The Messenger

39.

THE SENATE SELECT COMMITTEE convened one month after the attempt on the president’s life. In their opening statements the ranking members assured the American people that their investigation would be thorough and unsparing, but by the end of the first week senators from both parties were openly frustrated by what they came to regard as a lack of candor by the president’s security and intelligence chiefs. The president’s men explained in painstaking detail how the forces of global Islamic extremism had managed to penetrate the center of Christendom, and how Professor Ali Massoudi had managed to recruit a young Swiss named Erich Müller and insert him into the Pontifical Swiss Guard. But when it came to who had masterminded the two attacks on the Vatican -and more important, who had footed the bill-the president’s men could offer up only informed opinion. Nor could they explain to any of the committee members’ satisfaction the presence at the Vatican of one Gabriel Allon, the now-legendary Israeli agent and assassin. After much internal deliberation, the senators decided to subpoena him for themselves. Because he was a foreign national he was under no obligation to obey the summons and, as expected, he steadfastly refused to appear. Three days later he abruptly changed his mind. He would testify, he told them, but only in secret. The senators agreed, and asked him to come to Washington the following Thursday.

HE ENTERED the subterranean hearing room alone. When the committee chairman asked him to stand and state his name for the record, he did so without hesitation.

“And your employer?”

“The prime minister of the State of Israel.”

“We have many questions we would like to ask you, Mr. Allon, but we have been told by your ambassador that you will not answer any question that you deem inappropriate.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Chairman.”

“We have also been informed that you wish to read a statement into the record before we begin the questioning.”

“That is also correct, Mr. Chairman.”

“This statement deals with the country of Saudi Arabia and America ’s relationship to it.”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

“Just a reminder, Mr. Allon. While this testimony is being taken in secret, there will still be a transcript made of your remarks.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Very well. You may proceed.”

With that he looked down and began to read his statement. In the far corner of the room, one man visibly winced. Hercules has come to the United States Senate, the man thought. And he’s brought a quiver full of arrows dipped in gall.

“CONGRATULATIONS, GABRIEL,” said Adrian Carter. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? We gave you the stage, and you put it to good use.”

“The senators needed to know about the true nature of the Saudi regime and its support for global terrorism. The American people need to know how all those petrodollars are being spent.”

“At least you kept Zizi’s name out of it.”

“I have other plans for Zizi.”

“You’d better not. Besides, you need to keep your eye on the ball right now.”

“Eye on the ball? What does this mean?”

“It’s a sports metaphor, Gabriel. Play any sports?”

“I don’t have time for sports.”

“You’re getting more like Shamron with each passing day.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gabriel said. “Which ball should I be keeping my eye on?”

“Bin Shafiq.” Carter gave Gabriel a sideways glance. “Any sign of him?”

Gabriel shook his head. “You?”

“We may be on to something, actually.”

“Anything you want to tell me about?”

“Not yet.”

Carter drove across Memorial Bridge and turned onto the George Washington Parkway. They rode in silence for a few minutes. Gabriel looked out the window and admired the view of Georgetown on the other side of the river.

“I saw from your travel itinerary that you’re stopping in Rome on your way back to Israel,” Carter said. “Planning to undertake another assignment for the Vatican?”

“I just want to spend some time with Donati. When I left Rome, he still wasn’t conscious.” Gabriel looked at his watch. “Where are you taking me, Adrian?”

“You have a few hours before your flight. There’s a little place out in the Virginia horse country where we can have lunch.”

“How long before we get there?”

“About an hour.”

Gabriel reclined his seat and closed his eyes.

HE WOKE as they entered a small town called The Plains. Carter slowed as he negotiated the tiny central business district; then he crossed a set of old railroad tracks, and once again headed into the countryside. The road was familiar to Gabriel, as was the long gravel drive into which Carter turned two miles later. It ran along the edge of a narrow stream. To the left was a rolling meadow, and at the top of the meadow was a large farmhouse with a tarnished copper roof and a double-decker porch. When Gabriel had last visited the house, the trees had been empty of leaves and the ground covered in snow. Now the dogwoods were in bloom, and the fields were pale green with new spring grass.

A horse came across the pasture toward them at an easy canter, ridden by a woman with golden hair. The swelling in her face had receded, and her features had returned to normal. All except for the smudges of darkness beneath her eyes, thought Gabriel. In Sarah’s eyes there were still traces of the nightmare she had endured at the chalet in Canton Uri. She guided the horse expertly alongside the car and peered down at Gabriel. A smile appeared on her face, and for an instant she looked like the same beautiful woman he had seen walking down Q Street in Washington last autumn. Then the smile faded and with two precise jabs of her boot heel she sent the horse galloping across the meadow toward the house.

“She has good days and bad days,” Carter said as he watched her go. “But I’m sure you understand that.”

“Yes, Adrian, I understand.”

“I’ve always found personal grudges counterproductive in a business like ours, but I’ll never forgive Zizi for what he did to her.”

“Neither will I,” said Gabriel. “And I do hold grudges.”

THEY HAD a quiet lunch together in the cool sunlight on the back porch. Afterward Carter saw to the dishes while Gabriel and Sarah set out for a walk through the shadowed woods. A CIA security agent tried to follow them, but Gabriel took the agent’s sidearm and sent him back to the house. Sarah wore jodhpurs and riding boots and a fleece jacket. Gabriel was still dressed in the dark-gray suit he had worn to the Senate hearing. He carried the agent’s Browning Hi-Power in his right hand.

“Adrian doesn’t seem terribly pleased by your performance before the committee.”

“He isn’t.”

“Someone had to deliver the message about our friends the Saudis. Who better than you? After all, you saved the president’s life.”

“No, Sarah, it was you who saved the president. Maybe someday the country will find out what a debt they owe you.”

“I’m not planning to go public any time soon.”

“What are your plans?”

“Adrian didn’t tell you? I’m joining the Agency. I figured the art world could survive without one more curator.”

“Which side? Operations or Intelligence?”

“Intelligence,” she said. “I’ve had enough fieldwork for a lifetime. Besides, it will never be safe for me out there. Zizi made it very clear to me what happens to people who betray him.”

“He has a long reach. What about your security here in America?”

“They’re giving me a new name and a new identity. I get to pick the name. I was wondering whether you would allow me to use your mother’s name?”

“Irene?” Gabriel smiled. “I’d be honored. She was like you-a remarkably courageous woman. The next time you come to Israel, I’ll let you read about what happened to her during the war.”

Sarah paused to finger the blossom of a dogwood, then they walked on through the trees.

“And what about you, Gabriel? What are your plans?”

“I think you and I might be moving in opposite directions.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say anything more right now.”

She pouted and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re not going to start keeping secrets from me now, are you?”

“Now that you’re working for the intelligence service of another country, I’m afraid our relationship will have to take on certain…” He paused, searching for the right word in English. “Parameters.”

“Please, Gabriel. We share a bond that extends far beyond the rules of engagement governing contact between known operatives of other services.”

“I see you’ve started your training.”

“Little by little,” she said. “It helps to relieve the boredom of living alone on this farm.”

“Are you well, Sarah?”

“The days are all right, but the nights are very hard.”

“They will be for a long time. Working for the Agency will help, though. Do you know where they’re going to put you?”

“The Saudi desk,” she said. “I insisted.”

The woods shook with the rumble of distant thunder. Sarah asked about Julian Isherwood.

“At the moment his situation is very similar to yours.”

“Where have you got him?”

“Sarah.”

“Come on, Gabriel.”

“He’s tucked away in an old house near Land’s End in Cornwall.”

“And the gallery?”

“It’s closed at the moment. Your departure from London caused quite a scandal. The boys at the bar in Green’s restaurant miss you very much.”

“I miss them, too. But I miss your team more.”

“Everyone sends their best.” Gabriel hesitated. “They also asked me to apologize to you.”

“For what?”

“We let you down, Sarah. It’s obvious that we were spotted by bin Shafiq or Zizi’s security men.”

“Maybe it was my fault.” She shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. We all came out alive, and we got eleven of them in that house. And we foiled a plot to assassinate the president. Not bad, Gabriel.”

There was another rumble of thunder, this one closer. Sarah looked up at the sky.

“I have to ask you a few questions, Sarah. There are some things we need to know before we can close the books on the operation.”

Her gaze remained skyward. “You need to know what I told them in that house in Switzerland.”

“I know you were filled with drugs. I know you’ve probably tried to purge it from your memory.”

She looked at him and shook her head. “I haven’t tried to forget,” she said. “In fact, I remember every word.”

The first raindrops began to fall. Sarah seemed not to notice. They walked on through the trees, and she told him everything.

CARTER DROVE Gabriel to Dulles Airport and shepherded him through security. They sat together in a special diplomatic lounge and waited for the flight to be called. Carter passed the time by watching the evening news. Gabriel’s attention was focused on the man seated on the opposite side of the lounge: Prince Bashir, the Saudi ambassador to the United States.

“Don’t even think about it, Gabriel.”

“Public confrontations aren’t my style, Adrian.”

“Maybe not, but Bashir rather enjoys them.”

As if on cue the Saudi rose and walked across the lounge. He stood over Gabriel but did not extend his hand. “I hear you made quite a spectacle of yourself on Capitol Hill this morning, Mr. Allon. Jewish lies and propaganda but amusing nonetheless.”

“The testimony was supposed to be secret, Bashir.”

“Nothing happens in this town that I don’t know about. And it’s Prince Bashir.” The ambassador looked at Carter. “Were you responsible for this circus today, Adrian?”

“The senators issued the subpoena, Your Royal Highness. The Agency had nothing to do with it.”

“You should have done something to prevent it.”

“This isn’t Riyadh, Mr. Ambassador.”

Bashir glared at Carter, then returned to his seat.

“I guess I won’t be eligible for the Saudi retirement plan.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” said Carter.

Ten minutes later Gabriel’s flight was called. Carter walked him to his gate.

“Oh, I nearly forgot something. The president called while you were talking to Sarah. He wanted to say thank you. He said he’ll catch you another time.”

“Tell him not to worry about it.”

“He also said he wanted you to move forward on that matter you discussed on the South Lawn.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“Are you sure the president used those words?”

“Positive,” said Carter. “What did you two talk about that night, anyway?”

“Our conversation was private, Adrian, and it will remain so.”

“Good man,” said Carter.

They shook hands, then Gabriel turned and boarded the plane.

40.

THE NEXT NIGHT WAS SHABBAT. Gabriel slept until early afternoon, then showered and dressed and drove with Chiara to the Valley of Jezreel. They stopped briefly at Tel Megiddo to collect Eli Lavon, then continued on to the Sea of Galilee. It was nearly sunset by the time they reached the honey-colored limestone villa perched on a ledge overlooking the sea. Shamron greeted them at the front door. His face looked thin and drawn, and he moved with the help of a cane. It was olive wood and very handsome.

“The prime minister gave it to me this morning when I left the rehabilitation center in Jerusalem. I nearly hit him with it. Gilah thinks it makes me look more distinguished.” He showed them inside and looked at Gabriel. “I see you’re wearing my jacket. Now that it’s clear I’m going to live for a very long time, I’d like it back.”

Gabriel removed the coat and hung it on a hook in the entrance hall. From inside the villa he heard the voice of Gilah calling them to the table for supper. When they entered the dining room she was already starting to light the candles. Yonatan and his wife were there. So were Rimona and her husband. Ronit sat next to her father and tactfully filled his plate from the serving dishes as they were passed round the table. They did not speak of the bin Shafiq operation or the Vatican. Instead they talked about Gabriel’s appearance before the American Congress. Judging from Shamron’s sour expression, he did not approve. This was made clear to Gabriel after supper, when Shamron led him out onto the terrace to talk in private.

“You were right to reject the subpoena the first time, Gabriel. You should have never changed your mind. The thought of you seated before that congressional committee, even in secret, set back my rehabilitation six months.”

“The wellspring of global jihad is Saudi Arabia and Wahhabism,” Gabriel said. “The Senate needed to be told that. So did the American people.”

“You could have put your thoughts in a secret cable. You didn’t have to sit there before them answering questions-like a mere mortal.”

They sat down in a pair of comfortable chairs facing the balustrade. A full moon was reflected in the calm surface of the Sea of Galilee, and beyond the lake, black and shapeless, loomed the Golan Heights. Shamron liked it best on his terrace because it faced eastward, toward his enemies. He reached beneath his seat cushion and came out with a silver cigarette case and his old Zippo lighter.

“You shouldn’t smoke, Ari.”

“I couldn’t while I was at Hadassah and the rehabilitation center. This is my first since the night of the attack.”

“Mazel tov,” said Gabriel bitterly.

“If you breathe a word to Gilah, I’ll cane you.”

“You think you can fool Gilah? She knows everything.”

Shamron brought the topic of conversation back to Gabriel’s testimony in Washington.

“Perhaps you had an ulterior motive,” Shamron said. “Perhaps you wanted to do more than just tell the American people the truth about their friends the Saudis.”

“And what might my ulterior motive have been?”

“After your performance at the Vatican, you were arguably the most famous intelligence officer in the world. And now…” Shamron shrugged. “Ours is a business that does not look fondly on notoriety. You’ve made it nearly impossible for us ever to use you again in a covert capacity.”

“I’m not taking the Special Ops job, Ari. Besides, they’ve already offered it to Uzi.”

“Uzi is a fine officer, but he’s not you.”

“Uzi is the reason Sarah Bancroft is alive. He’s exactly the right man to lead Special Ops.”

“You should have never used an American girl.”

“I wish we had two more just like her.”

Shamron seemed to have lost interest in his cigarette. He slipped it back into the case and asked Gabriel about his plans.

“I have some unfinished business, starting with the van Gogh. I promised Hannah Weinberg I’d get it back for her. It’s a promise I intend to keep, regardless of my newfound notoriety.”

“Do you know where it is?”

Gabriel nodded. “I inserted a beacon into the stretcher during the restoration,” he said. “The painting is in Zizi’s mansion on the Île de la Cité.”

“After everything you’ve been through with the French, you’re planning to steal a painting in Paris?” Shamron shook his head. “It would be easier for you to break into the house of your friend the American president than one of Zizi’s mansions.”

Gabriel dismissed the old man’s concerns with a Shamronian wave of his hand.

“And then?”

Gabriel was silent.

“Ronit has decided to come home,” Shamron said, “but I get the feeling you’re about to leave us again.”

“I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

“I hope you’ve made a decision about Chiara.”

“We’re going to marry as soon as possible.”

“When are you planning to break the news to Leah?”

Gabriel told him.

“Take Gilah with you,” Shamron said. “They spent a great deal of time together when you were in the field. Leah needs a mother at a time like this. Gilah is the ultimate mother.”

GABRIEL AND CHIARA spent the night at the villa in a room facing the lake. In the morning they all gathered for breakfast on the sunlit terrace, then went their separate ways. Yonatan headed north to rejoin his unit; Rimona, who had returned to duty at Aman, went south to rejoin hers. Gilah came with Gabriel and Chiara. They dropped Lavon at the dig at Tel Megiddo, then continued on to Jerusalem.

It was late morning when they arrived at the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital. Dr. Bar-Zvi, a rabbinical-looking man with a long beard, was waiting for them in the lobby. They went to his office and spent an hour discussing the best way to tell Leah the news. Her grasp on reality was tenuous at best. For years images of Vienna had played ceaselessly in her memory, like a loop of videotape. Now she tended to drift back and forth between past and present, often within the span of a few seconds. Gabriel felt obligated to tell her the truth but wanted it to be as painless as possible.

“She seems to respond to Gilah,” the doctor said. “Perhaps we should talk to her alone before you do.” He looked at his watch. “She’s outside in the garden right now. It’s her favorite place. Why don’t we do it there.”

SHE WAS SEATED in her wheelchair, in the shade of a stone pine. Her hands, scarred and twisted, held a sprig of olive branch. Her hair, once long and black, was cropped short and nearly all gray. Her eyes remained vacant as Gilah and the doctor spoke. Ten minutes later they left her. Gabriel walked down the garden path and knelt before the wheelchair, holding the remnants of her hand. It was Leah who spoke first.

“Do you love this girl?”

“Yes, Leah, I love her very much.”

“You’ll be good to her?”

The tears rolled onto his cheeks. “Yes, Leah, I’ll be good to her.”

She looked away from him. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”

“God, how I hate this city, but the snow makes it beautiful. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain on Tel Aviv.” She looked at him again. “You’ll still come visit me?”

“Yes, Leah, I’ll visit you.”

And then she looked away again. “Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat tightly. The streets are slippery.”

“He’s fine, Leah. Be careful driving home.”

“I’ll be careful, Gabriel. Give me a kiss.”

Gabriel pressed his lips against the scar tissue on her ruined cheek and closed his eyes.

Leah whispered, “One last kiss.”

THE WALLS of Gabriel’s bedroom were hung with paintings. There were three paintings by his grandfather-the only surviving works Gabriel had ever been able to find-and more than a dozen by his mother. There was also a portrait, painted in the style of Egon Schiele, that bore no signature. It showed a young man with prematurely gray hair and a gaunt face haunted by the shadow of death. Gabriel had always told Chiara that the painting was a self-portrait. Now, as she lay beside him, he told her the truth.

“When did she paint it?” Chiara asked.

“Right after I returned from the Black September operation.”

“She was amazing.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel, looking at the painting. “She was much better than me.”

Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “How long are we going to stay here?”

“Until we find him.”

“And how long is that going to take?”

“Maybe a month. Maybe a year. You know how these things go, Chiara.”

“I suppose we’re going to need some furniture.”

“Why?”

“Because we can’t live with only a studio and a bed.”

“Yes, we can,” he said. “What else do we need?”

41.

THE SECURITY SYSTEM DETECTED the intrusion at 2:38 A.M. It was sensor number 154, located on one of fourteen pairs of French doors leading from the rear garden into the mansion. The system was not connected to a commercial security company or to the Paris police, only to a central station within the mansion, staffed round the clock by a permanent detachment of security men, all former members of the Saudi National Guard.

The first security man arrived at the open French door within fifteen seconds of the silent alarm and was knocked unconscious by one of the six masked intruders. Two more guards arrived ten seconds later, guns drawn, and were shot to death by the same intruder. The fourth guard to arrive on the scene, a twenty-eight-year-old from Jeddah who had no wish to die for the possessions of a billionaire, raised his hands in immediate surrender.

The man with the gun knocked the Saudi to the ground and sat on his chest while he examined the display screen of a small handheld apparatus. Though he wore a balaclava helmet, the Saudi could see his eyes, which were an intense shade of green. Without speaking, the green-eyed man motioned toward the sweeping central staircase. Two members of his team responded by charging upward. Thirty seconds later they returned, carrying a single item. The green-eyed intruder looked down at the Saudi and gazed at him calmly. “Tell Zizi, the next time I come it’s for him,” he said in perfect Arabic. Then the gun slammed into the side of the Saudi’s head, and he blacked out.

THREE NIGHTS LATER the Isaac Weinberg Center for the Study of Anti-Semitism in France opened on the rue des Rosiers in the Marais. Like most matters dealing with the Jews of France, the creation of the center had not been without controversy. The far-right National Party of Jean-Marie Le Pen had raised questions about the source of its funding, while a prominent Islamic cleric had called for a boycott and organized a noisy demonstration the night of the opening reception. Thirty minutes into the party, there was a bomb threat. All of those in attendance, including Hannah Weinberg, the center’s creator and director, were shepherded out of the building by a unit of French antiterrorist police and the remainder of the reception canceled.

Later that night she gathered with a few friends for a quiet supper down the street at Jo Goldenberg. It was shortly after ten o’clock when she walked back to her apartment house on the rue Pavée, shadowed by a security agent attached to the Israeli embassy. Upstairs in her flat she unlocked the door at the end of the central corridor and switched on the lights. She stood for a moment, gazing at the painting that hung on the wall above her childhood dresser, then she shut out the lights and went to bed.

42.

IN THE END IT came down to a business transaction, which both Gabriel and Carter saw as proof of the Divine. Money for information: a Middle East tradition. Twenty million dollars for a life. The source was Carter’s, a low-level Saudi prince with cirrhosis of the liver and an addiction to Romanian prostitutes. The money was Gabriel’s, though it had once belonged to Zizi al-Bakari. The prince had not been able to supply a name, only a time and a place. The time was the second Monday of August. The place was the Ceylan Inter-Continental Hotel in Istanbul.

He arrived at ten under the name al-Rasheed. He was taller than they remembered. His hair was longish and quite gray, as was his heavy mustache. Despite the sweltering August heat, he wore a long-sleeved shirt and walked with his right hand in his pocket. He refused the bellman’s offer of help with his single bag and headed up to his suite, which was on the twenty-fifth floor. His balcony had a commanding view of the Bosphorus, a room with a view having been one of his many demands. Gabriel knew about his demands, just as he knew what room he had been assigned. Money had bought that, too. At 10:09, the man stepped onto his balcony and looked down at the straits. He did not realize that on the street below two men were gazing up at him.

“Is it him, Eli?”

“It’s him.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Gabriel offered Lavon the mobile phone. Lavon shook his head.

“You do it, Gabriel. I’ve never been one for the rough stuff.”

Gabriel dialed the number. An instant later the balcony was engulfed in a blinding fireball, and the flaming body of Ahmed bin Shafiq came plunging downward through the darkness. Gabriel waited until it hit the street, then slipped the Mercedes into gear and headed to Cannes.

THE RESTAURANT known as La Pizza is one of the most popular in Cannes, and so news that it had been booked for a private party spoiled what had otherwise been a perfect August day. There was a great deal of speculation along the Croisette about the identity of the man responsible for this outrage. Savvy visitors to the city, however, knew the answer lay in the waters just beyond the Old Port. Alexandra, Abdul Aziz al-Bakari’s enormous private yacht, had come to Cannes that morning, and everyone knew that Zizi always celebrated his arrival by commandeering the most popular restaurant in town.

Dinner was scheduled for nine. At 8:55 two large white launches set out from Alexandra and headed into the port through the sienna light of sunset. The vessels docked across the street from La Pizza at 8:58 and, under abnormally intense private security, the party disembarked and headed toward the restaurant. Most of the tourists who gathered to witness the auspicious arrival did not know the name Zizi al-Bakari, nor could they identify a single member of his large entourage. That was not the case for the three men watching from the grassy esplanade at the end of the Quai Saint-Pierre.

The entourage remained inside La Pizza for two hours. Later, in the aftermath, the press would make much of the fact that no wine was drunk at dinner and no cigarettes smoked, which was taken as proof of great religious faith. At 11:06 they emerged from the restaurant and started across the street toward the waiting launches. Zizi, as was his custom, was near the back of his entourage, flanked by two men. One was a large Arab with a round face, small eyes, and a goatee. The other was a Frenchman dressed in black with his blond hair drawn back into a ponytail.

One of the men who had watched the arrival of the party from the esplanade was at that moment seated in the café next door to La Pizza. A heavy-shouldered man with strawberry-blond hair, he pressed a button on his mobile phone as Zizi approached the spot they had selected for his death, and within seconds two motorbikes came roaring along the Quai Saint-Pierre. The riders drew their weapons as they approached and opened fire. Zizi was hit first and mortally wounded. The bodyguards at his side drew their weapons and were instantly killed as well. Then the motorbikes swerved hard to the left and disappeared up the hill into the old city.

The man with strawberry-blond hair stood and walked away. It was his first major undertaking as chief of Special Operations, and it had gone very well. He knew at that moment, however, that the killing would not end in Cannes, for the last thing he had seen as he walked away was Nadia al-Bakari, kneeling over the dead body of her father, screaming for revenge.