“You’re sure, Sarah?”
“Positive. He called himself Ben.”
“It’s not his real name, Sarah. His name is Gabriel Allon. And he is a murderer of Palestinians. Now please tell me what happened after he arrived at the house in Georgetown.”
THERE WAS a sign at the entrance of the track leading to the chalet. It read PRIVATE. The security gate was three hundred yards into the trees. Gabriel and Navot moved on one side of the track, Mikhail and Yaakov on the other. The snow had been deep along the edge of road coming up the gorge, but in the trees there was much less. Seen through the night-vision goggles, it glowed ghostly luminous green while the trunks of the pine and fir were dark and distinct. Gabriel crept forward, careful to avoid fallen limbs that might have cracked beneath the weight of his step. It was deathly silent in the forest. He was aware of his own heart banging against his rib cage and the sound of Navot’s footfalls behind him. He held his Beretta in both hands. He wore no gloves.
Fifteen minutes after entering the trees, he glimpsed the house for the first time. There were lights burning in the ground-floor windows, and a single window was illuminated on the second story. The guards were sheltering in the warmth of one of the jeeps. The engine was running and the headlights were doused. The gate was open.
“Do you have a clean shot, Mikhail?”
“Yes.”
“Which one is best from your angle?”
“The driver.”
“It’s nearly fifty yards, Mikhail. Can you get him cleanly?”
“I can get him.”
“A head shot, Mikhail. We need to do it quietly.”
“I have the shot.”
“Line it up and wait for my signal. We shoot together. And God help us if we miss.”
“SO ALLON asked you to help him?”
“Yes.”
“And you agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Instantly?”
“Yes.”
“No hesitation.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re evil. And I hate you.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“You wanted the truth.”
“What happened next?”
“I quit my job at the Phillips Collection and moved to London.”
GABRIEL TOOK careful aim at the man in the passenger seat.
“Are you ready, Mikhail?”
“Ready.”
“Two shots, on my mark, in five, four, three, two…”
Gabriel squeezed the trigger twice. Four holes appeared almost simultaneously in the windshield of the jeep. He sprinted up the track through the knee-deep snow, Navot at his heels, and approached the jeep cautiously with the Beretta in his outstretched hands. Mikhail had managed two fatal head shots on the driver, but Gabriel’s man had been hit in the cheek and upper chest and was still semiconscious.
Gabriel shot him twice through the passenger-side window, then stood motionless for an instant, scanning the terrain for any sign their presence had been detected. It was Navot who noticed the guard coming out of the trees at the left side of the house and Mikhail who dropped him with a single head shot that sprayed blood and brain tissue across the virgin snow. Gabriel turned and headed across the clearing toward the chalet, with the other three men at his back.
“TELL ME ABOUT this man Julian Isherwood.”
“Julian is a dear sweet man.”
“He is a Jew?”
“Never came up.”
“Julian Isherwood is a longtime agent of Israeli intelligence?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“So after leaving the Phillips Collection you went immediately to work as Julian Isherwood’s assistant director?”
“That’s correct.”
“But you were a complete amateur. When were you trained?”
“At night.”
“Where?”
“At a country house south of London.”
“Where was this country house?”
“ Surrey, I think. I never caught the name of the village.”
“It was a permanent Israeli safe house?”
“A rental. Very temporary.”
“There were other people there besides Allon?”
“Yes.”
“They used other people to help train you?”
“Yes.”
“Give me some of their names.”
“The people who came from Tel Aviv never gave me their names.”
“And what about the other members of Allon’s London team?”
“What about them?”
“Give me their names.”
“Please don’t make me do this.”
“Give me their names, Sarah.”
“Please, don’t.”
He hit her hard enough to knock her from her chair. She hung there a moment, the handcuffs carving into her wrists, while he screamed at her for names.
“Tell me their names, Sarah. All of them.”
“There was a man named Yaakov.”
“Who else?”
“Yossi.”
“Give me another name, Sarah.”
“Eli.”
“Another.”
“Dina.”
“Another.”
“Rimona.”
“And these were the same people who followed you in Saint Bart’s?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the man who first approached you on the beach at Saline?”
“Yaakov.”
“Who was the woman who left the message in the bathroom for you at the restaurant in Saline?”
“Rimona.”
“Who was girl with the limp who came to Le Tetou restaurant right before you went to the restroom?”
“Dina.”
“They’re all Jews, these people.”
“Would that come as a surprise to you?”
“And what about you, Sarah? Are you a Jew?”
“No, I’m not a Jew.”
“Then why did you help them?”
“Because I hate you.”
“Yes, and look what it’s gotten you.”
THEY ENCOUNTERED one more guard before reaching the chalet. He came from their right, around the corner of the house, and foolishly stepped into the open with his weapon still at his side. Gabriel and Mikhail fired together. The shots were muffled by the silencers, but the guard emitted a single piercing scream as the volley of rounds tore into his chest. Two faces, like figures in a shooting gallery, appeared suddenly in the illuminated windows of the house-one in a ground-floor window directly in front of Gabriel, a second on the upper floor at the peak of the roof. Gabriel took out the man in the first-floor window while Mikhail saw to the one on the second.
They had now lost any remaining element of surprise. Gabriel and Mikhail both reloaded as they sprinted the final thirty yards toward the front door. Yaakov had much experience entering terrorist hideouts in the West Bank and Gaza and led the way. He didn’t bother trying the latch. Instead he sprayed a volley of rounds through the center of the door to take out anyone standing on the other side, then shot away the lock and the surrounding wood of the doorjamb. Navot, the largest of the four men, hurled his thick body against the door, and it collapsed inward like a falling domino.
The other three stepped quickly into the small entrance hall. Gabriel covered the space to the left, Yaakov the center, and Mikhail the right. Gabriel, still wearing the night-vision goggles, saw the man he shot though the window lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Yaakov and Mikhail each fired immediately, and Gabriel heard the screams of two more dying men. They moved forward into the chalet, found the steps to the cellar, and headed down. We’ll start there, Gabriel had said. Torturers always like to do their work belowground.
SHE WAS DESCRIBING for him the day of the sale, when there came from the floor above the sound of a disturbance. He silenced her with a brutal slap across her face, then stood up and, with the gun in his hand, moved quickly to the door. A few seconds later she heard shouts and screams and heavy footfalls on the steps. Muhammad turned and leveled the gun at her face. Sarah, still handcuffed to the table, reflexively lowered her head between her arms as he squeezed the trigger twice. In the tiny chamber the gun sounded like artillery. The rounds scorched the air above her head and embedded themselves in the wall at her back.