Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

CITY OF GOD

IN THE ARRIVALS HALL OF Israel’s Ben Gurion Airport is a special reception room reserved for Office personnel. As Gabriel and Chiara entered late the following afternoon, they were surprised to find it occupied by a single man. He was seated in one of the faux-leather lounge chairs with his thick legs crossed, reading the contents of a manila file folder by the glow of a halogen lamp. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, an open-neck dress shirt, and a pair of stylish silver eyeglasses that were far too small for his face. The overall impression was of a busy executive catching up on a bit of paperwork between flights, which was not far from the truth. Since taking control of the Office, Uzi Navot had spent a great deal of time on airplanes.

“To what do we owe the honor?” asked Gabriel.

Navot looked up from the file as if surprised by the interruption. “It’s not every day someone tries to kill a pair of Office agents in the middle of Rome,” he said. “In fact, it only seems to happen whenever you’re in town.”

Navot placed the file in his secure briefcase and rose slowly to his feet. He was several pounds heavier than the last time Gabriel had seen him, evidence he was not adhering to the strict diet and exercise regime imposed by his demanding wife, Bella. Or perhaps, thought Gabriel, looking at the additional gray in Navot’s cropped hair, he was merely feeling the stress of his enormous job. He had a right to. The State of Israel was confronted by an Arab world in turmoil and faced threats too numerous to count. Topping the list was the prospect that Iran’s nuclear program was about to bear fruit despite the secret war of sabotage and assassination waged by the Office and its allies.

“Actually,” Navot said, raising one eyebrow, “you don’t look half bad for someone who narrowly survived an assassination attempt.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you could see the bruises on my shoulder.”

“That’s what you get for walking into the home of a man like Carlo Marchese without a gun in your pocket.” Navot pulled a disapproving frown. “You should have had a word with Shimon Pazner before accepting that invitation. He could have told you a few things about Carlo that even your friend Monsignor Donati doesn’t know.”

“Such as?”

“Let’s just say the Office has had its eye on Carlo for some time.”

“Why?”

“Because Carlo’s never been terribly discerning about the company he keeps. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Navot added. “The Old Man wants to tell you the rest. He’s been counting the minutes until your arrival.”

“Is there any chance you would let us get on the next plane out of the country?”

Navot placed his heavy hand on Gabriel’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere,” he said. “At least, not yet.”

In the heart of Jerusalem, not far from the Old City, was a quiet, leafy lane known as Narkiss Street. The apartment house at Number 16 was small, just three stories in height, and partially concealed behind a sturdy limestone wall. An overgrown eucalyptus tree shaded the tiny balconies; the garden gate screeched when opened. In the foyer was an intercom panel with three buttons and three corresponding nameplates. Few people ever called upon the occupants of the unit on the top floor, for they were rarely there. The neighbors had been told that the husband, a taciturn man with ash-colored temples and vivid green eyes, was an artist who traveled often and jealously guarded his privacy. They no longer believed that to be true.

The sitting room of the apartment was hung with paintings. There were three canvases by Gabriel’s grandfather, the renowned German Expressionist Viktor Frankel, and several more works by his mother. There was also a three-quarter-length portrait, unsigned, of a gaunt young man who appeared haunted by the shadow of death. Gazing up at it, as though lost in memories, was Ari Shamron. He was dressed, as usual, in pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a leather jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. As Gabriel, Chiara, and Navot entered, he hastily crushed out his filterless Turkish cigarette and placed the butt in the decorative dish he was using as an ashtray.

“How did you get in here?” asked Gabriel.

Shamron held up a key.

“I thought I took that away from you.”

“You did,” answered Shamron with a shrug. “Housekeeping was good enough to give me another copy.”

Housekeeping was the Office division that managed safe houses and other secure properties. The apartment on Narkiss Street had once fallen into that category, but Shamron had bequeathed it to Gabriel as payment for services rendered—an act of generosity that, in Shamron’s opinion, entitled him to enter the apartment whenever he pleased. He slipped the key into his pocket and scrutinized Gabriel with his rheumy blue eyes. His liver-spotted hands were bunched atop the crook of his olive wood cane. They looked as though they had been borrowed from a man twice his size.

“I was beginning to think we would never see each other again,” he said after a moment. “Now it seems Carlo has reunited us.”

“I didn’t realize you two were on a first-name basis.”

“Carlo?” Shamron squeezed his deeply lined face into an expression of profound disdain. “Carlo Marchese has occupied a special place in our hearts for some time. He’s the transnational threat of tomorrow, a criminal without borders, creed, or conscience who’s willing to do business with anyone as long as the money keeps rolling in.”

“Who are his partners?”

“As you might expect, Carlo prefers his crime organized. He’s also something of a globalist, which I admire. He does business with the Russian mafiya , the Japanese yakuza , and the Chinese gangs that control Hong Kong and Taiwan. But what concerns us most are his ties to numerous criminal gangs from southern Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley. Their members come almost entirely from the Shiite branch of Islam. They also happen to be affiliated with the world’s most dangerous terrorist group.”

“Hezbollah?”

Shamron nodded slowly. “Now that I have your attention, I’m wondering whether you will indulge me by listening to the rest of the story.”

“I suppose that depends on the ending.”

“It ends the way it always ends.”

Shamron gave a seductive smile, the one he reserved for recruitments, and ignited another cigarette.

Housekeeping had taken the liberty of provisioning the depleted pantry with all the supplies required for a war party. Chiara saw to the coffee while Gabriel prepared a tray of cookies and other assorted sweets. He placed it directly in front of Navot and then pushed open the French doors leading to the terrace. The chill afternoon air smelled of eucalyptus and pine and faintly of jasmine. He stood there for a moment, watching the shadows lengthening in the quiet street, as Shamron described the origins of the unholy alliance between Carlo Marchese and the Shiite fanatics of Hezbollah.

It began, he said, shortly after the brief but destructive war between Israel and Hezbollah in 2006. The conflict left Hezbollah’s military forces in ruins. It also destroyed much of the extensive social infrastructure—the schools, hospitals, and housing—that Hezbollah used to purchase the support of Lebanon’s traditionally impoverished Shiites. Hezbollah’s leadership needed a large infusion of money to quickly rebuild and rearm. Not surprisingly, they turned to their two most reliable patrons, Syria and Iran.

“The money poured in for a while,” Shamron continued, “but then the ground shifted suddenly under Hezbollah’s feet. The so-called Arab Spring came to Syria with a vengeance. And the international community finally decided it was time to impose real sanctions on Iran over its nuclear program. The mullahs were forced to pinch their pennies. Once they had funded Hezbollah to the tune of two hundred million dollars a year. Now it’s a fraction of that.”