Prince of fire ga-5

by Daniel Silva

“Tell me.”

  “It’s classified.”

  He reached for the talisman. Chiara, with a deft movement of her hand, twirled the talisman so that it wrapped securely around her fingertips, in the manner in which Arabs often toy with their prayer beads.

  “A gift from one of your old lovers?” she asked.

  “An old enemy, actually. A man who’d been hired to kill me and a woman I was protecting.”

  “Anna Rolfe?”

  Yes, Gabriel said, Anna Rolfe.

  “Why did you keep it?” she asked. “To remind you of her?”

  “Chiara, don’t be ridiculous.”

  She tossed the talisman in his direction. The red-coral hand landed on his chest.

  “Is something wrong, Chiara?”

  “What were those papers that Shamron gave you before he left tonight? Or is that classified, too?”

  Gabriel answered the question truthfully.

  “Did you sign them yet?”

  “I thought I should read them first.”

  “You know what they say.”

  “I’ll sign them,” Gabriel said.

  “When?”

  “When I’m ready to sign them.”

  Just then the apartment block shook with the clap of a thunderous explosion. Chiara climbed out of bed and rushed to the window. Gabriel remained motionless on the bed.

  “It’s close,” she said.

  “Ben Yehuda Mall, I’d say. Probably a cafe.”

  “Turn on the radio.”

  “Just count the sirens, Chiara. You can tell how bad it is by the number of ambulances they call.”

  A moment passed, still and deathly quiet. Gabriel closed his eyes and imagined, with the clarity of videotape, the nightmare taking place a few blocks from his new home. The first siren sounded, then a second, a third, a fourth. After seventeen, he lost count, for the night had become a symphony of sirens. Chiara returned to bed and clung to his chest.

  “Sign the papers when you’re ready,” she said. “I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

  10

  JERUSALEM: MARCH 22

  The army Colonel waiting near the walls of the Old City did not look much like Ari Shamron, but then Gabriel did not find this at all surprising. There was something about Israel-the sunlight, the intense social cohesiveness, the crackling tension of the atmosphere-that had the power to dramatically alter the appearance of its citizenry even within the space of a single generation. Yonatan Shamron was six inches taller than his famous father, strikingly handsome, and possessed none of the old man’s natural physical defensiveness-a result, Gabriel knew, of having been raised here instead of Poland. Only when the colonel leapt from the armored jeep and advanced on Gabriel with his hand out like a trench knife did Gabriel catch a faint glimpse of Shamron the Elder. His gait was not so much a walk as a death charge, and when he shook Gabriel’s hand fiercely and clapped him between the shoulder blades, Gabriel felt as though he’d been struck by a chunk of Herodion stone.

  They set out along Road Number One, the old border between East and West Jerusalem. Ramallah, the nominal seat of Palestinian power, lay just ten miles to the north. A checkpoint appeared before them. On the opposite side lay the Kalandiya refugee camp-ten thousand Palestinians piled into a few hundred square yards of breeze-block apartments. To the right, spread over a small hill, were the orderly red roofs of the Psagot Jewish settlement. Rising above it all was an enormous portrait of Yasir Arafat. The inscription, in Arabic, read: ALWAYS WITH YOU.

  Yonatan jerked his thumb toward the backseat and said, “Put those things on.”

  Gabriel, looking over his shoulder, saw an armored vest with a high collar and a metal combat helmet. He’d not worn a helmet since his brief stint in the IDF. The one Yonatan had brought along was too big, and it fell forward over his eyes. “Now you look like a real soldier,” Yonatan said. Then he smiled. “Well, almost.”

  An infantryman waved them through the checkpoint, then, seeing who was behind the wheel, smiled and said, “Hey, Yonatan.” Discipline within the ranks of the IDF, like the Office, was notoriously lax. First names were the norm, and a salute was almost unheard of.

  Gabriel, through his cloudy bulletproof window, studied the scene on the other side of the checkpoint. A pair of soldiers, weapons leveled, were ordering men to open their coats and lift their shirts to make certain they weren’t wearing bomb belts beneath their clothing. Women underwent the same search behind a barrier that shielded them from the eyes of their men. Beyond the checkpoint snaked a line several hundred yards in length-a wait, Gabriel calculated, of three to four hours. The suicide bombers had inflicted misery on both sides of the Green Line, but it was the honest Palestinians-the workers trying to get to jobs in Israel, the farmers who wanted only to sell their produce-who had paid the highest price in sheer inconvenience.

  Gabriel looked beyond the checkpoint, toward the Separation Fence.

  “What do you think of it?” Yonatan asked.

  “It’s certainly nothing to be proud of.”

  “I think it’s an ugly scar across this beautiful land of ours. It’s our new Wailing Wall, much longer than the first, and different because now people are wailing on both sides of the wall. But I’m afraid we have no other choice. With good intelligence we’ve managed to stop most of the suicide attacks, but we’ll never be able to stop them all. We need this fence.”

  “But it’s not the only reason we’re building it.”

  “That’s true,” Yonatan said. “When it’s finished, it will allow us to turn our backs on the Arabs and walk away. That’s why they’re so afraid of it. It’s in their interest to remain chained to us in conflict. The wall will let us disengage, and that’s the last thing they want.”

  Road Number One turned to Highway 60, a ribbon of smooth black asphalt that ran northward through the dusty gray landscape of the West Bank. More than thirty years had passed since Gabriel had last been to Ramallah. Then, as now, he had come by way of armored vehicle, with an IDF helmet on his head. Those early years of the occupation had been relatively calm-indeed, Gabriel’s biggest challenge each week had been finding a ride from his post back home to his mother’s house in the Jezreel Valley. For most West Bank Arabs, the end of Jordanian occupation had led to a marked improvement in the quality of their lives. With the Israelis had come access to a vibrant economy, running water, electricity, and education. Infant mortality rates, once among the highest in the world, plummeted. Literacy rates, among the world’s lowest, increased dramatically. Radical Islam and the influence of the PLO would eventually turn the West Bank into a seething cauldron and place IDF soldiers in daily confrontations with rock-throwing children, but for Gabriel, army service had been largely an exercise in boredom.

  “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 s
ee 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 laying 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 why 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 resp
ond, 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.”