The soil on the top of the hill was cut by a labyrinth of trenches and pits. Tel Megiddo had been under intermittent archaeological excavation for more than a century. So far, researchers had discovered evidence that the city atop the mount had been destroyed and rebuilt some twenty-five times. A dig was under way at the moment. From one of the trenches came the sound of English spoken with an American accent. Gabriel walked over and looked down. Two American college students, a boy and a girl, were hunched over something in the soil. Bones, thought Gabriel, but he couldn’t be sure.
“I’m looking for Professor Lavon.”
“He’s working in K this morning.” It was the girl who’d spoken to him.
“I don’t understand.”
“The excavation trenches are laid out in a grid pattern. Each plot is lettered. That way we can chart the location of every artifact. You’re standing next to F. See the sign? Professor Lavon is working in K.”
Gabriel made his way over to the pit marked K and looked down. At the bottom of the trench, two meters below the surface, crouched an elfin figure wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat. He was scratching at the hard subsoil with a small pick and appeared thoroughly engrossed in his work, but then he usually did.
“Find anything interesting, Eli?”
The picking stopped. The figure looked over his shoulder.
“Just a few pieces of broken pottery,” he said. “How about you?”
Gabriel reached down into the trench. Eli Lavon took hold of Gabriel’s hand and pulled himself out.
THEY SAT IN the shade of a blue tarpaulin and drank mineral water at a folding table. Gabriel, his eyes on the valley below, asked Lavon what he was doing at Tel Megiddo.
“There’s a popular school of archaeological thought these days called biblical minimalism. The minimalists believe, among other things, that King Solomon was a mythical figure, something of a Jewish King Arthur. We’re trying to prove them wrong.”
“Did he exist?”
“Of course,” said Lavon, “and he built a city right here at Megiddo.”
Lavon removed his floppy hat and used it to beat the gray-brown dust from his khaki trousers. As usual he seemed to be wearing all of his clothing at once-three shirts, by Gabriel’s count, with a red cotton handkerchief knotted at his throat. His sparse, unkempt gray hair moved in the faint breeze. He pushed a stray lock from his forehead and appraised Gabriel with a pair of quick brown eyes.
“Isn’t it a little soon for you to be up here in this heat?”
The last time Gabriel had seen Lavon, he’d been lying in a hospital bed in the Hadassah Medical Center.
“I’m only a volunteer. I work for a few hours in the early morning. My doctor says it’s good therapy.” Lavon sipped his mineral water. “Besides, I find this place provides a valuable lesson in humility.”
“What’s that?”
“People come and go from this place, Gabriel. Our ancestors ruled it briefly a very long time ago. Now we rule it again. But one day we’ll be gone, too. The only question is how long will we be here this time, and what will we leave behind for men like me to unearth in the future? I hope it’s something more than the footprint of a Separation Fence.”
“I’m not ready to give it up just yet, Eli.”
“So I gather. You’ve been a busy boy. I’ve been reading about you in the newspapers. That’s not a good thing in your line of work-being in the newspapers.”
“It was your line of work, too.”
“Once,” he said, “a long time ago.”
Lavon had been a promising young archaeologist in September 1972 when Shamron recruited him to be a member of the Wrath of God team. He’d been an ayin, a tracker. He’d followed the Black Septembrists and learned their habits. In many ways his job had been the most dangerous of all, because he had been exposed to the terrorists for days on end with no backup. The work had left him with a nervous disorder and chronic intestinal problems.
“How much do you know about the case, Eli?”
“I’d heard through the grapevine you were back in the country, something to do with the Rome bombing. Then Shamron showed up at my door one evening and told me you were chasing Sabri’s boy. Is it true? Did little Khaled really do Rome?”
“He’s not a little boy anymore. He did Rome, and he did Gare de Lyon. And Buenos Aires and Istanbul before that.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. Terrorism is in Khaled’s veins. He drank it with his mother’s milk.” Lavon shook his head. “You know, if I’d been watching your back in France, like I did in the old days, none of this would have happened.”
“That’s probably true, Eli.”
Lavon’s street skills were legendary. Shamron always said that Eli Lavon could disappear while shaking your hand. Once a year he went to the Academy to pass along the secrets of his trade to the next generation. Indeed, the watchers who’d been in Marseilles had probably spent time sitting at Lavon’s feet.
“So what brings you to Armageddon?”
Gabriel laid a photograph on the tabletop.
“Handsome devil,” Lavon said. “Who is he?”
Gabriel laid a second version of the same photo on the table. This one included the figure seated at the subject’s left, Yasir Arafat.
“Khaled?”
Gabriel nodded.
“What does this have to do with me?”
“I think you and Khaled might have something in common.”
“What’s that?”
Gabriel looked out at the excavation trenches.
A TRIO OF American students joined them beneath the shade of the tarpaulin. Lavon and Gabriel excused themselves and walked slowly around the perimeter of the dig. Gabriel told him everything, beginning with the dossier discovered in Milan and ending with the information Nabil Azouri had brought out of Ein al-Hilweh. Lavon listened without asking questions, but Gabriel could see, in Lavon’s clever brown eyes, that he was already making connections and searching for further avenues of exploration. He was more than just a skilled surveillance artist. Like Gabriel, Lavon was the child of Holocaust survivors. After the Wrath of God operation, he had settled in Vienna and opened a small investigative bureau called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. Operating on a shoestring budget, he had managed to track down millions of dollars in looted Jewish assets and had played a significant role in prying a multibillion-dollar settlement from the banks of Switzerland. Five months earlier a bomb had exploded at Lavon’s office. Lavon’s two assistants were killed; Lavon, seriously injured, had been in a coma for several weeks. The man who planted the bomb had been working for Erich Radek.
“So you think Fellah al-Tamari knew Khaled?”
“Without question.”
“It seems a bit out of character. To remain hidden all those years, he must have been a careful chap.”
“That’s true,” Gabriel said, “but he knew that Fellah would be killed in the bombing of the Gare de Lyon and that his secret would be protected. She was in love with him, and he lied to her.”
“I see your point.”
“But the most compelling piece of evidence that they knew each other comes from her father. Fellah told him to burn the letters and the photographs she’d sent over the years. That means Khaled must have been in them.”
“As Khaled?”
Gabriel shook his head. “It was more threatening than that. She must have mentioned him by his other name-his French name.”
“So you think Khaled met the girl under ordinary circumstances and recruited her sometime after?”