The Secret Servant Read online

  “For what purpose?”

  “So that your testimony at the inevitable public inquiry into the attacks doesn’t reflect the true nature of your two conversations with Graham Seymour.”

  “Seymour’s covering his ass?”

  “He’s entered the final lap of a long and distinguished career. He can almost see his country house and his knighthood and comfortable seat on the board of a respectable financial house in the City. He doesn’t want some gunslinging Israeli to trip him up as he nears the finish line.”

  “The last thing I’m going to do is fall on my sword to protect Graham Seymour’s reputation and retirement.”

  “No, but you’re not going to go out of your way to embarrass him either. We’ll need to concoct some subtle variation on the truth that protects both your reputation and his.” Shamron smiled; concocting subtle variations on the truth was one of his favorite pastimes. “Burning Graham Seymour serves no useful purpose. You’re going to need him, and his friends, in your next life.”

  “And what life is that?”

  Shamron scrutinized Gabriel through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Being deliberately obtuse serves no useful purpose either, Gabriel. You know very well what we have in store for you. The time has come for you to lead. The keys to the throne room are within your grasp.”

  “Perhaps, Ari, but there’s only one problem. I don’t want them. I have other things I want to do with the rest of my life.”

  “I’m afraid it’s time for you to put away childish things.”

  “You’re referring to restoration?”

  “I am.”

  “You didn’t consider it a childish thing when you were using it as cover to conceal an assassin.”

  “Restoration served both our needs for a long time,” Shamron said, “but its season has faded.”

  They passed the charred hulk of an armored personnel carrier, a remnant of the fierce fighting that took place in the Bab al-Wad during Israel’s War of Independence.

  “I’ve been in the Cabinet Room in times of crisis,” Gabriel said. “I’ve seen our leaders tear each other to shreds. It’s not the way I want to spend the next ten years. Besides, when all those former generals look at me, they’re just going to see a boy with a gun.”

  “You’re not a boy any longer. You are approaching the age when men in government reach the summit of their careers. You’ll just reach yours a little sooner than most. You were always a bit of a wunderkind.”

  Gabriel held up the copy of Haaretz. “And what about this?”

  “The scandals?” Shamron shrugged. “A career free of scandal is not a proper career at all. For the most part, your scandals have earned you valuable allies in Washington and the Vatican.”

  “They’ve earned me enemies, too.”

  “They would be your enemies regardless of your actions. And they’ll be your enemies long after your body is placed next to Dani’s on the Mount of Olives.” Shamron crushed out his cigarette. “Don’t worry, Gabriel, this is not something that’s going to happen overnight. Amos’s death will be a slow one, and only a handful of people will even know the patient is terminal.”

  “How long?”

  “A year,” Shamron said. “Perhaps eighteen months at the most. Plenty of time for you to repair a few more paintings for your friend in Rome.”

  “There’s no way you’ll be able to keep it a secret for a year, Ari. You always said that the worst place to try to keep a secret is inside an intelligence service.”

  “At the moment only three people are privy to it—you, me, and the prime minister.”

  “And Uzi.”

  “I needed to bring Uzi into the picture,” Shamron said. “Uzi serves as my eyes inside the Office.”

  “Maybe that’s why you want me there.”

  Shamron smiled. “No, Gabriel, I want you there so I can close my eyes.”

  “You’re not thinking of dying, are you, Ari?”

  “I’d just like to take a short nap.”

  Gabriel turned and peered out the rear window of the limousine. The chase car was following closely behind them. He looked at Shamron and asked whether there had been any news from London about Elizabeth Halton.

  “Still nothing from her captors,” Shamron said. “And nothing from the British, at least nothing they’re willing to say in public. But it is possible that we might be coming into some useful intelligence.”

  “From where?”

  “Egypt,” said Shamron. “Our most important asset inside the SSI sent us a signal early this morning that he had something for us.”

  The full name of the SSI was the General Directorate of State Security Investigations, a polite way of saying the Egyptian secret police.

  “Who is he?” Gabriel asked.

  “Wazir al-Zayyat, chief of the Department for Combatting Religious Activity. Wazir has one of the toughest jobs in the Middle East: making certain Egypt’s homegrown Islamic extremists don’t bring down the regime. Egypt is the spiritual heartland of Islamic fundamentalism, and of course the Egyptian Islamists are a major component of al-Qaeda. Wazir knows more about the state of the global jihadist movement than anyone in the world. He keeps us apprised of the stability of the Mubarak regime and passes along any intelligence that suggests Egyptian terrorists are targeting us.”

  “What does he have for us?”

  “We won’t know until we sit down with him,” Shamron said. “We meet with him outside the country.”

  “Where?”

  “Cyprus.”

  “Who’s his case officer?”

  “Shimon Pazner.”

  Pazner was the chief of station in Rome, which doubled as the headquarters for Office operations throughout the Mediterranean.

  “When is Pazner going to Cyprus?”

  “He leaves in the morning.”

  “Tell him to stay put in Rome.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m going to Cyprus to meet with the Egyptian.”

  Shamron greeted Gabriel’s declaration with an obstinate silence. “Your involvement in this affair is officially over,” he said finally. “This is an American and British problem now. We have enough of our own to worry about.”

  Gabriel pushed back. “I was there when it happened, Ari. I want us to do anything we can to find her.”

  “And we will. Shimon Pazner has been handling Wazir for three years now. He’s more than capable of going to Cyprus and conducting a crash debriefing.”

  “I’m sure he is, but I’m going to go to Cyprus for him.”

  Shamron’s old stainless steel lighter flared in the darkness. “You’re not the Memuneh yet, my son. Besides, have you forgotten that your picture is in all the newspapers?”

  “I’m not going behind the Iron Curtain, Ari.”

  Shamron touched his cigarette to the flame and extinguished it with a flick of his sturdy wrist. “You use my own words against me,” he said. “Go ahead, Gabriel, go to Cyprus tomorrow. Just make sure Identity does something about that face of yours. You made yourself another enemy with your actions in Hyde Park.”

  “Graham Seymour said the same thing.”

  “Well,” Shamron said reflectively, “at least he was right about something.”

  When Gabriel entered his apartment twenty minutes later, he found lights burning in the sitting room and a faint trace of vanilla on the air. He tossed his bag onto the new couch and walked into the bedroom. Chiara was perched at the end of the bed, scrutinizing her toes with considerable interest. Her body was wrapped in bath towels, and her skin was very dark from the sun. She looked up at Gabriel and smiled. It was as if it had been several minutes since they had seen each other last and not several weeks.

  “You’re here,” she said in mock surprise.

  “Shamron didn’t mention that I was coming home tonight?”

  “He may have.”

  Gabriel walked over and removed the towel from her hair. Heavy and wet, it tumbled riotously onto he
r dark shoulders. She lifted her face to be kissed and loosened the towel around her body. Maybe Shamron was right, Gabriel thought as she pulled him onto the bed. Maybe he would let Pazner go to Cyprus to meet with the Egyptian after all.

  They were both famished after making love. Gabriel sat at the small table in the kitchen, watching the news on television, while Chiara made fettuccine and mushrooms. She was wearing one of Gabriel’s dress shirts, unbuttoned to her abdomen, and nothing else.

  “How did you find out that I’d been arrested?”

  “I read it in the newspapers like everyone else.” She poured him a glass of red wine. “You were all the rage in Buenos Aires.”

  “What kind of work were you doing there?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “I know you were watching members of a Hezbollah cell. I just want to know whether you were part of the actual surveillance team or just an escort officer?”

  “I was part of the team,” she said. “I don’t do much escort work anymore.”

  “Why did they pull you out?”

  “Overexposure to the targets.” Elizabeth Halton’s face appeared suddenly on the television screen. “Pretty girl,” Chiara said. “Why did they take her?”

  “I may find out tomorrow.” He told her about his trip to Cyprus.

  “What about your dinner with the prime minister?”

  Gabriel looked up from the television. “How did you know about that?”

  “Shamron told me.”

  “So much for operational security,” he said. “What exactly did he say to you?”

  She placed the fettuccine in the water to boil and sat down next to him. “He said that you had agreed to succeed Amos as director.”

  “I’ve agreed to no such thing.”

  “That’s not what Shamron says.”

  “Shamron has a long history of hearing exactly what he wants to hear. What else did he say?”

  “He wants us to get our personal life in order as soon as possible. He doesn’t think it’s proper for the director to be living with a woman out of wedlock, especially one who happens to be an employee of the Office. He thinks we should accelerate our wedding plans.” She placed a finger beneath his chin and turned his face toward hers. “You agree, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Gabriel hastily. He had learned that any hesitation to engage in a discussion of wedding plans was always wrongly interpreted by Chiara as a reluctance to marry. “We should get married as soon as possible.”

  “When?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a very simple question, Gabriel. When do you think we should get married?”

  “Late spring,” he said. “Before it gets too hot.”

  “May?”

  “May would be perfect.”

  Chiara removed her fingertip from beneath Gabriel’s chin and nibbled nervously at her nail. “How am I going to plan a wedding in six months?”

  “Hire a professional planner to help you.”

  “A wedding isn’t an operation, Gabriel. It’s supposed to be planned by family, not a professional.”

  “What about Gilah Shamron? She’s the closest thing to a mother I have.”

  “Gilah has enough on her plate at the moment looking after her husband.”

  “All the more reason to ask her to help with the wedding. Trust me, she’ll jump at the chance.”

  “It’s not a bad idea, actually. No wonder Shamron wants you to be the chief. The first thing we have to do is settle on a guest list.”

  “That’s easy,” Gabriel said. “Just invite everyone from the Office, Shabak, AMAN, most of the Cabinet, and half of the Knesset. Oh, and don’t forget the prime minister.”

  “I’m not sure I want the prime minister to attend my wedding.”

  “You’re afraid of being overshadowed by a chubby octogenarian?”

  “Yes.”

  “The prime minister has three daughters of his own. He’ll make certain not to steal the limelight on your big day.”

  “Our big day, Gabriel.” The water began to boil over. She stood up and walked back over to the stove. “Are you sure you have to go to Cyprus tomorrow?”

  “I want to hear what the Egyptian has to say with my own ears.”

  “But you’ve only just come home.”

  “It’s just for a day or two. Why don’t you come with me? You can work on that suntan of yours.”

  “It’s cold in Cyprus this time of year.”

  “So you want me to go alone?”

  “I’ll come,” she said. “You didn’t say anything about the way I decorated the apartment. Do you like it?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said hastily. “It’s lovely.”

  “I found a ring on the coffee table. Did you put a hot drink on it without a coaster?”

  “It was Uzi,” Gabriel said.

  Chiara poured the fettuccine into a colander and frowned. “He’s such a slob,” she said. “I don’t know how Bella can live with him.”

  14

  The items she had requested lay arranged on an adjacent cot: isopropyl alcohol, cotton swabs, rubber gloves, tweezers, needle-nose pliers, a straight razor, codeine and cephalin tablets, four-by-four sterile pads, medical tape, two eighteen-inch strips of wood, two rolls of bandaging, and two liters of bottled water. She held out her cuffed hands to the one she thought of as Cain. He shook his head.

  “I can’t do this with my hands cuffed.”

  He hesitated, then removed them.

  “The drugs you gave me after you kidnapped me—you have more, I assume.”

  Another hesitation, then a reluctant nod.

  “I need them. Otherwise, your friend is going to suffer terribly.”

  He walked over to the van and returned a moment later with a syringe wrapped in plastic and a vial of clear liquid. Elizabeth looked at the label: KETAMINE. No wonder she’d suffered such terrible hallucinations while the drug was in her system. Anesthesiologists almost never used ketamine without a secondary sedative such as Valium. These idiots had given her several injections of the drug with nothing to blunt its side effects.

  She loaded an appropriate dosage, two hundred and fifty milligrams, and injected it into the wounded man’s upper arm. As he slipped slowly into unconsciousness, she broke the needle off the syringe and placed it in the plastic sack from the chemist shop where Cain had purchased the medical supplies. The name and address of the shop were written on the bag in blue lettering. Elizabeth recognized the village. It was located on the Norfolk coastline, northeast of London.

  She lifted the blanket and adjusted the lamp, so that the light shone directly into the wound. The round was lodged within the fracture fragments. She opened the bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured a generous amount directly into the wound, then wiped away the puss and other infectious material with a cotton swab. When the wound was sufficiently clean, she sterilized the straight razor and used it to debride the ragged necrotic material along the edges. Then she sterilized the tweezers and spent the next twenty minutes carefully removing fragments of shattered bone and filaments of embedded fabric. Finally, she sterilized the needle-nose pliers and slipped them carefully into the wound. The round was out a moment later, deformed from its impact with the terrorist’s tibia but intact.

  She gave the bullet to Cain as a souvenir and prepared for the final stage of the procedure: the dressing and the splint. First she flushed the wound thoroughly with the sterile water, then covered it with a four-by-four sterile pad. Last, she laid the two strips of wood along each side of his lower leg from the knee to the ankle and bound the splint tightly with the rolls of bandaging. When she was finished, she propped the leg on a pillow and looked at Cain.

  “When he wakes up, give him two of the cephalin tablets. Then give him one tablet every four hours. Keep the leg elevated. I’d like to see him every two hours, if that’s possible. If not, I’ve given you seventy-two hours at the most. After that he’s going to need
to go into a hospital.”

  She held out her hands. Cain applied the cuffs and led her downstairs to her cell. As she lay down on her cot, she felt an almost drunken sense of elation. The crude surgery, the brisk commands: she had been in control, if only for a few moments. And she had managed to uncover a single piece of valuable information. She was still in England, still within reach of the British police and intelligence services.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but an hour later she was jolted by a knock at the door. We have a present for you, the note said. Lay down on your cot. She did as she was told and watched as Cain and Abel entered her cell. They put packing tape across her mouth and a hood over her head. She fought them. She fought them even after they gave her the needle.

  15

  CYPRUS: 10:15 A.M., FRIDAY

  Much can be gleaned about the value of a source by the accommodations that are made to handle him. For the debriefings of Wazir al-Zayyat, the Office had purchased a lovely whitewashed villa on the southern coast of Cyprus with a small swimming pool and a shaded terrace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Gabriel and Chiara arrived several hours before the Egyptian was due. Gabriel had hoped to spend the time relaxing, but Chiara, alone with him for the first time in weeks, wanted to use the opportunity to discuss wedding plans. Place settings and flowers, guest lists and music—this is how Israel’s legendary secret agent passed the time before the arrival of the Egyptian spy. He wondered what Haaretz and the rest of the Israeli newspapers would write about him if they knew the truth.

  Shortly after two in the afternoon, Gabriel glimpsed a Volkswagen sedan speeding along the coast road. It passed by the villa and disappeared around a bend, then, five minutes later, approached from the opposite direction. This time it slowed and turned into the drive. Gabriel looked at Chiara. “You’d better wait upstairs in the bedroom,” he said. “From what I’ve read about Wazir, your presence will only be a distraction.”