Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (159 page)

“I’m certain there will be voices raised in opposition,” Shamron said.

“Lev?”

Shamron nodded. “My involvement will give him all the grounds he needs to veto it. But I believe Gabriel will be able to bring the prime minister around to our way of thinking.”

“Me? Who said I was going to brief the prime minister?”

“I did,” Shamron said. “Besides, if you can convince Carter to put Radek on a platter, surely you can convince the prime minister to partake in the feast. He’s a man of enormous appetites.”

Carter stood and stretched, then walked slowly toward the window, a doctor who has spent the entire night in surgery only to achieve a questionable outcome. He opened the drapes. Gray light filtered into the room.

“There’s one last item we need to discuss before leaving for Israel,” Shamron said.

Carter turned around, a silhouette against the glass. “The money?”

“What exactly were you planning to do with it?”

“We haven’t reached a final decision.”

“I have. Two and a half billion dollars is the price you pay for using a man like Erich Radek when you knew he was a murderer and a war criminal. It was stolen from Jews on the way to the gas chambers, and I want it back.”

Carter turned once more and looked out at the snow-covered pasture.

“You’re a two-bit blackmail artist, Ari Shamron.”

Shamron stood and pulled on his overcoat. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Adrian. If all goes according to plan in Jerusalem, we’ll meet again in Zurich in forty-eight hours.”

29

JERUSALEM

T
HE MEETING WAS called for ten o’clock that evening. Shamron, Gabriel, and Chiara, delayed by weather, arrived with two minutes to spare after a white-knuckle car ride from Ben-Gurion Airport, only to be told by an aide that the prime minister was running late. Evidently, there was yet another crisis in his brittle governing coalition, because the anteroom outside his office had taken on the air of a temporary shelter after a disaster. Gabriel counted no fewer than five cabinet officials, each surrounded by a retinue of acolytes and apparatchiks. They were all shouting at each other like quarreling relatives at a family wedding, and a fog bank of tobacco smoke hung on the air.

The aide escorted them into a room reserved for security and intelligence personnel, and closed the door. Gabriel shook his head.

“Israeli democracy in action.”

“Believe it or not, it’s quiet tonight. Usually, it’s worse.”

Gabriel collapsed into a chair. He realized suddenly that he had not showered or changed his clothing in two days. Indeed, his trousers were soiled by the dust of the graveyard in Puerto Blest. When he shared this with Shamron, the old man smiled. “To be covered with the dirt of Argentina only adds to the credibility of your message,” Shamron said. “The prime minister is a man who will appreciate such a thing.”

“I’ve never briefed a prime minister before, Ari. I would have liked to at least had a shower.”

“You’re actually nervous.” This seemed to amuse Shamron. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous about anything before in my life. You’re human after all.”

“Of course I’m nervous. He’s a madman.”

“Actually, he and I are quite similar in temperament.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“May I give you a piece of advice?”

“If you must.”

“He likes stories. Tell him a good story.”

Chiara perched herself on the arm of Gabriel’s chair. “Tell it to the prime minister the way you told it to me in Rome,” she said sotto voce.

“You were in my arms at the time,” Gabriel replied. “Something tells me tonight’s briefing will be a bit more formal.” He smiled, then added, “At least I hope so.”

It was nearing midnight by the time the prime minister’s aide poked his head into the waiting room and announced that the great man was finally ready to see them. Gabriel and Shamron stood and moved toward the open door. Chiara remained seated. Shamron stopped and turned to face her.

“What are you waiting for? The prime minister is ready to see us.”

Chiara’s eyes opened wide. “I’m just a
bat leveyha,
” she protested. “I’m not going in there to brief the prime minister. My God, I’m not even Israeli.”

“You’ve risked your life in defense of this country,” Shamron said calmly. “You have every right to be in his presence.”

They entered the prime minister’s office. It was large and unexpectedly plain, dark except for an area of illumination around the desk. Lev somehow had managed to slip in ahead of them. His bald, bony skull shone in the recessed lighting, and his long hands were folded beneath a defiant chin. He made a halfhearted effort to stand and shook their hands without enthusiasm. Shamron, Gabriel, and Chiara sat down. The worn leather chairs were still hot from other bodies.

The prime minister was in his shirtsleeves and looked fatigued after his long night of political combat. He was, like Shamron, an uncompromising warrior. How he managed to rule a roost as diverse and disobedient as Israel was something of a miracle. His hooded gaze fell instantly upon Gabriel. Shamron was used to this. Gabriel’s striking appearance was the one thing that had given Shamron cause for concern when he recruited him for the Wrath of God operation. People
looked
at Gabriel.

They had met once before, Gabriel and the prime minister, though under very different circumstances. The prime minister had been chief of staff of the Israel Defense Forces in April 1988 when Gabriel, accompanied by a team of commandos, had broken into a villa in Tunis and assassinated Abu Jihad, the second-in-command of the PLO, in front of his wife and children. The prime minister had been aboard the special communications plane, orbiting above the Mediterranean Sea, with Shamron at his side. He had heard the assassination through Gabriel’s lip microphone. He had also listened to Gabriel, after the killing, use precious seconds to console Abu Jihad’s hysterical wife and daughter. Gabriel had refused the commendation awarded him. Now, the prime minister wanted to know why.

“I didn’t feel it was appropriate, Prime Minister, given the circumstances.”

“Abu Jihad had a great deal of Jewish blood on his hands. He deserved to die.”

“Yes, but not in front of his wife and children.”

“He chose the life he led,” the prime minister said. “His family shouldn’t have been there with him.” And then, as if suddenly realizing that he had strayed into a minefield, he attempted to tiptoe out. His girth and natural brusqueness would not permit a graceful exit. He opted for a rapid change of subject instead. “So, Shamron tells me you want to kidnap a Nazi,” the prime minister said.

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

He held up his palms—
Let’s hear it.

GABRIEL, IF HE was nervous, did not reveal it. His presentation was crisp and concise and full of confidence. The prime minister, notorious for his rough treatment of briefers, sat transfixed throughout. Hearing Gabriel’s description of the attempt on his life in Rome, he leaned forward, his face tense. Adrian Carter’s confession of American involvement made him visibly irate. Gabriel, when it came time to present his documentary evidence, stood next to the prime minister and placed it piece by piece on the lamplit desk. Shamron sat quietly, his hands squeezing the arms of the chair like a man struggling to maintain a vow of silence. Lev seemed locked in a staring contest with the large portrait of Theodor Herzl that hung on the wall behind the prime minister’s desk. He made notes with a gold fountain pen and once took a ponderous look at his wristwatch.

“Can we get him?” the prime minister asked, then added, “Without all hell breaking loose?”

“Yes, sir, I believe we can.”

“Tell me how you intend to do it.”

Gabriel’s briefing spared no detail. The prime minister sat silently with his plump hands folded on the desk, listening intently. When Gabriel finished, the prime minister nodded once and turned his gaze toward Lev—
I assume this is where you part company?

Lev, ever the technocrat, took a moment to organize his thoughts before answering. His response, when it finally came, was passionless and methodical. Had there been some way to plot it on a flow chart or actuarial table, Lev would surely have stood, pointer in hand, and droned on until dawn. As it was, he remained seated and soon reduced his audience to painful boredom. His speech was punctuated by pauses, during which he made a steeple of his forefingers and pressed them against his bloodless lips.

An impressive piece of investigatory work, Lev said in a backhanded compliment to Gabriel, but now is not the time to waste precious time and political capital settling scores with aged Nazis. The founders, except in the case of Eichmann, resisted the urge to hunt down the perpetrators of the Shoah because they knew it would detract from the primary purpose of the Office, the protection of the State. The same principles apply today. Arresting Radek in Vienna would lead to backlash in Europe, where support for Israel was hanging by a thread. It would also endanger the small, defenseless Jewish community in Austria, where the currents of anti-Semitism run strong and deep.
What will we do when Jews are attacked on the streets? Do you think the Austrian authorities will lift a finger to stop it?
Finally, his trump card: Why is it Israel’s responsibility to prosecute Radek? Leave it to the Austrians. As for the Americans, let them lie in a bed of their own making. Expose Radek and Metzler, and walk away from it. The point will have been made, and the consequences will be less severe than a kidnapping operation.

The prime minister spent a moment in quiet deliberation, then looked at Gabriel. “There’s no doubt this man Ludwig Vogel is really Radek?”

“None whatsoever, Prime Minister.”

He turned to Shamron. “And we’re certain the Americans aren’t going to get cold feet?”

“The Americans are anxious to resolve this matter as well.”

The prime minister looked down at the documents before rendering his decision.

“I made the rounds in Europe last month,” he said. “While I was in Paris, I visited a synagogue that had been torched a few weeks earlier. The next morning there was an editorial in one of the French newspapers that accused me of picking the scabs of anti-Semitism and the Holocaust whenever it suited my political purposes. Perhaps it’s time to remind the world why we inhabit this strip of land, surrounded by a sea of enemies, fighting for our survival. Bring Radek here. Let him tell the world about the crimes he committed in order to hide the Shoah. Maybe it will silence, once and for all, those who contend that it was a conspiracy, invented by men like Ari and myself to justify our existence.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “This isn’t about politics, Prime Minister. It’s about justice.”

The prime minister smiled at the unexpected challenge. “True, Gabriel, it
is
about justice, but justice and politics often go hand in hand, and when justice can serve the needs of politics, there is nothing immoral about it.”

Lev, having lost in the first round, attempted to snatch victory in the second by seizing control of the operation. Shamron knew his aim remained the same: killing it. Unfortunately for Lev, so did the prime minister.

“It was Gabriel who brought us to this point. Let Gabriel bring it home.”

“With all due respect, Prime Minister, Gabriel is a
kidon,
the best ever, but he is not an operational planner, which is exactly what we need.”

“His operational plan sounds fine to me.”

“Yes, but can he prepare and execute it?”

“He’ll have Shamron looking over his shoulder the entire time.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lev said acidly.

The prime minister stood; the others followed suit.

“Bring Radek back here. And whatever you do, don’t even think about making a mess in Vienna. Get him cleanly, no blood, no heart attacks.” He turned to Lev. “Make certain they have every resource they need to get the job done. Don’t think you’ll be safe from the shit because you voted against the plan. If Gabriel and Shamron go down in flames, you’ll go down with them. So no bureaucratic bullshit. You’re all in this together.
Shalom.
”

THE PRIME MINISTER seized Shamron’s elbow on the way out the door and backed him into a corner. He placed one hand on the wall, above Shamron’s shoulder, and blocked any possible route of escape.

“Is the boy up to it, Ari?”

“He’s not a boy, Prime Minister, not anymore.”

“I know, but can he do it? Can he truly convince Radek to come here?”

“Have you read his mother’s testimony?”

“I have, and I know what I’d do in his position. I’m afraid I’d put a bullet in the bastard’s brain, like Radek did to so many others, and call it a day.”

“Would such an action be just, in your opinion?”

“There’s the justice of civilized men, the kind of justice that is dispensed in courtrooms by men in robes, and then there is the justice of the Prophets.
God’s
justice. How can one render justice for crimes so enormous? What punishment would be appropriate? Life in prison? A painless execution?”