Carter had just completed a two-week regional tour, conferring with intelligence chiefs from the Persian Gulf to North Africa. King Saul Boulevard was his last stop. “Nothing, I’m afraid,” he said. “But we’ve heard a few whispers from some of our other sources.”
Shamron raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
“They tell us that the word on the street is that Tariq was behind the attack in Paris.”
“Tariq has been quiet for some time. Why would he pull something like Paris now?”
“Because he’s desperate,” Carter said. “Because the two sides are getting closer to a deal, and Tariq would like nothing better than to spoil the party. And because Tariq sees himself as a man of history, and history is about to pass him by.”
“It’s an interesting theory, but we’ve seen no evidence to suggest Tariq was involved.”
“If you did receive such evidence, you’d share it with us, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t need to remind you that an American citizen was murdered along with your ambassador. The president has made a promise to the American people that her killer will be brought to justice. I plan to help him keep that promise.”
“You can count on the support of this service,” Shamron said piously.
“If it was Tariq, we’d like to find him and bring him to the United States for trial. But we won’t be able to do that if he turns up dead someplace, filled with twenty-two-caliber bullet holes.”
“ Adrian, what are you trying to say to me?”
“What I’m saying is that the man in the big white house on Pennsylvania Avenue wants the situation handled in a civilized fashion. If it turns out Tariq was the one who killed Emily Parker in Paris, he wants him tried in an American courtroom. No eye-for-an-eye bullshit on this one, Ari. No back-alley execution.”
“We obviously have a difference of opinion about how best to deal with a man like Tariq.”
“The president also believes a reprisal killing at this time might not be in the best interests of the peace process. He believes that if you were to respond with an assassination, you’d be playing into the hands of those who wish to bring it down.”
“And what would the president have us do when terrorists murder our diplomats in cold blood?”
“Show some fucking restraint! In our humble opinion it might be wiser for you to lean on the ropes for a couple of rounds and absorb a few blows to the body if you have to. Give the negotiators room to maneuver. If the radicals hit after you have a deal in place, then by all means hit back. But don’t make matters worse now by seeking revenge.”
Shamron leaned forward and rubbed his hands together. “I can assure you, Adrian, that neither the Office nor any other branch of the Israeli security services is planning any operation against any member of any Arab terror group-including Tariq.”
“I admire your prudence and courage. So will the president.”
“And I respect you for your bluntness.”
“I’d like to offer a friendly piece of advice if I may.”
“Please,” said Shamron.
“ Israel has entered into agreements with several Western intelligence services pledging it would not conduct operations on the soil of those countries without first notifying the host intelligence service. I can assure you, the Agency and its friends will react harshly if those agreements are breached.”
“That sounds more like a warning than a word of advice between friends.”
Carter smiled and sipped his coffee.
The prime minister was working through a stack of papers at his desk when Shamron entered the room. Shamron sat down and quickly briefed him on his meeting with the man from the CIA. “I know Adrian Carter too well,” Shamron said. “He’s a good poker player. He knows more than he’s saying. He’s telling me to back off or there’s going to be trouble.”
“Or he suspects something but doesn’t have enough to come straight out with it,” the prime minister said. “You have to decide which is the case.”
“I need to know if you still want me to carry out the operation under these new circumstances.”
The prime minister finally looked up from his paperwork. “And I need to know whether you can carry out the operation without the CIA finding out about it.”
“I can.”
“Then do it, and don’t fuck it up.”
EIGHTEEN
Valbonne, Provence
The afternoon had turned colder. Jacqueline made sandwiches while Gabriel stacked olive wood in the fireplace and set it alight with newspaper. He was squatting on his haunches, watching the thin flames lick the wood. Every few seconds he would reach into the fire and make some minor adjustment in the disposition of the kindling or the attitude of one of the larger pieces of wood. He seemed capable of holding the hot wood for a long time without discomfort. Finally he stood upright and patted his hands together to remove the remnants of wood dust and soot. He moves with such ease, Jacqueline thought-a dancer lifting from a deep knee bend. He seemed somehow younger. Less gray in his hair, eyes clearer and brighter.
She placed the food on a tray and carried it into the living room. For years she had imagined a scene like this. In a sense she had made this room for Gabriel, decorated it in a way she imagined he might like-the stone floor, the rustic rugs, the comfortable furnishings.
She placed the tray on a coffee table and sat down on the couch. Gabriel sat next to her and spooned sugar into his coffee. Yes, this is how it would be if we had ended up together. A simple meal, a drive into the mountains, a stroll through an ancient hill town. Perhaps down to the coast to wander the Old Port of Cannes or take in a film at the cinema. Then home to make love in the firelight. Stop it, Jacqueline.
Gabriel said, “I’m working for the Office again, and I need your help.”
So, it was just business after all. Gabriel had been pulled back in, and he needed her for a job. He was going to pretend the past had never happened. Perhaps it was easier that way.
“Ari told me you’d left the Office.”
“He asked me to come back for one job. You know how Shamron can be when he wants something.”
“I remember,” Jacqueline said. “Listen, Gabriel, I don’t know quite how to say this, so I’ll just say it. I’m very sorry about what happened in Vienna.”
He looked away, his eyes cold and expressionless. Clearly, Leah was off-limits. Jacqueline had seen a photograph of her once. Gabriel’s wife looked just the way she had imagined-a dark-haired Sabra, brimming with the kind of fire and confidence that Jacqueline had longed to possess when she was a Jew growing up in France. The fact that he had chosen a woman like Leah had only made Jacqueline love Gabriel more.
He abruptly changed the subject. “I assume you heard about the attack on our ambassador in Paris?”
“Of course. It was terrible.”
“Shamron is convinced Tariq was behind the attack.”
“And he wants you to find him?”
Gabriel nodded.
“Why you, Gabriel? You’ve been out of the game so long. Why not use one of his other katsas?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, the Office has had more disasters than successes lately.”
“Tariq has managed to stay one step ahead of the Office for years. How are you supposed to find him now?”
“Shamron has identified one of his agents in London. I’ve put a tap on his telephone at work, but I need to bug his flat so I can find out who he’s talking to and what he’s saying. If we’re lucky, we might be able to learn where Tariq is planning to strike next.”
“Why do you need me?”
“I need you to help me get inside his flat.”
“Why do you need my help? You know how to pick a lock and plant a bug.”
“That’s just the point. I don’t want to have to pick his lock. Break-ins are risky. If he figures out someone has been in his flat, then we lose the advantage. I want you to get inside his flat for me, make a copy of his keys, and check out what kind of telephone he has so I can produce a duplicate.”