Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“I can’t tell you how much your approval means to me,” Gabriel said. “But you were about to explain how the two professional assassins you sent to St. Moritz to kill me muffed the job.”

“We felt it was important that your body be clearly recognizable. If you’d been blown to bits, your service would have been able to deny you were ever there.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

The Iranian shrugged off Gabriel’s sarcasm.

“So you killed one of Hezbollah’s top operatives in order to kill me under circumstances that were embarrassing to our service?”

Massoud nodded. “Once Hezbollah’s links to Carlo’s smuggling network had been exposed, Girard had outlived his usefulness. He was expendable.”

“So are you,” Gabriel replied. “We know a big attack is coming, and you’re going to help me stop it. Otherwise, I’m going to do to you what I did to those secret uranium-enrichment plants. I’m going to blow you to bits. And then I’m going to send you home to your masters in Tehran in a box.”

He tried to wriggle out of the noose, but then, Gabriel expected nothing less. He denied, he deferred, he deflected, and, finally, he spun several fabrications that he hoped would satisfy his small but attentive audience. With his expression, Gabriel made it plain he had seen such performances before. His demands were clear and unyielding. He wanted verifiable details of the pending attack—the time, the place, the target, the weapons, the members of the action cell. Once the attack had been interdicted, Massoud would be quietly released. But if he refused to provide the information, or if he attempted to run out the clock, Gabriel would destroy him.

“As your only friend in the world,” said Gabriel, “I would advise you to accept our generous offer. All you have to do is surrender the details of a single attack. In return, you’ll be free to maim and murder to your heart’s content.”

“Rest assured, you’ll be at the top of my list, Allon.”

“That’s why I would also advise you to accept a desk job at VEVAK headquarters in Tehran,” Gabriel countered. “Because if you ever set foot outside Iran again, my friends and I are going to hunt you down and kill you.”

“How can I be sure you won’t kill me in any case?”

“Because we’re not like you, Massoud. When we enter into an agreement, we mean it. Besides,” Gabriel added, “killing hostages in cold blood has never been our style.”

Massoud’s gaze traveled over the photographs of his handiwork before settling once again on Gabriel.

“I have no idea what day it is.”

“It’s Friday,” answered Gabriel.

Massoud’s expression darkened. “What time on Friday?”

“That depends.”

“Central European.”

Gabriel woke his BlackBerry and looked at the screen. “Two-twelve a.m.”

“Good,” Massoud said. “That means there’s still a bit of time.”

“When is the attack?”

“Tonight, shortly after sundown.”

“The Sabbath?”

Massoud nodded.

“What’s the target?”

“A city you know well, Allon. In fact,” the Iranian said, smiling, “we chose it in your honor.”

THERE WAS A SIX-THIRTY A.M. flight from Copenhagen that arrived in Vienna midmorning. After entering Austria on an American passport that he had conveniently forgotten to return to Adrian Carter, Gabriel went to an airport café and read the morning papers for an hour until he spotted Mikhail, Oded, Yaakov, and Eli Lavon crossing the arrivals hall. He followed them outside and watched as they climbed into four separate taxis. Then he walked over to a black sedan with Vienna registration and ducked into the back. Seated on the opposite side was Ari Shamron. He had shed the tailored worsted-and-silk clothing of Herr Heller and was once again dressed in khaki, oxford cloth, and leather. He tossed his cigarette out the window as the car lurched forward.

“You look as though you haven’t slept in a week.”

“I haven’t.”

“Just a few more hours, my son. Then it will all be over.”

The car turned onto the A4 Ost Autobahn and headed toward central Vienna. The weather was miserable, windblown rain mixed with ice pellets and snow.

“How much have we told the Austrians?” asked Gabriel.

“Uzi woke Jonas Kessler, the chief of the Austrian security service, early this morning and told him that his country was to be the target of a terrorist attack it had done nothing to provoke.”

“How did Kessler take it?”

“After delivering the obligatory lecture about how Israel is making the world less safe by its actions, he demanded to know the origin of the intelligence. As you might expect, Uzi was rather vague in his response, which didn’t sit well with Kessler.”

“Does he know the time frame?”

“He knows we’re talking about hours rather than days, but Uzi insisted on telling him the rest in person. Actually,” Shamron added, “we thought it might be a good idea if you handled the briefing.”

“Me?”

Shamron nodded. “Some of our fickle allies here in Europe are under the impression that we feed them information about potential plots simply to bolster our own standing. But if the warning comes from you, it would send a clear message that we’re serious. Deadly serious.”

“Because they know I wouldn’t set foot here unless lives were at stake?”

“Exactly.”

“And when they ask about the source of the intelligence?”

“You say that a little bird told you. And then you move on.”

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “If Massoud is telling us the truth,” he said finally, “the situation is probably beyond the capabilities of the Austrians. This needs to be handled properly, Ari. Otherwise, people will die. Lots of people.”

“Then perhaps we can come to an equitable solution.”

“How equitable?”

“We’ll save the lives, and they’ll take the credit.”

Gabriel smiled. Then he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

As usual, there was an inter-service spat over the venue. Uzi Navot wanted to hold the conference in a secure room at the Israeli Embassy, but Jonas Kessler chose an imposing government building in Vienna’s elegant Innere Stadt, just around the corner from the State Opera House. A temporary sign in the lobby declared the premises were to be used that day for a conference having something to do with sustainable agriculture, but at the entrance to the main salon was a plastic bin where arriving guests were instructed to deposit their mobile phones and other electronic devices. The chamber itself was a Hapsburg monstrosity hung with gold curtains and crystal chandeliers that floated overhead like candlelit clouds. As Gabriel and Shamron entered, Navot was hovering over a buffet table piled high with Viennese cakes and cream-filled tarts. Kessler, an angular figure with dark hair combed close to the scalp, stood on the opposite end of the room, surrounded by a protective cordon of aides. He was staring at his watch, as if wondering whether he could wrap things up in time for his midday workout.

At Kessler’s suggestion, they took their assigned seats at a formal rectangular table that looked more suited to Cold War summitry than a gathering of spies. Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot sat on one side, the Austrians on the other. Most were from the counterterrorism division of the security service, but there were also several senior officers from the Bundespolizei, Austria’s national police force. Kessler didn’t bother with introductions. Nor were there any issues regarding language; Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot all spoke fluent German. In fact, Navot’s had the faint trace of a Viennese accent. His ancestors had lived in Vienna when the Germans annexed Austria in 1938. Those who managed to escape were first robbed of everything—everything but their Viennese accents.