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  The last time Gabriel had seen Lavon, he’d been lying in a hospital bed in the Hadassah Medical Center.

  “I’m only a volunteer. I work for a few hours in the early morning. My doctor says it’s good therapy.” Lavon sipped his mineral water. “Besides, I find this place providesa valuable lesson in humility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “People come and go from this place, Gabriel. Our ancestors ruled it briefly a very long time ago. Now we rule it again. But one day we’ll be gone, too. The only question is how long will we be here this time, and what will we leave behind for men like me to unearth in the future? I hope it’s something more than the footprint of a Separation Fence.”

  “I’m not ready to give it up just yet, Eli.”

  “So I gather. You’ve been a busy boy. I’ve been readingabout you in the newspapers. That’s not a good thing in your line of work—being in the newspapers.”

  “It was your line of work, too.”

  “Once,” he said, “a long time ago.”

  Lavon had been a promising young archaeologist in September 1972 when Shamron recruited him to be a member of the Wrath of God team. He’d been an ayin, a tracker. He’d followed the Black Septembrists and learned their habits. In many ways his job had been the most dangerous of all, because he had been exposed to the terrorists for days on end with no backup. The work had left him with a nervous disorder and chronic intestinal problems.

  “How much do you know about the case, Eli?”

  “I’d heard through the grapevine you were back in the country, something to do with the Rome bombing. Then Shamron showed up at my door one evening and told me you were chasing Sabri’s boy. Is it true? Did little Khaled really do Rome?”

  “He’s not a little boy anymore. He did Rome, and he did Gare de Lyon. And Buenos Aires and Istanbul before that.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me. Terrorism is in Khaled’s veins. He drank it with his mother’s milk.” Lavon shook his head. “You know, if I’d been watching your back in France, like I did in the old days, none of this would have happened.”

  “That’s probably true, Eli.”

  Lavon’s street skills were legendary. Shamron always said that Eli Lavon could disappear while shaking your hand. Once a year he went to the Academy to pass along the secrets of his trade to the next generation. Indeed, the watchers who’d been in Marseilles had probably spent time sitting at Lavon’s feet.

  “So what brings you to Armageddon?”

  Gabriel laid a photograph on the tabletop.

  “Handsome devil,” Lavon said. “Who is he?”

  Gabriel laid a second version of the same photo on the table. This one included the figure seated at the subject’s left, Yasir Arafat.

  “Khaled?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “I think you and Khaled might have something in common.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gabriel looked out at the excavation trenches.

  A trio of American students joined them beneath the shade of the tarpaulin. Lavon and Gabriel excused themselvesand walked slowly around the perimeter of the dig. Gabriel told him everything, beginning with the dossier discovered in Milan and ending with the informationNabil Azouri had brought out of Ein al-Hilweh. Lavon listened without asking questions, but Gabriel could see, in Lavon’s clever brown eyes, that he was already making connections and searching for further avenues of exploration. He was more than just a skilled surveillance artist. Like Gabriel, Lavon was the child of Holocaust survivors. After the Wrath of God operation, he had settled in Vienna and opened a small investigative bureau called Wartime Claims and Inquiries. Operating on a shoestring budget, he had managed to track down millions of dollars in looted Jewish assets and had played a significant role in prying a multibillion-dollar settlementfrom the banks of Switzerland. Five months earlier a bomb had exploded at Lavon’s office. Lavon’s two assistants were killed; Lavon, seriously injured, had been in a coma for several weeks. The man who planted the bomb had been working for Erich Radek.

  “So you think Fellah al-Tamari knew Khaled?”

  “Without question.”

  “It seems a bit out of character. To remain hidden all those years, he must have been a careful chap.”

  “That’s true,” Gabriel said, “but he knew that Fellah would be killed in the bombing of the Gare de Lyon and that his secret would be protected. She was in love with him, and he lied to her.”

  “I see your point.”

  “But the most compelling piece of evidence that they knew each other comes from her father. Fellah told him to burn the letters and the photographs she’d sent over the years. That means Khaled must have been in them.”

  “As Khaled?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “It was more threatening than that. She must have mentioned him by his other name—his French name.”

  “So you think Khaled met the girl under ordinary circumstances and recruited her sometime after?”

  “That’s the way he’d play it,” Gabriel said. “That’s how his father would have played it, too.”

  “They could have met anywhere.”

  “Or they could have met somewhere just like this.”

  “A dig?”

  “She was an archaeology student. Maybe Khaled was, too. Or maybe he was a professor, like you.”

  “Or maybe he was just some good-looking Arab guy she met in a bar.”

  “We know her name, Eli. We know she was a student and that she studied archaeology. If we follow the trail of Fellah, it will lead us back to Khaled. I’m sure of it.”

  “So follow the trail.”

  “For obvious reasons, I can’t go back to Europe just yet.”

  “Why not turn it over to the Office and let their searchers do the job?”

  “Because after the fiasco in Paris there’s not going to be an appetite for having another go at Khaled on European soil—at least not officially. Besides, I am the Office, and I’m giving it to you. I want you to find him, Eli. Quietly. That’s your special gift. You know how to do these sorts of things without making a racket.”

  “True, but I’ve lost a step or two.”

  “Are you fit enough to travel?”

  “As long as there’s no rough stuff. That’s your department. I’m the bookish one. You’re the muscle Jew.”

  Lavon dug a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it, cupping his hand against the breeze. He looked out over the Valley of Jezreel for a moment before speaking again.

  “But you always were, weren’t you, Gabriel?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The muscle Jew. You like to play the role of the sensitive artist, but deep down you’re more like Shamron than you realize.”

  “He’s going to kill again. Maybe he’ll wait until next April, or maybe a target will come along sooner— something that will allow him to temporarily quench his thirst for Jewish blood.”

  “Maybe you suffer from the same thirst?”

  “A little,” Gabriel conceded, “but this isn’t about revenge. It’s about justice. And it’s about protecting the lives of innocents. Will you find him for me, Eli?”

  Lavon nodded. “Don’t worry, Gabriel. I’ll find him— before he can kill again.”

  They stood in silence for a moment, looking down at the land.

  “Did we drive them out, Eli?”

  “The Canaanites?”

  “No, Eli. The Arabs.”

  “We certainly didn’t ask them to stay,” Lavon said. “Maybe it was easier that way.”

  A blue sedan was idling in Narkiss Street. Gabriel recognizedthe face of the man seated behind the wheel. He entered the apartment house and climbed quickly up the stairs. Two suitcases stood on the landing, outside the half-open door. Chiara was seated in the living room, dressed in a smart black European two-piece suit and high-heeled shoes. Her face had makeup on it. Gabriel had never seen Chiara with makeup before.
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  “Where are you going?”

  “You know better than to ask me that.”

  “A job?”

  “Yes, of course a job.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Her silence told him she was not coming back.

  “When it’s over, I’m going back to Venice.” Then she added: “To take care of my family.”

  He stood motionless and looked down at her. Chiara’s tears, when they spilled down her cheeks, were black with mascara. To Gabriel they looked like streaks of dirty rain on a statue. She wiped them away and examinedher blackened fingertips, angry at her inability to control her emotions. Then she straightened her back and blinked hard several times.

  “You look disappointed in me, Gabriel.”

  “For what?”

  “Crying. You never cry, do you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  He sat down next to her and tried to hold her hand. She drew it away from him and dabbed at her smudged makeup with a tissue, then she opened a compact case and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

  “I can’t get on a plane looking like this.”

  “Good.”

  “Don’t get any ideas. I’m still leaving. Besides, it’s what you want. You would never tell me to leave—you’re far too decent for that—but I know you want me to go.” She snapped the compact shut. “I don’t blame you. In a strange way, I love you more. I only wish you hadn’t told me that you wanted to marry me.”

  “I did,” he said.

  “Did?”

  “I do want to marry you, Chiara”—he hesitated— “but I can’t. I’m married to Leah.”

  “Fidelity, right, Gabriel? Devotion to duty or to one’s obligations. Loyalty. Faithfulness.”

  “I can’t leave her now, not after what she’s just been put through by Khaled.”

  “In another week, she won’t remember it.” Chiara, noticing the color in Gabriel’s face, took his hand. “God, I’m sorry. Please forget I ever said that.”

  “It’s forgotten.”

  “You’re a fool to let me walk out of here. No one will ever love you the way I’ve loved you.” She stood up. “But we’ll see each other again, I’m sure. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be working for you soon.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Office is swirling with rumors.”

  “It usually is. You shouldn’t pay attention to rumors, Chiara.”

  “I once heard a rumor that you’d never leave Leah to marry me. I wish I’d paid attention to that one.”

  She slung her bag over her shoulder, then bent down and kissed Gabriel’s lips.

  “One last kiss,” she whispered.

  “At least let me drive you to the airport.”

  “The last thing we need is a tearful good-bye at Ben-Gurion.Help me with my bags.”

  He carried the suitcases down and loaded them in the trunk of the car. Chiara climbed into the backseat and closed the door without looking at him. Gabriel stood in the shade of a eucalyptus tree and watched the car drive off. As he walked upstairs to the empty apartment, he realized he hadn’t asked her to stay. Eli had been right. It was easier that way.

  36

  TIBERIAS, ISRAEL

  A week after Chiara’s departure Gabriel drove to Tiberiasfor dinner at the Shamrons’. Yonatan was there, along with his wife and three young children. So was Rimona and her husband. They both had just come off duty and were still in uniform. Shamron, surrounded by his family, seemed happier than Gabriel had seen him in years. After supper he led Yonatan and Gabriel onto the terrace. A bright three-quarter moon was reflected in the calm surface of the Sea of Galilee. Beyond the lake, black and shapeless, loomed the Golan Heights. Shamron liked it best on his terrace, because it faced east toward his enemies. He was content to sit quietly and say nothing for a time while Gabriel and Yonatan talked pessimistically about the matsav—the situation. After a while, Shamron gave Yonatan a look that said he needed to speak to Gabriel privately. “I get the message, Abba,” Yonatan said, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  “He is a colonel in the IDF,” Gabriel said, when Yonatan had gone. “He doesn’t like when you treat him like that.”

  “Yonatan has his line of work, and we have ours.” Shamron adroitly shifted the focus from his personal problems to Gabriel’s. “How’s Leah?”

  “I’m taking her to the Mount of Olives tomorrow to see Dani’s grave.”

  “I assume her doctor has approved this outing?”

  “He’s coming with us, along with half the staff of the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital.”

  Shamron lit a cigarette. “Have you heard from Chiara?”

  “No, and I don’t expect to. Do you know where she is?”

  Shamron looked theatrically at his wristwatch. “If the operation is proceeding as planned, she’s probably sipping brandy in a ski lodge in Zermatt with a certain Swiss gentleman of questionable character. This gentlemanis about to ship a rather large consignment of arms to a Lebanese guerrilla group that doesn’t have our best interests at heart. We’d like to know when that shipment is leaving port and where it’s going.”

  “Please tell me Operations isn’t using my former fiancée as bait in a honey trap.”

  “I’m not privy to the details of the operation, only the overarching goals. As for Chiara, she’s a girl of high moral character. I’m sure she’ll play hard to get with our Helvetian friend.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Shamron said. “Soon you’ll be the one deciding how we use her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The prime minister would like a word with you. He has a job he’d like you to take.”

  “Javelin-catcher?”

  Shamron threw back his head and laughed, then suffereda long, spasmodic fit of coughing.

  “Actually, he wants you to be the next director of Operations.”

  “Me? By the time Lev’s committee of inquiry has finished with me, I’ll be lucky to get a job as a security guard at a café in Ben-Yehuda Street.”

  “You’ll come out of it just fine. Now is not the time for public self-flagellation. Leave that for the Americans. If we have to tell a few half-truths, if we must lie to a country like France that is not interested in our survival, then so be it.”

  “By way of deception, thou shalt do war,” Gabriel said, reciting the motto of the Office. Shamron nodded once and said, “Amen.”

  “Even if I come out of it in one piece, Lev won’t allow me to have Operations.”

  “He won’t have a say in the matter. Lev’s term is ending, and he has few friends in King Saul Boulevard or Kaplan Street. He won’t be invited to stay for a second dance.”

  “So who’s going to be the next chief?”

  “The prime minister and I have a short list of names. None of them are Office. Whoever we select, he’ll need an experienced man running Operations.”

  “I knew it was leading to this,” Gabriel said. “I knew it the moment I saw you in Venice.”

  “I admit my motives are selfish. My term is coming to an end, too. If the prime minister goes, so do I. And this time there won’t be a return from exile. I need you, Gabriel. I need you to keep watch over my creation.”

  “The Office?”

  Shamron shook his head, then lifted his hand toward the land.

  “I know you’ll do it,” Shamron said. “You have no choice. Your mother named you Gabriel for a reason. Michael is the highest, but you, Gabriel, you are the mightiest. You’re the one who defends Israel against its accusers. You’re the angel of judgment—the prince of fire.”

  Gabriel, silent, looked out at the lake. “There’s somethingI need to take care of first.”

  “Eli will find him, especially with the clues you’ve given him. That was a brilliant piece of detective work on your part. But then you always did have that kind of mind.”

  “It was Fellah,” Gabriel sa
id. “She doomed him by telling me her story.”

  “But that’s the Palestinian way. They’re trapped in their narrative of loss and exile. There’s no escaping it.” Shamron leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Are you really sure you want the job of turning Khaled into a martyr? There are other boys who can do it for you.”

  “I know,” he said, “but I need to do it.”

  Shamron sighed heavily. “If you must, but it’s going to be a private affair this time. No teams, no surveillance, nothing Khaled can manipulate to his advantage. Just you and him.”

  “As it should be.”

  A silence fell between them. They watched the runninglights of a fishing boat steaming slowly toward Tiberias.

  “There’s something I need to ask you,” Gabriel said.

  “You want to talk to me about Tochnit Dalet,” Shamron said. “About Beit Sayeed and Sumayriyya.”

  “How did you know?”

  “You’ve been wandering in the wilderness of Palestinianpain for a long time now. It’s only natural.”

  He asked Shamron the same question he’d put to Eli Lavon a week earlier at Megiddo. Did we drive them out?

  “Of course we did,” Shamron said, then hastily he added: “In a few places, under specific circumstances. And if you ask me, we should have driven more out. That was where we went wrong.”

  “You can’t be serious, Ari.”

  “Let me explain,” he said. “History dealt us a losing hand. In 1947, the United Nations decided to give us a scrap of land to found our new state. Remember, four-fifthsof Mandatory Palestine had already been cut away to create the state of Transjordan. Eighty percent! Of the final twenty percent, the United Nations gave us half—ten percent of Mandatory Palestine, the Coastal Plain and the Negev. And still the Arabs said no. Imagine if they’d said yes. Imagine if they’d said yes in 1937, when the Peel Commission recommended partition. How many millions might we have saved? Your grandparents would still be alive. My parents and my sisters might still be alive. But what did the Arabs do? They said no, and they aligned themselves with Hitler and cheered our extermination.”

  “Does that justify expelling them?”

  “No, and that’s not the reason why we did it. They were expelled as a consequence of war, a war they initiated.The land the UN gave us contained five hundred thousand Jews and four hundred thousand Arabs. Those Arabs were a hostile force, committed to our destruction.We knew that the minute we declared our independencewe were going to be the target of a pan-Arab military invasion. We had to prepare the battlefield. We couldn’t fight two wars at the same time. We couldn’t fight the Egyptians and the Jordanians with one hand while battling the Arabs of Beit Sayeed and Sumayriyya with the other. They had to go.”