The devil smiled seductively and touched her face. Chiara recoiled, instantly nauseated. At the devil’s command, the two men led her into the cottage and down a flight of narrow wooden stairs. At the bottom was a heavy metal door with a thick horizontal latch. Behind it was a small room with a concrete floor and whitewashed walls. They forced her inside and slammed the door. Chiara lay motionless, weeping softly, shivering with the unbearable cold. A moment later, when her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she realized she was not alone. Propped in one corner, hands and feet bound, was a man. Despite the poor light, Chiara could see he had not shaved in many days. She could also see he had been beaten savagely.
“I’m so sorry to see you,” he said softly. “You must be Gabriel’s wife.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Grigori Bulganov. Don’t say another word. Ivan is listening.”
39
THE OFFICE prided itself on its ability to respond quickly in times of crisis, but even battle-hardened veterans of the service would later shake their heads in wonder at the speed with which Gabriel’s team sprang into action. They berated the analysts of Research to have another look at their files and hounded the gathering officers of Collections to squeeze their sources for the smallest threads of information. They robbed Banking of a quarter million euros and put Housekeeping on notice that secure accommodations would be required with little or no advance warning. And finally they pre-positioned enough electronics and weaponry in Europe to start a small war. But then, that was their intention.
Fortunately for Gabriel, he would not go to war alone. He had two powerful allies with great influence and global reach, one in Washington, the other in London. From Adrian Carter, he borrowed a single asset, a female officer who had recently been sent to Europe on temporary duty. Of Graham Seymour he requested a night raid. The target would be an individual, a man who once boasted he knew more about what was taking place inside Russia than the Russian president himself. Seymour would handle the legwork and logistics. Olga Sukhova would serve as the sharp end of the sword.
It was a role long reserved for Shamron. Now he had no task other than to pace the floors with worry or to make a general nuisance of himself. He looked over shoulders, whispered into ears, and, on several occasions, pulled Uzi and Gabriel into the hall and jabbed at them with his stubby forefinger. Time and again, he heard the same response. Yes, Ari, we know. We’ve thought of that. And, truth be told, they had thought of it. Because Shamron had trained them. Because they were the best of the best. Because they were like his sons. And because they could now do this job without the help of an old man.
And so he spent much of that terrible day roaming the upper floors of his beloved King Saul Boulevard, poking his head through doorways, renewing old friendships, making peace with old rivals. There was a pall hanging over the place; it reminded Shamron too much of Vienna. Restless, he requested permission from Amos to go to Ben-Gurion to receive the bodies of Lior and Motti. They were returned to Israel in secret, just as they had served it, with only Shamron and their parents present. He gave them a famous shoulder to cry on but could tell them nothing about how their sons had died. The experience left him deeply shaken, and he returned to King Saul Boulevard feeling abnormally depressed. His mood improved slightly when he entered Room 456C to find Gabriel’s team hard at work. Gabriel, however, was not there. He was on his way to Jerusalem, city of believers.
A STEADY snow was falling as Gabriel pulled into the drive of Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital. A sign at the entrance said visiting hours were now over; Gabriel ignored it and went inside. Under an agreement with the hospital’s administration, he was allowed to come whenever he wanted. In fact, he rarely came when the family and friends of other patients were around. Israel, a country of just over five million people, was in many ways an extended family. Even Gabriel, who conducted his affairs in anonymity, found it difficult to go anywhere without bumping into an acquaintance from Bezalel or the army.
Leah’s doctor was waiting in the lobby. A rotund figure with a rabbinical beard, he updated Gabriel on Leah’s condition as they walked together along a quiet corridor. Gabriel was not surprised to hear it had changed little since his last visit. Leah suffered from a particularly acute combination of psychotic depression and post-traumatic stress syndrome. The bombing in Vienna played ceaselessly in her mind like a loop of videotape. From time to time, she experienced flashes of lucidity, but for the most part she lived only in the past, trapped in a body that no longer functioned, guilt-ridden over her failure to save her son’s life.
“Does she recognize anyone?”
“Only Gilah Shamron. She comes once a week. Sometimes more.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the recreation room. We’ve closed it so you can see her in private.”
She was seated in a wheelchair near the window, gazing sight- lessly into the garden where snow was collecting on the limbs of the olive trees. Her hair, once long and black, was short and gray. Her hands, twisted and scarred by fire, were folded in her lap. When Gabriel sat next to her, she seemed not to notice. Then her head turned slowly, and a spark of recognition flickered in her eyes.
“Is it really you, Gabriel?”
“Yes, Leah. It’s me.”
“They said you might be coming. I was afraid you’d forgotten about me.”
“No, Leah. I’ve never forgotten you. Not for a minute.”
“You’ve been crying, Gabriel. I can see it in your eyes. Is something wrong?”
“No, Leah, everything’s fine.”
She gazed into the garden again. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it…”
She left the thought unfinished. A brief look of horror flashed in her eyes; Gabriel knew she had returned to Vienna. He took hold of her ruined hands and talked. About the painting he was restoring. About the villa where he had been living in Italy. About Gilah and Ari Shamron. Anything but Vienna. Anything but Chiara. Finally, her gaze fell upon him once more. She was back.
“Is it really you, Gabriel?”
“Yes, Leah. It’s me.”
“I was afraid you’d-”
“Never, Leah.”
“You look tired.”
“I’ve been working very hard.”
“And you’re too thin. Do you want something to eat?”
“I’m fine, Leah.”
“How long can you stay, my love?”
“Not long.”
“How is your wife?”
“She’s well, Leah.”
“Is she pretty?”
“She’s very pretty.”
“Are you taking good care of her?”
His eyes filled with tears. “I’m trying my best.”
She looked away. “Look at the snow, Gabriel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”
“The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain on Tel Aviv.” She looked at him again. “Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat tightly. The streets are slippery.”
“He’s fine, Leah.”
“Give me a kiss.”
Gabriel pressed his lips against her scarred cheek.
Leah whispered, “One last kiss.”
THERE EXISTS in Tel Aviv and its suburbs a constellation of Office safe flats known as jump sites. They are places where, by doctrine and tradition, operatives spend their final night before departing Israel for missions abroad. Neither Gabriel nor any member of his team bothered to go to their assigned site that night. There wasn’t time. In fact, they worked straight through the night and were so late arriving at Ben-Gurion that El Al officials had to slip them through the usual gauntlet of security procedures. In another break with tradition, the entire team traveled aboard the same aircraft: El Al Flight 315 to London. Only Gabriel had a role to play that evening; he separated from the others at Heathrow and made his way to Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. A few minutes after six, he rounded the corner into Cheyne Gardens and rapped his knuckle twice on the back of an unmarked black van. Graham Seymour opened the door and beckoned him inside. The target was in place. The sword was ready. The night raid was about to begin.