Gabriel Allon: Prince of Fire, the Messenger, the Secret Servant

by Daniel Silva

  “So you’re going to see the Irrelevant One,” said Yonatan, intruding on Gabriel’s thoughts.

  “Your father arranged a meeting for me.”

  “The man’s seventy-five years old, and he’s still pulling the strings like a puppet master.” Yonatan smiled and shook his head. “Why doesn’t he just retire and take it easy?”

  “He’d go insane,” said Gabriel. “And so would your poor mother. He asked me to say hello to you, by the way. He’d like you to come to Tiberias for Shabbat.”

  “I’m on duty,” Yonatan said hastily.

  Duty, it seemed, was Yonatan’s ready-made excuse to avoid spending time with his father. Gabriel was reluctant to involve himself in the tangled internal disputes of the Shamron family, yet he knew how badly the old man had been hurt by the estrangement of his children. He had a selfish motive for intervention as well. If Yonatan were a larger presence in Shamron’s life, it might relieve some of the pressure on Gabriel. Now that Gabriel was living in Jerusalem instead of Venice, Shamron felt free to telephone at all hours to swap Office gossip or dissect the latest political developments. Gabriel needed his space back. Yonatan, if skillfully handled, could act as a sort of Separation Fence.

  “He wants to see more of you, Yonatan.”

  “I can only take him in small doses.” Yonatan took his eyes from the road a moment to look at Gabriel. “Besides, he always liked you better.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “All right, so it’s a bit of an exaggeration. But it’s not all that far from the truth. He certainly thinks of you as a son.”

  “Your father’s a great man.”

  “Yes,” Yonatan said, “and great men are hard on their sons.”

  Gabriel glimpsed a pair of large tan-colored armored personnel carriers parked ahead of them at the edge of the road. “It’s best not to enter town without a bit of muscle,” Yonatan said. They formed a small convoy, with Yonatan’s jeep in the middle position, and drove on.

  The first evidence of the approaching city was the stream of Arabs walking along the edge of the highway. The hijabs of the women fluttered like pennants in the midday breeze. Then Ramallah, low and drab, rose out of the arid landscape. Jerusalem Street bore them into the heart of the city. The faces of the “martyrs” glared at Gabriel from every passing lamppost. There were streets named for the dead, squares and markets for the dead. A kiosk dispensed key chains with faces of the dead attached. An Arab moved among the traffic, hawking a martyrs’ calendar. The newest posters bore the seductive image of a beautiful young girl, the Arab teenager who had detonated herself in the Ben Yehuda Mall two nights previously.

  Yonatan turned right into Broadcast Street and followed it for about a mile, until they reached a roadblock manned by a half-dozen Palestinian Security officers. Ramallah was technically under Palestinian control again. Gabriel had come at the invitation of the Authority’s president, the equivalent of entering a Sicilian village with the blessing of the local don. There was little tension in evidence as Yonatan, in fluent Arabic, spoke to the leader of the Palestinian detail.

  Several minutes elapsed while the Palestinian consulted with his superiors over a handheld radio. Then he tapped the roof of the jeep and waved them forward. “Slowly, Colonel Shamron,” he cautioned. “Some of these boys were here the night the Egoz Battalion broke down the gate and started shooting up the place. We wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings.”

  Yonatan weaved his way through a maze of concrete barriers, then accelerated gently. A cement wall, about twelve feet in height and pockmarked by heavy-caliber machine-gun fire, appeared on their right. In places it had been knocked down, so that the effect was of a mouth of bad teeth. Palestinian security units, some in pickup trucks, others in jeeps, patrolled the perimeter. They eyed Gabriel and Yonatan provocatively but kept their weapons down. Yonatan braked to a halt at the entrance. Gabriel removed his helmet and body armor.

  Yonatan asked, “How long will you be?”

  “That depends on him, I suppose.”

  “Prepare yourself for a tirade. He’s usually in a foul mood these days.”

  “Who could blame him?”

  “He has only himself to blame, Gabriel, remember that.”

  Gabriel opened the door and climbed out. “Are you going to be all right here alone?”

  “No problem,” Yonatan said. Then he waved to Gabriel and said, “Give him my best.”

  A Palestinian Security officer greeted Gabriel through the bars of the gate. He wore an olive drab uniform, a flat cap, and a black patch over his left eye. He opened the gate wide enough for Gabriel to pass and beckoned him forward. His hand was missing the last three fingers. On the other side of the gate, Gabriel was set upon by two more uniformed men, who subjected him to a rigorous and intrusive body search while One-Eye looked on, grinning as though the whole thing had been arranged for his private amusement.

  One-Eye introduced himself as Colonel Kemel and led Gabriel into the compound. It was not the first time Gabriel had set foot in the Mukata. During the Mandate period it had been a British army fortress. After the Six-Day War, the IDF had taken it over from the Jordanians and used it throughout the occupation as a West Bank command post. Gabriel, when he was a soldier, had often reported for duty in the same place Yasir Arafat now used as his headquarters.

  Arafat’s office was located in a square two-story building huddled against the northern wall of the Mukata. Heavily damaged, it was one of the few buildings still standing in the compound. In the lobby Gabriel endured a second search, this time at the hands of a mustachioed giant in plain clothes with a compact submachine gun across his chest.

  The search complete, the security man nodded to Colonel Kemel, who prodded Gabriel up a narrow flight of stairs. On the landing, seated on a fragile-looking chair balanced precariously on two legs, was another Security man. He cast Gabriel an apathetic glance, then reached up and rapped his knuckle against the wooden door. An irritated voice on the other side said, “Come.” Colonel Kemel turned the latch and led Gabriel inside.

  The office Gabriel entered was not much larger than his own at King Saul Boulevard. There was a modest wood desk and a small camp bed with a handsome leather-bound copy of the Koran lying atop the starched white pillowcase. Heavy velveteen curtains covered the window; a desk lamp, angled severely downward toward a stack of paperwork, was the only source of light. Along one wall, almost lost in the heavy shadows, hung row upon row of framed photographs showing the Palestinian leader with many famous people, including the American president who had bestowed de facto recognition upon his miniature state and whom Arafat had rewarded by stabbing in the back at Camp David and walking away from a peace deal.

  Behind the desk, elfin and sickly looking, sat Arafat himself. He wore a pressed uniform and a black-and-white checkered kaffiyeh. As usual, it was draped over his right shoulder and secured to the front of his uniform in such a way that it resembled the land of Palestine—Arafat’s version of Palestine, Gabriel noted, for it looked very much like the State of Israel. His hand, when he gestured for Gabriel to sit, shook violently, as did his pouting lower lip when he asked Gabriel whether he wished to have tea. Gabriel knew enough of Arab custom to realize that a refusal would get things off on the wrong foot, so he readily accepted the tea and watched, with a certain amount of pleasure, as Arafat dispatched Colonel Kemel to fetch it.

  Alone for the first time, they eyed each other silently over the small desk. The shadow of their last encounter hung over them. It had taken place in the study of a Manhattan apartment, where Tariq al-Hourani, the same man who had planted a bomb beneath Gabriel’s car in Vienna, had tried to murder Arafat for his supposed “betrayal” of the Palestinian people. Tariq, before fleeing the apartment house, had put a bullet into Gabriel’s chest, a wound that very nearly killed him.

  Seated now in Arafat’s presence, Gabriel’s chest ached for the first time in many years. No single person, other than perhaps
Shamron, had influenced the course of Gabriel’s life more than Yasir Arafat. For thirty years they had been swimming together in the same river of blood. Gabriel had killed Arafat’s most trusted lieutenants; Arafat had ordered the “reprisal” against Gabriel in Vienna. But were Leah and Dani the targets or had the bomb actually been meant for him? Gabriel had been obsessed by the question for thirteen years. Arafat certainly knew the answer. It was one of the reasons Gabriel had so readily accepted Shamron’s suggestion to visit Ramallah.

  “Shamron said you wished to discuss an important matter with me,” Arafat said. “I agreed to see you only as a courtesy to him. We are the same age, Shamron and I. History threw us together in this land, and unfortunately we have fought many battles. Sometimes I got the better of him, sometimes he bested me. Now we are both growing old. I had hopes we might see a few days of peace before we died. My hopes are fading.”

  If that was the case, thought Gabriel, why then did you walk away from a deal that would have given you a state in Gaza and 97 percent of the West Bank with East Jerusalem as its capital? Gabriel knew the answer, of course. It was evidenced in the cloth map of “Palestine” Arafat wore on his shoulder. He’d wanted it all.

  Gabriel had no chance to respond, because Colonel Kemel returned holding a small silver tray with two glasses of tea. The colonel then settled himself in a chair and glared at Gabriel with his one good eye. Arafat explained that the aide spoke fluent Hebrew and would assist with any translation. Gabriel had hoped to meet with Arafat alone, but a translator would probably prove useful. Gabriel’s Arabic, while passable, did not possess the nuance or flexibility necessary for a conversation with a man like Yasir Arafat.

  Arafat, with a trembling hand, placed his glass of tea back into its saucer and asked Gabriel what had brought him to Ramallah. Gabriel’s one-word answer left Arafat momentarily off balance, just as Gabriel had intended.

  “Khaled?” Arafat repeated, recovering his footing. “I know many men named Khaled. I’m afraid it is a rather common Palestinian name. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  Feigned ignorance, Gabriel well knew, was one of Arafat’s favorite negotiating tactics. Gabriel pressed his case.

  “The Khaled I’m looking for, Chairman Arafat, is Khaled al-Khalifa.”

  “President Arafat,” said the Palestinian.

  Gabriel nodded indifferently. “Where is Khaled al-Khalifa?”

  The blotchy skin of Arafat’s face colored suddenly, and his lower lip began to tremble. Gabriel looked down and contemplated his tea. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Colonel Kemel shifting nervously in his seat. Arafat, when he spoke again, managed to keep his legendary temper in check.

  “I take it you’re referring to the son of Sabri al-Khalifa?”

  “Actually, he’s your son now.”

  “My adopted son,” Arafat said, “because you murdered his father.”

  “His father was killed on the field of battle.”

  “He was murdered in cold blood on the streets of Paris.”

  “It was Sabri who turned Paris into a battlefield, President Arafat, with your blessing.”

  A silence fell between them. Arafat seemed to choose his next words carefully. “I always knew that, one day, you would come up with some sort of provocation to target Khaled for elimination. That’s why, after Sabri’s funeral, I sent the boy far away from here. I gave him a new life, and he took it. I haven’t seen or heard from Khaled since he was a young man.”

  “We have evidence to suggest Khaled al-Khalifa was involved in the attack on our embassy in Rome.”

  “Nonsense,” said Arafat dismissively.

  “Since Khaled had nothing to do with Rome, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind telling us where we can find him.”

  “As I said before, I don’t know where Khaled is.”

  “What’s his name?”

  A guarded smile. “I went to extraordinary lengths to protect the boy from you and your vengeful service. What on earth makes you think I would tell you his name now? Do you really believe that I would play the role of Judas Iscariot and hand over my son to you for trial and execution?” Arafat shook his head slowly. “We have many traitors in our midst, many who work right here in the Mukata, but I am not one of them. If you want to find Khaled, you’ll do it without my help.”

  “There was a raid on a pensione in Milan shortly after the bombing. One of the men hiding there was named Daoud Hadawi, a Palestinian who used to be a member of your Presidential Security Service.”

  “So you say.”

  “I would appreciate a copy of Hadawi’s personnel file.”

  “Several hundred men work in the Presidential Security Service. If this man—” He faltered. “What was his name?”

  “Daoud Hadawi.”

  “Ah, yes, Hadawi. If he ever worked for the service, and if we still have a personnel file on him, I’ll be glad to give it to you. But I think the odds of us finding something are rather slim.”

  “Really?”

  “Let me make this clear to you,” Arafat said. “We Palestinians had nothing to do with the attack on your embassy. Maybe it was Hezbollah or Osama. Maybe it was neo-Nazis. God knows, you have many enemies.”

  Gabriel placed his palms on the arms of the chair and prepared to stand. Arafat raised his hand. “Please, Jibril,” he said, using the Arabic version of Gabriel’s name. “Don’t leave yet. Stay a little longer.”

  Gabriel, for the moment, relented. Arafat fidgeted with his kaffiyeh, then looked at Colonel Kemel and in quiet Arabic instructed him to leave them alone.

  “You’ve not touched your tea, Jibril. Can I get you something else? Some sweets, perhaps.”

  Gabriel shook his head. Arafat folded his tiny hands and regarded Gabriel in silence. He was smiling slightly. Gabriel had the distinct sense Arafat was enjoying himself.

  “I know what you did for me in New York a few years ago. If it weren’t for you, Tariq might very well have killed me in that apartment. In another time you might have hoped for him to succeed.” A wistful smile. “Who knows? In another time it might have been you, Jibril, standing there with a gun in your hand.”

  Gabriel made no reply. Kill Arafat? In the weeks after Vienna, when he had been unable to picture anything but the charred flesh of his wife and the mutilated body of his son, he had thought about it many times. Indeed, at his lowest point, Gabriel would have gladly traded his own life for Arafat’s.

  “It’s strange, Jibril, but for a brief time we were allies, you and I. We both wanted peace. We both needed peace.”

  “Did you ever want peace, or was it all part of your phased strategy to destroy Israel and take the whole thing?”

  This time it was Arafat who allowed a question to hang in the air unanswered.

  “I owe you my life, Jibril, and so I will help you in this matter. There is no Khaled. Khaled is a figment of your imagination. If you keep chasing him, the real killers will escape.”

  Gabriel stood abruptly, terminating the meeting. Arafat came out from behind the desk and placed his hands on Gabriel’s shoulders. Gabriel’s flesh seemed ablaze, but he did nothing to sever the Palestinian’s embrace.

  “I’m glad we finally met formally,” Arafat said. “If you and I can sit down together in peace, perhaps there’s hope for us all.”

  “Perhaps,” said Gabriel, though his tone revealed his pessimism.

  Arafat released Gabriel and started toward the door, then stopped himself suddenly. “You surprise me, Jibril.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I expected you to use this opportunity to clear the air about Vienna.”

  “You murdered my wife and son,” Gabriel said, deliberately misleading Arafat over Leah’s fate. “I’m not sure we’ll ever be able to ‘clear the air,’ as you put it.”

  Arafat shook his head. “No, Jibril, I didn’t murder them. I ordered Tariq to kill you to avenge Abu Jihad, but I specifically told him that your family was not to be touched.”

&
nbsp; “Why did you do that?”

  “Because you deserved it. You conducted yourself with a certain honor that night in Tunis. Yes, you killed Abu Jihad, but you made certain no harm came to his wife and children. In fact, you stopped on the way out of the villa to comfort Abu Jihad’s daughter and instruct her to look after her mother. Do you remember that, Jibril?”

  Gabriel closed his eyes and nodded. The scene in Tunis, like the bombing in Vienna, hung in a gallery of memory that he walked each night in his dreams.

  “I felt you deserved the same as Abu Jihad, to die a soldier’s death witnessed by your wife and child. Tariq didn’t agree with me. He felt you deserved a more severe punishment, the punishment of watching your wife and child die, so he planted the bomb beneath their car and made certain you were on hand to witness the detonation. Vienna was Tariq’s doing, not mine.”

  The telephone on Arafat’s desk rang, tearing Gabriel’s memory of Vienna as a knife shreds canvas. Arafat turned suddenly and left Gabriel to see himself out. Colonel Kemel was waiting on the landing. He escorted Gabriel wordlessly through the debris of the Mukata. The harsh light, after the gloom of Arafat’s office, was nearly unbearable. Beyond the broken gate Yonatan Shamron was playing football with a few of the Palestinian guards. They climbed back into the armored jeep and drove through streets of death. When they were clear of Ramallah, Yonatan asked Gabriel whether he had learned anything useful.

  “Khaled al-Khalifa bombed our embassy in Rome,” Gabriel said with certainty.