Daniel Silva - The defector

Unbeknownst to the officers at the scene, a quiet call had already been placed from the Vatican to the woman’s employers in Tel Aviv. The officer who had taken the call immediately telephoned Uzi Navot, who was at that moment heading toward his home in the Tel Aviv suburb of Petah Tikvah. He swung a reckless U-turn and drove dangerously fast back to King Saul Boulevard. Along the way, he placed three calls from his secure phone: one to Adrian Carter at Langley, the next to the director of the Office, and a third to the Memuneh, the one in charge.

As for Gabriel, he was largely unaware of the storm swirling around him. Indeed, at the same moment Shamron was rousing the prime minister from his sleep, he was doing his best to console a distraught Elena Kharkov. Her two children, Anna and Nikolai, were playing quietly in the next room, oblivious as to what had just transpired. Precisely what was said between Gabriel and Elena would never be known. They emerged from the lodge together a short time later, Elena in tears, Gabriel looking stoic, with his overnight bag slung over his shoulder. By the time he arrived at Adirondack Regional Airport, his plane was fueled and cleared for takeoff. It took him directly to Andrews Air Force Base, where a second aircraft, a Gulfstream G500, was on standby to ferry him home. The crew would later report that he took no food or drink during the ten-hour flight and spoke not a single word. He just sat in his seat like a statue, staring out the window, into the blackness.

THERE IS a room at Ben-Gurion Airport known to only a handful of people. It is located to the left of passport control, behind an unmarked door kept locked at all times. Its walls are faux Jerusalem limestone; its furnishings are typical airport fare: black vinyl couches and chairs, modular end tables, cheap modern lamps that cast an unforgiving light. There are two windows, one looking onto the tarmac, the other onto the arrivals hall. Both are fashioned of high-quality one-way glass. Reserved for Office personnel, it is the first stop for operatives returning from secret battlefields abroad. There is a permanent odor of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and male tension. The cleaning staff has tried every product imaginable to expel it, but the smell remains. Like Israel’s enemies, it cannot be defeated by conventional means.

Gabriel had entered this room, or versions of it, many times before. He had entered it in triumph and staggered into it in failure. He had been fêted in this room, and once he had been wheeled in with a bullet still lodged in his chest. Now, for the second time in his life, he entered after men of indiscriminate violence had targeted his wife. Only Shamron was there to greet him. Shamron might have said many things. He might have said that none of this would have happened if Gabriel had come home to Israel. Or that Gabriel had been a fool to go chasing after a Russian defector like Grigori. But he didn’t. In fact, for a long moment he said nothing at all. He just laid his hand on Gabriel’s cheek and stared into the green eyes. They were bloodshot and red-rimmed from anger and exhaustion.

“I don’t suppose you managed to sleep?”

The eyes answered for him.

“You didn’t eat, either. You have to eat, Gabriel.”

“I’ll eat when I get her back.”

“The professional in me wants to say we should let someone else handle this. But I know that isn’t an option.” Shamron took hold of Gabriel’s elbow. “Your team is waiting for you. They’re anxious to get started. We have a great deal of work to do and very little time.”

STEPPING OUTSIDE, they were greeted by a raw blast of windblown rain. Gabriel looked at the sky: no moon or stars, just leaden clouds stretching from the Coastal Plain to the Judean Hills. “It’s snowing in Jerusalem,” Shamron said. “Down here, only rain.” He paused. “And missiles. Last night, Hamas let loose from Gaza with some of their longer-range rockets. Five people were killed in Ashkelon-an entire family wiped out. One of the children was handicapped. Apparently, they couldn’t make it into the shelters quickly enough.”

Shamron’s limousine was parked curbside in the secure VIP area. Rami stood at the open door, hands at his sides, face grim. As Gabriel slipped into the back, the bodyguard gave his arm a reassuring squeeze but said nothing. A moment later, the car was speeding along the circular airport access road through the driving rain. At the end of the road was a blue-and-white sign. To the right was Jerusalem, city of believers. To the left was Tel Aviv, city of action. The limousine headed left. Shamron ignited a cigarette and brought Gabriel up to date.

“Shimon Pazner has set up shop inside the headquarters of the Polizia di Stato. He’s monitoring the Italian search efforts on a minute-by-minute basis and filing regular updates with the Operations Desk.”

Pazner was the Rome station chief. He and Gabriel had had the odd professional altercation over the years, but Gabriel trusted him with his life. And Chiara’s, too.

“Shimon has also conducted quiet conversations with the heads of both the Italian services. They’ve sent their condolences and pledged to do everything in their power to help.”

“I hope he didn’t feel obligated to say anything about my recent visit to Como. Under my agreement with the Italians, I’m barred from operating on Italian soil.”

“He didn’t. But I wouldn’t worry too much about the Italians. You’re not going back there anytime soon.”

“How did he explain the fact that Chiara was traveling with bodyguards?”

“He told them we’d picked up some threats against you. He didn’t go into specifics.”

“How did the Italians react?”

“As you might expect, they were somewhat disappointed we hadn’t mentioned it earlier. But their first concern is trying to locate your wife. We’ve told them we believe the Russians are involved. Ivan’s name hasn’t come up. Not yet.”

“It’s important the Italians handle this quietly.”

“They will. The last thing they want is for the world to discover you’ve been living on a farm in Umbria restoring paintings for the pope. The Polizia di Stato and Carabiniere officers on the ground believe the victim was an ordinary Italian woman. Higher up the chain of command, they know there’s a national security connection of some sort. Only the chiefs and their top aides know the truth.”

“What steps are they taking?”

“They’re conducting a search in the area surrounding the villa and have officers at every point of entry and border crossing. They can’t search every vehicle, but they’re running spot checks and tearing apart anything that looks remotely suspicious. Apparently, the truck traffic heading toward the Swiss tunnels is backed up for more than an hour.”

“Do they know anything about how the operation went down?”

Shamron shook his head. “No one saw a thing. They think Lior and Motti had been dead for a couple of hours before the housekeeper found them. Whoever did this was good. Lior and Motti never managed to get a shot off.”

“Where are their bodies?”

“They’ve been moved to Rome. The Italians will release them to us later this morning. They’re hoping to do it quietly, but I doubt they’ll be able to keep a lid on it much longer. Someone in the press is bound to get wind of it soon.”

“I want them buried as heroes, Ari. They didn’t deserve to die like this. If I hadn’t-”

“You did what you thought was right, Gabriel. And don’t worry. Those boys will be buried with honor on the Mount of Olives.” Shamron hesitated, then said, “Near your son.”

Gabriel looked out the window. He was grateful for the Italian effort but feared it was little more than wasted time. He didn’t have to voice this sentiment aloud. Shamron, by his dour expression, knew it to be true. He crushed out his cigarette and immediately lit another.