
The terrace was in bright sunlight. They sat alone in the corner beneath the shade of a parasol, Shamron with his back to the sea, Gabriel directly opposite. He was dressed in hiking shorts and waterproof boots with thick socks pulled down to the ankle. Shamron stirred two packets of sugar into his coffee and in Hebrew asked whether Gabriel was armed. Gabriel glanced at the nylon rucksack resting on the empty chair next to him. Shamron pulled a frown.
"It's a violation of Office doctrine to carry weapons in separate containers. That gun is supposed to be at the small of your back where you can get to it quickly."
"It bothers my back on long walks."
Shamron, sufferer of chronic pain, gave a sympathetic nod. "I'm just relieved the British have finally given you formal permission to carry a gun at all times." He gave a faint smile. "I suppose we have the Iranians to thank for that."
"Are you hearing anything?"
Shamron nodded gravely. "They're convinced we were behind it and they're anxious to return the favor. We know that Hezbollah's top terror planner made a trip to Tehran last week. We also know that a number of operatives have been unusually chatty the last few days. It's only a matter of time before they hit us."
"Has my name come up?"
"Not yet."
Gabriel sipped his mineral water and asked Shamron what he was doing in the country.
"A bit of post-Masterpiece housekeeping."
"Of what sort?"
"The final interservice operational review," Shamron said disdainfully. "My personal nightmare. For the past few days, I've been locked in a room at Thames House with two dozen British and American spies who think it is their God-given right to ask me any question they please."
"It's a new world, Ari."
"I like the old ways better. They were less complicated. Besides, I've never played well with others."
"Why didn't Uzi handle the review himself?"
"Uzi is far too busy to deal with something so trivial," Shamron said sardonically. "He asked me to take care of it. I suppose it wasn't a complete waste of time. There were some fences that needed mending. Things got a little tense in the ops center on the final night."
"How did I manage to stay off the invitation list for this little gathering?"
"Graham Seymour felt you deserved a break."
"How thoughtful."
"I'm afraid he does have a couple of questions before the case file can be officially closed."
"What sort of questions?"
"About the art end of the affair."
"Such as?"
"How did Landesmann know the Rembrandt had resurfaced?"
"Gustaaf van Berkel of the Rembrandt Committee."
"What was the connection?"
"Who do you think was the committee's main source of funding?"
"Martin Landesmann?"
Gabriel nodded. "What better way to find a long-lost Rembrandt than to create the most august body of Rembrandt scholars in the world? Van Berkel and his staff knew the location of every known Rembrandt. And when new paintings were discovered, they were automatically brought to Van Berkel and his committee for attribution."
"How Martin," said Shamron. "So when the painting was moved to Glastonbury for cleaning, Martin hired a professional to steal it for him?"
"Correct," said Gabriel. "But his thief turned out to have a conscience, something Martin was never burdened with."
"The Frenchman?"
"I assume so," said Gabriel. "But under no circumstances are you to say anything about Maurice Durand to the British."
"Because you made a deal with him?"
"Actually, it was Eli."
Shamron gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "As someone who's devoted your life to preservation of paintings, have you no misgivings about protecting the identity of a man who has stolen billions of dollars' worth of art?"
"If Durand hadn't given that list of names and account numbers to Hannah Weinberg, we would never have been able to break Martin. The list was Martin's undoing."
"So the end justifies the means?"
"You've made deals with people who are far worse than a professional art thief, Ari. Besides, Maurice Durand might come in handy the next time the Office needs to steal something. If I were Uzi, I'd stick him in my back pocket along with Martin Landesmann."
"He sends his regards, by the way."
"Uzi?"
"Landesmann," said Shamron, clearly enjoying the look of surprise on Gabriel's face. "He was wondering whether the two of you might meet on neutral territory for a quiet dinner."
"I'd rather take your place at the interservice operational review. But tell him thanks for the offer."
"I'm sure he's going to be disappointed. He says he has a great deal of respect for you. Apparently, Martin's become quite philosophical about the entire affair."
"How long before he tries to dissolve our partnership?"
"Actually, his efforts commenced not long after the explosions at the Iranian plants. Martin believes he's lived up to his end of the deal and would like to be released from any further obligations. What he doesn't quite understand is that our relationship is just beginning. Eventually, the Iranians will try to rebuild those enrichment plants. And we plan to make sure Martin is there to offer them a helping hand."
"Will the Iranians trust him?"
"We've given them no reason not to. As far as the mullahs are concerned, we tampered with the centrifuges while they were in transit. Which means Martin is going to pay dividends for years, and Uzi will be the primary beneficiary. No matter what happens for the rest of his term, Uzi will go down as one of the greatest directors in Office history. And all because of you."
Shamron scrutinized Gabriel. "It doesn't bother you that Uzi is getting all the credit for your work?"
"It wasn't my work, Ari. It was a team effort. Besides, after everything I've done to make Uzi's life miserable, he deserves to have a little glory thrown his way."
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"The glory is yours, Gabriel. It's quite possible you've derailed the Iranian program for years. And in the process you've also managed to restore three remarkable women."
"Three?"
"Lena, Zoe, and Hendrickje. All in all, not bad for a few months' work." Shamron paused, then added, "Which leaves only you."
Gabriel made no response.
"I suppose this is the part where you tell me you're going to retire again?" Shamron shook his head slowly. "Maybe for a while. But then another Martin will come along. Or a new terrorist will carry out another massacre of innocents. And you'll be back on the field of battle."
"You're sure about that, Ari?
"Your mother named you Gabriel for a reason. You're eternal. Just like me."
Gabriel gazed silently at the purple thrift glowing atop the cliffs in the late-afternoon sun. Shamron seemed to sense that this time it was different. He looked around the terrace of the cafe and smiled reflectively.
"Do you remember the afternoon we came here a long time ago? It was after Tariq killed our ambassador and his wife in Paris."
"I remember, Ari."
"There was a girl," Shamron said after a long pause. "The one with all the earrings and bracelets. She was like a human wind chime. Do you remember her, Gabriel? She reminded me of--"
Shamron stopped himself. Gabriel seemed not to be listening anymore. He was staring at the cliffs, lost in memory.
"I'm sorry, Gabriel. I didn't mean to--"
"Don't apologize, Ari. I'll carry Leah and Dani with me for the rest of my life."
"You've given enough, Gabriel. Too much. I suppose it's fitting it should all end here."
"Yes," said Gabriel distantly, "I suppose it is."
"Can I at least give you a ride back to your cottage?"
"No," said Gabriel. "I'll walk."
He shouldered his rucksack and stood. Shamron remained seated, one final act of defiance.
"Learn from my mistakes, Gabriel. Take good care of your wife. And if you're fortunate enough to have children, take good care of them, too."
