He handed Carter a copy of his mother’s testimony. Carter, seated next to the dying fire, read it from beginning to end without uttering a word. When finally he looked up from the last page, his eyes were damp.
“I take it Irene Allon is your mother?”
“She was my mother. She died a long time ago.”
“How can you be sure the SS man in the woods was Radek?”
Gabriel told him about his mother’s paintings.
“So I take it you’ll be the one who’ll handle the negotiations with Radek. And if he refuses to cooperate? What then, Gabriel?”
“His choices will be limited, Adrian. One way or another, Erich Radek is never setting foot in Vienna again.”
Carter handed the testimony back to Gabriel. “It’s an excellent plan,” he said. “But will your prime minister go for it?”
“I’m certain there will be voices raised in opposition,” Shamron said.
“Lev?”
Shamron nodded. “My involvement will give him all the grounds he needs to veto it. But I believe Gabriel will be able to bring the prime minister around to our way of thinking.”
“Me? Who said I was going to brief the prime minister?”
“I did,” Shamron said. “Besides, if you can convince Carter to put Radek on a platter, surely you can convince the prime minister to partake in the feast. He’s a man of enormous appetites.”
Carter stood and stretched, then walked slowly toward the window, a doctor who has spent the entire night in surgery only to achieve a questionable outcome. He opened the drapes. Gray light filtered into the room.
“There’s one last item we need to discuss before leaving for Israel,” Shamron said.
Carter turned around, a silhouette against the glass. “The money?”
“What exactly were you planning to do with it?”
“We haven’t reached a final decision.”
“I have. Two and a half billion dollars is the price you pay for using a man like Erich Radek when you knew he was a murderer and a war criminal. It was stolen from Jews on the way to the gas chambers, and I want it back.”
Carter turned once more and looked out at the snow-covered pasture.
“You’re a two-bit blackmail artist, Ari Shamron.”
Shamron stood and pulled on his overcoat. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Adrian. If all goes according to plan in Jerusalem, we’ll meet again in Zurich in forty-eight hours.”
29 JERUSALEM
THE MEETING WAS called for ten o’clock that evening. Shamron, Gabriel, and Chiara, delayed by weather, arrived with two minutes to spare after a white-knuckle car ride from Ben-Gurion Airport, only to be told by an aide that the prime minister was running late. Evidently, there was yet another crisis in his brittle governing coalition, because the anteroom outside his office had taken on the air of a temporary shelter after a disaster. Gabriel counted no fewer than five cabinet officials, each surrounded by a retinue of acolytes and apparatchiks. They were all shouting at each other like quarreling relatives at a family wedding, and a fog bank of tobacco smoke hung on the air.
The aide escorted them into a room reserved for security and intelligence personnel, and closed the door. Gabriel shook his head.
“Israeli democracy in action.”
“Believe it or not, it’s quiet tonight. Usually, it’s worse.”
Gabriel collapsed into a chair. He realized suddenly that he had not showered or changed his clothing in two days. Indeed, his trousers were soiled by the dust of the graveyard in Puerto Blest. When he shared this with Shamron, the old man smiled. “To be covered with the dirt of Argentina only adds to the credibility of your message,” Shamron said. “The prime minister is a man who will appreciate such a thing.”
“I’ve never briefed a prime minister before, Ari. I would have liked to at least had a shower.”
“You’re actually nervous.” This seemed to amuse Shamron. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous about anything before in my life. You’re human after all.”
“Of course I’m nervous. He’s a madman.”
“Actually, he and I are quite similar in temperament.”
“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”
“May I give you a piece of advice?”
“If you must.”
“He likes stories. Tell him a good story.”
Chiara perched herself on the arm of Gabriel’s chair. “Tell it to the prime minister the way you told it to me in Rome,” she said sotto voce.
“You were in my arms at the time,” Gabriel replied. “Something tells me tonight’s briefing will be a bit more formal.” He smiled, then added, “At least I hope so.”
It was nearing midnight by the time the prime minister’s aide poked his head into the waiting room and announced that the great man was finally ready to see them. Gabriel and Shamron stood and moved toward the open door. Chiara remained seated. Shamron stopped and turned to face her.
“What are you waiting for? The prime minister is ready to see us.”
Chiara’s eyes opened wide. “I’m just abat leveyha, ” she protested. “I’m not going in there to brief the prime minister. My God, I’m not even Israeli.”
“You’ve risked your life in defense of this country,” Shamron said calmly. “You have every right to be in his presence.”
They entered the prime minister’s office. It was large and unexpectedly plain, dark except for an area of illumination around the desk. Lev somehow had managed to slip in ahead of them. His bald, bony skull shone in the recessed lighting, and his long hands were folded beneath a defiant chin. He made a half-hearted effort to stand and shook their hands without enthusiasm. Shamron, Gabriel, and Chiara sat down. The worn leather chairs were still hot from other bodies.
The prime minister was in his shirtsleeves and looked fatigued after his long night of political combat. He was, like Shamron, an uncompromising warrior. How he managed to rule a roost as diverse and disobedient as Israel was something of a miracle. His hooded gaze fell instantly upon Gabriel. Shamron was used to this. Gabriel’s striking appearance was the one thing that had given Shamron cause for concern when he recruited him for the Wrath of God operation. Peoplelooked at Gabriel.
They had met once before, Gabriel and the prime minister, though under very different circumstances. The prime minister had been chief of staff of the Israel Defense Forces in April 1988 when Gabriel, accompanied by a team of commandos, had broken into a villa in Tunis and assassinated Abu Jihad, the second-in-command of the PLO, in front of his wife and children. The prime minister had been aboard the special communications plane, orbiting above the Mediterranean Sea, with Shamron at his side. He had heard the assassination through Gabriel’s lip microphone. He had also listened to Gabriel, after the killing, use precious seconds to console Abu Jihad’s hysterical wife and daughter. Gabriel had refused the commendation awarded him. Now, the prime minister wanted to know why.
“I didn’t feel it was appropriate, Prime Minister, given the circumstances.”
“Abu Jihad had a great deal of Jewish blood on his hands. He deserved to die.”
“Yes, but not in front of his wife and children.”
“He chose the life he led,” the prime minister said. “His family shouldn’t have been there with him.” And then, as if suddenly realizing that he had strayed into a minefield, he attempted to tiptoe out. His girth and natural brusqueness would not permit a graceful exit. He opted for a rapid change of subject instead. “So, Shamron tells me you want to kidnap a Nazi,” the prime minister said.
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
He held up his palms-Let’s hear it.
GABRIEL, IF HE was nervous, did not reveal it. His presentation was crisp and concise and full of confidence. The prime minister, notorious for his rough treatment of briefers, sat transfixed throughout. Hearing Gabriel’s description of the attempt on his life in Rome, he leaned forward, his face tense. Adrian Carter’s confession of American involvement made him visibly irate. Gabriel, when it came time to present his documentary evidence, stood next to the prime minister and placed it piece by piece on the lamplit desk. Shamron sat quietly, his hands squeezing the arms of the chair like a man struggling to maintain a vow of silence. Lev seemed locked in a staring contest with the large portrait of Theodor Herzl that hung on the wall behind the prime minister’s desk. He made notes with a gold fountain pen and once took a ponderous look at his wristwatch.