Daniel Silva - Prince of fire

The rear door of the Peugeot swung open, and Gabriel climbed inside. Shamron regarded him silently. He seemed to have aged noticeably during Gabriel’s absence. His next cigarette was lit by a hand that shook more than usual. As the car lurched forward, he placed a copy of Le Monde in Gabriel’s lap. Gabriel looked down and saw two pictures of himself-one in the Gare de Lyon, moments before the explosion, and the other at Mimi Ferrere’s nightclub in Cairo, seated with the three shaheeds.

“It’s all very speculative,” Shamron said, “and therefore more damaging as a result. The suggestion is that you were somehow involved in the plot to bomb the train station.”

“And what might my motivation be?”

“To discredit the Palestinians, of course. Khaled carried off quite a coup. He managed to bomb the Gare de Lyon and blame us for the deed.”

Gabriel read the first few paragraphs of the story. “He obviously has friends in high places-Egyptian and French intelligence to name two. The Mukhabarat was watching me from the moment I set foot in Cairo. They photographed me in the nightclub, and after the bombing they sent that photograph to the French DST. Khaled orchestrated the whole thing.”

“Unfortunately, there’s more to the story. David Quinnell was found murdered in his Cairo apartment yesterday morning. It’s safe to assume we’re going to be blamed for that, too.”

Gabriel handed the newspaper back to Shamron, who returned it to his briefcase. “The fallout has already begun. The foreign minister was supposed to visit Paris next week, but the invitation has been rescinded. There’s talk of a temporary break in relations and diplomatic expulsions. We’re going to have to come clean to avoid a major rupture in our relations with France and the rest of the European Community. I suppose that eventually we’ll be able to repair the damage, but only to a degree. After all, a majority of French still believe we were the ones who flew those planes into the World Trade Center. How will we ever convince them we had nothing to do with the Gare de Lyon bombing?”

“But you warned them before the bombing took place.”

“True, but the conspiratorialists will view that only as further evidence of our guilt. How did we know the bomb would explode at seven o’clock unless we were involved in the plot? We’ll have to open our books at some point, and that includes you.”

“Me?”

“The French would like to talk to you.”

“Tell them I’ll be at the Palais de Justice on Monday morning. Ask them to hold a room for me at the Crillon. I never have any luck getting a good room at the Crillon.”

Shamron laughed. “I’ll keep you away from the French, but Lev is another story.”

“Death by committee?”

Shamron nodded. “The inquiry will begin tomorrow. You’re the first witness. You should expect your testimony to take several days and that it will be extremely unpleasant.”

“I have better things to do besides sitting before Lev’s committee.”

“Such as?”

“Finding Khaled.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

Gabriel told Shamron about the girl from Sumayriyya.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Only Dina.”

“Pursue it quietly,” Shamron said, “and for God’s sake, don’t leave a trail.”

“Arafat had a hand in this. He fed us Mahmoud Arwish and then killed him to cover his tracks. And now he’ll reap the public relations rewards of our alleged involvement in the Gare de Lyon plot.”

“He already is,” Shamron said. “The world’s media are lining up outside the Mukata waiting for their turn to interview him. We’re in no position to lay a finger on him.”

“So we do nothing and hold our breath every April eighteenth while we wait for the next embassy or synagogue to explode?” Gabriel shook his head. “No, Ari, I’m going to find him.”

“Try not to think of any of that now.” Shamron gave him a paternal pat on the shoulder. “Get some rest. Go see Leah. Then spend some time with Chiara.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said, “an evening with no complications would do me good.”

Shamron took Gabriel to Mount Herzl. IT was beginning to get dark as he headed up the tree-lined walkway to the hospital’s entrance. Leah’s new doctor awaited him in the lobby. Rotund and bespectacled, he had the long beard of a rabbi and an unfailingly pleasant demeanor. He introduced himself as Mordecai Bar-Zvi, then took Gabriel by the arm and led him along a corridor of cool Jerusalem limestone. By gesture and intonation, he made it clear to Gabriel that he knew much about the patient’s rather unorthodox case history.

“I must say, it appears she came through it remarkably well.”

“Is she talking?”

“A little.”

“Does she know where she is?”

“Sometimes. I can say one thing for certain she’s very anxious to see you.” The doctor looked at Gabriel over the top of his smudged eyeglasses. “You seem surprised.”

“She went thirteen years without speaking to me.”

The doctor shrugged. “I doubt that will ever happen again.”

They came to a door. The doctor knocked once and led Gabriel inside. Leah was seated in an armchair in the window. She turned as Gabriel entered the room and smiled briefly. He kissed her cheek, then sat on the edge of the bed. She regarded him silently for a moment, then turned and looked out the window again. It was as if he were no longer there.

The doctor excused himself and closed the door as he left. Gabriel sat there with her, content to say nothing at all as the pine trees outside receded gently into the gathering darkness. He stayed for an hour, until a nurse entered the room and suggested it was time for Leah to get some sleep. When Gabriel stood, Leah’s head swiveled round.

“Where are you going?”

“They say you need to rest.”

“That’s all I ever do.”

Gabriel kissed her lips.

“One last-” She stopped herself. “You’ll come see me again tomorrow?”

“And the next day.”

She turned away and looked out the window.

There were no taxis to be had on Mount Herzl, so he boarded a bus crowded with evening commuters. The seats were all taken; he stood in the open space at the center and felt forty pairs of eyes boring into him. On the Jaffa Road he stepped off and waited in a shelter for an eastbound bus. Then he thought better of it-he had survived one ride; a second seemed an invitation to disaster-so he set off on foot through a swirling night wind. He paused for a moment at the entrance of the Makhane Yehuda Market, then headed for Narkiss Street. Chiara must have heard his footfalls on the stairwell, because she was waiting for him on the landing outside their apartment. Her beauty, after the scars of Leah, seemed even more shocking. Gabriel, when he bent to kiss her, was offered only a cheek. Her newly washed hair smelled of vanilla.

She turned and went inside. Gabriel followed after her, then stopped suddenly. The apartment had been completely redecorated: new furniture, new carpets and fixtures, a fresh coat of paint. The table had been laid and candles lit. Their diminished length suggested they’d been burning for some time. Chiara, as she passed by the table, snuffed them out.

“It’s beautiful,” Gabriel said.

“I worked hard to finish it before you arrived. I wanted it to feel like a proper home. Where have you been?” She tried, with little success, to ask the question without a confrontational tone.

“You can’t be serious, Chiara.”

“Your helicopter landed three hours ago. And I know you didn’t go to King Saul Boulevard, because Lev’s office called here looking for you.” She paused. “You went to see her, didn’t you? You went to see Leah.”