The Defector Page 16

  PART THRE

  All Even

  35

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  ARI SHAMRON had long ago lost the gift of sleep. Like most men, it had been taken from him late in life, but for reasons that were uniquely his. He had told so many lies, spun so many deceptions, he could no longer tell fact from fiction, truth from untruth. Condemned by his work to remain forever awake, Shamron spent nights wandering ceaselessly through the secure file rooms of his past, reliving old cases, walking old battlefields, confronting enemies long since vanquished.

  And then there was the telephone. Throughout Shamron’s long and turbulent career, it had rung at the most appalling hours, usually with word of death. Because he had devoted his life to safeguarding the State of Israel, and by extension the Jewish people, the calls had been a veritable catalog of horrors. He had been told about acts of war and acts of terror, of hijackings and murderous suicide bombings, of embassies and synagogues reduced to rubble. And once, many years earlier, he had been awakened by the news that a man he adored as a son had just lost his family in a car bombing in Vienna. But the call from Uzi Navot that arrived late that evening was nearly one too many. It caused Shamron to unleash a cry of rage and to seize his chest in anguish. Gilah, who was lying beside him at the time, would later say she feared her husband was having another heart attack. Shamron quickly steadied himself and snapped off a few brisk commands before gently hanging up the phone.

  He remained motionless for a long moment, his breathing rapid and shallow. There was a ritual in the Shamron household. At the termination of such telephone calls, Gilah would usually pose a single question: “How many dead this time?” But Gilah could tell by her husband’s reaction that this call was different. So she reached out in the darkness and touched the papery skin of his hollowed cheek. For only the second time in their marriage, she felt tears.

  “What is it, Ari? What’s happened?”

  Hearing his answer, she raised both hands to her face and wept.

  “Where is he?”

  “America.”

  “Does he know yet?”

  “He’s just been told.”

  “Is he coming home?”

  “He’ll be here by morning.”

  “Do we know who did it?”

  “We have a good idea.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Amos doesn’t want me around. He thinks I’ll be a distraction.”

  “Who is Amos to tell you what to do? Gabriel is like a son to you. Tell Amos he can to go to hell. Tell him you’re coming back to King Saul Boulevard.”

  Shamron was silent for a moment. “Maybe he won’t want me there.”

  “Who?”

  “Gabriel.”

  “Why would you say that, Ari?”

  “Because if I hadn’t . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Because if you hadn’t recruited him a long time ago, none of this would have ever happened? Is that what you were going to say?”

  Shamron made no response.

  “Gabriel is more like you than he realizes. He had no choice but to fight. None of us do.” Gilah wiped the tears from her husband’s cheeks. “Get out of bed, Ari. Go to Tel Aviv. And make sure you’re waiting at Ben-Gurion when he arrives. He needs to see a familiar face.” She paused, then said, “He needs to see his abba.”

  Shamron sat up and swung his feet slowly to the floor.

  “Can I make you some coffee or something to eat?”

  “There isn’t time.”

  “Let me get you some clean clothes.”

  Gilah switched on her lamp and climbed out of bed. Shamron snatched up the receiver of his telephone again and placed a call to the guard shack at the foot of his drive. It was answered by Rami, the longtime chief of his permanent security detail.

  “Get the car ready,” Shamron said.

  “Something wrong, boss?”

  “It’s Gabriel. You’ll know the rest soon enough.”

  Shamron hung up the phone and got to his feet. By then Gilah had laid his clothes out at the foot of the bed: pressed khaki trousers, an oxford-cloth shirt, a leather bomber jacket with a tear in the right breast. Shamron reached down and tugged at it gently. We’ll wage one more fight together, he thought. One last operation.

  He lit a cigarette and dressed slowly, as if armoring himself for the battle ahead. Pulling on his jacket, he made his way to the kitchen, where Gilah was brewing a pot of coffee.

  “I told you there isn’t time.”

  “It’s for me, Ari.”

  “You should go back to bed, Gilah.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep now.” She looked at the cigarette burning between his yellowed fingers but knew better than to scold him. “Try not to smoke too much. The doctor says—”

  “I know what he says.”

  She kissed his cheek. “You’ll call me when you can?”

  “I’ll call.”

  Shamron stepped outside. The house faced east, toward the Sea of Galilee and the looming dark mass of the Golan Heights. Shamron had bought it many years ago because it allowed him to keep watch on Israel’s enemies. Tonight those enemies were beyond the horizon. By their actions they had just declared war on the Office. And now the Office would make war on them in return.

  Shamron’s armored limousine was waiting in the drive. Rami helped him into the back before settling into the front passenger seat. As the car lurched forward, the bodyguard shot a glance over his shoulder and asked where they were going.

  “King Saul Boulevard.”

  Rami gave a terse nod. Shamron reached for his secure phone and pressed a speed-dial button. The voice that answered was young, male, and impertinent. It immediately set Shamron’s teeth on edge. Making mincemeat of such voices was one of his favorite pastimes.

  “I need to speak to him right away.”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Not for long.”

  “He asked not to be disturbed unless it’s a matter of national crisis.”

  “Then I suggest you wake him.”

  “It better be important.”

  The aide placed Shamron on hold, never a good idea. Thirty seconds later, another voice came on the line. Heavy with sleep, it belonged to Israel’s prime minister.

  “What is it, Ari?”

  “We lost two boys in Italy tonight,” Shamron said. “And Gabriel’s wife is missing.”

  IT WAS MARGHERITA, the housekeeper, who had made the discovery. Later, under questioning from Italian authorities, she would place the time at perhaps five minutes past ten, though she admitted to not having checked her wristwatch. The time happened to correspond satisfactorily to her mobile-phone records, which showed she placed her first call at 10:07. The time also dovetailed well with her movements that night. Several witnesses would recall seeing her leave a café in Amelia at roughly 9:50 p.m., leaving her plenty of time to make the drive back to Villa dei Fiori aboard her little motor scooter.

  The first indication of trouble, she said, was the presence of a car outside the security gate. A Fiat sedan, it was parked at a drunken angle, nose against a tree, headlamps doused. She told the police she assumed it had been abandoned or involved in a minor accident. Rather than approach the car, she had first illuminated it with the beam of her headlamp. It was then she noticed the broken windows and the bits of safety glass scattered over the ground like crystals. She also realized the car was familiar. It belonged to the two friends of the restorer, the young men with odd names who spoke no known language. She told the police she had never truly believed their story. Her father had been a soldier, she said, and she knew a couple of security guards when she saw them. Dismounting the bike, she had hurried over to the car to see if anyone was injured. What she had found, she said, was clearly no accident. Both men had been shot many times and were drenched in blood.

  Though Margherita was the first to be questioned by the police, she had not actually been the one to summon them. Like the other members of the
staff, she had been given strict instructions about what to do in the event of any incident involving the restorer or his wife. She was to telephone Count Gasparri, the villa’s absentee owner, and inform him first. Which she had done at 10:07. The count had then placed a hasty call to Monsignor Luigi Donati, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, and Donati had contacted the Vatican Security Office. Within twenty minutes, units of both the Polizia di Stato and Carabiniere had arrived at the villa’s entrance and cordoned off the scene. Unable to locate the keys to the vehicle, the officers had opened the trunk by force. Inside they had found three suitcases, one filled with the belongings of a woman, and a woman’s handbag. The commanding officer had quickly surmised that the crime scene represented more than just a double homicide. It appeared there had been a woman in the car. And the woman was now missing.

  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.

  36

  BEN-GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL

  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.

  “Have you given any thought to how Ivan found her?”

  “I’ve thought of nothing else, Ari—other than getting her back.”

  “Perhaps they followed Irina when you brought her to Italy.”

  “It’s possible . . .”

  “But?”

  “Extremely unlikely. Moscow Station watched Irina for several days before she left Russia. She was clean.”

  “Could they have had a team waiting at the Milan airport and followed you to the villa?”

  “We set up a surveillance-detection route. There’s no way we would have missed a Russian tail.”

  “Maybe they did it electronically.”

  “With a beacon?” Gabriel shook his head. “We checked her out before we ever left the airport. Her luggage contained no transmitters. We did everything by the book, Ari. I suspect Ivan and his friends in Russian intelligence have known my whereabouts for a long time.”