“Has he gone over to the other side of the street?”
“Are you asking whether he’s a terrorist? The answer is, we don’t know. What we do know is that Islamic militancy is in his blood. His grandfather was a commander of the Ikhwan, the Islamic movement created by Ibn Saud at the turn of the nineteenth century in the Najd.”
Gabriel knew the Ikhwan well. In many respects they were the prototype and spiritual precursor of today’s Islamic militant groups.
“Where else did bin Shafiq operate when he was with Group 205?”
“ Afghanistan, Pakistan, Jordan, Lebanon, Algeria. We even suspect he’s been in the West Bank.”
“So it’s possible we’re dealing with someone who has terrorist contacts ranging from al-Qaeda to Hamas to the Muslim Brotherhood of Egypt. If bin Shafiq has gone over to the other side, he’s the nightmare scenario. The perfect terrorist mastermind.”
“We found another interesting tidbit in our own files,” Shamron said. “About two years ago we were receiving reports of a Saudi trolling the camps of southern Lebanon looking for experienced fighters. According to the reports, this Saudi called himself Khalil.”
“The same name bin Shafiq used in Cairo.”
“Unfortunately, we didn’t pursue it. Frankly, if we chased down every moneyed Saudi who was trying to raise an army to wage jihad, we wouldn’t get much else done. Hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty.”
“How much more do we have on bin Shafiq?”
“Precious little, I’m afraid.”
“What about a photograph?”
Shamron shook his head. “As you might expect, he’s somewhat camera shy.”
“We need to share, Ari. The Italians need to know that there may be a Saudi connection. So do the Americans.”
“I know.” Shamron’s tone was gloomy. The idea of sharing a hard-won piece of intelligence was heresy to him, especially if nothing was to be gained in return. “It used to be blue and white,” he said, referencing the national colors of Israel. “That was our motto. Our belief system. We did things ourselves. We didn’t ask others for help, and we didn’t help others with problems of their own making.”
“The world has changed, Ari.”
“Perhaps it’s a world I’m not cut out for. When we were fighting the PLO or Black September, it was simple Newtonian physics. Hit them here, squeeze them there. Watch them, listen to them, identify the members of their organization, eliminate their leadership. Now we’re fighting a movement-a cancer that has metastasized to every vital organ of the body. It’s like trying to capture fog in a glass. The old rules don’t apply. Blue and white isn’t enough. I can tell you one thing, though. This isn’t going to go down well in Washington. The Saudis have many friends there.”
“Money will do that,” Gabriel said. “But the Americans need to know the truth about their best friend in the Arab world.”
“They know the truth. They just don’t want to face it. The Americans know that in many ways the Saudis are the wellspring of Islamic terrorism, that the Saudis planted the seeds, watered them with petrodollars, and fertilized them with Wahhabi hatred and propaganda. The Americans seem content to live with this, as if Saudi-inspired terrorism is just a small surcharge on every tank of gasoline. What they don’t understand is that terrorism can never be defeated unless they go after the source: Riyadh and the al-Saud.”
“All the more reason to share with them intelligence linking the GID and the al-Saud to the attack on the Vatican.”
“I’m glad you think so, because you’ve been nominated to go to Washington to brief them on what we know.”
“When do I leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Shamron looked absently out the window and for the second time asked Gabriel about his trip to Venice.
“I was lured there under false pretenses,” Gabriel said. “But I’m glad I went.”
“Who did the luring?”
Gabriel told him. The smile that appeared on Shamron’s face made Gabriel wonder whether he was involved in the operation as well.
“Is she coming here?”
“We spent a single day together,” Gabriel said. “We weren’t able to make any plans.”
“I’m not sure I believe that,” Shamron said warily. “Surely you’re not contemplating a return to Venice. Have you forgotten you’ve made a commitment to take over Special Ops.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“By the way, your appointment will be made official when you return from Washington.”
“I’m counting the hours.”
Shamron looked around the apartment. “Did you confess to Chiara that you gave away all her furniture?”
“She knows I had to make some changes to accommodate my studio.”
“She’s not going to be happy,” Shamron said. “I’d give anything to see Chiara’s face when she walks in here for the first time.”
SHAMRON STAYED FOR another hour, debriefing Gabriel about the attack on the Vatican. At nine-fifteen Gabriel walked him down to the car, then stood in the street for a moment and watched the taillights disappear around the corner. He went back upstairs and put the kitchen in order, then shut out the lights and went into his bedroom. Just then the apartment block shook with the clap of a thunderous explosion. Like all Israelis, he had become adept at estimating the casualty toll of suicide bombs by counting the sirens. The more sirens, the more ambulances. The more ambulances, the more dead and wounded. He heard a single siren, then another, then a third. Not too large, he thought. He switched on the television and waited for the first bulletin, but fifteen minutes after the explosion there was still no word. In frustration he picked up the phone and dialed Shamron’s car. There was no answer.
PART TWO. Dr. Gachet’s Daughter
10.
GILAH SHAMRON’S LIFE HAD been a succession of tense vigils. She had endured the secret missions to dangerous lands, the wars and the terror, the crises and the Security Cabinet meetings that never seemed to end before midnight. She had always feared an enemy from Shamron’s past would one day rise and take his revenge. She had always known that one day Ari would force her to wait for word of whether he was going to live or die.
Gabriel found her seated calmly in a private waiting room in the intensive care unit of the Hadassah Medical Center. Shamron’s famous bomber jacket lay across her lap, and she was absently plucking at the tear in the right breast that Shamron had never seen fit to repair. Gabriel had always seen something of Golda Meir in Gilah’s sad gaze and wild gray hair. He could not look at Gilah without thinking of the day Golda pinned a medal on his chest in secret and, with tears in her eyes, thanked him for avenging the eleven Israelis murdered at Munich.
“What happened, Gabriel? How did they get to Ari in the middle of Jerusalem?”
“He’s probably been under surveillance for a very long time. When he left my apartment tonight, he told me he was going back to the Prime Minister’s Office to do a bit of work.” Gabriel sat down and took Gilah’s hand. “They hit him at a traffic signal on King George Street.”
“A suicide bomber?”
“We think there were two men. They were in a van and disguised as haredi Jews. The bomb was abnormally large.”