The Fallen Angel

31 BERLIN–NORTHERN DENMARK

THE IRANIAN LIBERATION ARMY, a previously unknown group dedicated to the overthrow of the country’s theocratic rulers, appeared for the first time on Western radar screens—or anywhere else, for that matter—late the following morning, when it claimed responsibility for the abduction of Massoud Rahimi, a senior Iranian intelligence agent based in the German capital of Berlin. It did so in a printed manifesto delivered clandestinely to the BBC in London, and on a Web site that popped up within hours of the abduction. Among its laundry list of demands were a cessation of Iran’s nuclear weapons program and the release of all those jailed for reasons of politics, religion, conscience, or sexuality. The mullahs had just seventy-two hours to comply; otherwise, the group vowed, it would grant Massoud the violent death he had given to so many innocent victims. As if to illustrate its seriousness, it posted a photo of the captive flanked by two men wearing balaclava helmets. Massoud was staring straight into the camera with his hands bound behind his back. His heavy face showed no signs of violence, though his eyes appeared somewhat groggy.

The dramatic emergence of a new Iranian opposition movement caught many in the media by surprise, and during the first hours of the crisis, reporters in Europe and America were left with no choice but to speculate wildly as to the ILA’s origins and aims. Gradually, however, a portrait emerged of a small, tightly knit group of secular Iranian intellectuals and exiles who wished to drag their country from the Dark Ages into the modern world. By that evening, terrorism experts and foreign policy analysts on both sides of the Atlantic were talking about a new force that posed a clear threat to the Iranian regime’s grip on power. And not one realized that every shred of information they were imparting with such authority had been invented by a group of people working out of a basement office in Tel Aviv.

A few of the better terrorism experts were familiar with the name Massoud Rahimi, while those old enough to recall the Iranian hostage crisis took a small measure of joy in his predicament. That was not the case, however, in Tehran, where the Iranians reacted with predictable fury. In an official statement, they denied the existence of a group called the Iranian Liberation Army, denied that Massoud Rahimi was an agent of Iranian intelligence, and denied he was in any way linked to terrorism. Furthermore, they accused Israel of creating the group out of whole cloth in order to cover up its involvement in the affair. The Israeli prime minister took to the floor of the Knesset to denounce the Iranian claims as the ravings of depraved zealots. Then he took a not-so-subtle poke at the Germans for allowing Massoud, a known murderer with the blood of hundreds of innocent people on his hands, to masquerade as a diplomatic functionary on German soil. The German chancellor called the remarks “unhelpful” and pleaded with the prime minister to take steps to lower the temperature. Privately, she told her intelligence chiefs that she believed the Israelis were almost certainly involved.

Not surprisingly, given the sophistication of the operation, there were many within the German police and security services who agreed with their chancellor, though they had no evidence to support such an allegation. A frustrated interior minister fumed to his closest aides that it had to be the Israelis because no other intelligence service in the world was clever enough—or, frankly, devious enough—to even conceive of such an operation. Wisely, the minister’s aides counseled their master to leave such sentiments out of his next press briefing.

To their credit, the German police threw everything they had into the search for the missing Iranian. They scoured the country from east to west, from the mountains of Bavaria to the rocky gray shores of the Baltic. They looked for him in cities and in towns large and small. They made contact with their sources and informants inside Germany’s large community of radical Islamists and tapped every phone and e-mail account they thought might yield a clue. After twenty-four hours, however, they had nothing to show for their efforts. That evening, the interior minister informed the Iranian ambassador that, as far as the German police were concerned, his colleague had vanished from the face of the earth. It was not true, of course. They were simply looking for him in the wrong place.

At the northern tip of Denmark is a narrow cat’s claw of a peninsula where the North Sea and the Baltic collide in a war without end. On the Baltic side of the peninsula, the sand is flat and desolate, but along the North Sea it rises into windswept dunes. Here lies the tiny hamlet of Kandestederne. In summer, it is filled with Danish holidaymakers, but for the rest of the year it feels as though it has been abandoned to the plague.

At the fringes of the village, hidden in the swale of a large dune, stood a handsome wooden cottage with a large porch facing the sea. It had four bedrooms, an airy kitchen filled with stainless steel appliances, and two open sitting rooms furnished in the minimalist Danish style. It also boasted a wine cellar in the basement, which Housekeeping had quietly converted into a soundproof holding cell. Inside sat the man for whom the German police were so desperately searching—blindfolded, gagged, stripped to his underwear, and shivering violently with cold. In twenty-four hours, he had been given nothing to eat or drink and no care other than a small dose of tranquilizer to keep him quiet. No one had spoken to him. Indeed, as far as Massoud knew at that moment, he had been left alone to die a slow, agonizing death of starvation. It was a punishment he deserved. Providence, however, had chosen another path for him.

The next leg of Massoud’s journey began in the twenty-sixth hour of his captivity, when Mikhail and Yaakov escorted him blindfolded upstairs to the dining room. After securing him tightly to a metal chair, they removed the blindfold and gag. Massoud blinked rapidly several times before surveying the walls. They were hung with several enlarged photographs of his handiwork—here the ruins of the U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut, here the charred hull of a Tel Aviv bus, here the shattered remnants of the Jewish community center in Buenos Aires. He managed to contort his heavy features into an expression of disbelief, but when his gaze finally settled on the man seated directly across the table, he recoiled in fear.

“You were expecting someone else?” asked Gabriel calmly in English.

“I have no idea who you are,” Massoud responded in the same language.

“Bullshit.”

“You won’t get away with this.”

“We already have.”

Three items lay on the table in front of Gabriel: a manila file folder, a BlackBerry, and a loaded Beretta 9mm. He moved the Beretta a few inches with studied care and then pushed the BlackBerry across the table so Massoud could see the screen. On it was the front page of the BBC’s mobile news site. The lead story was about a bold kidnapping in the heart of Berlin.

“You have committed a gross violation of the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations,” Massoud said after a moment.

“Your abduction was carried out by the Iranian Liberation Army. It says so right there on the BBC,” Gabriel added, tapping the screen. “And as you know, the BBC is never wrong.”

“Well played,” said Massoud.

“It wasn’t that hard,” replied Gabriel. “We just borrowed a page from your playbook.”

“Which one?”

“Taqiyya.”

“There’s no such thing as taqiyya. It is nothing but a slur spread by the enemies of Shia Islam.”

“You engage in taqiyya every day when you assure the world that your nuclear program is strictly for peaceful purposes.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“No.” Gabriel retrieved the BlackBerry and then flipped slowly through the contents of the manila file folder. “You stand accused of masterminding multiple acts of terrorism that have resulted in the deaths of hundreds of innocent people. You also stand accused of conspiring to commit future acts of terrorism and of providing material support to a group that has as its goal the physical annihilation of my people.” He looked up from the file and asked, “How do you plead?”

“I am a third secretary in the consular section of the Iranian Embassy in Berlin.”

“How do you plead?” Gabriel asked again.

“You are in violation of all diplomatic norms and customs.”

“How do you plead?”

Massoud raised his chin and said, “I plead not guilty.”

Gabriel closed the file folder. Court adjourned.

They brought him back for two more hearings that night, each with the same result. After that, they kept him awake with regular bastings of freezing seawater and recordings of ear-shattering noise that were piped into the soundproof chamber for Massoud’s private listening enjoyment. Gabriel was reluctant to employ physical coercion—he knew that with enough sleep and sensory deprivation, Massoud would admit to being the Cat in the Hat—but he had no choice. Two clocks were now ticking. On one was the time they had left before the attack; on the other, the time they had left before they were discovered. Gabriel had set a deadline of seventy-two hours to be out of Denmark. The chief of the Danish security service was a friend, but he wouldn’t be for long if he found out Gabriel had brought a man like Massoud Rahimi onto Danish soil.

And so, as that second day dragged on, they gradually turned up the pressure on their prize. The noise grew louder, the water colder, and the threats whispered into his ear became ever more terrifying. When he asked for food, they offered him a bowl of sand. And when he pleaded for drink, they drenched him with a bucket of briny water straight from the sea. Sleep was out of the question, they assured him, unless he agreed to cooperate.

Slowly, with each passing hour, Massoud’s strength ebbed, as did his will to resist. More than anything, though, he seemed to realize that this unfortunate episode did not necessarily have to end with his death, that perhaps there was a deal to be made. But how to convince him to accept the outstretched hand? And who to extend it in the first place?

“Why me?” asked Eli Lavon incredulously.

“Because you’re the least threatening person in this house,” Gabriel said. “And because you haven’t laid a finger on him.”

“I don’t interrogate people. I just follow them.”

“You don’t have to ask him anything, Eli. Just let him know that I’m willing to discuss a generous plea bargain.”

Lavon spent five minutes alone with the monster and then came back upstairs.

“How did it go?”

“Other than the part about threatening to kill me, I thought it went as well as could be expected.”

“How long should we give him?”

“An hour should be enough.”

They gave him two instead.

The next time Massoud was escorted into the makeshift courtroom, he was shivering uncontrollably, and his lips were blue with cold. Gabriel seemed not to notice. He had eyes only for the file that was open before him on the table.

“It has come to our attention that during your time in Berlin, you have been less than forthright in your use of VEVAK operational funds,” Gabriel said. “Obviously, this is of no concern to us. But as fellow tradesmen, we feel duty bound to report it to your superiors in Tehran. When we do, I’m afraid they’ll want to secure your release for reasons other than your personal well-being.”

“More Jewish lies,” Massoud responded.

Gabriel smiled and then proceeded to recite a series of account numbers and corresponding values.

“Those are all legitimate accounts used for legitimate purposes,” Massoud replied calmly.

“So you have no objection to us telling your superiors at VEVAK about them?”

“I don’t work for VEVAK.”

“Yes, you do, Massoud. And that means you have a way out of your current circumstances.” Gabriel paused, then added, “If I were in your position, I’d take it.”

“Perhaps I’m not as talkative as you, Allon.”

“Ah,” said Gabriel, smiling, “so you recognize me after all.”

“You do have a way of getting your face into the newspaper.”

Gabriel turned a page in his file. “You face serious charges, Massoud. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“How do you plead?”

Silence . . .

Gabriel looked up from the file.

“How do you plead, Massoud?” he asked gently.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to answer a few questions.”

“Then what?”

“If you tell me the truth, you’ll be released. If you lie to me, I’ll tell your superiors in Tehran that you’ve been stealing money from them. And then they’ll put a bullet in your head.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because at this moment, I’m your only friend in the world.”

The Iranian made no reply.

“How do you plead, Massoud?”

“What do you want to know?”

32 KANDESTEDERNE, DENMARK

THEY GAVE HIM A HOT shower at gunpoint and dressed him in a blue-and-white tracksuit, extra large to fit his bulky frame. A plate of food awaited him in the dining room, along with a cup of sweetened Persian tea. Despite his intense hunger, and the fact that they gave him no utensils other than a harmless plastic spoon, he managed to eat with dignity.

“Nothing for you?” he asked, nodding toward the empty table in front of Gabriel.

“I wouldn’t be able to keep it down.”

“Don’t be so judgmental, Allon. We’re professionals, you and I.”

“You’re a murderer.”

“So are you.”

Gabriel glanced at Yaakov, and the food was removed. Massoud showed no anger.

“First rule of interrogation, Allon. Don’t let the subject get under your skin.”

“Second rule, Massoud. Don’t piss off the interrogator.”

“I’d like to smoke.”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you would be good enough to allow me to pray.”

“If you must.”

“I must,” replied Massoud. “What time is it?”

“Isha.”

“Which direction is Mecca?”

Gabriel pointed to the right. Massoud smiled.

“Third rule of interrogation, Allon. Don’t tell the subject where he is.”

“You’re in hell, Massoud. And the only way you’re going to get out is to tell me the truth.”

He prayed for thirty minutes. When he was finished, Mikhail and Yaakov started to secure him to the metal chair, but Gabriel intervened and in Hebrew said the restraints would not be necessary. Massoud furrowed his brow, as though he did not understand, which Gabriel suspected was not the case. He permitted the Iranian to eat the remainder of his dinner. Then, afterward, he gave him a fresh glass of warm tea.

“How beneficent of you,” remarked Massoud.

“I assure you my motives are entirely selfish,” Gabriel responded. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“The beginning.”

“In the beginning,” Massoud recited, “God created the heavens and the earth. Then he created the Jews and ruined the whole thing.”

“Let’s advance the calendar a few years, shall we?”

“How far?”

“David Girard,” answered Gabriel, “aka Daoud Ghandour.”

It was not possible to tell the story of Daoud Ghandour, he said, without first telling the story of Israel’s ill-fated occupation of Lebanon. At first, Gabriel was reluctant to give Massoud a platform to engage in triumphalist breast-beating, but he quickly realized it was a rare opportunity that could not be spurned. And so he sat patiently, his hands folded on the table, as Massoud recounted how the Iranians had skillfully exploited the chaos in Lebanon to create a death trap for hundreds of Israeli soldiers. “You came to Lebanon to destroy the PLO,” he said, taunting Gabriel ever so slightly, “and in its place you left Hezbollah.”

As Massoud continued, he shed the mantle of the aggrieved political hostage and adopted the air of a university professor leading a small seminar. Watching him, Gabriel understood why he had prospered in the cutthroat world of the Revolutionary Guard and VEVAK. In a parallel universe, Massoud might have been a renowned jurist or a statesman from a decent country. Instead, the turbulent history of Islam and the Middle East had conspired to turn him into a facilitator of mass murder. Even so, Gabriel couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for him. To anesthetize himself, he glanced frequently at the enlarged photographs of Massoud’s handiwork. So did Massoud. He seemed proudest of one in particular—the one that showed smoke rising from the U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut. The event, he said, had been a watershed in the history of American involvement in the Middle East. It had shown America to be a paper tiger that would cut and run at the first sight of blood. And it had made a profound impression on a young Lebanese Shiite named Daoud Ghandour.

“Within a few hours of the attack, he went to see the Hezbollah recruiter in his neighborhood in south Beirut. But there was one problem,” Massoud added. “Ghandour had just been accepted at the Sorbonne in Paris. He said he wanted to stay in Lebanon to fight the Jews and the Americans instead. The recruiter had a better idea. He told Ghandour to get his education. And then he called me.”

“So Ghandour was an Iranian asset from the beginning?”

“You’re being far too linear in your thinking, Allon. Remember, we were active at nearly every level of Hezbollah from the beginning. Hezbollah itself was an Iranian asset.”

“Who ran him?”

“Our station in Paris. When he wasn’t studying, he helped us keep tabs on all the Iranian exiles and dissidents who set up shop in France after the fall of the Shah.”

“And when he went to England?”

“London handled him while he finished his doctorate at Oxford. By the time he started working at Sotheby’s, I’d shed my fatigues and was a respectable diplomat.”

“You took control of him?”

Massoud nodded. “But now, he was no longer Daoud Ghandour, a poor boy from southern Lebanon. He was David Girard, an antiquities expert who traveled the world on behalf of a respected international auction house.”

“Your dream come true.”

“Yours, too, I imagine.”

“How did you use him?”

“Carefully. He could go places I couldn’t go and talk to people who couldn’t come within a mile of me.”

“So you used him as a courier?”

“He was my own private Federal Express. If VEVAK wanted a Hezbollah cell in, say, Istanbul to carry out an attack, we could do it at arm’s length through David. He would serve as the conduit for communications with the cell and see to its financial needs. In some cases, he even coordinated the shipment of explosives and other weapons. It was perfect.” Massoud paused. “And then there was the money.”

“From trading in illicit antiquities?”

Massoud nodded. “David came up with the idea while he was working at Sotheby’s. He knew there was a great deal of money to be made by those willing to ignore the law. He also knew that much of the trade was controlled by one man.”

“Carlo Marchese.”

“Friend of the Vatican,” Massoud added contemptuously. “But Carlo’s organization had one flaw. It was very strong in Europe, but it needed product from the Middle East.”

“Product that Hezbollah was able to supply.”

“Not only Hezbollah. Many of the antiquities were pieces from the Persian Empire that had come out of the ground in Iran. Within a short time, the operation was generating several million dollars a month, all of which went directly into Hezbollah’s coffers.”

“Then a curator at the Vatican started asking too many questions.”

“Yes,” Massoud agreed. “And the party was over.”

When Massoud requested a cigarette a second time, Gabriel relented and gave him one of Yaakov’s Marlboros. He smoked it slowly, as though he suspected he would not receive another, and was careful to direct his exhalations away from Gabriel. VEVAK, it seemed, was aware of Gabriel’s aversion to tobacco.

But that was not all it knew about him. It knew, Massoud boasted, that Monsignor Luigi Donati, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, had asked Gabriel to investigate the death of Claudia Andreatti. It also knew that Gabriel had discovered the body of a tomb raider named Roberto Falcone. It knew this, Massoud said, because Carlo Marchese had told his business partner David Girard.

“Carlo was aware of your investigation from the very beginning,” Massoud explained. “And he believed correctly that you were a threat to him. When the other members of the network started to get jumpy, he told them not to worry, that he would find an Italian solution to the problem.”

“Killing me?”

Massoud nodded. “But first, he wanted to get a sense of how much you knew about his operation. So he threw a dinner party in your honor. Then he tried to kill you as you were walking home.” He shook his head slowly. “Frankly, we weren’t surprised when the attempt on your life failed. The man Carlo sent to do the job might have been good enough to earn a living in Italy, but not in our world.”

“So you decided to do it yourself.”

“We looked upon the situation as a unique opportunity to cause a scandal for your service at a time it could least afford one. We also regarded it as a chance to exact some revenge over the damage you did to our nuclear program.”

“How did you know we would find Girard?”

“Let’s just say that we had great faith in your ability, though we never imagined you’d have a stolen Greek amphora in your back pocket. That was a masterstroke, Allon.”

“I can’t tell you how much your approval means to me,” Gabriel said. “But you were about to explain how the two professional assassins you sent to St. Moritz to kill me muffed the job.”

“We felt it was important that your body be clearly recognizable. If you’d been blown to bits, your service would have been able to deny you were ever there.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

The Iranian shrugged off Gabriel’s sarcasm.

“So you killed one of Hezbollah’s top operatives in order to kill me under circumstances that were embarrassing to our service?”

Massoud nodded. “Once Hezbollah’s links to Carlo’s smuggling network had been exposed, Girard had outlived his usefulness. He was expendable.”

“So are you,” Gabriel replied. “We know a big attack is coming, and you’re going to help me stop it. Otherwise, I’m going to do to you what I did to those secret uranium-enrichment plants. I’m going to blow you to bits. And then I’m going to send you home to your masters in Tehran in a box.”

He tried to wriggle out of the noose, but then, Gabriel expected nothing less. He denied, he deferred, he deflected, and, finally, he spun several fabrications that he hoped would satisfy his small but attentive audience. With his expression, Gabriel made it plain he had seen such performances before. His demands were clear and unyielding. He wanted verifiable details of the pending attack—the time, the place, the target, the weapons, the members of the action cell. Once the attack had been interdicted, Massoud would be quietly released. But if he refused to provide the information, or if he attempted to run out the clock, Gabriel would destroy him.

“As your only friend in the world,” said Gabriel, “I would advise you to accept our generous offer. All you have to do is surrender the details of a single attack. In return, you’ll be free to maim and murder to your heart’s content.”

“Rest assured, you’ll be at the top of my list, Allon.”

“That’s why I would also advise you to accept a desk job at VEVAK headquarters in Tehran,” Gabriel countered. “Because if you ever set foot outside Iran again, my friends and I are going to hunt you down and kill you.”

“How can I be sure you won’t kill me in any case?”

“Because we’re not like you, Massoud. When we enter into an agreement, we mean it. Besides,” Gabriel added, “killing hostages in cold blood has never been our style.”

Massoud’s gaze traveled over the photographs of his handiwork before settling once again on Gabriel.

“I have no idea what day it is.”

“It’s Friday,” answered Gabriel.

Massoud’s expression darkened. “What time on Friday?”

“That depends.”

“Central European.”

Gabriel woke his BlackBerry and looked at the screen. “Two-twelve a.m.”

“Good,” Massoud said. “That means there’s still a bit of time.”

“When is the attack?”

“Tonight, shortly after sundown.”

“The Sabbath?”

Massoud nodded.

“What’s the target?”

“A city you know well, Allon. In fact,” the Iranian said, smiling, “we chose it in your honor.”

33 VIENNA

THERE WAS A SIX-THIRTY A.M. flight from Copenhagen that arrived in Vienna midmorning. After entering Austria on an American passport that he had conveniently forgotten to return to Adrian Carter, Gabriel went to an airport café and read the morning papers for an hour until he spotted Mikhail, Oded, Yaakov, and Eli Lavon crossing the arrivals hall. He followed them outside and watched as they climbed into four separate taxis. Then he walked over to a black sedan with Vienna registration and ducked into the back. Seated on the opposite side was Ari Shamron. He had shed the tailored worsted-and-silk clothing of Herr Heller and was once again dressed in khaki, oxford cloth, and leather. He tossed his cigarette out the window as the car lurched forward.

“You look as though you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I haven’t.”

“Just a few more hours, my son. Then it will all be over.”

The car turned onto the A4 Ost Autobahn and headed toward central Vienna. The weather was miserable, windblown rain mixed with ice pellets and snow.

“How much have we told the Austrians?” asked Gabriel.

“Uzi woke Jonas Kessler, the chief of the Austrian security service, early this morning and told him that his country was to be the target of a terrorist attack it had done nothing to provoke.”

“How did Kessler take it?”

“After delivering the obligatory lecture about how Israel is making the world less safe by its actions, he demanded to know the origin of the intelligence. As you might expect, Uzi was rather vague in his response, which didn’t sit well with Kessler.”

“Does he know the time frame?”

“He knows we’re talking about hours rather than days, but Uzi insisted on telling him the rest in person. Actually,” Shamron added, “we thought it might be a good idea if you handled the briefing.”

“Me?”

Shamron nodded. “Some of our fickle allies here in Europe are under the impression that we feed them information about potential plots simply to bolster our own standing. But if the warning comes from you, it would send a clear message that we’re serious. Deadly serious.”

“Because they know I wouldn’t set foot here unless lives were at stake?”

“Exactly.”

“And when they ask about the source of the intelligence?”

“You say that a little bird told you. And then you move on.”

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “If Massoud is telling us the truth,” he said finally, “the situation is probably beyond the capabilities of the Austrians. This needs to be handled properly, Ari. Otherwise, people will die. Lots of people.”

“Then perhaps we can come to an equitable solution.”

“How equitable?”

“We’ll save the lives, and they’ll take the credit.”

Gabriel smiled. Then he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

As usual, there was an inter-service spat over the venue. Uzi Navot wanted to hold the conference in a secure room at the Israeli Embassy, but Jonas Kessler chose an imposing government building in Vienna’s elegant Innere Stadt, just around the corner from the State Opera House. A temporary sign in the lobby declared the premises were to be used that day for a conference having something to do with sustainable agriculture, but at the entrance to the main salon was a plastic bin where arriving guests were instructed to deposit their mobile phones and other electronic devices. The chamber itself was a Hapsburg monstrosity hung with gold curtains and crystal chandeliers that floated overhead like candlelit clouds. As Gabriel and Shamron entered, Navot was hovering over a buffet table piled high with Viennese cakes and cream-filled tarts. Kessler, an angular figure with dark hair combed close to the scalp, stood on the opposite end of the room, surrounded by a protective cordon of aides. He was staring at his watch, as if wondering whether he could wrap things up in time for his midday workout.

At Kessler’s suggestion, they took their assigned seats at a formal rectangular table that looked more suited to Cold War summitry than a gathering of spies. Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot sat on one side, the Austrians on the other. Most were from the counterterrorism division of the security service, but there were also several senior officers from the Bundespolizei, Austria’s national police force. Kessler didn’t bother with introductions. Nor were there any issues regarding language; Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot all spoke fluent German. In fact, Navot’s had the faint trace of a Viennese accent. His ancestors had lived in Vienna when the Germans annexed Austria in 1938. Those who managed to escape were first robbed of everything—everything but their Viennese accents.

“We’re honored to have so many distinguished officers from your service here today,” Kessler said without conviction, tapping a silver spoon against the rim of his china coffee cup like a gavel. “Especially you, Herr Allon. It’s been a long time since your last visit to Vienna.”

“Not as long as you think,” Gabriel remarked.

Kessler managed a tight smile. “I was working the night the PLO set off that bomb beneath your car,” he said after a moment. “I remember it all as though it were yesterday.”

“So do I,” Gabriel replied evenly.

“I imagine,” said Kessler. “I was also working the night you kidnapped Erich Radek from his home in the First District and smuggled him back to Israel.”

“Radek agreed to go to Israel voluntarily.”

“Only after you took him to the scene of the crime at Treblinka. But that, as they say, is ancient history.” Another forced smile. “Herr Navot tells me that Hezbollah has set its sights on Vienna.”

Gabriel nodded.

“When will this attack occur?”

“Shortly after sundown.”

“The target?”

“The Stadttempel synagogue and community center. If the terrorists are successful, more than a hundred people could die tonight. If, on the other hand, we work together . . .” Gabriel’s voice trailed off, the thought unfinished.

“Yes?”

“Only the four terrorists will die.”

“We haven’t agreed to work with you, Herr Allon. And we’re certainly not going to engage in some sort of targeted killing operation.”

“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 that 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 Beretta 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.

The four Arabs walked two blocks to the Thaliastrasse and descended into a U-Bahn station. At 5:55, they boarded a train—separate carriages, just as Gabriel had said they would. Watching them on the video monitors, Kessler swore softly beneath his breath. Then he looked at Navot and Shamron.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

“Then don’t,” Shamron replied darkly. “Not until it’s over.”

“Bad karma?” asked Kessler.

Shamron made no reply other than to twirl his lighter nervously between his fingertips. He didn’t believe in karma. He believed in God. And he believed in his angel of vengeance, Gabriel Allon.

Regrettably, this was not the first time Arab terrorists had targeted Vienna’s historic Stadttempel. In 1981, two people were killed and thirty were wounded when Palestinian militants attacked a Bar Mitzvah party using machine guns and hand grenades. As a result of the attack, those wishing to enter the synagogue now had to pass through a cordon of youthful Israeli-born security guards. Members of the local Jewish community were usually admitted without delay, but visitors had to endure a maddening cross-examination and a search of their belongings. It was about as pleasant as boarding an El Al airplane.

Most of the guards were veterans of the diplomatic protection arm of Shabak, Israel’s internal security service. As a result, the two on duty that night recognized Yaakov Rossman as he approached the synagogue, trailed by Oded and Eli Lavon. Yaakov pulled the two guards aside and, as calmly as possible, told them that the synagogue was about to be attacked. Then he rattled off a quick set of instructions. The two guards immediately entered the offices of the Jewish community center, leaving Yaakov and Oded to handle security in the street. Eli Lavon, a former member of the community, covered his head with a kippah and entered the synagogue. Old habits die hard, he thought, even in wartime.

As usual, a small crowd of congregants was milling in the foyer. Lavon picked his way through them and entered the beautiful oval sanctuary. Looking up toward the women’s gallery, he saw faces aglow with candlelight between the Ionic columns. Their male relatives were now settling into their seats on the lower level. As Lavon walked past them and mounted the bimah, several heads turned in bewilderment. Then a few smiles appeared. It had been a long time since they had seen him.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Lavon began, his voice calm and pleasant. “It’s quite possible that some of you might remember me, but that’s not important right now. What is important is that you all leave the sanctuary through the back door as quickly and quietly as possible.”

Lavon had been expecting a Talmudic debate on why such a step was necessary, or even whether it was possible on the Sabbath. Instead, he watched in wonder as the congregants rose to their feet and followed his instructions to the letter. In his earpiece, he could hear a voice in German saying the four Hezbollah operatives had just changed onto a Number 3 U-Bahn train bound for the Innere Stadt. He looked at his watch. The time was 6:05. They were right on schedule.

At the far end of the Rotenturmstrasse, just a few paces from the banks of the Donaukanal, is a café called Aida. The awning that shades its tables is Miami pink, as is the exterior of the building, making it, arguably, the ugliest café in all of Vienna. In another lifetime, under another name, Gabriel had brought his son to Aida most afternoons for chocolate gelato. Now he sat there with Mikhail Abramov. Four members of EKO Cobra were huddled around a nearby table, as inconspicuous as a Times Square billboard. Gabriel had his back turned to the street, the weight of the .45-caliber Beretta tugging at his shoulder. Mikhail was drumming his fingers nervously on the tabletop.

“How long do you intend to do that?” asked Gabriel.

“Until I see those four boys from Hezbollah.”

“It’s giving me a headache.”

“You’ll live.” Mikhail’s fingers went still. “I wish we didn’t have to let him go.”

“Massoud?”

Mikhail nodded.

“I gave him my word.”

“He’s a murderer.”

“But I’m not,” said Gabriel. “And neither are you.”

“What if he wasn’t telling you the truth? Then you wouldn’t have to live up to your end of the bargain.”

“If four suicide bombers from Hezbollah come walking up that street in a few minutes,” Gabriel said, nodding toward the window, “we’ll know he was telling us the truth.”

Mikhail started drumming his fingers again. “Maybe we don’t actually have to kill him,” he said philosophically. “Maybe we could just . . . forget him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that Yossi and the others could just drive away from that house in Denmark with Massoud still chained to the wall. Eventually, someone would find his skeleton.”

“A dishonest mistake? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Shit happens.”

“It would still be murder.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It would be death by negligence.”

“I’m afraid that’s a distinction without a difference.”

“Exactly.” Mikhail opened his mouth to continue, but he could see Gabriel was listening to the radio.

“What is it?”

“They’re getting off the train.”

“Where?”

“The Stephansplatz.”

“Right where Massoud said they would.”

Gabriel nodded.

“I still think we should kill him.”

“You mean forget him.”

“That, too.”

“We’re not murderers, Mikhail. We are preventers of murder.”

“Let’s hope so. Otherwise, they’re going to have to pick us off the street with tweezers.”

“It’s better to think positive thoughts.”

“I’ve always preferred to dwell upon the worst-case scenario.”

“Why?”

“Motivation,” said Mikhail. “If I imagine a rabbi soaking up my blood for burial, it will motivate me to do my job properly.”

“Just wait until the guns appear. We can’t kill them until we see the guns.”

“What if they don’t draw their guns? What if they just detonate themselves in the street?”

“Positive thoughts, Mikhail.”

“I’m a Jew from Russia. Positive thoughts aren’t in my nature.”

The waitress placed a check on the table. Gabriel gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. Mikhail glanced at the four EKO Cobra men.

“They look more nervous than we do.”

“They probably are.”

Mikhail turned his gaze to the street. “Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do next?”

“I’m going to sleep for several days.”

“Make sure you turn the phone off.”

“This is the last time, Mikhail.”

“Until some terrorist comes along who decides he wants to reduce the world’s population of Jews by a few hundred. Then we’ll be right back here again.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do it without me next time.”

“We’ll see.” Mikhail looked at Gabriel. “Are you really sure you’re up for this?”

“If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to shoot you.”

“That would be a very bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Look out the window.”

In the crisis center of the Austrian Interior Ministry, Ari Shamron stared at the video monitors, watching intently as the four Hezbollah terrorists turned into the narrow cobbled alley leading to the synagogue, followed by Gabriel and Mikhail. And at that moment, he had a chillingly clear premonition of disaster unlike any he had ever experienced before. It was nothing, he assured himself. The Stadttempel had survived Kristallnacht; it would survive this night, too. He ignited the Zippo lighter and stared at the jewel-like flame. Two seconds, he thought, maybe less. Then it would be done.

They had arranged themselves in a boxlike formation, with two in front and the other two trailing a few steps behind. Gabriel couldn’t help but admire their tradecraft. With their winter coats and false casual demeanor, they looked like four young men out for an evening in Vienna’s famed Bermuda Triangle—anything but four Hezbollah suicide bombers who were minutes from death. Gabriel knew a great deal about them. He knew each of their names, the villages where they had been born, and the circumstances of their recruitments. For now, though, they were simply Alef, Bet, Gimel, and Dalet—the first four letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Alef and Bet belonged to Gabriel; Gimel and Dalet, to Mikhail. Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet . . . Then it would be done.

The street rose at a pitched angle and curved slightly to the right. After a few more paces, Gabriel could see Yaakov and Oded standing in a pool of white light outside the synagogue’s entrance. Oded was cross-examining a pair of American Jews who wished to attend Shabbat services in the city of their ancestry, but Yaakov was watching the four young men coming toward him up the street. He stared at them for an appropriate interval before forcing himself to look away. Oded seemed not to notice them. Having admitted the two Americans, he was now working his way through the rest of the small line of congregants waiting to enter. A dozen more, including a pair of young children, stood in the street, unaware of the horror that was approaching.

From the moment Gabriel and Mikhail had left the café, they had been gradually closing the distance between themselves and their targets. Twenty-five feet now separated them—four terrorists, two secret soldiers, each committed to his mission, each certain of his cause and his God. Tonight the ancient war for control of the Land of Israel would once again be played out on a pretty Viennese street. Gabriel couldn’t help but feel the weight of history pressing down upon his shoulders as he climbed the sloping cobbles—his own history, the history of his people, Shamron . . . He imagined Shamron in his youth stalking Adolf Eichmann along a desolate lane north of Buenos Aires. Shamron had tripped over a loose shoelace that night and nearly fallen. After that, he had always double-knotted his laces whenever he went into the field. Gabriel had done the same tonight in Shamron’s honor. No loose shoelaces. No nightmare of blood and fire at a synagogue in Vienna.

Gabriel and Mikhail quickened their pace slightly, closing the gap further still. As the terrorists passed through a cone of lamplight, Gabriel noticed the wire of a detonator switch running along the inside of Alef’s wrist. All four of the terrorists wore their overcoats tightly buttoned, and, not coincidentally, all four had their right hands in their pockets. That’s where the guns would be. Draw them, thought Gabriel. Two seconds, maybe less. Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet . . . Then it would be done.

Gabriel quickly glanced over his shoulder and saw the EKO Cobra team trailing quietly behind. Yaakov and Oded had managed to usher most of the crowd inside, but a few congregants were still milling about in the street, including the two young children. Mikhail drew several long, heavy breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart, but Gabriel didn’t bother. It wouldn’t be possible. Not tonight. And so he stared at Alef’s right hand, his heart beating in his chest like a kettledrum, and waited for the gun to emerge. In the end, though, it was one of the children, a young boy, who saw it first. His scream of terror set fire to the back of Gabriel’s neck.

There would be no explosion.

There would be no funeral for a child.

Just a pair of fallen angels rushing forward with their arms extended.

Two seconds, maybe less.

Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet . . .

Then it was done.

Chiara never heard the gunshots, only the sirens. Alone in her room, she thought it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. She listened for several minutes, then snatched up her mobile phone and dialed Uzi Navot at the Interior Ministry. She could barely hear his voice over the background noise.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s over,” he said.

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“Only the bad guys.”

“Where is he?”

“The Austrians have him.”

“I want him back.”

“Don’t worry,” Navot said. “He’s all yours now.”

36 VIENNA–TEL AVIV–VATICAN CITY

LIKE MOST LIES, IT WAS not altogether convincing. Shamron found no fault in this; in fact, he wholeheartedly approved. Lying, he said, was a distinctly human endeavor, even when it was being done by professionals. And a lie that was too well told was one not easily believed.

Initially, there was confusion over precisely what had occurred at sunset in the narrow street outside the Stadttempel. The first bulletins on Austrian radio reported that a pair of gunmen had killed four Jewish men outside the synagogue in what appeared to be an act of right-wing extremist violence. The situation was muddied further when an obscure neo-Nazi group proudly claimed responsibility for the deed. Jonas Kessler’s first instinct was to quickly correct the story. But Shamron and Uzi Navot prevailed upon him to let it linger until nine that evening, when he finally appeared in the Interior Ministry’s press briefing room to reveal the truth—or at least the truth as he saw it. Yes, Kessler began, there had indeed been a shooting at the synagogue, but the four dead were suicide bombers from Hezbollah who had come to Vienna to carry out a murderous terrorist attack. The Austrian authorities, he said, had been alerted to the presence of the cell in Vienna by a foreign intelligence service that Kessler, for understandable reasons, could not identify. As for the successful operation outside the synagogue, it was a strictly Austrian affair carried out by the EKO Cobra division of the Federal Police. It was, Kessler concluded with admirable sincerity, “EKO Cobra’s finest hour.”

Naturally, the press was drawn to the one aspect of the story where Kessler had been most evasive—the source of the intelligence that had led to the successful operation. Kessler and the rest of the Austrian security establishment held fast to their refusal to comment, but within forty-eight hours, numerous unnamed “intelligence sources” were quietly giving credit to the CIA. Once again, the television terrorism analysts questioned the accuracy of the reports, saying it was far more likely that the information had come from Israel. On the record, the Israelis refused to comment. Privately, however, they swore it wasn’t true.

The matter did not die there. In fact, it took on new life the very next morning when Die Presse, one of Austria’s most respected papers, published a detailed account of the operation, based in large part on eyewitness testimony. The most intriguing aspect of the story was the description of the smaller of the two gunmen. And then there was the unkempt figure who had overseen the evacuation of the interior of the synagogue in the minutes preceding the attack. There were some who thought he bore an uncanny resemblance to a man who used to run a small Holocaust restitution agency in Vienna called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. An Israeli newspaper immediately reported that the man in question—Professor Eli Lavon of Hebrew University—was working on a dig near the Western Wall Tunnel at the time and that he had no known links to Israeli intelligence, neither of which was true.

Needless to say, much of the Islamic world was soon boiling over with a sacred rage directed at Israel, its intelligence service, and, by extension, their new friends the Austrians. Newspapers across the Middle East declared the killings a wanton act of murder and challenged the Austrians to produce the bomb vests allegedly worn by the four “martyrs.” When Kessler did just that, the Arab press declared the vests fraudulent. And when Kessler released carefully edited photographs of the bodies that clearly showed the four men laden with bombs, the Arab world declared those fraudulent, too. It saw the hidden hand of Israel in the killings, and for once it was absolutely and entirely correct.

It was against this unsettled backdrop that Massoud Rahimi, Iran’s kidnapped diplomat, was found wandering handcuffed and blindfolded in a pasture in the far north of Germany. He told the German police that he had escaped from his captors, but in a statement, the Iranian Liberation Army said they had released Massoud for “humanitarian reasons.” The next morning, looking a few pounds thinner but otherwise in good health, Massoud appeared before the cameras in Tehran, flanked by the Iranian president and the chief of his service. Massoud offered few details about his time in captivity, except to say that, in general terms, he was well treated. His chief appeared somewhat skeptical, as did the Iranian president, who vowed that those behind the kidnapping would be severely punished.

The threat of Iranian retaliation was not taken lightly, especially within the corridors of King Saul Boulevard. For the most part, though, the Office celebrated the success of the operation. Lives had been saved, an old adversary had been severely compromised, and a lucrative fund-raising network for Hezbollah lay in ruins. If there was one factor that diminished their mood, however, it was the fact that His Holiness Pope Paul VII was scheduled to land at Ben Gurion Airport in less than a week. Given the overall turbulence in the region, Uzi Navot thought it might be wise for the Vatican to consider postponing the trip, a sentiment shared by the prime minister and the rest of his fractious cabinet. But who was going to tell the pope not to come to the Holy Land? They had but one candidate. A fallen angel in black. A sinner in the city of saints.

Father Mark was waiting for Gabriel just inside the Bronze Doors. He escorted him up the steps of the Scala Regia, across the cobblestones of the Cortile di San Damaso, and, eventually, upstairs to the private apartments of the pope. Donati was seated behind the desk in his office. It was a simple, high-ceilinged room with whitewashed walls and shelves lined with books on canon law. Framed photographs stood in neat rows atop the credenza. Most showed Donati standing discreetly at the side of his master at historic moments of the papacy. One photo, however, seemed curiously out of place—a younger version of Donati, soiled and smiling without reservation, his arm flung across the shoulder of a bookish young priest.

“That’s Father José Martinez,” Donati explained. “We’d just finished building a schoolhouse in our village in El Salvador. It was taken a week before his murder.” He studied Gabriel’s face for a moment and then frowned. “You look the way I did when I came out of El Salvador one step ahead of the death squads.”

“It’s been a busy few weeks since I left Rome.”

“So I’ve been reading,” Donati said. “An art theft in France, an explosion at a gallery in St. Moritz, a kidnapped Iranian diplomat, and a dramatic counterterrorism operation in the heart of Vienna. To the uninitiated, these events might appear unrelated. But to someone like me, they appear to have one thing in common.”

“Two things, actually,” said Gabriel. “One is the Office. And the other is Carlo Marchese.”

It was approaching six o’clock, and the sun was dipping below the rooftops and domes of Rome’s historic center. As Gabriel spoke, the soft sienna light drained slowly from the office until it was cloaked in a confessional gloom. Dressed in his black cassock, Donati might have been invisible were it not for the ember of his cigarette. At the conclusion of Gabriel’s account, he sat for several minutes in a penitential silence before walking over to the window. Directly below was the Bastion of Nicholas V, the medieval tower that now served as headquarters of the Vatican Bank.

“Can you prove any of it?”

“There’s the kind of proof that will stand up in a court of law. And then there’s the kind of proof that’s good enough to make a problem go away.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“A conversation,” answered Gabriel. “I’ll tell Carlo everything I know. And then I’ll tell him that you and His Holiness would like him to resign his position on the supervisory council of the Vatican Bank effective immediately. I’ll also tell him that if he ever darkens the Bronze Doors again, he’ll have to answer to me.”

“It seems an awfully small price to pay for two murders.”

“But it’s what you wanted.” Gabriel looked at Donati’s silhouette in the window. “It is what you wanted, isn’t it, Luigi?”

“The moral thing to do would be to tell General Ferrari everything you know.”

“Perhaps. But if the Italian government brings charges against Carlo for dealing in looted antiquities, money laundering, and murder, it will be a public-relations disaster for the Church. And for you, Luigi. Everything will come out. You’ll be destroyed.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And so will Veronica.”

“And if Carlo refuses to leave quietly?”

“I’ll make it clear he doesn’t have a choice. Trust me,” Gabriel added, “he’ll get the message.”

“I won’t countenance a murder. Another murder, I should say.”

“No one’s talking about killing anyone. But if there’s anyone who deserves—”

Donati silenced Gabriel by raising his long hand. “Just talk to Carlo.”

“When?”

“Next week. That way, there will be no chance of anything leaking to the press before the trip to Israel.” He glanced over his shoulder and asked, “I don’t suppose you’ve had a moment to look over the security arrangements?”

“Actually, I’ve reviewed them in great detail.”

“And?”

“I have only one recommendation.”

“What’s that?”

“Take a rain check, Luigi.”

Donati turned slowly. “Are you telling me to cancel the trip?”

“No. We just want you to postpone it until things cool down.”

“We?”

“This comes from the top.”

“The prime minister?”

Gabriel nodded.

“Unless your prime minister is prepared to formally ask the leader of one billion Roman Catholics not to come to Israel, there’s no way we’re going to cancel.”

“Then someone needs to tell the Holy Father how we feel.”

“I agree,” Donati said, smiling. “But it’s not going to be me.”

The Vatican Gardens were in darkness when Gabriel emerged from the Belvedere Palace. He walked past the Fountain of the Sacrament and the Ethiopian College, then made his way toward the spot along the Vatican wall where several Swiss Guards in plainclothes stood like statues. Slipping past them without a word, he mounted a flight of stone steps and climbed slowly toward the parapet. Pietro Lucchesi, otherwise known as His Holiness Pope Paul VII, waited there alone. Rome stirred beneath his feet—dusty, dirty, eternal Rome. Gabriel never tired of looking at it. Neither did the Holy Father.

“I remember the first time we came to this spot together,” the pope said. “It was after the Crux Vera affair. You saved my papacy, not to mention my life.”

“It was the least we could do, Holiness,” Gabriel said. He was staring across the Tiber toward the cupola of the Great Synagogue of Rome, and for an instant he saw Pietro Lucchesi standing atop the bimah, speaking words no pontiff had ever uttered before.

“For these sins, and others soon to be revealed, we offer our confession, and we beg your forgiveness . . .”

“It took enormous courage for you to do what you did that day, Holiness.”

“It wouldn’t have been possible without you. But my work isn’t finished when it comes to healing the wounds between our two faiths, which is why it is essential that I make this trip to Jerusalem.”

“No one wants you to come to Israel more than I do.”

“But?”

“We don’t believe it’s safe at this time.”

“Then do whatever it takes to make it safe. Because as far as I’m concerned, the matter is closed.”

“Yes, Holiness.”

The pope smiled. “That’s all, Gabriel? I expected more of an argument from you.”

“I try not to make a habit of arguing with the Vicar of Christ.”

“Good. Because it is my wish that you serve as my personal bodyguard during the trip.”

“It would be my honor, Holiness. After all, it’s a role I’ve played before.”

“To considerable acclaim.”

The pope smiled briefly as the wind moved in his cassock. The air had lost the edge of winter; it smelled of pine and warm earth. His Holiness seemed not to notice. He was clearly preoccupied by matters weightier than the changing of the seasons.

“Is it true that Carlo Marchese had something to do with the death of that poor girl from the museum?” he asked finally.

Gabriel hesitated.

“Is something wrong, Gabriel?”

“No, Holiness. But it might be better if—”

“I was shielded from the unpleasant details?” The pope gave a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Gabriel. The Vicar of Christ doesn’t hold press conferences. And he doesn’t have to answer a subpoena, either. It’s one of the few fringe benefits of the job.”

“What about the luxury apartment in the middle of Rome?”

“Actually, I’ve never enjoyed living above the store.” The pope looked out at the hills of Rome. The city looked as though it were lit by a million candles. “Cleaning up the mess at the Vatican Bank was one of my top priorities. Now it seems a man with long-standing ties to the Vatican has undone all of our good work.”

“He’ll be gone before you know it.”

“Do you require anything from me?”

“Stay as far away as possible.”

A companionable silence settled between them. The pope examined Gabriel carefully, as Donati had before him.

“Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do next?”

“I have a Caravaggio to finish.”

“And then?”

“I’m going to do my very best to make my wife happy.”

“And to think you would have let her slip through your fingers if it wasn’t for me,” the pope said. “Perhaps you should devote some of your time to having a child.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

It was Gabriel’s turn to smile. “What do you have in mind?”

“As leader of the Roman Catholic Church, I’m afraid my options are limited to prayer.”

“Your prayers would be deeply appreciated.”

“And what about my advice?”

Gabriel was silent. The pope scrutinized him a moment before speaking.

“You’ve been wandering for many years, Gabriel. Perhaps the time has come for you to go home.”

“My work is here in Europe, Holiness.”

“Paintings?”

Gabriel nodded.

“There are some things in life more important than art,” the pope said. “I fear your country faces dark days ahead. My sleep has been troubled by dreams of late. I’ve been having . . . visions.”

“What kind of visions, Holiness?”

“It would probably be better if I didn’t answer that question,” the pope replied, placing his hand on Gabriel’s arm. “But listen carefully. Finish that Caravaggio, Gabriel. And then go home.”

37 EAST JERUSALEM

AT THAT SAME MOMENT IN East Jerusalem, Imam Hassan Darwish guided his dented station wagon up the steep ramp leading from the Jericho Road to the Lions’ Gate. As usual, the Israeli policeman on duty gave the car only a cursory inspection before allowing the imam to enter the Muslim Quarter of the Old City. Imam Darwish was a descendant of a family of Palestinian notables from the West Bank town of Hebron. More important, he was a member of the Supreme Council of the Islamic Waqf, the official caretakers of the Temple Mount plateau since Saladin recaptured it from the Crusaders in 1187. The position meant that Darwish was as close to untouchable as an Arab could be in East Jerusalem, for with only a few words of incitement, he could turn the Holy Mountain into a seething cauldron. In fact, on numerous occasions, he had done just that.

He left the station wagon in the small Waqf car park off Lions’ Gate Street and entered his office at the northern edge of the Temple Mount esplanade. A tower of phone messages beckoned from his old Ottoman desk. As the unofficial spokesman for the Waqf, he received dozens of calls each day for interviews on issues related to the Temple Mount and the other sacred sites in Jerusalem. Most he ignored, especially those from American and Israeli reporters—and not without good reason. Working first with Yasir Arafat, then with his successor, Mahmoud Abbas, Darwish had waged a relentless campaign to weaken the Jewish claim on Palestine by denying the existence of the Jewish Temple of Jerusalem. But Darwish’s war on the truth had extended beyond mere words. Using the cover of construction projects, he had systematically stripped the Holy Mountain of all evidence of the ancient Temple. His unofficial adviser in the endeavor, an antiquities expert from Switzerland, had recently been martyred in an explosion at his gallery. Darwish hoped he would not meet the same fate. While he routinely spoke about the beauty of martyrdom, he much preferred to leave the dying to others.

As usual, Darwish quickly dispensed with the interview requests by dropping them unceremoniously into his rubbish bin. All that remained was a single mundane-looking message from a Mr. Farouk saying that an order of Korans had arrived from the printing presses of al-Azhar University in Cairo. Darwish stared at the message for several minutes, wondering whether he had the courage, or the faith, necessary to go through with it. Then he took a ring of keys from the top drawer of his desk and headed out onto the sacred mount.

The Darwish family had been linked to the Jerusalem Islamic Waqf for centuries, and as a child Hassan Darwish had passed his days memorizing the Koran in the shade trees at the northern edge of the Noble Sanctuary. But even now, in middle age, he could not walk past the Dome of the Rock without feeling as though Allah and the Prophet Muhammad were walking beside him. At the center of the colorful octagonal structure was the Foundation Stone, sacred to all three of the Abrahamic faiths. For Jews and Christians, it was the place where the Archangel Gabriel prevented Abraham from slaying his son Isaac; for Muslims, it marked the spot where Gabriel accompanied Muhammad on his Night Journey into heaven. Beneath the stone itself was a natural cave known as the Well of Souls, the place where Muslims believed the souls of the damned are temporarily held before being cast into hell. As a boy, Darwish used to sneak into the cave alone late at night. There he would sit for hours on the musty prayer rugs, pretending he could hear the souls wailing in anguish. In his imagination, they were never Muslims, only the Jews whom God had punished for stealing the land of Palestine.

For a time, Darwish believed it was possible for Jews and Muslims to divide the land and live side by side in peace. Now, after decades of crushing Israeli occupation and broken promises, he had come to the conclusion the Palestinians would never be free until the Zionist state was annihilated. The key to the liberation of Palestine, he believed, was the Temple Mount itself. The Israelis had foolishly allowed the Waqf to retain its authority over the Haram after the Six-Day War. In doing so, they had unwittingly sealed their own fate. A scholar of ancient Middle Eastern history, Darwish understood that conflict between Arabs and Jews was more than simply a struggle over land; it was a religious war, and the Haram was at the center of it. Arafat had used the Temple Mount to ignite the bloody Second Intifada in 2000. Now, Imam Hassan Darwish intended to use it to start another. But this intifada, the third, would dwarf the two that had come before. It would be cataclysmic, a final solution. And when it was over, there would not be a single Jew left in the land of Palestine.

With images of the coming apocalypse vivid in his thoughts, the imam passed beneath the freestanding archway of the Southwest Qanatir and set out across a broad courtyard toward the silver-domed al-Aqsa Mosque. On the eastern side of the massive structure was the newly built entrance to the underground Marwani Mosque. Darwish descended the terrace-like steps and, using one of his keys, unlocked the main door. As always, he felt slightly apprehensive about entering. As director of the construction project, Darwish knew how badly the removal of several tons of earth and debris had weakened the Haram. The entire southern half of the plateau was in danger of collapse. Indeed, on Ramadan and other important holy days, Darwish could almost hear the Holy Mountain groaning under the weight of the faithful. All it would take was one small shove, and a large portion of the most sacred place on earth would collapse into the Kidron Valley, taking the al-Aqsa Mosque, the third-holiest shrine in Islam, with it. And what would happen then? The armies of Islam would be on Israel’s borders within hours, along with tens of millions of enraged Muslim faithful. It would be a jihad to end all jihads, an intifada with but one purpose—the complete annihilation of the State of Israel and its inhabitants.

For now, the enormous subterranean mosque, with its twelve avenues of Herodian pillars and arches, was deathly silent and aglow with a soft, divine light. Alone, Darwish padded quietly along a vaulted passage until he came to a heavy wooden door sealed fast with a thick padlock. The imam had the only key. He unlocked the door and heaved it open, revealing a flight of stone steps. At the bottom was yet another locked door. Darwish possessed the single key to this one as well, but when he opened it, the darkness beyond was absolute. He removed a small Maglite from the pocket of his thobe and, switching it on, illuminated the first fifty feet of an ancient tunnel no wider than the width of a man’s shoulders. Dug during the time of the First Jewish Temple, it was but one of many ancient wonders unearthed by Palestinian workers during the construction of the mosque. Darwish had informed neither the Israel Antiquities Authority nor the United Nations of the tunnel’s existence. No one knew about it—no one but Imam Hassan Darwish and a handful of laborers who had been sworn to secrecy.

Some men might be naturally apprehensive about entering an ancient tunnel at night, but not Darwish. As a child, he had spent countless hours happily exploring the Noble Sanctuary’s hidden caves and passages. This one descended at a treacherously steep angle for several hundred feet before finally leveling off. After that it ran largely straight and flat for approximately a quarter-mile and then rose sharply once again. At the terminus was a newly installed steel ladder. Slightly winded from the arduous walk, Hassan Darwish took hold of the handrails and climbed slowly toward the wooden trapdoor at the top. Opening it, he found himself in the bedroom of an apartment in Silwan, the neighborhood of East Jerusalem adjacent to the City of David. On one wall was a poster of a French soccer star; on another, a photograph of Yahiya Ayyash, the master Hamas bomb maker known as the Engineer. Darwish opened the closet. Inside were the “Korans” that Mr. Farouk had mentioned in his message—several hundred pounds of high explosives and detonators that had been smuggled across the Egyptian border by Hezbollah and Hamas and carried into Israel by Bedouin tribesmen. There was more elsewhere in Silwan. Much more.

Darwish closed the closet door. Then he slipped out of the bedroom and made his way through the cramped rooms of the apartment to a tiny balcony overlooking the Kidron Valley. On the opposite side, floating above the soaring honey-colored walls of Herodian stone, were two enormous domes, one silver, the other gold. “Allahu Akbar,” the imam said softly. “And may he have mercy on my soul for what I am about to do in His name.”

38 VATICAN CITY

FOR THE NEXT WEEK, GABRIEL’S turbulent life settled into a pleasant if cloistered routine. With the flat on the Via Gregoriana now off-limits, he took refuge in a small priestly apartment inside the Apostolic Palace, one floor below Donati and the pope. He rose early each morning, ate breakfast with the Holy Father’s household nuns, and then headed over to the conservation lab to spend a few hours working on the Caravaggio. Antonio Calvesi, the chief restorer, rarely strayed from Gabriel’s grottolike workspace. On the second day, he finally screwed up the nerve to ask about the reason for Gabriel’s absence.

“I was visiting a sick aunt.”

“Where?”

“Palm Beach.”

Calvesi gave a skeptical frown. “Rumor has it you’re going to accompany il Papa on his pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

“Actually, we prefer to call it Israel,” said Gabriel, tapping his paintbrush gently against the flowing red mantle of John the Evangelist. “And, yes, Antonio, I’m going with him. But don’t worry, I’ll finish the Caravaggio when we get back.”

“How long?”

“Maybe a week, maybe a month.”

“Do you do that just to annoy me?”

“Yes.”

“Let us hope your aunt remains healthy.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Let us hope.”

At ten o’clock sharp, Gabriel would depart the lab and walk over to the Swiss Guard barracks for a daily briefing on the security arrangements for the pope’s trip. At first, Alois Metzler seemed annoyed by Gabriel’s presence. But his misgivings quickly evaporated when Gabriel pointed out several glaring problems with the protection plan that no one else seemed to have noticed. At the conclusion of one particularly long meeting, he invited Gabriel into his office.

“If you’re going to serve with us,” he said, glancing at Gabriel’s blue jeans and leather jacket, “you’re going to have to dress like us.”

“Pantaloons make me look fat,” said Gabriel. “And I’ve never been able to figure out how to get a halberd through an airport metal detector.”

Metzler pressed a button on his intercom. Ten seconds later, his adjutant entered carrying three dark suits, three white shirts, three ties, and a pair of lace-up dress shoes.

“Where did you get my measurements?” asked Gabriel.

“Your wife.” Metzler opened the top drawer of his desk and removed a 9mm pistol. “You’re also going to need one of these.”

“I have one of those.”

“But if you’re going to pass for Swiss Guard, you have to carry a standard-issue Swiss Guard sidearm.”

“A SIG Sauer P226.”

“Very impressive.”

“I’ve been around the block a time or two.”

“So I’ve heard.” Metzler smiled. “You’ll just need to pass a range proficiency exam before I can issue the weapon.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m Swiss, which means I never joke.” Metzler rose. “I assume you remember the way.”

“Take a right at the suit of armor and follow the corridor to the courtyard. The door to the firing range is on the other side.”

“Let’s go.”

The walk took less than two minutes. When they entered the range, four Swiss boys in their early twenties were blasting away, and the air was thick with smoke. Metzler ordered them to leave before giving Gabriel the SIG Sauer, an empty magazine, and a box of ammunition. Gabriel quickly inserted fifteen rounds into the magazine and rammed it into the butt of the gun. Metzler put on ear and eye protection.

“You?” he asked.

Gabriel shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because if someone is trying to kill the Holy Father, I won’t have time to protect my eyes and ears.”

Metzler hung a target on the line and ran it twenty yards down the range.

“Farther,” said Gabriel.

“How far?”

“All the way.”

Metzler did as he was told. Gabriel raised the gun in a classic triangular firing position and poured all fifteen rounds through the eyes, nose, and forehead of the target.

“Not bad,” said Metzler. “Let’s see if you can do it again.”

Metzler ran another target to the end of the range while Gabriel quickly reloaded the weapon. He emptied it in a matter of seconds. This time, instead of fifteen holes grouped around the face, there was just a single large hole in the center of the forehead.

“Good Lord,” said Metzler.

“Good gun,” said Gabriel.

At midday, Gabriel would slip the bonds of the Vatican in the back of Donati’s official sedan and make his way to the Israeli Embassy to review the daily intelligence from King Saul Boulevard. Time permitting, he would return to the conservation lab for a few more hours of work. Then, at seven, he would join Donati and the pope for supper in the private papal dining room. Gabriel knew better than to raise the issue of security again, so he used the extraordinary opportunity to help prepare the pope for what would be one of the most important foreign trips of his papacy. The Secretariat of State, the rough equivalent of the Vatican foreign ministry, had written a series of predictably safe statements for the pope to issue at the various stops he planned to make in both Israel and the territories under Palestinian authority. But with each passing day, it became apparent that the pope intended to radically reshape the historically tense relationship between the Holy See and the Jewish State. The trip would be more than just a pilgrimage; it would be the culmination of the process the pope had set in motion almost a decade earlier with his act of contrition at the Great Synagogue of Rome.

On the final night, Gabriel listened as the Holy Father wrestled with the remarks he intended to deliver at Yad Vashem, Israel’s museum and memorial to the Holocaust. Afterward, a restless Donati insisted on walking Gabriel back to his apartment. A detour brought them to one of the doorways leading to the Sistine Chapel. Donati hesitated before turning the latch.

“It’s probably better if you go in without me this time.”

“Who’s in there, Luigi?”

“The one person in the world who can give Carlo the punishment he deserves.”

Veronica Marchese was standing behind the altar, her arms folded defensively, her eyes on The Last Judgment. They remained there as Gabriel went quietly to her side.

“Do you think it will look like this?” she asked.

“The end?”

She nodded.

“I hope not. Otherwise, I’m in serious trouble.”

She looked at him for the first time. He could see she had been crying. “How did it happen, Mr. Allon? How did a man like you become one of the world’s finest restorers of Christian art?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I think I need one,” she said.

“I was asked to do things for my country that left me incapable of painting. So I learned how to speak Italian and went to Venice under an assumed identity to study restoration.”

“With Umberto Conti?”

“Who else?”

“I miss Umberto.”

“So do I. He had a ring of keys that could open any door in Venice. He used to drag me out of my bed late at night to look at paintings. ‘A man who is pleased with himself can be an adequate restorer,’ he used to say to me, ‘but only a man with a damaged canvas of his own can be a truly great restorer.’ ”

“Have you managed to repair it?”

“Portions,” Gabriel answered after a reflective silence. “But I’m afraid parts are beyond repair.”

She said nothing.

“Where’s Carlo?”

“Milan. At least, I think he’s in Milan. Not long ago, I discovered that Carlo doesn’t always tell me the truth about where he is or who he’s meeting with. Now I understand why.”

“How much did Donati tell you?”

“Enough to know that my life as I knew it is now over.”

A leaden silence fell between them. Gabriel recalled how Veronica had appeared that afternoon at the Villa Giulia museum, how she could have passed for a much younger woman. Now, suddenly, she looked every one of her fifty years. Even so, she was remarkably beautiful.

“You must have realized your husband wasn’t what he appeared to be,” he said at last.

“I knew Carlo made a great deal of money in ways I didn’t always understand. But if you’re asking whether I knew he was the head of an international criminal organization that controlled the trade in illicit antiquities . . .” Her voice trailed off. “No, Mr. Allon, I did not know that.”

“He used you, Veronica. You were his door into the Vatican Bank.”

“And my reputation in the antiquities world gave him a patina of respectability.” Her hair had fallen across her face. Deliberately, she moved it aside, as though she wanted Gabriel the restorer to assess the damage done by Carlo’s treachery.

“Why did you marry him?” he asked.

“Are you judging me, Mr. Allon?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I was just wondering how you could choose a man like him after being in love with Luigi.”

“You don’t know much about women, do you?”

“So I’ve been told.”

Her smile was genuine. It faded quickly as she listed the reasons why she had married a man like Carlo Marchese. Carlo was handsome. Carlo was exciting. Carlo was rich.

“But Carlo wasn’t Donati,” Gabriel said.

“No,” she replied, “there’s only one Luigi. And I would have had him all to myself if it wasn’t for Pietro Lucchesi.”

Her tone was suddenly bitter, resentful, as though His Holiness were somehow to blame for the fact she had married a murderer.

“It was probably for the better,” said Gabriel carefully.

“That Luigi returned to the priesthood instead of marrying me?”

He nodded.

“That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Allon.” Then she added softly, “You weren’t the one who was in love with him.”

“He’s happy here, Veronica.”

“And what happens when they remove the Fisherman’s Ring from Lucchesi’s finger and place his body in the crypt beneath the Basilica? What will Luigi do then?” She quickly answered her own question. “I suppose he’ll teach canon law for a few years at a pontifical university. And then he’ll spend the last years of his life in a retirement home filled with aging priests. So lonely,” she added after a moment. “So terribly sad and lonely.”

“It’s the life he chose.”

“It was chosen for him, just like yours. You two are quite alike, Mr. Allon. I suppose that’s why you get along so well.”

Gabriel looked at her for a moment. “You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

“That’s not a question I care to answer—at least not in here.” She tilted her face toward the ceiling. “Did you know that Claudia called my office at the Villa Giulia the night of her death?”

“At 8:47,” he said.

“Then I assume you also know she placed a call to a different number one minute before that.”

“I do know that. But we were never able to identify it.”

“I could have helped you.”

She handed him one of her business cards. The number Claudia had dialed was for Veronica’s mobile.

“I’d left the office by the time she called me there, and I didn’t realize until the next day that she’d called my BlackBerry.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was missing all day. I found it the next morning on the floor of my car. I didn’t think anything of it until the day you came to see me at the museum. Then I realized how Carlo had done it. After I left you standing in that downpour, I drove into the Villa Borghese and cried for an hour before going home. Carlo could see something was wrong.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the night of the dinner party?”

“I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That my husband would kill me, too.” She looked at Gabriel, then at The Last Judgment. “I hope it’s as beautiful as this.”

“The end?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow,” said Gabriel, “I doubt we’ll be so lucky.”

He told her as much as he could and then saw her to the Bronze Doors. As she melted into the colonnades, he imagined Donati walking beside her—not a Donati bound by vows of chastity, but Donati as he might have been had God not called him to become a priest. When she was gone, he started back toward his rooms, but something drew him back to the chapel. Alone, he stood motionless for several minutes, his eyes roaming over the frescoes, a single verse of scripture running through his thoughts. “The House which King Solomon built for the Lord was sixty cubits long, twenty cubits wide, and thirty cubits high . . .”

39 VATICAN CITY–JERUSALEM

AS LEADER OF A SOVEREIGN country, the pope has a post office, a mint, a small army, a world-class state museum, and ambassadors stationed at embassies around the world. He does not, however, have an airplane. For that, he must rely on the kindness of Alitalia, Italy’s troubled national carrier. For the flight to Israel, it lent him a Boeing 767 and rechristened it Zion in honor of the trip. His private compartment had four executive swivel chairs, a coffee table piled with the morning papers, and a satellite television that allowed the pope to watch his departure from Fiumicino Airport live on RAI, the Italian television network.

The pope’s Curial entourage and security detail sat directly behind him in the business-class section of the aircraft, while the Vatican press corps was confined to economy. As they clambered aboard laden with their cameras and luggage, several were wearing black-and-white-checkered Palestinian kaffiyehs as scarves. The second stop on the pope’s busy itinerary would be the refugee camp of Dheisheh. Apparently, the Vaticanisti felt it was important to make a favorable impression on their hosts.

Despite the early-morning departure, Alitalia served a sumptuous in-flight lunch. The priests and bishops devoured the meal as if they had not seen food in days, but Gabriel was far too preoccupied to eat. Seated next to Alois Metzler, he reviewed the protection plans one final time, making a mental list of everything that could possibly go wrong. When the number of nightmare scenarios reached twenty, he closed the briefing book and stared out the window as the aircraft swept low over the Mediterranean toward Israel’s verdant Coastal Plain. Five minutes later, as the wheels thudded onto the runway at Ben Gurion Airport, a member of the Vaticanisti shouted, “Welcome to Occupied Palestine!” To which a doctrinaire archbishop from the Secretariat of State murmured, “Amen to that.” Clearly, thought Gabriel, there were some within the Curia who were unhappy over the pope’s decision to spend Eastertide in a Holy Land controlled by Jews.

At Donati’s direction, Gabriel was to be part of the pope’s core protection unit, meaning he would never be more than a few feet from the pontiff’s side. And so it was that, as His Holiness Pope Paul VII, the Bishop of Rome, Pontifex Maximus, and successor to St. Peter, stepped off his borrowed airplane, he was trailed by the only child of Holocaust survivors from the Valley of Jezreel. Following in the tradition set by his predecessor, the pope immediately lowered himself to his hands and knees and kissed the tarmac. Rising, he walked over to the waiting Israeli prime minister and gave him a vigorous handshake. The two men exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, surrounded by concentric rings of security. Then the prime minister escorted the pope to a helicopter. Gabriel climbed in after him and sat between Donati and Alois Metzler.

“So far, so good,” Donati said as the helicopter rose swiftly into the air.

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “But now the fun begins.”

They headed eastward into the Judean Hills, above the winding staircase-like gorge separating Jerusalem from the sea. Gabriel pointed out some of the villages that had seen the worst fighting during Israel’s War of Independence; then Jerusalem appeared before them, floating, as though held aloft by the hand of God. The pope peered intently out his window as they crossed the city from west to east, new to old. As they passed over the Temple Mount, the golden Dome of the Rock sparkled in the midday sun. Gabriel showed the pope the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Church of the Dormition, and the Garden of Gethsemane.

“And your son?” asked the pope.

“There,” said Gabriel as they passed over the Mount of Olives.

The helicopter banked gently to the south and flew along the 1949 Green Line, now commonly referred to as the pre-1967 border. From the air, it was plain to see how the border had effectively dissolved after more than forty years of Israeli occupation. In the span of a few seconds, they passed over the mixed Jerusalem neighborhood of Abu Tor, the small West Bank Jewish settlement of Har Homa, and the Arab village of Beit Jala. Adjacent to Beit Jala was Bethlehem. Manger Square was easily visible from the distance, for it was crammed with several thousand people, each one waving a small Palestinian flag. On the roads leading into the city, not a car moved, only the trucks and jeeps of the IDF.

“This is where things are going to get political,” Gabriel told Donati. “It’s important to keep things moving, especially since the guest of honor will be the only male dressed entirely in white from head to toe.”

As the helicopter set down, President Mahmoud Abbas and the leadership of the Palestinian Authority waited on a dais outside the Church of the Nativity. “Welcome, Your Holiness, to the ancient land of Palestine,” Abbas exclaimed, loudly enough for the remark to be heard by the reporters standing nearby. “And welcome to Bethlehem and Jerusalem, the eternal and indivisible capital of Palestine.” The pope responded with a noncommittal nod and then greeted the rest of the delegation. Most were clearly pleased to be in his presence, but one, Yasser Abed Rabbo, a former leader of the terrorist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, seemed far more intrigued by the bodyguard who never strayed more than a few inches from the pope’s shoulder.

Entering the church, the pope spent a few minutes in silent prayer at the Altar of the Nativity. Then he asked Abbas to show him the damage that had been done to the church in 2002, when a group of Palestinian terrorists seized the sacred Christian site in an effort to evade capture. At the conclusion of the ninety-three-day standoff, Israeli forces discovered forty explosive devices concealed within the church, while Franciscan clerics held hostage during the siege described how the Palestinian terrorists looted the church of gold icons and used pages of the Christian Bible for toilet paper. All this, however, was apparently news to Mahmoud Abbas. “The only damage done to the church,” he insisted, “was done by the Israelis. As you know, they are profoundly anti-Christian.”

“If that is the case,” the pope replied coolly, “why has the Christian population of Bethlehem fallen from ninety-five percent to just one-third? And why are Christians fleeing the territory controlled by the Palestinian Authority at an alarming rate?”

Abbas smiled weakly and looked at his wristwatch. “Perhaps, Your Holiness, it might be a good time to pay a visit to Dheisheh.”

The camp was located about a mile to the south of Bethlehem on a patch of land leased from the Jordanian government after the conclusion of the War of Independence. Originally, some three thousand Palestinians, mainly from Jerusalem and Hebron, lived there in tents. Now, more than sixty years later, the tents had been replaced by cinderblock structures, and the population of the camp had grown to nearly thirteen thousand registered refugees. With unemployment rampant, most were permanent wards of the United Nations, and the camp was a hotbed of militant activity. Even so, the residents cheered the pope as he walked the narrow streets with Gabriel at his side.

At the conclusion of the tour, in the camp’s dusty central square, the pope lamented what he described as “the terrible suffering of the Palestinian people.” But in an abrupt departure from his prepared text, he pointedly criticized the failure of three generations of Arab leadership to achieve a just and viable solution to the refugee crisis. “Those who would perpetuate human suffering in the service of politics,” he said solemnly, “must be condemned as strongly as those who would inflict it in the first place.”

With that, the pope blessed the crowd with a sweeping sign of the cross and climbed into an armored limousine for the short drive to Jerusalem. Entering the Jewish Quarter through the Dung Gate, he inserted a plea for peace between the stones of the Western Wall before making his way on foot through the streets of the Muslim Quarter to the Chain Gate, one of the eastern entrances to the Haram al-Sharif. A sign posted by the chief rabbinate of Israel warned that, in its opinion, Jews were forbidden to set foot on the Mount due to its sacredness.

“I never realized,” said the pope.

“It’s complicated, Holiness,” said Gabriel. “But in Israel, most things are.”

“Are you sure you want to come with me?”

“I’ve been here before.”

The pope smiled. “I shudder to think what would have happened to poor little Isaac if it wasn’t for you.”

“It was God who spared the boy. The Archangel Gabriel was only his messenger.”

“I hope he sees fit to spare me, too.”

“He will as long as you listen to me,” said Gabriel. “Things can go wrong here in a hurry. If I see something I don’t like—”

“We leave,” said the pope, cutting him off.

“Quickly,” said Gabriel.

Though the Waqf controlled the Noble Sanctuary itself, it did not control the entrances, which meant the Israeli government had been able to enforce the Vatican’s request that the Haram be closed for the pope’s brief visit. As a result, the delegation of Islamic dignitaries waiting on the steps leading to the Dome of the Rock numbered just forty. They included the Grand Mufti, the members of the Waqf’s Supreme Council, and several dozen armed security guards, many of whom had links to Palestinian and Islamic militant groups. Within minutes of the pope’s arrival, the mufti invited him to pray inside the Dome of the Rock, despite the fact the Waqf had assured the Vatican that no such invitation would be forthcoming. The pope diplomatically declined and then spent several minutes marveling at the building’s glorious mosaics and windows. Gabriel quietly pointed out the Arabic-language inscriptions that openly mocked Christian belief and invited all Christians to convert to Islam, which Muslims considered the final and decisive revelation of the word of God.

“Do you read Arabic?” the mufti asked.

“Nein,” Gabriel replied in German.

The tour complete, the pope and the mufti adjourned to the garden for tea. Alone with the most powerful religious figure in the world, the keeper of Islam’s third-holiest shrine used the opportunity to expound upon his oft-stated theory that the Holocaust had never happened and that the Jews were secretly plotting to destroy the Dome of the Rock with the help of fundamentalist Christians from America. The pope listened in stoic silence, but in his public remarks afterward, he called the conversation “most enlightening.” Then, after delivering his planned apology for the murderous excesses of the Crusades, he pointed out that the Israelis were the first conquerors in the history of Jerusalem to leave the status quo of the Holy Mountain unchanged. As a result, he declared, Islam had a special duty to not only care for the mosques that stood on the surface of the Noble Sanctuary, but to protect the sacred ruins that lay beneath it as well.

“All in all,” the pope said, climbing into his limousine on Lions’ Gate Street, “I think that went quite well.”

“I’m not sure the mufti would agree,” said Gabriel, smiling.

“He’s lucky I didn’t lose my temper. You should have heard the things he said to me.”

“We hear it every day, Holiness.”

“But I don’t,” the pope replied. “I can only imagine that God made me sit through that drivel for a reason.”

Looking down at a copy of the Holy Father’s itinerary, Gabriel couldn’t help but wonder whether it was true.

The next stop was Yad Vashem.

Donati had set aside one hour for the visit, but ninety minutes elapsed before the pope finished his private tour of the newly designed Holocaust history exhibit. From there, he went to the Hall of Names, the somber repository of information about the dead, and then walked along the Avenue of the Righteous Among Nations and through the Valley of the Communities. In the Children’s Memorial, a dark, haunting place of reflected candlelight, he became momentarily disoriented. “This way,” said Gabriel softly. And when the pope emerged once more into the brilliant Jerusalem sunlight, his cheeks were streaming with tears. “Children,” he said. “Why in God’s name would they murder little children?”

“Do you need a minute to collect your thoughts?”

“No,” said the pope. “It’s time.”

They made their way past the soaring Pillar of Heroism to the Hall of Remembrance. In the plaza outside, several hundred Israeli dignitaries and Holocaust survivors sat facing the simple podium where the pope would deliver the most important remarks of his trip. Owing to the somber location, the mood was funereal. No flags waved, and there was no applause as the pope entered the hall. Following him into the cool shadows, Gabriel felt a sense of peace for the first time since their arrival on Israeli soil. Here in this hallowed chamber of memory, the Holy Father was safe.

The flame of remembrance had been temporarily extinguished. With Donati’s assistance, the pope reignited it and then knelt for several moments in silent, agonized prayer. Finally, he rose and made his way outside to the plaza where the crowd was now stirring in anticipation. As the pope approached the podium, Donati removed the black binder containing the prepared text and in its place left a single sheet of ruled white paper. On it were the handwritten notes the Holy Father had made during his final conversation with Gabriel in the Apostolic Palace. The pope was about to deliver one of the most important pronouncements of his papacy without a script.

He stood at the podium for a long moment as though Yad Vashem’s unique combination of horror and beauty had rendered him incapable of speech. Having helped the Holy Father from the Children’s Memorial, Gabriel knew it was genuine. But he also knew that His Holiness was about to begin his homily with a point about words versus deeds. His silence, therefore, had purpose.

“In this place of unbearable pain,” he began at last, “mere words cannot possibly describe the depths of our sorrow or our shame. This beautiful garden of memory is more than just a ceremonial gravestone to the six million children of God and Abraham who perished in the fires of the Holocaust. It is a reminder that evil, true evil, is present in the world. It is a reminder, too, that as Christians we accept a portion of the responsibility for what occurred during the Holocaust, and we must beg forgiveness. A decade ago, in the Great Synagogue of Rome, we spoke of our complicity in the crime that Yad Vashem commemorates. And today, we reaffirm our sorrow, and once again we beg forgiveness. But now, in this time of escalating tension in the Middle East, our sorrow is mixed with fear. It is a fear that it could happen again.”

The line sent a murmur through the crowd. Several of the reporters from the Vatican press corps were now staring bewildered at their copies of the speech. The pope sipped his water and waited for silence. Then he glanced briefly at Gabriel and Donati before resuming his homily.

“Since our appearance at the Great Synagogue of Rome, the Church has taken great steps toward eliminating anti-Jewish sentiment from our teaching and texts. We asked our Islamic brethren to undertake a similar soul-searching, but, sadly, this has not occurred. Across the Islamic world, Muslim holy men routinely preach that the Holocaust did not occur, while at the same time, radical jihadists promise to bring about another one. The contradiction is amusing to some, but not to me—not when a nation that has sworn to wipe Israel from the face of the earth is relentlessly developing the capability to do just that.”

Again, the audience stirred in anticipation. Gabriel’s eyes swept over the perplexed members of the Curial delegation before settling on the diminutive figure in white who was about to make history.

“There are some leaders who assure me that Israel can live with an Iran armed with a nuclear weapon,” the pope continued. “But to someone who lived through the madness of the Second World War, they sound too much like those who said the Jews had nothing to fear from a Germany led by Hitler and the Nazis. Here in this sacred city of Jerusalem, we are reminded at every turn that great empires and great civilizations can vanish in the blink of an eye. Their antiquities fill our museums, but all too often, we fail to learn from their mistakes. We are tempted to think that we have reached the end of history, that it can never happen again. But history is made every day, sometimes by men of evil. And all too often, history repeats itself.”

Several of the reporters were now whispering into mobile phones. Gabriel suspected they were informing their editors that His Holiness had just taken a newsworthy departure from what was supposed to be a routine speech of remembrance at Yad Vashem.

“And so,” the pope resumed, “on this solemn occasion, in this sacred place, we do more than remember the six million who suffered and died in the Holocaust. We renew our bond with their descendants, and we assure them that we will do everything in our power to make certain it never happens again.”

The pope paused one final time, as if signaling to the reporters that the most important line of his address was yet to come. When he spoke again, his voice was no longer tinged with sorrow, only resolve.

“To that end,” he said, his arms spread wide, his amplified words echoing through the monuments of Yad Vashem, “we pledge to the people of Israel, our elder brothers, that this time, as you confront a challenge to your existence, the Roman Catholic Church will stand by you. We offer our prayers and, if you are willing to accept it, our counsel. We ask only that you proceed with the utmost caution, for your decisions will affect the entire world. The soil of this sacred city is filled with the remnants of empires that miscalculated. Jerusalem is the city of God. But it is also a gravestone to the folly of man.”

With that, the audience erupted into a thunderous ovation. Gabriel and the rest of the security detail quickly went to the pope’s side and escorted him to the waiting limousine. As the motorcade headed down the slope of Mount Herzl toward the Old City, the pope handed Gabriel the notes for the address.

“Add that to your collection.”

“Thank you, Holiness.”

“Still think I should have canceled the trip?”

“No, Holiness. But you can be sure the Iranians are putting a bounty on your head as we speak.”

“I always knew they would,” he said. “Just make sure no one manages to collect it before I leave Jerusalem.”

40 JERUSALEM

DONATI AND THE HOLY FATHER were spending the night near the Jaffa Gate, at the residence of the Latin Patriarch. Gabriel saw them to the door, made a final check of security, then headed westward across Jerusalem through the late-afternoon shadows. Rounding the corner into Narkiss Street, he immediately saw the armored Peugeot limousine parked outside the apartment house at Number 16. Its owner was standing at the balustrade of the third-floor balcony, partially concealed by the drooping limbs of the eucalyptus tree, a sentinel on a night watch without end.

As Gabriel entered the apartment, he smelled the unmistakable aroma of eggplant with Moroccan spice, the specialty of Shamron’s long-suffering wife, Gilah. She was standing in the kitchen next to Chiara, a flowered apron around her waist. Chiara wore a loose-fitting blouse with an embroidered neckline. Her hair hung about her shoulders, and her lips, when kissed, tasted of honey. She adjusted the knot of Gabriel’s tie before kissing him again. Then she nodded toward the television and said, “It seems you and your friend have caused quite a stir.”

Gabriel looked at the screen and saw himself, following a few feet behind the pope as he emerged from the Hall of Remembrance at Yad Vashem. A news analyst in London was talking about a wholesale realignment of the Vatican’s policies toward the State of Israel. As Gabriel switched from news channel to news channel, it was more of the same. It seemed His Holiness Pope Paul VII had fundamentally altered the dynamic of the conflict in the Middle East, with the Vatican now squarely on the side of the Israelis in the conflict against Iran and radical Islam. And what made it all the more remarkable, the commentators agreed, was that the Vatican had managed to conceal the Holy Father’s intentions prior to his departure from Rome.

Gabriel switched off the television and went into the bedroom to change. Then, after accepting two glasses of Shiraz from Chiara, he headed out onto the little terrace. Shamron was in the process of lighting a cigarette. Gabriel plucked it from his lips before sitting.

“You really have to stop, Ari.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re killing you.”

“I’d rather die from smoking than by the hand of one of my enemies.”

“There are other options, you know.” Frowning, Gabriel crushed out the cigarette and handed Shamron a glass of wine. “Drink it, Ari. They say it’s good for the heart.”

“I put mine in storage when I joined the Office. And now that I’m in possession of it again, it’s giving me no end of grief.” He drank some of the wine as a breath of wind moved in the eucalyptus tree. “Do you remember what I said to you when I gave you this flat?”

“You told me to fill it with children.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Not as good as yours.”

“Mine isn’t what it once was, which I suppose is fortuitous. I’ve done many things in my life I’d rather forget, most of them involving you.” He looked at Gabriel seriously and asked, “Did it help at all?”

“What?”

“Vienna.”

“I didn’t do it for myself. I did it so someone else wouldn’t have to bury a child or visit a loved one in a psychiatric hospital.”

“You just answered my question in the affirmative,” Shamron said. “I’m only sorry we had to send Massoud back to Tehran. He deserved to die an ignoble death.”

“We did the next best thing by burning him.”

“I only wish the flames could have been real instead of allegorical.” Shamron drank some of his wine and asked Gabriel what it was like being on the Temple Mount.

“It’s changed since my last visit.”

“Did you feel close to God?”

“Too close.”

Shamron smiled. “The visit didn’t go exactly as planned, at least from the mufti’s point of view. But from ours . . .” Shamron’s voice trailed off. “The pope’s words of support couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. And we have you to thank for it.”

“They were his words, Ari, not mine.”

“But I’m not sure he would have spoken them if it wasn’t for your friendship. I just hope he stands by us when the inevitable becomes a reality.”

“You mean an attack on Iran?”

Shamron nodded.

“How much longer do we have?”

“Your friend Uzi will have to make that decision. But if I had to guess, it will be some time in the next year. In my opinion,” Shamron added, “we’ve waited too long already.”

“But even you’re not sure whether an attack on their facilities will be successful.”

“But I am certain of what will happen if we do nothing,” Shamron said. “It’s not a nuclear attack that I fear the most. It’s that our enemies will use the protection of an Iranian nuclear umbrella to make our daily lives unlivable. Rockets from Gaza, rockets from Lebanon, entire sections of the country left uninhabitable. Then what? People get nervous. They slowly start to leave. And then the beautiful country that I helped to create and defend collapses.”

“It’s possible you’re being too pessimistic.”

“Actually,” Shamron said, “I was giving you my best-case scenario.”

“And the worst case?”

He turned his head a few degrees and gazed in the direction of the Old City. “It could all go up in a ball of fire, like the night Titus laid siege to the Second Temple.”

The sound of Chiara’s laughter filtered from the kitchen onto the terrace. It softened Shamron’s dark mood.

“Have there been any developments on the child front?”

“The pope is praying for us.”

“So am I,” Shamron said. “I read an interesting article about infertility not long ago. It said frequent travel can sometimes interfere with conception. It also said that the couple should remain at home as often as possible, surrounded by family and loved ones.”

“Have you no shame?”

“None whatsoever.” Shamron smiled and placed a hand on Gabriel’s arm. “Are you happy, my son?”

“I will be as soon as I put His Holiness back on his airplane.”

“I assume you’re planning to accompany him?”

Gabriel nodded. “I need to have a word with Carlo Marchese. I also have to finish that Caravaggio.”

“Never a dull moment.”

“Actually, I’d kill for one.”

“And when you’re finished in Rome? What then?”

Gabriel smiled. “Drink your wine, Ari. They say it’s good for the heart.”

As Shamron predicted, the pope’s remarks during his visit to the Temple Mount did not go over well in the Muslim world. On Al Jazeera that evening, one commentator after another branded them an affront that could not go unanswered. Watching the coverage from his office, Imam Hassan Darwish found the outrage mildly amusing. He knew that in just a few hours’ time, the pope’s words would seem like a bit of loose talk by an old man in white. With his eyes fixed on the screen, he reached for the phone and dialed. The man he knew as Mr. Farouk answered instantly.

“Yes?”

“Deliver the Korans to the address I gave you.”

“Allahu Akbar.”

Darwish replaced the receiver and headed across the esplanade to the Dome of the Rock—not to the main hall of the shrine, but to the cave just beneath the Foundation Stone known as the Well of Souls. There he knelt on a musty prayer rug, listening to the wailing of the dead. Soon they would be free, he thought, because soon there would be no Well of Souls. In fact, if Allah allowed everything to go according to plan, there would be nothing at all.

41 THE OLD CITY, JERUSALEM

IT WAS GOOD FRIDAY, which meant Jerusalem, God’s fractured citadel upon a hill, was in a state of near hysteria. In the predominantly Jewish districts of the New City, the morning proceeded with the usual last-minute preparations for the coming Shabbat. But in East Jerusalem, thousands of Muslims were making their way to the Haram al-Sharif for Friday prayers, while at the same time, a multitude of Catholics from around the world were preparing to commemorate the crucifixion of Christ with the man they believed to be his representative on earth. Not surprisingly, police and medical personnel reported an unusual surge in cases of Jerusalem Syndrome, the sudden religious psychosis brought on by exposure to the city’s countless sacred sites. In one incident, a guest of the King David Hotel appeared in the lobby wearing only a bedsheet, proclaiming the end of days was near.

“Where is he now?” asked Donati.

“Resting comfortably under heavy sedation,” replied Gabriel. “He’s expected to make a full recovery.”

“Is he one of ours or one of yours?”

“Yours, I’m afraid.”

“Where’s he from?”

“San Francisco.”

“And he had to come all the way to Jerusalem to have a psychotic break?”

Smiling, Donati lit a cigarette. They were seated in the formal parlor of the Latin Patriarch’s residence. On the table between them was a large-scale map of the Old City with the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Grief, marked in red. A narrow Roman road with steep, cobbled stairs in places, it ran two thousand feet across the Old City, from the former Antonia Fortress to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, regarded by Christians as the place of Christ’s crucifixion and burial. Like most Israelis, Gabriel avoided the street because of the aggressive Palestinian shopkeepers who tried to ensnare every passing soul, regardless of their faith. Usually, the shops remained open on Good Friday, but not today. Gabriel had ordered them all closed.

“I have to admit that this is the day that worries me the most,” he said, staring at the map. “The pope has to walk along a very narrow street and stop at fourteen of the most famous places in religious history.”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about the route—or the story, for that matter. His Holiness has to walk the same route that Christ walked on the way to his crucifixion. And he insists on doing it with as much dignity as possible.”

“Will he at least reconsider the Kevlar vest?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Our Lord did not wear a bulletproof vest on the way to his death. And neither will my master.”

“It’s just a reenactment, Luigi.”

“Not for him. When the Holy Father sets foot on the Via Dolorosa, he will be the embodiment of Jesus Christ in the eyes of his flock.”

“With one important difference.”

“What’s that?”

“His Holiness is supposed to survive the day.”

The pope came down from his rooms ten minutes later, his gleaming white soutane covered by a scarlet vestment, and climbed into the back of his limousine. It bore him around the northern edge of the Old City, past an endless throng of delirious Christian pilgrims, and eventually to the Lions’ Gate. The Vaticanisti waited there, along with a large delegation of clergy and Catholic dignitaries who would follow in the pope’s footsteps as he walked the stations of the cross. As Gabriel and Donati helped the Holy Father from the car, the crowd burst into rapturous applause. It was quickly drowned out, however, by the sound of the midday sermon blasting from the towering minaret of the al-Aqsa Mosque.

“What’s he saying?” Donati asked.

“It wouldn’t survive translation,” Gabriel answered.

“That bad?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The first station of the cross was located on a small flight of steps at the Umariya Elementary School, an Islamic madrassa where the notorious Palestinian terrorist Abu Nidal was once a student. It was on that spot, according to the Gospels and Christian tradition, where Pontius Pilate, prefect of what was then the Roman-ruled province of Judea, condemned Jesus to death by crucifixion. Now, almost two millennia later, His Holiness Pope Paul VII stood on the same spot, his eyes closed, and said, “We adore thee, O Christ, and we praise thee.” Donati and the rest of the delegation surrounding the pope immediately genuflected and responded, “Because by thy holy cross thou hast redeemed the world.” Gabriel looked at his watch. It was five minutes past noon. One down, thirteen to go.

The office of Imam Hassan Darwish had two windows. One looked south toward the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque; the other faced west toward the Via Dolorosa and the domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Usually, Darwish kept the shades tightly drawn in the second window so he would not have to see what he regarded as a revolting temple of polytheism. But now, on the most tragic day on the Christian liturgical calendar, he stood there alone, watching the foolish little man in red and white leading a procession of apes and pigs along the street of sorrows. A moment later, when the pope entered the Church of the Flagellation, Darwish closed the blinds with a satisfying snap and walked over to the other window. The Dome of the Rock, the symbol of Islam’s ascendancy over the city of God, filled the horizon. Darwish cast a glance at his wristwatch. Then he twirled his prayer beads nervously round his fingers and waited for the earth to move.

At King Saul Boulevard, Dina Sarid was keeping a tense vigil of a far different kind. The room where she worked had no windows and no view of anything except for its walls. At the moment, they were cluttered with the fragments of the operation that had just ended successfully in Vienna. It was all there, laid out from beginning to end, step by step, link by link—Claudia Andreatti to Carlo Marchese, Carlo Marchese to David Girard, David Girard to Massoud Rahimi, Massoud Rahimi to the four Hezbollah terrorists who died outside the Stadttempel synagogue. But was the Iranian-Hezbollah operation truly over? And had the historic Stadttempel synagogue in Vienna been its real target? After hours of frenzied research and analysis, Dina now feared the answer to both questions was a resounding no.

Her quest had begun shortly after seven the previous evening, when Unit 8200 had intercepted and decoded a priority transmission from VEVAK headquarters to all Iranian stations and bases worldwide. The message contained just three words: BLOOD NEVER SLEEPS. The words had meant nothing to the mathematicians and computer geniuses at the Unit, but Dina, a scholar of Islamic history, immediately recognized the Iranians had borrowed the phrase from none other than Saladin. Spoken to his favorite son, Zahir, they were meant as a warning against the use of unnecessary violence. “I warn you against shedding blood, indulging in it and making a habit of it,” Saladin had said, “for blood never sleeps.”

Like most fathers, however, Saladin did not always heed his own advice. After defeating the Crusaders in the Battle of Hattin near the shores of the Sea of Galilee, he offered two hundred of the defeated knights the chance to save themselves by converting to Islam—and when they refused, he looked on happily as mystics and scholars from his court put them clumsily to the sword. Upon entering Jerusalem three months later, he immediately ripped down the Christian cross that had been placed atop the Dome of the Rock and dragged it through the city. His first instinct was to lay waste to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre—he referred to it as “the Dungheap”—but in the end he allowed it to remain open so long as its bells remained silent. Indeed, until the nineteenth century, the tolling of church bells in Jerusalem was forbidden by Muslim edict. The creation of the State of Israel—and the capture of the Old City in the 1967 Six-Day War—upended the Islamic ascendancy in Jerusalem that Saladin’s conquest had brought about. Yes, the Haram al-Sharif remained under the control of the Waqf. But it was fundamentally a walled fortress of Islam within a majority Jewish city.

Blood never sleeps. . . .

But why had the Iranians used the phrase in a coded transmission? And what did it mean? Was it a not-so-veiled threat against the pope? Perhaps, but Dina was troubled by something else. Why had the Jerusalem Islamic Waqf, keepers of the third-holiest shrine in Sunni Islam, retained a Shiite Muslim from southern Lebanon to serve as its adviser on issues related to the Temple Mount’s archaeological past? It was possible the Waqf didn’t know David Girard was actually Daoud Ghandour. It was also possible that Girard’s connection to the Waqf was a coincidence—possible, thought Dina, but unlikely. Like all good Office analysts, she always assumed the worst. And the worst possible explanation for Girard’s frequent visits to the Temple Mount was that he had been sent there by his Iranian control officer, Massoud, the lucky one.

He could go places I couldn’t go and talk to people who couldn’t come within a mile of me. . . . He was my own private Federal Express. . . .

It was this gnawing concern that compelled Dina to ask Unit 8200 to urgently subject all the electronic intelligence related to David Girard to steganographic analysis—steganography being the practice of hiding important coded messages inside a seemingly harmless vessel. Its use pre-dated even Saladin. The word “steganography” was Greek in origin, and the first uses of “concealed writing” dated to the fifth century BC, when Demartus, king of Sparta, hid his secret correspondence beneath a layer of beeswax. In the digital age, secret messages could be transmitted instantly over the Internet disguised as something entirely harmless. Casing photos for a terrorist attack could be hidden within pictures of girls in swimsuits; a message to an active terror cell inside a recipe for boeuf bourguignon. Decoding was a simple process that involved removing the proper number of bits from the color component of the cloaking image. Press a few buttons on a computer keyboard and the pretty girls became pictures of government buildings or subway platforms in New York City.

After 9/11, Israeli high-tech firms had been at the forefront of developing sophisticated software capable of quickly searching massive amounts of data for steganographic material. As a result, it took the Unit only a few hours to find two intriguing images that had been sent to the same Gmail address on the very same day. The first, hidden inside an apparently harmless photo of an Egyptian bronze cat, showed David Girard standing before a pair of ancient pillars in a darkened chamber, an imam at his side. The second image, hidden inside a snapshot of his wife, was a photograph of a trapezoid drawn freehand on a yellow legal pad. The trapezoid was empty except for a single small circle in the lower third. Next to the circle was a three-digit number: 689.

The trapezoid bore a vague resemblance to the outer boundaries of the Temple Mount plateau, which made the three-digit number all the more interesting; 689 was the year ‘Abd al-Malik, the fifth Umayyad caliph, had begun construction of the Dome of the Rock. Dina ran through several possible scenarios involving the number, but none made any sense to her. Then she placed the two images side by side and posed a simple question. What if the number had nothing to do with history and everything to do with location—specifically, the altitude of the chamber where Girard was standing? The Temple Mount plateau stood 2,428 feet above sea level, or 740 meters. Six hundred eighty-nine meters would therefore be 51 meters, or 167 feet, beneath the Temple Mount.

Now, alone in the team’s subterranean lair, she stared at the secret photograph of David Girard standing in his. And at the faces of the four Hezbollah terrorists who had been killed in Vienna. And at Massoud Rahimi riding a streetcar in Zurich. And at the text of the priority message that had gone out the previous evening to all Iranian intelligence stations and bases. Then, finally, she stared at the team’s battered television, where a small man in white was making his way slowly down the Via Dolorosa toward the church that Saladin had referred to as “the Dungheap.”

Blood never sleeps. . . .

And then she understood. She couldn’t prove any of it, just as she couldn’t prove that the man on the streetcar had been Massoud, but she knew it. And so she snatched up the receiver of her phone and dialed the extension for Uzi Navot’s office. Orit, his unhelpful executive secretary, answered after the first ring. Inside King Saul Boulevard, she was known as “the Iron Dome” because of her unrivaled ability to shoot down requests for a moment with the chief.

“Not possible,” she said. “He’s completely swamped.”

“It’s urgent, Orit. I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t.”

Navot’s secretary knew better than to ask what it was about. “I can give you two minutes,” she said.

“That’s all I need.”

“Get up here. I’ll squeeze you in as soon as I can.”

“Actually, I need him to come to me.”

“You’re pushing it, Dina.”

“Tell him if he wants there to be an Israel next week, he’ll drop everything and get down here right away.”

Dina hung up the phone and stared at the television. The pope had just arrived at the sixth station of the cross, the spot where Veronica wiped the face of Jesus.

“We adore thee, O Christ, and we praise thee.”

Blood never sleeps. . . .

42 TEL AVIV–JERUSALEM

“ARE YOU JOKING, DINA?”

With her expression, she made clear she wasn’t.

“Walk me through it,” Navot said.

“There isn’t time.”

“Make time.”

She pointed to a photo of the ruined Galleria Naxos in St. Moritz.

“What about it?”

“According to Massoud, David Girard knew that Gabriel was investigating the murder of Claudia Andreatti at the Vatican and that Gabriel had gotten too close to Carlo Marchese.”

“Go on.”

“Why was Girard still in Europe? Why didn’t he pull up stakes and head back to Hezbollah Land?”

“Because they wanted to leave him there as bait for Gabriel.”

“Correct. But why?”

“Because they wanted to kill him for blowing up their centrifuges.”

“It’s possible, Uzi. But I don’t think so. I think they wanted Gabriel to come to St. Moritz for another reason.”

“What’s that?”

“Taqiyya.” Dina pointed to another photo—the Iranian assassin named Ali Montezari and the El Greco girl who served as his accomplice. “They gave the job to someone we would recognize. They wanted us to know they were behind it.”

“Why?”

“Because they also wanted us to find this.” She was pointing to another photo—Massoud and Girard, side by side on a Zurich streetcar. “I checked the weather in Zurich on the day this picture was taken. The sun was shining, but it was bitterly cold.”

“Why is the weather important?”

“Because Massoud isn’t wearing gloves.” She pointed to the bandage on the back of his right hand. “He wasn’t wearing gloves because he wanted us to see it.” She paused, then whispered, “He wanted me to see it.”

“You’re saying Massoud wanted us to know he was linked to David Girard and the bombing of the gallery?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“Taqiyya,” she said again.

Navot’s expression had lost any trace of skepticism. “Keep going.”

“The Iranians dangled Massoud in front of us and left us no choice but to bite by bombarding us with chatter about a coming terrorist attack and putting Hezbollah’s forces on the move in southern Lebanon. It was a classic feint. And it had but one purpose. Taqiyya.”

“Displaying one intention while harboring another.”

Dina nodded.

“But the cell in Vienna was real.”

“True. But it was never going to be allowed to carry out its assignment. Massoud always planned to reveal its existence to us in dramatic fashion, leaving just enough time for us to act.”

“You’re saying the cell was taqiyya?”

She nodded. “It was like General Patton’s ghost army during the Second World War, the one the Allies put in East Anglia to make the Germans think the invasion of France would come at Calais instead of Normandy. The British and American deception officers filled the airwaves with false signals because they knew the Germans were listening. Even after the first troops landed on the beaches, the German army was paralyzed by indecision because they believed the decisive battle of the war would be fought at Calais.”

“So under your scenario, Vienna was Calais.”

“It’s not my scenario. It’s Massoud’s.”

“Prove it.”

“I can’t.”

“Do the best you can, Dina.”

She showed Navot the two steganographic images that had been discovered by Unit 8200. Navot furrowed his brow.

“David Girard standing in a cave, and a map that looks as though it was drawn by a five-year-old.”

“But look what happens when you compare that crude map to this.”

Using her computer, Dina superimposed the image over a map of the Temple Mount.

“Close,” Navot said.

“Close enough.” Dina quickly explained her theory about the significance of the number 689, that it represented the depth of the underground cavern where David Girard was standing in the photo.

“Are you certain he sent those images to Massoud?”

“No. But we have no choice but to assume that was the case.”

“Why would he?”

“Because he’s a classical archaeologist, not a geologist or an engineer. He needed someone with the right background to run the numbers for him.”

“What numbers?”

“He needed to know how much high explosive he would need to bring down the Temple Mount.”

Navot’s face was now ashen. “Who’s the other man in the photograph?”

“Imam Hassan Darwish,” Dina said. “He oversaw the expansion of the Marwani Mosque. He’s also regarded as the most radical member of the Waqf.”

Dina held up the VEVAK message that had gone out the previous night.

Blood never sleeps. . . .

“Saladin?” asked Navot.

Dina nodded. “I think it’s a signal to prepare for the violent uprising that would sweep the Islamic world the instant the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque are destroyed. If anything happens to those buildings . . .” Her voice trailed off. “It’s over, Uzi. It’s lights out.”

“Even the Iranians aren’t that crazy,” Navot said dismissively. “Why would the mullahs blow up two of Islam’s most important shrines?”

“Because they’re not their shrines,” Dina answered. “The Noble Sanctuary is a Sunni sanctuary, and we all know how Sunnis and Shiites feel about each other. All the Iranians would need is one apocalyptic maniac inside the Waqf to help them.”

“You think Darwish is their maniac?”

“Read his file.”

Navot lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “You can’t prove a word of it,” he said at last.

“Are you willing to bet I’m wrong?”

He wasn’t. “How long do we have?”

She looked at the television. “If I had to guess, the Temple Mount will come down at three o’clock while His Holiness is inside the Sepulchre.”

“The hour that Christ died on the cross?”

“Precisely.”

Navot looked at his watch. “That leaves us ninety minutes.”

“Tell Orit to put me through next time I call.”

Navot ran a hand anxiously over his cropped gray hair. “Do you know how many people are atop the Temple Mount right now.”

“Ten thousand. Maybe more.”

“And do you know what will happen if we go up there and start looking for a bomb? We’ll start the third intifada.”

“But we don’t have to look for the bomb, Uzi. We already know where it is.”

“One hundred and sixty-seven feet beneath the surface, somewhere between the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque?”

Dina nodded.

“Is Eli Lavon still working in the Western Wall Tunnel?”

“He hasn’t left since we got back to town.”

“Do phones work down there?”

“Sometimes.”

Navot exhaled heavily. “I can’t send Eli into the Temple Mount without the prime minister’s authority.”

“Then perhaps you should call him,” Dina said. “And you might want to think about getting Eli some help.”

Navot looked at the television screen and saw Gabriel walking a step behind the pope along the Via Dolorosa. Then he reached for the phone.

Gabriel felt his mobile phone vibrate as the pope arrived at the eighth station of the cross, the spot where Christ paused to comfort the women of Jerusalem. He checked the number on the caller ID screen, then quickly raised the phone to his ear.

“We might have a problem,” Navot said.

“The pope?”

“No.”

“Where, Uzi?”

“The one place in Jerusalem we can’t afford one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Start walking toward the Western Wall Tunnel. Dina will tell you the rest on the way.”

43 THE OLD CITY, JERUSALEM

GABRIEL DID NOT WALK FOR LONG. In fact, by the time he reached the Church of the Redeemer, he was running as fast as his legs would carry him. In the narrow alleys of the Christian Quarter, pilgrims blocked his way at every turn, but once he crossed into the Jewish Quarter, the crowds thinned. He wound his way eastward—up and down stone steps, beneath archways, and across quiet squares—until he arrived at one of the portals to the Western Wall. Because it was a Friday, the plaza was more crowded than usual. Several hundred people, men and women, were praying directly against the Wall, and Gabriel reckoned there were at least a hundred more inside the synagogues of Wilson’s Arch. Pausing, he tried to imagine what would happen if even one of the giant Herodian ashlars broke loose. Then he walked over to the highest-ranking police officer he could find.

“I want you to close the Wall and plaza.”

“Who the hell are you?” the police officer asked.

Gabriel raised his wraparound sunglasses. The officer almost snapped to attention.

“I can’t close it down without a direct order from my chief,” he said nervously.

“As of this moment, I am your chief.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Close the plaza and Wilson’s Arch. And do it as quietly as possible.”

“If I tell those haredim they have to leave, it won’t be quiet.”

“Just get them out of here.”

Gabriel turned without another word and headed toward the entrance of the Western Wall Tunnel. The same Orthodox woman was there to greet him.

“Is he down there?” Gabriel asked.

“Same place,” the woman said, nodding.

“How many other people are in the tunnel?”

“Sixty tourists and about twenty staff.”

“Get everyone out.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Gabriel paused briefly to download an e-mail from Dina onto his BlackBerry. Then he followed the path downward into the earth and backward through time, until he was standing at the edge of Eli Lavon’s excavation pit. Lavon was crouched over the bones of Rivka in a pool of blinding white light. Hearing Gabriel, he looked up and smiled.

“Nice suit. Why aren’t you with His Holiness?”

Gabriel dropped the BlackBerry into the void. Lavon snatched it deftly out of the air and stared at the screen.

“What’s this?”

“Get out of that hole, Eli, and I’ll tell you everything.”

A mile to the west, at the apartment in Narkiss Street, Chiara was watching live coverage of the Good Friday procession on Israeli television. A few moments earlier, as the pope was leading the delegation in prayer at the eighth station of the cross, she had noticed Gabriel holding a mobile phone to his ear. Now, as the Holy Father made his way solemnly from the eighth station to the ninth, Gabriel was no longer at his side. Chiara stared at the screen a few seconds longer before snatching up the phone and dialing Uzi Navot’s office at King Saul Boulevard. Orit answered.

“He was just about to call you, Chiara.”

“What’s happening?”

“He’s on his way to Jerusalem. Hold on.”

Chiara felt her stomach churning as Orit put her on hold. Navot came on the line a few seconds later.

“Where is he, Uzi?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Damn it, Uzi! Where is he?”

Though Navot did not know it, Gabriel was at that moment perched at the edge of the excavation pit with Eli Lavon at his side. Beneath them glowed the chalky white bones of Rivka, witness to the Roman siege of Jerusalem and the destruction of Herod’s Second Temple. For now, Lavon was oblivious to her; he had eyes only for the tiny image on the screen of Gabriel’s BlackBerry. It showed David Girard, aka Daoud Ghandour, standing in an underground chamber of some sort at the side of Imam Hassan Darwish, the Muslim cleric from the Supreme Council of the Jerusalem Waqf.

“Are those pillars in the background?”

“The pillars aren’t the concern right now, Professor.”

“Sorry.”

Lavon inspected the second image—the trapezoid with the mark and the number 689 in the lower third.

“It would make sense,” he said after a moment.

“What’s that?”

“That the chamber where they’re standing is located in that portion of the Mount. The ground beneath the Dome of the Rock and the entrance to the al-Aqsa Mosque is riddled with conduits, shafts, and cisterns.”

“How do we know that?”

“Because Charles Warren told us so.”

Sir Charles Warren was the brilliant officer from the British Royal Engineers who conducted the first and only survey of the Temple Mount between 1867 and 1870. His meticulously detailed maps and drawings remained the standard resource for modern archaeologists.

“Warren found thirty-seven underground structures and cisterns beneath the Temple Mount,” Lavon explained, “not to mention numerous aqueducts and passageways. The largest ones were located around the spot indicated on this map. In fact, there’s an enormous cistern in that area called the Great Sea that was carved from the limestone bedrock. It was illustrated contemporaneously by an artist named William Simpson.” Lavon looked up. “It’s possible David Girard and the imam are standing right there.”

“Can we get to it?”

“Simpson’s illustration clearly shows the presence of at least three large aqueducts leading to other cisterns and structures within the complex. But it’s also possible the Waqf has dug new tunnels and passageways under the guise of their construction projects.”

“Is that a yes or a no, Eli?”

“You’re asking me questions I can’t possibly answer,” Lavon replied. “The truth is, we have no idea what’s really under the Mount because we’re forbidden to set foot there.”

“Not anymore.”

“Do you know what will happen if the Waqf finds us up there?”

“Actually, I’m more concerned about what will happen if a bomb goes off in an underground cavern between the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque.”

“Point taken.”

“What would happen, Eli?”

“I suppose that depends on the size of the bomb. If it were the size of the average suicide vest, the Holy Mountain wouldn’t feel a thing. But if it were something big . . .”

“Massoud destroyed the Marine barracks in Beirut with the biggest non-nuclear explosion the world had seen in a generation. He knows how to make things fall down.”

Lavon rose to his feet and walked over to the giant ashlars of the Western Wall. The tourists had been evacuated; the tiny synagogue known as the Cave was empty. They were entirely alone.

“I always hoped I would have a chance to see what was on the other side,” he said, his eyes searching the stone. “But I never imagined it would come about because of something like this.”

“Surely you’ve found something more down here than some old bones, Professor.”

“Surely,” Lavon replied distantly.

“Can you get us in there, Eli?”

“Inside the Temple Mount?” Lavon smiled. “Right this way.”

They headed past the Cave and then took a flight of steps down to an ancient stone archway sealed with gray brick and mortar. Next to it an illuminated modern sign read WARREN’S GATE.

“It’s named for Charles Warren, of course,” Lavon explained. “During the time of the Second Temple, it led from the street where we’re standing now into an underground passageway. That passageway led to a flight of steps. And the steps—”

“Led to the Temple.”

Lavon nodded. “In 1981, the chief rabbi of the Western Wall foolishly ordered workmen to reopen the gate, but as soon as they started digging, the sound of the hammers carried through the passages and into the cisterns up on the Mount. The Arabs could hear it very clearly. They immediately stormed into the tunnels, and a small battle broke out. The Israeli police had to come onto the Mount to restore order. After that, Warren’s Gate was sealed, and it remains sealed today.”

“But obviously, it’s not the only underground passage onto the Mount.”

“No,” Lavon answered, shaking his head. “There’s at least one other tunnel that we know of. We found it a couple of years ago. It’s about fifty yards that way,” he said, pointing northward along the wall. “And it’s identical in design to Warren’s Gate.”

“Why was it never made public?”

“Because we didn’t want to start another riot. A handful of Israeli archaeologists were allowed to spend a few minutes inside before it was sealed.”

“Were you one of them?”

“I would have been, but I had a previous engagement.”

“Where?”

“Moscow.”

“Ivan?”

Lavon nodded.

“How thick is the seal on the new tunnel?”

“Not like this one,” Lavon said, patting the coarse brickwork. “Even an archaeologist with a fickle stomach could get through it without a problem. For a tough guy like you, it won’t take more than a couple swings of a hammer.”

“What about the noise?”

“The sermon should cover it,” said Lavon. “But there is another problem.”

“What’s that?”

“If that bomb goes off while we’re inside the Temple Mount, we’re going to end up like Rivka.”

“There are worse places to be buried, Eli.”

“I thought you said this place was nothing but a pile of stones.”

“I did,” said Gabriel. “But they’re my stones.”

Lavon lapsed into silence.

“What are you thinking about?”

“The pillars.”

“Get me a hammer and a flashlight, Eli, and I’ll take you to see the pillars.”

44 JERUSALEM

THE DRIVE FROM KING SAUL BOULEVARD to the Prime Minister’s Office in Jerusalem usually took a half-hour, but on that afternoon, Uzi Navot’s motorcade accomplished it in just twenty-two minutes door to door. By the time Navot entered the building, Gabriel’s radio had been switched off the papal protection network onto a secure band reserved for Office security personnel. As a result, Navot was able to listen as Gabriel and Eli Lavon raided a storage room in the Western Wall Tunnel for the supplies they would need to break into the Temple Mount.

The prime minister was waiting in the cabinet room, along with the defense minister, the foreign minister, and Navot’s counterpart from Shabak. Live CCTV images of the Old City flickered on the video display wall. In one, the Vicar of Christ was approaching the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In another, several thousand Muslims were gathered atop the Haram al-Sharif. And in a third, a dozen Israeli police officers stood watch in the now-empty Western Wall Plaza. It was, thought Navot, the Good Friday from hell.

“Well?” asked the prime minister as Navot settled into his usual seat.

“They’re just waiting for your order.”

“A single analyst says there’s a bomb in the Temple Mount that could bring down the entire plateau, and you say I have no choice but to believe her.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

“Do you know what’s going to happen if the Palestinians find out that Gabriel and Eli are in there?”

“Someone’s liable to get hurt,” Navot said. “And then the Arab Spring comes to Jerusalem.”

The prime minister stared at the video screens for a moment before nodding his head once. Navot quickly passed the order along to Gabriel. A few seconds later, he heard the sound of four sharp blows.

Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet . . .

Then it was done.

From the storage room, Gabriel and Lavon had taken a sledgehammer, a pickax, two coils of nylon rope, two hard hats with halogen lamps, and whatever small hand tools they could find to disarm the bomb. Before putting on his hard hat, Lavon had first covered his head with a kippah. Gabriel had removed his suit jacket, necktie, and shoulder holster. The SIG Sauer 9mm that Alois Metzler had given him was now tucked into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. He left the microphone of the miniature radio open so Navot could hear his every breath and footfall.

After breaking through the cement seal, they entered an arched passageway that bore them through the base of the western retaining wall and into the Mount itself. The paving stones of the ancient street were as smooth as glass. Three times a year—on Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot—Jews from the ancient kingdoms of Israel had walked over these stones on their way to the Temple. Even Gabriel, who had more on his mind than history, could almost feel the presence of his ancestors, but Eli Lavon was plunging headlong through the gloom, breathless with excitement.

“Look at the dressings on these stones,” he said, running his hand along the cold wall of the passage. “There’s no way these are anything but Herodian.”

“We don’t have time to look at stones,” Gabriel said, prodding Lavon along the passage with the handle of the pickax.

“There’s a very good chance that you and I are going to be the last Jews to ever set foot here.”

“If that bomb goes off, we definitely will be.”

Lavon quickened his pace.

“Where are we exactly?” asked Gabriel.

“If we were on the surface, we’d be passing through the Gate of Darkness heading directly toward the eastern façade of the Dome of the Rock.” Lavon paused and then turned his headlamp toward a pair of columns in the stonework. “Those are Doric,” he said. “They’re Herodian, no question about it.”

“Keep walking, Eli,” Gabriel said with another nudge of the pickax.

Lavon obeyed. “At the end of this passage,” he said, “there’s a cistern that was discovered by Charles Wilson, the other great British explorer of ancient Jerusalem.”

“As in Wilson’s Arch.”

Lavon’s headlamp bobbed in the affirmative. “According to Wilson, the cistern is ninety-three and a half feet long, eighteen feet wide, and thirty-five feet deep. After that, we should see a series of steps.”

“And if the steps are there?”

“They’ll take us up closer to the surface. From there, we should be able to find our way into the network of cisterns and aqueducts. We know it’s all connected because of the Warren’s Gate incident in 1981. We just have to find the right connections.”

“Before the bomb explodes,” Gabriel added darkly.

They walked a few more paces. Then Lavon froze.

“What’s wrong?”

Lavon stepped aside to reveal a coarse gray wall blocking the end of the passageway.

“Something tells me that isn’t Herodian.”

“No,” said Lavon. “In my expert opinion, it’s Palestinian, circa two thousand and ten.”

“How thick is it?” the prime minister asked.

“They won’t know until they start hammering,” Navot said. “And if they start hammering . . .”

“The Palestinians will be able to hear them on the Mount.”

Navot nodded.

It took the prime minister only a few seconds to arrive at his decision. “Tell them to break down that seal. But if they don’t find that bomb by two-thirty, I’m going to order the arrest of Imam Hassan Darwish and go in heavy from the top.”

“Israeli troops and police on the Temple Mount?”

The prime minister nodded resolutely.

“If you do that,” Navot said, “you’ll start the third intifada while the eyes of the world are on us because of the pope.”

“I realize that, Uzi, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Navot ordered Gabriel to start hammering.

Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet . . .

And they’d barely made a dent.

At that same moment, Imam Hassan Darwish was standing atop the western retaining wall of the Temple Mount, staring down at the empty plaza below. Security alerts were common in Jerusalem, but the Israelis blocked access to the holiest site in Judaism only when they believed an attack was imminent. It was possible the closure was the result of an unrelated threat, but Darwish suspected otherwise. Somewhere, somehow, the plot had been compromised.

Turning, Darwish headed across the esplanade toward the Dome of the Rock. As usual, only females and old men had been allowed into the Haram for Friday prayers; Darwish bade good afternoon to a few of them with the customary greeting of peace before descending into the Well of Souls. There he passed through a locked door and followed an ancient flight of steps downward into the heart of the Holy Mountain. A moment later, he was standing in one of the largest cisterns on the Temple Mount, listening to the sound of distant tapping.

It could mean only one thing.

The Jews were coming.

For five minutes, they beat against the wall without a break, Lavon with the sledgehammer, Gabriel with the pickax. Gabriel broke through first, opening an aperture in the brickwork about the size of a fist. He removed the lamp from his hard hat and shone the beam into the void.

“What do you see?” asked Lavon.

“A cistern.”

“How big?”

“Hard to say, but it looks to be about ninety-three and a half feet long and about eighteen feet wide.”

“Anything else?”

“Steps, Eli. I can see the steps.”

The head of security for the Jerusalem Islamic Waqf was a forty-five-year-old veteran of both Fatah and the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade named Abdullah Ramadan. Imam Darwish called him on his mobile and told him to come to the cistern beneath the Dome of the Rock. He didn’t have to explain the meaning of the tapping sound.

“Warren’s Gate?”

“It could be,” Darwish answered. “Or it could be one of the new ones they’ve found during their illegal excavations.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Take three of your best men down there and find out if they’re trying to gain access to the Haram.”

“And if they are?”

“Punish them,” said the imam.

The prime minister stared at the clock on the wall of the cabinet room. It was ten minutes past two. He looked at Navot and asked, “How big is that damn hole?”

Navot posed the question to Gabriel and then relayed his answer to the prime minister and the rest of the room.

“Not big enough.”

“How much longer is it going to take?”

Again Navot relayed the question.

“They’re not sure.”

“Tell them they have to work faster.”

“They’re working as fast as they can, Prime Minister.”

“Tell them, Uzi.”

Navot passed along the prime ministerial order to pick up the pace. Then, after hearing Gabriel’s response, he smiled.

“What did he say?” the prime minister asked.

“He said he’s working as fast as he can, Prime Minister.”

“Are you telling me the truth, Uzi?”

“No, Prime Minister.”

The prime minister smiled in spite of himself and looked at the clock.

It was 2:12.

By 2:15, the hole was about a foot in diameter, and by 2:20 it was large enough to accommodate the shoulders and hips of a slender man. Gabriel shimmied through first, scraping the skin from his arms in the process, followed a few seconds later by Lavon. After returning the kippah and hard hat to his head, he stood stock-still for a moment, speechless with awe. Before them was the cistern, and beyond it, rising into the darkness, was the first flight of Herodian stairs.

“There’s only one reason for this cistern to be here,” Lavon said, dipping his hand in the water of the long, rectangular pool. “It was a mikvah. They would have cleansed themselves ritually before heading up to the Temple.”

“This is all very interesting, Professor, but we need to keep moving.”

“At least let me take a few pictures.”

“We’ll stop on the way out.”

Lavon skirted the edge of the pool and raced up the first flight of ancient steps, the beam of his light bouncing over the walls and ceiling of the arched passage. At the top, he froze again. “Look at this!” he said, pointing to a few lines of ancient Hebrew chiseled into the wall. “It says that gentiles are forbidden to enter the courts of the Temple. Why would there be a sign like this if there wasn’t a Temple to begin with?”

It was a logical question, but at that instant, Gabriel’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was wondering why four large Arab men with flashlights were coming toward them down the next flight of steps. Then the first bullet came scorching past his ear, and he had his answer. It seemed the neighbors had heard the pounding. It was hardly surprising, thought Gabriel. Blood never sleeps.

45 JERUSALEM

IT LASTED JUST FORTY-FOUR SECONDS, but later, Uzi Navot would swear it seemed like an hour or more. From his limited vantage point, it sounded as though Gabriel and Eli Lavon were under attack from an Arab legion. What struck Navot most, however, was the sound of Gabriel’s breathing. Not once did it break its normal rhythm. Nor did he speak except to twice tell Lavon to keep his head down.

The recordings would indicate that Gabriel did not begin to return fire until almost twenty seconds into the engagement. After his first shot, there was an agonized wail that seemed to rise from the very depths of the Well of Souls. Five seconds later, Gabriel fired a second shot, after which the intensity of the opposing gunfire decreased sharply. His third and fourth shots were fired with double-tap quickness, and once again there was a scream of pain from somewhere in the passage. Two more shots followed in rapid succession. Then the gunfire ended, and there was only the sound of an Arab man pleading for mercy.

“Who sent you down here?” Navot heard Gabriel ask calmly.

“Go to hell!” a voice shouted back in Arabic.

Navot heard another shot, followed by a scream.

“Who sent you?” Gabriel repeated.

“The imam,” the Arab replied through gritted teeth.

“Which imam?”

“Darwish.”

“Hassan Darwish?”

“Yes . . . it was . . . Hassan.”

“Where’s the bomb?”

“What bomb?”

“Where is it, damn it?”

“I don’t know anything . . . about a bomb!”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Yes!”

“Are you?”

“Yes! I swear.”

Navot heard one more shot. Then there was nothing but the sound of Gabriel’s steady breathing.

“Are we still in business?” asked the prime minister.

“For the moment,” replied Navot.

“I suppose that answers the question about whether there’s really a bomb somewhere up there.”

“Yes, Prime Minister, I suppose it does. But we now have another problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Gabriel Allon is inside the Temple Mount with only Eli Lavon for protection.”

“Do you know what’s going to happen if they get their hands on them?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Navot said, staring at the CCTV images of the crowds pouring out of the al-Aqsa Mosque. “They’re going to tear them both to pieces.”

“Should we order them out?”

“I’m afraid it’s too late.”

They had just entered the first aqueduct. It was 2:23.

It was no wider than a phone booth and scarcely tall enough for them to walk fully upright. Here and there, rivulets of water wept from tiny seams in the walls, but otherwise the bedrock was as dry as the bones of Rivka. Lavon navigated by compass. Softly, he counted their steps.

The channel wound its way through the limestone in a serpentine pattern, which meant they had only a vague idea of what lay ahead. Despite the fact they were now only a few feet beneath the surface of the Mount, they could hear no sound other than their own footfalls and Lavon’s steady counting. At two hundred paces exactly, they reached the next cistern. Lavon paused and looked around in wonder. Then he raised a forefinger to his lips to tell Gabriel to keep his voice down.

“Do you recognize it?” Gabriel whispered.

Lavon nodded his head vigorously. “The T shape is consistent with a cistern that Warren found here,” he answered, his voice a hoarse whisper. “It was probably dug during the time of Herod. The stone quarried from this spot might very well have been used for the Temple itself.”

“Where are we on the Mount?”

“Just outside the entrance to al-Aqsa.” He pointed down the length of the horizontal portion of the T. “There should be another small T-shaped cistern right over there. And then—”

“The Great Sea?”

Lavon nodded his head and then led Gabriel across the upper portion of the ancient cistern. At the opposite side was the mouth of another aqueduct, narrower than the last. As he expected, it bore them into the next cistern. This time, they made their way to the foot of the T and entered the next aqueduct. After a few paces, the vast cathedral-like chasm of the Great Sea opened before them.

And it was entirely empty.

“Well?” asked the prime minister.

Navot shook his head.

“What are they going to do now?”

“They’re working on it.”

At the roof of the chamber was an opening, like the oculus at the top of the Pantheon in Rome. Through it streamed a shaft of brilliant sunlight and the sound of the amplified sermon blasting from the minaret of the al-Aqsa Mosque.

“How far below the surface are we?” asked Gabriel in a whisper.

“Forty-three feet.”

“Or thirteen meters,” Gabriel pointed out.

“Thirteen point ten meters,” Lavon corrected him.

“If Dina is right,” Gabriel said, “the bomb would be in a chamber more than a hundred feet beneath us.”

“Which would make sense,” Lavon said.

“Why?”

“Because if I were going to take down the Temple Mount plateau, I’d want to place the charge lower than this.”

“Is there a way down from here?”

“No one’s ever been below this—at least no one we know about.” He turned and studied the distant wall of the cavern. There were three more aqueducts, each leading in a slightly different direction. “Pick one,” he said.

“I’m an art restorer, Eli. You pick.”

Lavon closed his eyes for a few seconds and then pointed to the aqueduct on the right.

At that same moment, Imam Hassan Darwish was less than one hundred feet away, in the cistern beneath the Well of Souls. In his hand was the Makarov pistol that Abdullah Ramadan had given to him before heading into the depths of the Noble Sanctuary to confront the invading Jews. The sound of the brief but intense battle had carried through the aqueducts, directly to Darwish’s ears. He had heard everything, including the sound of his own name being shouted in agony. Now he could hear the soft, muffled footfalls of at least two men approaching the chamber that Darwish had secretly carved from the Holy Mountain. It was there he had hidden the bomb that would destroy it and thus destroy the State of Israel. But there was something else inside the chamber other than explosives—a secret that no one, especially the Jews, could be allowed to see.

He looked at his watch: 2:27. At Darwish’s instructions, the man known as Mr. Farouk had set the timing device on the weapon to go off at three o’clock. He had chosen the time, the supposed hour of Christ’s death on the cross, as a calculated insult to the whole of Christianity, but it was not the only reason. By three o’clock, the Friday prayer services in al-Aqsa would be over, and the crowds of Muslim faithful would be departing the Noble Sanctuary. But for the moment, the three hundred and eighty thousand square feet of the great mosque were filled to capacity with more than five thousand people. Darwish had no choice but to turn them all into holy martyrs. And himself as well.

He remained in the cistern beneath the Well of Souls for a moment longer, reciting the final prayers of the shahid. Then, with the Makarov pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he set out along a narrow, ancient passage. It bore him downward into the earth and backward through time. It was the time before Islam and the Prophet. The time of ignorance, he thought. The time of the Jews.

The first aqueduct terminated after about fifty feet in a small fishbowl of a cistern, so they quickly retraced their steps to the Great Sea and entered the second channel. After just a few steps, Lavon came upon an aperture in the right side that led to still another passage. The ground was littered with fragments of loose limestone. Lavon inspected them in the glow of his headlamp and then ran his hand over the edges of the opening.

“This is new.”

“How new?”

“New new,” Lavon said. “It looks as though it was cut quite recently.”

Without another word, he set off down the conduit, Gabriel at his heels. After a few paces, there appeared a flight of wide, curving steps that were obviously carved by modern stone-cutting tools. Lavon plunged downward in a rage, with Gabriel a few steps behind, struggling to keep pace. At the bottom of the steps was an archway with a few characters of Arabic script carved into the stone above the apex. They shot past it without a glance. Then, awestruck, they came suddenly to a stop.

“What the hell is that?” asked Gabriel.

Lavon seemed incapable of speech.

“Eli, what is it?”

Lavon took a few tentative steps forward. “Don’t you recognize them, Gabriel?”

“Recognize what, Eli?”

“The pillars,” he said. “The pillars that were in the photograph.”

“And where are the pillars from?”

Lavon smiled, breathless. “ ‘The House which King Solomon built for the Lord was sixty cubits long, twenty cubits wide, and thirty cubits high.’ ”

“What is it, Uzi?” the prime minister asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Eli thinks he just found remnants of the First Temple. And by the way,” Navot added, “they also found the bomb.”

The prime minister looked up at the video monitor and saw thousands of Muslims streaming out of the al-Aqsa Mosque. Then he looked at the men seated around him and gave the order to send in the police and the IDF.

“It’s better than the alternative,” Navot said, watching as the first Israeli forces entered the Noble Sanctuary.

“We’ll see about that.”

46 THE TEMPLE MOUNT, JERUSALEM

THE CAVERN WAS THE SIZE of a school gymnasium. Tilting his headlamp skyward, Gabriel noticed the crude light fixtures hanging from the roof and the power line that snaked down one wall to an industrial-grade switch. Throwing it, he flooded the vast space with a heavenly white light.

“My God,” gasped Eli Lavon. “Don’t you see what they’ve done?”

Yes, thought Gabriel, running his hand over the glassy smooth surface of the freshly hewn wall. He could indeed see what they had done. They had carved a massive hole in the heart of God’s mountain and turned it into a private museum filled with all the archaeological artifacts that had been unearthed during the years of reckless construction and secret excavations—the building stones, capitals, columns, arrowheads, helmets, shards of pottery, and coins. And now, for motives even Gabriel could scarcely comprehend, Imam Hassan Darwish intended to blow it all to bits—and the Temple Mount along with it.

For the moment, though, Eli Lavon seemed to have all but forgotten about the bomb. Entranced, he was making his way slowly through the artifacts toward the two parallel rows of broken pillars that formed the centerpiece of the exhibit. Pausing, he consulted his compass.

“They’re oriented east to west,” he said.

“Just like the Temple?”

“Yes,” he said. “Just like the Temple.”

He walked to the eastern end of the pillars, touched one reverently, and then walked a few steps farther. “The altar would have been here,” he said, gesturing with his small hand toward an empty space at the edge of the cavern. “Next to the altar would have been the yam, the large bronze basin where the priests would wash before and after a sacrifice. Kings Seven describes it in great detail. It was said to be ten cubits across from brim to brim and five cubits high. It stood upon twelve oxen.”

“ ‘Three facing north,’ ” said Gabriel, quoting the passage, “ ‘three facing west, three facing south, and three facing east, with the tank resting upon them.’ ”

“ ‘Their haunches were all turned inward,’ ” said Lavon, completing the verse. “There were ten other smaller basins where the sacrifices were washed, but the yam was reserved for the priests. The Babylonians melted it down when they burned the First Temple. The same was true of the two great bronze columns that stood at the entrance of the ulam, the porch.”

“ ‘One to its right and one to its left,’ ” said Gabriel.

“ ‘The one to its right was called Jachin.’ ”

“ ‘And the one to the left, Boaz.’ ”

Gabriel heard a crackle in his earpiece followed by the voice of Uzi Navot.

“We’re trying to get to you as quickly as possible,” Navot said. “The police and IDF have entered the Temple Mount compound through the eastern gates. They’re meeting resistance from the Waqf security forces and the Arabs coming out of al-Aqsa. It’s getting pretty ugly right above your head.”

“It’s going to get a lot uglier if this bomb explodes.”

“The bomb disposal teams are coming in the second wave.”

“How much longer, Uzi?”

“A few minutes.”

“Find Darwish.”

“We’re already looking for him.”

As Navot fell silent, Gabriel looked at Lavon. He was staring toward the roof of the cavern.

“Jachin and Boaz were each crowned with a capital that was decorated with lilies and pomegranates,” he said. “There’s a debate among scholars as to whether they were freestanding or whether they supported a lintel and a roof. I’ve always subscribed to the second theory. After all, why would Solomon put a porch on the house of God and leave it uncovered?”

“You need to get out of here, Eli. I’ll stay with the bomb until the sappers arrive.”

Lavon acted as though he hadn’t heard. He took two solemn steps forward, as though he were entering the Temple itself.

“The door that led from the ulam into the heikhal, the main hall of the Temple, was made from the wood of fir trees, but the doorposts were olive wood. They burned when Nebuchadnezzar put the First Temple to the torch.” Lavon paused and placed a hand gently atop the ruins of one of the pillars. “But he couldn’t burn these.”

Gabriel walked past a trestle table heaped with coins and ancient tools and slipped between two of the pillars. He touched one and asked Lavon what had happened to them after Nebuchadnezzar destroyed the Temple.

“The Scriptures are unclear, but we always assumed the Babylonians hurled them over the walls of the Temple Mount and into the Kidron Valley.” He looked at Gabriel with a rueful smile. “Sound familiar?”

“Very,” said Gabriel.

Lavon moved to the next pillar. It was about eight feet in height, and one side was blackened by fire. “ ‘They made Your sanctuary go up in flames,’ ” he intoned, quoting Psalms 74, “ ‘they brought low in dishonor the dwelling-place of Your presence.’ ”

“You need to be leaving, Eli.”

“Where am I going to go? Upstairs to the riot?”

“Make your way through the aqueducts back to the Western Wall Tunnel.”

“And what am I supposed to do if I run into another group of Saladin’s warriors? Fight them off with my pickax like a Crusader?”

“Take my gun.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“You were in the army, Eli.”

“I was a medic.”

“Eli,” said Gabriel in exasperation, but Lavon was no longer listening. He was moving slowly from pillar to pillar, his expression a mixture of astonishment and anger. “They must have hauled them out of the valley in 538 BC, when the Persian Empire authorized the construction of the Second Temple. And when Herod renovated the place five centuries later, he probably used them as part of the supporting structure, which would explain why the Waqf found them when they were digging around up here. They were too big to take to the dump or throw into the Kidron Valley again, so they hid them here, along with everything else they ripped from the mountain.” He looked around the vast cavern. “Even if we are able to get this material out of here, it has no proper context anymore. It’s as if it was . . .”

“Looted,” said Gabriel.

“Yes. Looted.”

“We’ll get it out, Eli, but you really should go now.”

“I’m not leaving these things here alone,” Lavon answered. He was drifting from pillar to pillar, his face tilted skyward. “The contemporary models and drawings of the First Temple oftentimes put a roof over the heikhal, but there wasn’t one. It was an open courtyard with two-story chambers on three sides. And at the far western end of the structure was the debir, the Holy of Holies, where they kept the Ark of the Covenant.”

Lavon approached the spot slowly because it was there that Imam Darwish had chosen to place the bomb. It was no ordinary bomb, thought Gabriel. It was a Western Wall of explosives, wired and primed and waiting to detonate. Were it something small, Gabriel might have been able to disarm it with a sapper whispering in his ear. But not this.

“How do you suppose they were able to do it?”

“I’m sure Imam Darwish will be happy to tell us.”

Lavon shook his head slowly. “We were fools to let them have complete control of this place. Who knows? Maybe we should have behaved like every other army that conquered Jerusalem.”

“Tear down the Dome and al-Aqsa? Rebuild the Temple? You don’t really believe that would have been the right thing to do, Eli.”

“No,” he admitted, “but at a moment like this, I’m allowed to imagine what it might have been like.”

Gabriel looked at his watch.

“How many minutes left?”

“If Dina is right—”

“Dina is always right,” Lavon interjected.

“Twenty-five minutes,” said Gabriel. “Which is why you need to get out of here.”

Lavon turned his back to the bomb and lifted his arms toward the avenue of pillars. “There isn’t a single authenticated artifact from the First or Second Temple. Not one. It’s the reason why Palestinian leaders have been able to convince their people that the Temples were a myth. And it’s the reason why they hid these pillars in a hole one hundred and sixty-seven feet beneath the surface.” He looked at Gabriel and smiled. “And it’s the reason why I’m not leaving this mountain until I know these pillars are safe.”

“They’re just stones, Eli.”

“I know,” he said. “But they’re my stones.”

“Are you really willing to die for them?”

Lavon was silent for a moment. Then he turned to Gabriel. “You have a beautiful wife. Maybe someday you’ll have a beautiful child. Another beautiful child,” he added. “Me . . . these stones are all I have.”

“You’re the closest thing in the world I have to a brother, Eli. I’m not leaving you behind.”

“So we’ll die together,” Lavon said, “here, in the house of God.”

“I suppose there are worse places to die.”

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose there are.”

At that moment, Imam Hassan Darwish was standing in the doorway of the underground structure that had been built on his orders, listening to the two Jews speaking in their ancient language. Darwish recognized them both. One was the noted biblical archaeologist Eli Lavon, a critic of the Waqf and its construction projects. The other, the one with gray temples and green eyes, was Gabriel Allon, the murderer of Palestinian heroes. Darwish could scarcely believe his good fortune. The presence of the two men would make his task more difficult. But it would also make his journey to Paradise far sweeter.

The imam turned his gaze from the men and looked at the explosive device that lay within the ruins of the First Jewish Temple. The man called Mr. Farouk had built a manual override into the detonator in the event of a scenario such as this and had instructed Darwish on how to trigger it. A flick of a switch was all it would take.

Just then, Darwish heard the clatter of boots in the aqueducts. It appeared the Jews had broken through the Waqf’s defenses. History was attempting to repeat itself. But not this time, thought Darwish. This time, the sacred shrines of Islam would not fall into the hands of the infidel, as they had in 1099, when the Crusaders besieged Jerusalem. This time would be different. A flick of a switch was all it would take.

The imam closed his eyes and, in his thoughts, recited the Verse of the Sword from the Koran: “Fight and kill the disbelievers wherever you find them, take them captive, harass them, lie in wait and ambush them, using every stratagem of war.” Then he charged into the museum of the ancient Jews and opened fire.

The first shots struck the ancient pillars and sent teardrops of flaming limestone into Gabriel’s cheek. Looking up, he saw Hassan Darwish running across the floor of the cavern, his face contorted with a hatred born of faith and history and a thousand humiliations large and small. Instantly, Gabriel leveled his own weapon and charged toward the imam as bullets flashed past his ears. He fired the gun as he had in the range beneath the Vatican, shot after shot without pause, until nothing remained of the imam’s face. Then, turning, he saw Eli Lavon crumpled on the ground, his arms wrapped around the base of one of the pillars. Gabriel pressed his palm against the bullet wound in Lavon’s chest and held him as the life started to leave his eyes. “Don’t die, Eli,” he whispered. “Damn you, Eli, please don’t die.”