Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

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The Fallen Angel: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Gabriel Allon — art restorer, spy, and assassin — returns in a spellbinding new thriller from the #1
bestselling master of intrigue and suspense
When last we encountered Gabriel Allon in
, he was pitted in a blood-soaked duel with a deadly network of jihadist terrorists. Now, exposed and war-weary, he has returned to his beloved Rome to restore a Caravaggio masterpiece for the Vatican.
But while working early one morning in the conservation laboratory, Gabriel is summoned to Saint Peter's Basilica by his friend and occasional ally Monsignor Luigi Donati, the all-powerful private secretary to his Holiness Pope Paul VII. The body of a beautiful woman lies smashed and broken beneath Michelangelo's magnificent dome. The Vatican police rule the death a suicidal fall, though Gabriel, with his restorer's eye and flawless memory, suspects otherwise. So, it seems, does the monsignor. Concerned about a potential scandal, Donati fears a public inquiry will inflict more wounds on an already-damaged Church; he calls upon Gabriel to use his matchless talents and experience to quietly pursue the truth — with one important caveat.
"Rule number one at the Vatican," Donati said. "Don't ask too many questions." Gabriel soon discovers that the dead woman had uncovered a dangerous secret - a secret that threatens powers beyond the Vatican. To solve the mystery, Gabriel joins forces with a master art thief to penetrate a criminal smuggling network that is looting timeless treasures of antiquity and selling them to the highest bidder. But there is more to this network than just greed. An old enemy is plotting revenge, an unthinkable act of sabotage that will plunge the world into a conflict of apocalyptic proportions. Once again Gabriel must return to the ranks of his old intelligence service — and place himself, and those he holds dear, on the razor's edge of danger.
An intoxicating blend of art and intrigue,
moves swiftly from the private chambers of the Vatican, to a glamorous art gallery in St Moritz, to the hidden alleyways of Istanbul — and finally, to a pulse-pounding climax in the ancient city of Jerusalem, the world's most sacred and contested parcel of land. Each setting is rendered with the care of an Old Master, as are the spies, lovers, priests, and thieves who inhabit its pages. It is a story of faith and of the destructive power of secrets. And it is an all-too-timely reminder that those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it.

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“Looks like they gave you a good going-over.”

“It was worth it.”

“What did you get?”

“A suitcase full of help from my new best friends in the DAP.”

“Good,” Navot said. “Because at this moment, we need all the help we can get.”

26

BERN, SWITZERLAND

GABRIEL AND NAVOT ASSUMED the Swiss had planted transmitters in both attaché cases, so they said nothing more until they were safely inside the Israeli Embassy. It was located in a brooding old house in the diplomatic quarter, on a narrow street that was closed to normal civilian traffic. In anticipation of their arrival, the staff had filled the secure communications room with finger sandwiches and Swiss chocolates. Navot swore softly to himself as he lowered his thick frame into a chair.

“When Shamron was running the Office, the local station chiefs always made certain to have a few packs of his Turkish cigarettes on hand. But whenever I arrive, they put out a platter of food. Sometimes I get the distinct impression I’m being fattened up for slaughter.”

“You’re the most popular chief since Shamron, Uzi. The troops adore you. More important, they respect you. And so does the prime minister.”

“But all that could change in the blink of an eye if I don’t get Iran right,” Navot said. “Thanks to you, we were able to slow them down for a while, but sabotage and assassinations won’t work forever. At some point in the near future, the Iranians will cross a red line, beyond which it will be impossible to stop them from becoming a nuclear power. I’m supposed to tell the prime minister when that’s about to happen. And if I’m wrong by so much as a few days, we’ll have no choice but to live under the threat of an Iranian bomb.” Navot looked at Gabriel seriously. “How would you like to have that hanging over your head?”

“I wouldn’t. That’s why I told Shamron to make you the chief instead of me.”

“Any chance you might reconsider?”

“I’m afraid I’d be a letdown after you, Uzi.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Navot pushed the tray of food toward Gabriel. “Eat something. You must be starving after everything you went through.”

“Actually, they took good care of me.”

“What did they feed you?”

Gabriel told him.

“Was it any good?”

“The raclette was delicious.”

“I’ve always loved raclette.”

“It’s potatoes smothered in cheese. What’s not to love?”

Navot plucked an egg and watercress sandwich from the tray and popped it into his mouth. “I’m sorry about having to leave you behind in St. Moritz, but I figured it would be easier to get one agent out of Swiss custody than nine. Thankfully, we had some help.”

“Who?”

“Your friends at the Vatican.”

“Donati?”

“Higher up.”

“Please don’t tell me you got His Holiness involved in this.”

“I’m afraid he involved himself,” Navot said.

“How?”

“He had Alois Metzler of the Swiss Guard place a few discreet calls to Bern. Once Metzler got involved, it was only a matter of time before they let you out. The Office was able to stay entirely on the sidelines.”

“I had to pay a toll to get out.”

“How heavy?”

Gabriel told him about the debriefing.

“Was any of what you said actually true?”

“A little.”

“Good boy.” Another sandwich disappeared into Navot’s mouth.

“I don’t suppose you’ve managed to identify the two people who arrived at the gallery before me.”

“Of course we have,” Navot said, brushing the crumbs from his fingertips. “The girl is a fresh-faced newcomer, but her boyfriend is well known to us. His name is Ali Montazeri.”

“Iranian?”

Navot nodded. “Ali is a proud alumnus of the Qods Force. He’s now employed by VEVAK as a hired gun and assassin. He’s responsible for the murder of dozens of Iranian dissidents in Europe and the Middle East. In fact, he actually tried to kill me once when I was working out of Paris.”

“Why would the Iranians send one of their best assassins to Switzerland to kill a Hezbollah operative?”

“Good question.” Navot was silent for a moment. “While you were eating veal and raclette in your Swiss jail cell, the Office was overwhelmed with a new wave of intelligence suggesting Hezbollah is about to hit us. We’re talking about something big, Gabriel.”

“How big?”

“Nine-eleven big,” said Navot. “Big enough to start a war. And based on what we’re seeing in southern Lebanon, it looks like Hezbollah is preparing for one. They’re deploying their battle-hardened fighters close to our border. Their missiles are on the move, too.”

“Do we know anything more about potential targets?”

“All the chatter still points to Europe, which is why the timing of David Girard’s death is so interesting. Dina has a funny feeling there might be a connection.”

“I get nervous when Dina has a funny feeling.”

“So do I.”

“How certain are you that the man who planted that bomb was Ali Montazeri?”

“One hundred percent.”

“I suppose we should probably tell our new friends the Swiss about this.”

“It would be the honorable thing to do,” Navot said. “But for the moment, I’d rather borrow a page from the Iranian playbook.”

“Which one?”

“Khod’eh .

“Tricking one’s enemies into a misjudgment of one’s true position?”

“Correct.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“First we deceive the Iranians into thinking they got away with one in St. Moritz. Then we take that load of material the Swiss gave us back to King Saul Boulevard and put it in Dina’s hands.”

“There’s something else we should do,” said Gabriel.

“What’s that?”

“Find someone to put that Greek vase back together.”

“Can’t you do it?”

“Apples and oranges.”

Navot looked down at the plate of sandwiches. “You sure you’re not hungry? They’re really quite good.”

“You go ahead, Uzi.”

“Maybe we should wrap them up for the ride home. The food on El Al isn’t what it used to be.”

They made the 12:45 flight out of Zurich’s Kloten Airport, and by half past five they were touching down at Ben Gurion. Navot’s armored Peugeot limousine was waiting on the tarmac, surrounded by twice the usual number of bodyguards. Leaning against the hood, her blue-jeaned legs crossed at the ankles, her arms folded beneath her breasts, was Chiara. She held Gabriel silently for a long time, her tearstained face buried against the side of his neck. Then she kissed his lips and gently touched the bandages on his cheeks.

“You look terrible.”

“Actually, I feel much worse.”

“I’d tell you to go home and get a few hours of sleep, but I’m afraid there isn’t time for that.”

“What’s wrong?”

She handed a slip of paper to Navot. He read it by the glow of the limousine’s headlamps.

“Hezbollah’s military commander is telling his forces to prepare for a massive Israeli retaliation within the next two weeks.” Navot squeezed the message into a ball. “That means it’s for real. They’re going to hit us, Gabriel. Very hard. And very soon.”

As it happened, Gabriel’s interrogator from the Swiss security service was true to his word, and then some. Eli Lavon likened the treasure trove of intelligence to the discovery of a hill town from a previously unknown civilization. What made it all the more remarkable, he said, was that it had been supplied by a service that had always been profoundly hostile to Israel’s interests, even its very existence. “Perhaps we’re not alone after all,” he told the team over dinner that night. “If the Swiss can open their doors to us in our hour of need, anything is possible.”

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