The defector

“A safe flat up in Montmartre. Olga and I will stay here and get better acquainted. Shamron would like a word with you. In private.”

“About what?”

“He didn’t tell me. After all, I’m only the chief of Special Ops.”

Navot looked down at his menu and frowned.

“No potted chicken. You know how much I loved the potted chicken at Jo Goldenberg. The only thing better than the potted chicken was the borscht.”

21

MONTMARTRE, PARIS

THE APARTMENT house stood in the eastern fringes of Montmartre, next to the cemetery. It had a tidy interior courtyard and an elegant staircase covered by a well-worn runner. The flat was on the third floor; from the window of the comfortably furnished sitting room, it might have been possible to see the white dome of Sacre-Coeur had Shamron not been blocking the view. Hearing the sound of the door, he turned round slowly and stared at Gabriel for a long moment, as if debating whether to have him shot or thrown to the wild dogs. He was wearing a gray pin-striped suit and a costly silk necktie the color of polished silver. It made him look like an aging Middle European businessman who made money in shady ways and never lost at baccarat.

“We missed you at lunch, Ari.”

“I don’t eat lunch.”

“Not even when you’re in Paris?”

“I loathe Paris. Especially in winter.”

He fished a cigarette case from the breast pocket of his jacket and thumbed open the lid.

“I thought you’d finally given up smoking.”

“And I thought you were in Italy finishing a painting.” Shamron removed a cigarette, tapped the end three times on the lid, and slipped it between his lips. “And you wonder why I won’t retire.”

His lighter flared. It was not the battered old Zippo he carried at home but a sleek silver device that, at Shamron’s command, produced a blue finger of flame. The cigarette, however, was his usual brand. Unfiltered and Turkish, it emitted an acrid odor that was as unique to Shamron as his trademark walk and his unyielding will to crush anyone foolish enough to oppose him.

To describe the influence of Ari Shamron on the defense and security of the State of Israel was tantamount to explaining the role played by water in the formation and maintenance of life on earth. In many respects, Ari Shamron was the State of Israel. He had fought in the war that led to Israel’s reconstitution and had spent the subsequent sixty years protecting the country from a host of enemies bent on its destruction. His star had burned brightest in times of war and crisis. He was named director of the Office for the first time not long after the disaster of the 1973 Yom Kippur War and served longer than any chief before or after him. When a series of public scandals dragged the reputation of the Office down to the lowest point in its history, he was called out of retirement and, with Gabriel’s help, restored the Office to its former glory. His second retirement, like his first, was involuntary. In some quarters, it was likened to the destruction of the Second Temple.

Shamron’s role now was that of an eminence grise. Though he no longer had a formal position or title, he remained the hidden hand that guided Israel’s security policies. It was not unusual to enter his home at midnight and find several men crowded around the kitchen table in their shirtsleeves, shouting at one another through a dense cloud of cigarette smoke-and poor Gilah, his long-suffering wife, sitting in the next room with her needle- point and her Mozart, waiting for the boys to leave so that she could see to the dishes.

“You’ve managed to create quite a row on the other side of the English Channel, my son. But then, that’s become your specialty.” Shamron exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, where it swirled in the half-light like gathering storm clouds. “Your friend Graham Seymour is apparently fighting for his job. Mazel tov, Gabriel. Not bad for three days’ work.”

“Graham will survive. He always does.”

“At what cost?” Shamron asked of no one but himself. “Downing Street and the top ranks of MI5 and MI6 are in an uproar over your actions. They’re making unpleasant noises about suspending cooperation with us on a broad range of sensitive issues. We need them right now, Gabriel. And so do you.”

“Why me?”

“Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, but the mullahs in Tehran are about to complete their nuclear weapon. Our new prime minister and I share a similar philosophy. We don’t believe in sitting around while others plot our destruction. And when people talk about wiping us off the face of the earth, we choose to take them at their word. We both lost our families in the first Holocaust, and we’re not going to lose our country to a second-at least, not without a fight.”

Shamron removed his eyeglasses and inspected the lenses for impurity. “If we are forced to attack Iran, we can expect a ferocious response from their proxy army in Lebanon: Hezbollah. You should know that a delegation from Hezbollah made a secret trip to Moscow recently to do a bit of shopping. And they weren’t looking for nesting dolls and fur hats. They went to see your old friend Ivan Kharkov. Word is, Ivan sold them three thousand Kor net vehicle-mounted antitank weapons, along with several thousand RPG 32s. Apparently, he also gave them a nice discount since he knew they’d be using the weapons against us.”

“We’re sure it was Ivan?”

“We heard his name mentioned in several intercepts.” Shamron put on his eyeglasses again and scrutinized Gabriel for a moment. “With adversaries like Iran, Hezbollah, and Ivan Kharkov, we need friends wherever we can find them, Gabriel. That’s why we need good relations with the British.” Shamron paused. “And it’s why I need you to end your honeymoon without end and come home.”

Gabriel could see where this was headed. He decided not to make Shamron’s task any easier by posing a leading question. Shamron, visibly annoyed by the calculated silence, stabbed out his cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table.

“Our new prime minister has been an admirer of yours for many years. The same cannot be said of his feelings toward the current director of the Office. He and Amos served briefly together in AMAN, Israel’s military intelligence service. Their hatred was mutual and persists to this day. Amos will not survive long. Last week, over a private dinner, the prime minister asked me who I wanted to be the next chief of the Office. I gave him your name, of course.”

“I’ve made it abundantly clear I’m not interested in the job.”

“I’ve heard this speech before. It’s tiresome. More to the point, it does not reflect current realities. The State of Israel is facing a threat unlike any in its history. If you haven’t noticed, we’re not very popular right now. And the Iranian threat means even greater instability and potential violence across the region. What do you intend to do, Gabriel? Sit on your farm in Italy and restore paintings for the pope?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not realistic.”

“Perhaps not to you, Ari, but it’s what I intend to do. I’ve given my life to the Office. I’ve lost my son. I’ve lost one wife. I’ve shed the blood of other men and my own blood. I’m finished. Tell the prime minister to choose someone else.”

“He needs you. The country needs you.”

“You’re being a bit hyperbolic, don’t you think?”

“No, just honest. The country has lost faith in its political leaders. Our society is beginning to fray. The people need someone they can believe in. Someone they can trust. Someone beyond reproach.”

“I was an assassin. I’m hardly beyond reproach.”

“You were a soldier on the secret battlefield. You gave justice to those who could not seek it themselves.”

“And I lost everything in the process. I almost lost myself.”

“But your life has been restored, just like one of your paintings. You have Chiara. Who knows? Perhaps soon