The Confessor (19 page)

THE SECURE
communications room was located in a soundproof glass cubicle two levels belowground. It took several minutes for the operator in Tel Aviv to patch the call through to Shamron’s home in Tiberias. Over the scrambler, his voice sounded as if it was emanating from the bottom of a steel drum. In the background, Gabriel heard water running into a basin and the tinkle of cutlery against china. He could almost picture Shamron’s long-suffering wife, Ge’ulah, washing dishes in the kitchen sink. Gabriel gave Shamron the same briefing he had given earlier to Lavon. When he finished, Shamron asked what he planned to do next.

“I thought I’d go to London and ask Peter Malone why Beni called him from a hotel in Brenzone.”

“
Malone?
What makes you think he’ll talk? Peter Malone is in business for himself. If he’s actually got something, he’ll sit on it harder than even poor Beni.”

“I’m working on a subtle way to make my approach.”

“And if he’s not interested in opening his notebook to you?”

“Then I’ll try a not-so-subtle approach.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“He’s the only lead I have at the moment.”

Shamron sighed heavily. Despite the distance and the scrambler, Gabriel could hear an edgy rattle in his chest.

“I want the meeting done the right way,” Shamron said. “No more wandering into situations blind and without backup. He gets surveillance before and after. Otherwise, you can wash your hands of this thing and go back to Venice to finish your Bellini.”

“If you insist.”

“Helpful suggestions are not my way. I’ll contact London station tonight and put a man on him. Keep me informed.”

Gabriel hung up the phone and stepped outside into the corridor. Ephraim Ben-Avraham was waiting. “Where now?” the young field man asked.

Gabriel looked at his watch. “Take me to the airport.”

O
N HIS SECOND DAY
in London, Gabriel visited a used bookstore in the Charing Cross Road at dusk and purchased a single volume. He tucked it beneath his arm and walked to the Leicester Square underground station. At the entrance he removed the well-worn dust jacket and tossed it into a rubbish bin. Inside the station, he bought a ticket from the automated dispenser and rode the long escalator down to the Northern Line platform, where he endured an obligatory ten-minute delay. He used the time to leaf through the book. When he found the passage he was looking for, he circled it in red ink and folded the page to mark the place.

The train finally grumbled into the station. Gabriel squeezed into the crowded carriage and wound his arm around a metal pole. His destination was Sloane Square, which required a change of trains at the Embankment. As the train jerked forward, he looked down at the faded gold lettering on the spine of the book.
THE DECEIVERS
:
PETER MALONE
.

Malone . . .
one of the most dreaded names in London. Revealer of personal and professional misdeeds, destroyer of lives and careers. An investigative reporter for
The Sunday Times,
Malone had a list of victims that was long and diverse: two Cabinet ministers, the second-ranking official at MI5, a slew of crooked businessmen, even the editor-in-chief of a rival newspaper. During the past decade, he had also published a string of sensational biographies and political exposés.
The Deceivers
dealt with the exploits of the Office. It had caused something of a firestorm in Tel Aviv, largely because of its telling accuracy. It included the revelation that Ari Shamron had recruited a spy from the senior ranks of MI6. The crisis that followed, Shamron would later say, was the worst between the British and the Jews since the bombing of the King David Hotel.

Ten minutes later, Gabriel was walking through the streets of Chelsea in the gathering darkness, Malone’s book under his arm. He crossed Cadogan Square and paused in front of the handsome white Georgian town house. Lights were burning in the second-floor windows. He climbed the steps to the front door, laid the book on a braided straw mat, then turned and walked quickly away.

Parked on the opposite side of the square was a gray commercial van of American manufacture. When Gabriel tapped on the blacked-out rear window, the door swung open, revealing a darkened interior lit only by the soft glow of an instrument panel. Sitting before the console was a reedy, rabbinical-looking boy named Mordecai. He offered Gabriel a bony hand and pulled him inside. Gabriel closed the door and crouched next to him. The floor was littered with grease-spotted
panini
wrappers and empty Styrofoam cups. Mordecai had been living in the van for most of the past thirty-six hours.

“How many people in the house?” Gabriel asked.

Mordecai reached out and turned a knob. Over the speakers, Gabriel could hear the faint voice of Peter Malone talking to one of his assistants.

“Three,” Mordecai said. “Malone and two girls.”

Gabriel dialed Malone’s number. The ringing of his office telephone sounded like a fire alarm over Mordecai’s speakers. The surveillance man reached out and turned down the volume. After three rings, the reporter answered and identified himself by name in a soft Scottish brogue.

Gabriel spoke English and made no attempt to conceal his Israeli accent. “I just left a copy of your last book outside your door. I suggest you take a look at it. I’ll call you back in exactly five minutes.”

Gabriel rang off and rubbed a clear patch on the fogged glass of the window. The front door opened a few inches and Malone, turtlelike, poked out his head. It swiveled from side to side as he searched in vain for the man who had just telephoned. Then he bent down and scooped up the book. Gabriel looked at Mordecai and smiled.
Victory
. Five minutes later, he pressed the redial button on his phone. This time Malone answered on the first ring.

“Who are you?”

“Did you see the passage I circled in the book?”

“The Abu Jihad assassination? What about it?”

“I was there that night.”

“For which side?”

“The good guys.”

“So you’re a Palestinian?”

“No, Abu Malone, I’m not a Palestinian.”

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m the agent who was code-named Sword.”

“Good Lord,” Malone whispered. “Where are you? What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Benjamin Stern.”

A long pause: “I have nothing to say to you.”

Gabriel decided to push a little harder. “We found your telephone number among his things. We know you were working with him on his book. We think you might know who killed him and why.”

Another long silence while Malone pondered his next move. Gabriel’s use of the pronoun
we
was quite deliberate, and it had its intended effect.

“And if I
do
know something?”

“I’d like to compare notes.”

“And what do I get in return?” Malone, ever the alert reporter, was going to make Gabriel sing for his supper.

“I’ll talk to you about that night in Tunis,” Gabriel said, then added: “And others like it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Benjamin was my friend. I’d do almost anything to find the men who killed him.”

“Then you have a deal.” Malone’s tone was suddenly brisk. “How do you want to go about this?”

“Are there assistants in the house?” Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.

“Two girls.”

“Get rid of them. Leave the front door unlatched. When I see them go, I’ll come inside. No tape recorders, no cameras, no fucking around. Do you understand me?”

Gabriel killed the connection before the reporter could answer, then slipped the telephone into his pocket. Two minutes later, the front door opened and a pair of young women stepped outside. When they were gone, Gabriel climbed out of the van and walked across the square toward the house. The front door was unlocked, just as he had instructed. He turned the latch and stepped inside.

THEY APPRAISED
each other across the marble entrance hall like captains of opposing football teams. Gabriel could see why it was difficult to watch British television without seeing Malone’s face—and why he was considered one of London’s most eligible bachelors. He was trim and fine-boned, immaculately dressed in wool trousers and a cardigan sweater the color of claret wine. Gabriel, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his face concealed behind a pair of sunglasses and a ball cap, seemed a man from the wrong side of town. Malone did not offer Gabriel his hand.

“You can take off that ridiculous disguise. I’m not in the habit of betraying sources.”

“If you don’t mind, I prefer to keep it on.”

“Suit yourself. Coffee? Something stronger?”

“No, thank you.”

“My office is upstairs. I think you’ll find it comfortable.”

It was an old drawing room, long and rectangular, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and Oriental carpets. In the center of the room were two antique library tables, one for Malone, another for his research assistants. Malone switched off the computer and sat down in one of the wing chairs next to the gas fire, motioning for Gabriel to do the same.

“I must say it is rather bizarre to actually be in the same room with you. I’ve heard so much about your exploits that I feel I actually
know
you. You’re quite the legend. Black September, Abu Jihad, and countless others in between. Have you killed anyone lately?”

When Gabriel did not rise to the bait, Malone carried on. “While I find you morbidly fascinating, I must admit that I find the things you’ve done to be morally repugnant. In my opinion, a state which resorts to assassination as a matter of policy is no better than the enemy it’s trying to defeat. In many respects, it’s worse. You’re a murderer in my book, just so you understand where I’m coming from.”

Gabriel began to wonder whether he had made a mistake by coming here. He had learned long ago that arguments like this could never be won. He’d had too many just like it with himself. He sat very still, gazing at Peter Malone through his dark glasses, waiting for him to come to the point. Malone crossed his legs and picked a bit of lint from his trousers. It was a gesture that betrayed anxiety. This pleased Gabriel.

“Perhaps we should finalize the details of our arrangement before we proceed,” Malone said. “I will tell you what I know about Benjamin Stern’s murder. In return, you’ll grant me an interview. Obviously, I’ve written about intelligence matters before, and I know the rules. I will do nothing to reveal your true identity, nor will I write anything that will compromise current operations. Do we have a deal?”

“We do.”

Malone spent a moment gazing up at the recessed lighting, then looked down at Gabriel. “You’re right about Benjamin. I was working with him on his book. Our partnership was supposed to be confidential. I’m surprised you were able to find me.”

“Why did Benjamin come to you?”

Malone stood up and walked over to the bookshelves. He removed a volume and handed it to Gabriel.
CRUX VERA
:
THE KGB OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH
.

“Benjamin had something big—something dealing with the Vatican and the war.”

Gabriel held up the book. “Something dealing with Crux Vera?”

Malone nodded. “Your friend was a brilliant academic, but he didn’t know the first thing about
investigating
a story. He asked me if I would work for him as a consultant and investigator in all matters dealing with Crux Vera. I agreed, and we negotiated compensation. The money was to be paid half in advance and half on completion and acceptance of the manuscript. Needless to say, I only received the first payment.”

“What did he have?”

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t privy to that information. Your friend played things very close to the vest. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was one of your crowd.”