Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“Healthy Germans,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Just what the world needs.”

“I thought you’d forgiven them.”

“I have,” Shamron said, “but I’m afraid I’ll never forget. I also wish their government would consider putting some distance between itself and the Islamic Republic of Iran. But I learned long ago not to pray for impossible things.”

Shamron fell silent as the waitress, a beautiful girl with milk-white skin, delivered their coffee. When she was gone, he looked around the busy street and treated himself to a smile.

“What’s so funny?” asked Gabriel.

“When you came out of that Saudi prison, you told me you would never do another job for the Office. And now you’re about to carry out one of our most daring operations ever, all because some girl took a nasty fall in St. Peter’s Basilica.”

“She had a name,” Gabriel replied. “And she didn’t fall. She was pushed by Carlo Marchese.”

“We’ll deal with Carlo when we’re finished with Massoud.”

“I assume you’ve reviewed the plan?”

“Thoroughly. And my instincts tell me you have no more than thirty seconds to get Massoud into the first car.”

“We’ve rehearsed it at twenty. But in my experience, things always go faster when they’re live.”

“Especially when you’re involved,” Shamron quipped. “But tonight you’ll only be a spectator.”

“A very nervous spectator.”

“You should be. If this goes wrong, it will be a diplomatic disaster, not to mention a major propaganda victory for the Iranians. The world doesn’t seem to notice or care that they target our people whenever it suits them. But if we respond in kind, we’re branded as rogue gunslingers.”

“There are worse things they could call us.”

“Like what?”

“Weak,” replied Gabriel.

Shamron nodded in agreement and stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “Getting Massoud out of his car and into yours is going to be the easiest part of this operation. Convincing him to talk is going to be another thing altogether.”

“I’m sure you have a suggestion. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Shamron acknowledged the remark with a nod of his head. “Massoud isn’t the sort of man who scares easily. The only way you’ll succeed is to present him with a fate worse than death. And then you have to throw him a lifeline and hope that he grasps it.”

“And if he does?”

“The temptation will be to get every drop of information you can. But in my humble opinion, that would be a mistake. Besides,” he added, “there isn’t time for that. Get the intelligence you need to stop this attack. And then . . .”

Shamron’s voice trailed off. Gabriel finished the thought for him.

“Let him go.”

Frowning, Shamron nodded slowly. “We are not our enemies. And that means we do not kill men who carry diplomatic passports, even if they have the blood of our children on their hands.”

“And even if we know he will kill again in the future?”

“You have no choice but to make a deal with the devil. Massoud has to believe you won’t betray him. And I’m afraid trust like that can’t be earned using blindfolds and balaclavas. You’ll have to show him that famous face of yours and look him directly in the eye.” Shamron paused, then added, “Unless you would like someone else to take your seat at the interrogation table.”

“Who?”

Shamron said nothing.

“You?”

“I’m the most logical choice. If Massoud looks across the table and sees you, he’ll have good reason to fear he might not survive the ordeal. But if he sees me instead . . .”

“He’ll feel warm all over?”

“He’ll know he’s dealing with the very top levels of the Israeli government,” Shamron answered. “And it just might make him more willing to talk.”

“I appreciate the spirit of the offer, Abba.”

“But you have no intention of accepting it.” Shamron paused, then asked, “You realize that he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to kill you.”

“He’ll have to get in line.”

“You could always move back to Israel.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“It’s not in my nature.”

“What would I do for a living?”

“You could help me write my book.”

“We’d kill each other.”

Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette, signaling the time had come to leave. “It’s rather appropriate, don’t you think?”

“What’s that?”

“That your last operation should take place here in the city of spies.”

“It’s a city of the dead,” Gabriel said. “And I want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

“Take Massoud as a souvenir. And whatever you do, don’t get caught.”

“Shamron’s Eleventh Commandment.”

“Amen.”

They parted beneath the Brandenburg Gate. Shamron headed to his room at the Hotel Adlon; Gabriel, to the footpaths of the Tiergarten. He remained there until he was certain he was not being followed, then returned to the safe house in Wannsee. Entering, he found the members of his team going through a final checklist. At dusk, they began slipping out at careful intervals, and by six o’clock they were all at their final holding points. Gabriel scoured the rooms of the old house, searching for any trace of their presence. Afterward, he sat alone in the darkness, a notebook computer open on his lap. On the screen was a high-resolution shot of the Iranian Embassy, courtesy of a miniature camera concealed in a car parked legally across the street. At twelve minutes past eight o’clock, the embassy’s security gate slid slowly open, and a black Mercedes sedan nosed into view. It turned left and passed within a few inches of the camera—so close, in fact, that Gabriel felt as though he could reach out and pluck the single passenger from the backseat. Instead, he lifted a radio to his lips and informed his team the devil was heading their way.

THE TAQIYYA BEGAN TWO MINUTES LATER, at 8:14 p.m. local time, when the Berlin police received a call concerning a suspicious package found inside the Europa Center, the indoor shopping mall and office complex located next to the remnants of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. The package was actually a battered canvas rucksack of the sort often carried by goths, skinheads, anarchists, radical environmentalists, and other assorted troublemakers. It had been placed at the foot of a bench a few feet from the center’s famous water clock, a popular gathering spot, especially for young children. Later, witnesses would describe the person who left it behind as a Muslim woman in her early thirties. They were correct about her age, but not her ethnicity. They were to be forgiven for the mistake, for she had been wearing a hijab at the time.

The caller who reported the suspicious rucksack described the contents as looking like an explosive device, and the first uniformed police officers to arrive concurred. They immediately ordered an evacuation of the area around the water clock, followed soon after by the entire mall and all the surrounding buildings. By 8:25, several thousand people were streaming into the streets, and police units were converging on the scene from every quarter of Berlin.

Even within the serene and stately confines of the Hotel Adlon, it was clear Berlin was in the grips of a citywide emergency. In the famed lobby bar and lounge, where senior Nazi henchmen had once held court, nervous guests sought explanations from management, and a few stepped outside onto the sidewalk to watch the police cruisers roaring down the Unter den Linden. One guest, however, appeared oblivious to all the excitement. A well-dressed gentleman of advanced years, he calmly signed for a whisky he had scarcely touched and rode an elevator to his suite on the hotel’s uppermost floor. There he stood in the window, watching the light show as if it all had been arranged for his private amusement. After a moment, he pulled a mobile phone from the breast pocket of his suit and auto-dialed a number that had been preloaded for him by a child who understood such things. He heard a series of clicks and tones. Then a male voice greeted him with little more than a grunt.