Ben-Avraham watched the pair in admiration for a moment as they drifted among the evening crowd like synchronized swimmers. Their routine was by the book, but it had a certain flair and precision that came from working together in situations where one misstep could cost one of them his life.
Finally, the young officer started down the steps toward his tar-§etHerr
"Mueller," he called out. The legend looked up. "So good to see you."
Lavon vanished as though stepping through a stage curtain. Ben-Avraham hooked his fingers inside the elbow of the legend and pulled him toward the darkened footpaths of the Stadt Park. They walked in circles for ten minutes, diligently checking their tail. He was smaller than Ben-Avraham expected, lean and spare, like a cyclist. It was difficult to imagine that this was the same man who had liquidated half of Black September--the same man who had walked into a villa in Tunis and gunned down Abu Jihad, the second-ranking leader of the PLO, in front of his wife and children.
The legend said nothing. It was as if he were listening for his enemies. His footfalls on the pavement of the pathways made no sound. It was like walking next to a ghost.
The car was waiting a block from the park. Ben-Avraham climbed behind the wheel and for twenty minutes wound his way around the city center. The station chief was right--he was not a man who invited small talk. Indeed the only time he spoke was to politely ask Ben-Avraham to extinguish his cigarette. His German had the hard edge of a Berliner.
Satisfied that no one was following, Ben-Avraham turned into a narrow street in northeast Vienna called the Anton Frankgasse. The building at No. 20 had been the target of numerous terror attacks over the years and was heavily fortified. It was also under constant surveillance by the Austrian secret services. As the car slipped into the entrance of the underground parking garage, the legend ducked below the dashboard. For an instant, his head pressed lightly against Ben-Avraham's leg. His scalp was burning, like a man in the grip of a death fever.
THE SECURE communications room was located in a soundproof glass cubicle two levels below ground. It took several minutes for the operator in Tel Aviv to patch the call through to Shamron's
home in Tiberias. Over the scrambler, his voice sounded as if it was emanating from the bottom of a steel drum. In the background, Gabriel heard water running into a basin and the tinkle of cutlery against china. He could almost picture Shamron's long-suffering wife, Ge'ulah, washing dishes in the kitchen sink. Gabriel gave Shamron the same briefing he had given earlier to Lavon. When he finished, Shamron asked what he planned to do next.
"I thought I'd go to London and ask Peter Malone why Beni called him from a hotel in Brenzone."
"Malone? What makes you think he'll talk? Peter Malone is in business for himself. If he's actually got something, he'll sit on it harder than even poor Beni."
"I'm working on a subtle way to make my approach."
"And if he's not interested in opening his notebook to you?"
"Then I'll try a not-so-subtle approach."
"I don't trust him."
"He's the only lead I have at the moment."
Shamron sighed heavily. Despite the distance and the scrambler, Gabriel could hear an edgy rattle in his chest.
"I want the meeting done the right way," Shamron said. "No more wandering into situations blind and without backup. He gets surveillance before and after. Otherwise, you can wash your hands of this thing and go back to Venice to finish your Bellini."
"If you insist."
"Helpful suggestions are not my way. I'll contact London station tonight and put a man on him. Keep me informed."
Gabriel hung up the phone and stepped outside into the corridor. Ephraim Ben-Avraham was waiting. "Where now?" the young field man asked.
Gabriel looked at his watch. "Take me to the airport."
LONDON
On his second day in London, Gabriel visited a used bookstore in the Charing Cross Road at dusk and purchased a single volume. He tucked it beneath his arm and walked to the Leicester Square underground station. At the entrance he removed the well-worn dust jacket and tossed it into a rubbish bin. Inside the station, he bought a ticket from the automated dispenser and rode the long escalator down to the Northern Line platform, where he endured an obligatory ten-minute delay. He used the time to leaf through the book. When he found the passage he was looking for, he circled it in red ink and folded the page to mark the place.
The train finally grumbled into the station. Gabriel squeezed into the crowded carriage and wound his arm around a metal pole. His destination was Sloane Square, which required a change of
trains at the Embankment. As the train jerked forward, he looked down at the faded gold lettering on the spine of the book, the deceivers: Peter Malone.
Malone . .. one of the most dreaded names in London. Revealer of personal and professional misdeeds, destroyer of lives and careers. An investigative reporter for The Sunday Times, Malone's list of victims was long and diverse: two Cabinet ministers, the second-ranking official at MI5, a slew of crooked businessmen, even the editor-in-chief of a rival newspaper. During the past decade, he had also published a string of sensational biographies and political exposes. The Deceivers dealt with the exploits of the Office. It had caused something of a firestorm in Tel Aviv, largely because of its telling accuracy. It included the revelation that Ari Shamron had recruited a spy from the senior ranks of MI6. The crisis that followed, Shamron would later say, was the worst between the British and the Jews since the bombing of the King David Hotel.
Ten minutes later, Gabriel was walking through the streets of Chelsea in the gathering darkness, Malone's book under his arm. He crossed Cadogan Square and paused in front of the handsome white Georgian townhouse. Lights were burning in the second-floor windows. He climbed the steps to the front door, laid the book on a braided straw mat, then turned and walked quickly away.
Parked on the opposite side of the square was a gray commercial van of American manufacture. When Gabriel tapped on the blacked-out rear window, the door swung open, revealing a darkened interior lit only by the soft glow of an instrument panel. Sitting before the console was a reedy, rabbinical looking boy named Mordecai. He offered Gabriel a bony hand and pulled him inside. Gabriel closed the door and crouched next to him. The floor was
littered with grease-spotted panini wrappers and empty Styrofoam cups. Mordecai had been living in the van for most of the past thirty-six hours.
"How many people in the house?" Gabriel asked.
Mordecai reached out and turned a knob. Over the speakers Gabriel could hear the faint voice of Peter Malone talking to one of his assistants.
"Three," Mordecai said. "Malone and two girls."
Gabriel dialed Malone's number. The ringing of his office telephone sounded like a fire alarm over Mordecai's speakers. The surveillance man reached out and turned down the volume. After three rings, the reporter answered and identified himself by name in a soft Scottish brogue.
Gabriel spoke English and made no attempt to conceal his Israeli accent. "I just left a copy of your last book outside your door. I suggest you take a look at it. I'll call you back in exactly five minutes."
Gabriel rang off and rubbed a clear patch on the fogged glass of the window. The front door opened a few inches and Malone, turtle-like, poked out his head. It swiveled from side to side as he searched in vain for the man who had just telephoned. Then he bent down and scooped up the book. Gabriel looked at Mordecai and smiled. Victory. Five minutes later, he pressed the redial button on his phone. This time Malone answered on the first ring.