Daniel Silva - The defector

“Graham will survive. He always does.”

“At what cost?” Shamron asked of no one but himself. “Downing Street and the top ranks of MI5 and MI6 are in an uproar over your actions. They’re making unpleasant noises about suspending cooperation with us on a broad range of sensitive issues. We need them right now, Gabriel. And so do you.”

“Why me?”

“Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, but the mullahs in Tehran are about to complete their nuclear weapon. Our new prime minister and I share a similar philosophy. We don’t believe in sitting around while others plot our destruction. And when people talk about wiping us off the face of the earth, we choose to take them at their word. We both lost our families in the first Holocaust, and we’re not going to lose our country to a second-at least, not without a fight.”

Shamron removed his eyeglasses and inspected the lenses for impurity. “If we are forced to attack Iran, we can expect a ferocious response from their proxy army in Lebanon: Hezbollah. You should know that a delegation from Hezbollah made a secret trip to Moscow recently to do a bit of shopping. And they weren’t looking for nesting dolls and fur hats. They went to see your old friend Ivan Kharkov. Word is, Ivan sold them three thousand Kor net vehicle-mounted antitank weapons, along with several thousand RPG 32s. Apparently, he also gave them a nice discount since he knew they’d be using the weapons against us.”

“We’re sure it was Ivan?”

“We heard his name mentioned in several intercepts.” Shamron put on his eyeglasses again and scrutinized Gabriel for a moment. “With adversaries like Iran, Hezbollah, and Ivan Kharkov, we need friends wherever we can find them, Gabriel. That’s why we need good relations with the British.” Shamron paused. “And it’s why I need you to end your honeymoon without end and come home.”

Gabriel could see where this was headed. He decided not to make Shamron’s task any easier by posing a leading question. Shamron, visibly annoyed by the calculated silence, stabbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table.

“Our new prime minister has been an admirer of yours for many years. The same cannot be said of his feelings toward the current director of the Office. He and Amos served briefly together in AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence service. Their hatred was mutual and persists to this day. Amos will not survive long. Last week, over a private dinner, the prime minister asked me who I wanted to be the next chief of the Office. I gave him your name, of course.”

“I’ve made it abundantly clear I’m not interested in the job.”

“I’ve heard this speech before. It’s tiresome. More to the point, it does not reflect current realities. The State of Israel is facing a threat unlike any in its history. If you haven’t noticed, we’re not very popular right now. And the Iranian threat means even greater instability and potential violence across the region. What do you intend to do, Gabriel? Sit on your farm in Italy and restore paintings for the pope?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not realistic.”

“Perhaps not to you, Ari, but it’s what I intend to do. I’ve given my life to the Office. I’ve lost my son. I’ve lost one wife. I’ve shed the blood of other men and my own blood. I’m finished. Tell the prime minister to choose someone else.”

“He needs you. The country needs you.”

“You’re being a bit hyperbolic, don’t you think?”

“No, just honest. The country has lost faith in its political leaders. Our society is beginning to fray. The people need someone they can believe in. Someone they can trust. Someone beyond reproach.”

“I was an assassin. I’m hardly beyond reproach.”

“You were a soldier on the secret battlefield. You gave justice to those who could not seek it themselves.”

“And I lost everything in the process. I almost lost myself.”

“But your life has been restored, just like one of your paintings. You have Chiara. Who knows? Perhaps soon you’ll have another child.”

“Is there something I should know, Ari?”

Shamron’s lighter flared again. His next words were spoken not to Gabriel but the floodlit dome of Sacré-Coeur. “Come home, Gabriel. Take control of the Office. It is what you were born to do. Your future was determined when your mother named you Gabriel.”

“That was the same thing you said when you recruited me for Operation Wrath of God.”

“Was it?” Shamron gave a faint smile of remembrance. “No wonder you said yes to me then.”

Shamron had been hinting at a scenario like this for years, but never before had he stated it so unequivocally. Gabriel, were he foolish enough to accept the offer, knew only too well how he would spend the rest of his life. Indeed, he had to look no further than the man standing before him. Running the Office had ruined Shamron’s health and wreaked havoc with his family. The country regarded him as a national treasure, but as far as his children were concerned, Shamron was the father who had never been there. The father who had missed birthdays and anniversaries. The father who traveled in armored cars, surrounded by men with guns. It was not the life Gabriel wanted, nor did he intend to inflict it on his loved ones. To say those words to Shamron now was not an option. Better to hold out a glimmer of hope and use the situation to his advantage. Shamron would understand that. It was exactly the way he would have played it if the roles were reversed.

“How long before I would have to take control?”

“Does that mean you’ll take the job?”

“No, it means I’ll consider the offer-on two conditions.”

“I don’t like ultimatums. The PLO learned that lesson the hard way.”

“Do you want to hear my terms?”

“If you insist.”

“Number one, I get to finish my painting.”

Shamron closed his eyes and nodded. “And the second?”

“I’m going to get Grigori Bulganov out of Russia before Ivan kills him.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” Shamron took a final pull at his cigarette and ground it out slowly in the ashtray. “See if there’s some coffee in this place. You know I’m incapable of discussing an operation without coffee.”

GABRIEL SPOONED coffee into the French press and briefed Shamron while waiting for the water to boil. Shamron sat motionless at the small table in his shirtsleeves, his liver-spotted hands bunched thoughtfully beneath his chin. He moved for the first time to read the letter Grigori had left with Olga Sukhova in Oxford, then a moment later to accept his first cup of coffee. He was pouring sugar into it when he announced his verdict.

“It’s clear Ivan is planning to hunt down and kill everyone who was involved in the operation against him. First he went after Grigori. Then Olga. But the person he really wants is you.”

“So what do you want me to do? Spend the rest of my life hiding?” Gabriel shook his head. “To quote the great Ari Shamron, I don’t believe in sitting around while others plot my destruction. It seems to me we have a choice. We can live in fear. Or we can fight back.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“By treating Ivan and his operators as though they are terrorists. By putting them out of business before they can go after anyone else. And if we’re lucky, we might be able to get Grigori back.”

“Where do you plan to start?”

Gabriel unzipped the side compartment of his overnight bag and withdrew an enlarged photograph of a Mercedes sedan with two people in the backseat. Shamron slipped on a pair of battered half-moon reading glasses and examined the image. Then Gabriel placed another photograph before him: the photo that had been attached to the letter in Oxford. Grigori and Irina in happier times…