“Of course I know what you did for your honeymoon. The whole country knows what you did for your honeymoon.”
Shamron smiled. It was an exaggeration, of course, but only a slight one. Within the corridors and conference rooms of the Israeli intelligence and security services, Ari Shamron was a legend. He had penetrated the courts of kings, stolen the secrets of tyrants, and killed the enemies of Israel, sometimes with his bare hands. His crowning achievement had come on a rainy night in May 1960, in a squalid suburb north of Buenos Aires, when he had leapt from the back of a car and seized Adolf Eichmann, architect of the Holocaust. Even now, Shamron could not go out in public in Israel without being approached by aging survivors who simply wanted to touch the hands that had clamped around the neck of the monster.
“Gilah and I were married in April of ’forty-seven, at the height of the War of Independence. I put my foot on a glass, our friends and family shouted ‘Mazel tov,’ then I kissed my new wife and went back to join my Palmach unit.”
“They were different times, Ari.”
“Not so different. We were fighting for survival then and we fight for survival now.” Shamron scrutinized Gabriel for a long moment through his spectacles. “But you already know that, don’t you, Gabriel? That explains why you simply didn’t ignore my message and return to your villa in Umbria.”
“I should have ignored your original summons. Then I wouldn’t be back here.” He made a show of looking around the dreary furnishings. “Back in this room.”
“I wasn’t the one who summoned you. Boris Ostrovsky did. Then he had the terrible misfortune of dying in your arms. And now you’re going to find out who killed him and why. Under the circumstances, it is the least you can do for him.”
Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch. “Did Eli make it in all right?”
They had traveled on separate planes and by different routes. Lavon had taken the direct flight from Fiumicino to Ben-Gurion; Gabriel had flown first to Frankfurt, where he had spent three hours waiting for a connecting flight. He had put the time to good use by walking several miles through Frankfurt ’s endless terminals, searching his tail for Russian assassins.
“Eli’s already inside King Saul Boulevard undergoing a rather unpleasant debriefing. When they’re finished with him, they’d like a crack at you as well. As you might expect, Amos is unhappy about the way things turned out in Rome. Given his precarious position, he wants to make certain that you’re the one who gets the blame rather than him.”
Amos Sharret was the director of the Office. Like nearly everyone else at the top of Israel ’s security and military establishment, he had come under intense criticism for his performance during the most recent war in Lebanon and was now hanging on to the reins of power by his fingernails. Shamron and his allies in the Prime Minister’s Office were quietly trying to pry them loose.
“Someone should tell Amos that I’m not interested in his job.”
“He wouldn’t believe it. Amos sees enemies everywhere. It’s a professionalaffliction.” Shamron inched toward the edge of his chair and used his cane to leverage himself upright. “Come,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”
An armored Peugeot limousine was waiting outside in the secure VIP parking area. They climbed into the back and headed toward the Judean Hills.
“There were developments in Rome this evening after you boarded your flight in Frankfurt. The Italian Ministry of Justice sent a letter to the Vatican, formally requesting permission to take over the investigation into Ostrovsky’s death. I don’t suppose I have to tell you how the Vatican responded.”
“Donati agreed immediately.”
“Actually, it was the Vatican secretary of state who issued the formal response, but I’m sure your friend the monsignor was whispering into his ear. The Italian police have taken possession of Ostrovsky’s body and removed all his luggage and personal effects from his room at the Excelsior. Hazmat teams are now searching the hotel for evidence of poisons and other toxins. As for the Basilica, it’s been cordoned off and is being treated as a crime scene. The Ministry of Justice has asked all those who witnessed the death to come forward immediately. I suppose that would include you.” Shamron scrutinized Gabriel for a moment. “It seems to me your position vis-à-vis Boris Ostrovsky is somewhat tenuous at the moment.”
“Donati has promised to keep my name out of it.”
“God knows the Vatican is good at keeping secrets, but surely there are others there who know about your connection to this affair. If one of them wants to embarrass Donati-or us, for that matter-all they have to do is make a quiet phone call to the Polizia di Stato.”
“Boris Ostrovsky was killed by a professional Russian assassin in St. Peter’s Square.” Gabriel removed a manila folder from the side flap of his bag and handed it to Shamron. “And these pictures prove it.”
Shamron switched on his overhead reading light and examined the photos. “It’s a brazen act, even by Russian standards. Ostrovsky must have known something very important for them to resort to this.”
“I take it you have a theory?”
“Unfortunately, we do.” Shamron slipped the photos back into the file folder and switched off the lamp. “Our good friends in the Kremlin have been selling sophisticated weapons systems to the rogue regimes of the Middle East at an unprecedented rate. The mullahs of Iran are one of their best customers, but they’ve also been selling antiaircraft and antitank systems to their old friends in Damascus. We’ve been picking up reports that the Syrians and the Kremlin are about to close a major deal involving an advanced Russian missile known as the Iskander. It’s a road-mobile weapon with a range of one hundred seventy miles, which means Tel Aviv would be well within Syria ’s range. I don’t need to explain the ramifications of that to you.”
“It would alter the strategic balance in the Middle East overnight.”
Shamron nodded his head slowly. “And unfortunately, given the track record of the Kremlin, it’s only one of many unsettling possibilities. The entire region is bristling with rumors of some kind of new deal somewhere. We’ve been hammering away at the issue for months. So far, we’ve been unable to come up with anything we can take to the prime minister. I’m afraid he’s beginning to get annoyed.”
“It’s part of his job description.”
“And mine.” Shamron smiled humorlessly. “All of this goes to explain why we were so interested in having you meet with Boris Ostrovsky in the first place. And why we would now like you to travel to Russia to find out what he intended to say to you.”
“Me? I’ve never set foot in Russia. I don’t know the terrain. I don’t even speak the language.”
“You have something more important than local knowledge and language.”
“What’s that?”
“A name and a face that the extremely nervous staff of Moscovsky Gazeta will recognize.”
“Chances are, the Russian security services will recognize it, too.”
“We have a plan for that,” Shamron said.
The Old Man smiled. He had a plan for everything.