perhaps there was a deal to be made. But how to convince him to accept the outstretched hand? And who to extend it in the first place?
“Why me?” asked Eli Lavon incredulously.
“Because you’re the least threatening person in this house,” Gabriel said. “And because you haven’t laid a finger on him.”
“I don’t interrogate people. I just follow them.”
“You don’t have to ask him anything, Eli. Just let him know that I’m willing to discuss a generous plea bargain.”
Lavon spent five minutes alone with the monster and then came back upstairs.
“How did it go?”
“Other than the part about threatening to kill me, I thought it went as well as could be expected.”
“How long should we give him?”
“An hour should be enough.”
They gave him two instead.
The next time Massoud was escorted into the makeshift courtroom, he was shivering uncontrollably, and his lips were blue with cold. Gabriel seemed not to notice. He had eyes only for the file that was open before him on the table.
“It has come to our attention that during your time in Berlin, you have been less than forthright in your use of VEVAK operational funds,” Gabriel said. “Obviously, this is of no concern to us. But as fellow tradesmen, we feel duty bound to report it to your superiors in Tehran. When we do, I’m afraid they’ll want to secure your release for reasons other than your personal well-being.”
“More Jewish lies,” Massoud responded.
Gabriel smiled and then proceeded to recite a series of account numbers and corresponding values.
“Those are all legitimate accounts used for legitimate purposes,” Massoud replied calmly.
“So you have no objection to us telling your superiors at VEVAK about them?”
“I don’t work for VEVAK.”
“Yes, you do, Massoud. And that means you have a way out of your current circumstances.” Gabriel paused, then added, “If I were in your position, I’d take it.”
“Perhaps I’m not as talkative as you, Allon.”
“Ah,” said Gabriel, smiling, “so you recognize me after all.”
“You do have a way of getting your face into the newspaper.”
Gabriel turned a page in his file. “You face serious charges, Massoud. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“How do you plead?”
Silence . . .
Gabriel looked up from the file.
“How do you plead, Massoud?” he asked gently.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to answer a few questions.”
“Then what?”
“If you tell me the truth, you’ll be released. If you lie to me, I’ll tell your superiors in Tehran that you’ve been stealing money from them. And then they’ll put a bullet in your head.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because at this moment, I’m your only friend in the world.”
The Iranian made no reply.
“How do you plead, Massoud?”
“What do you want to know?”
32
KANDESTEDERNE, DENMARK
THEY GAVE HIM A HOT shower at gunpoint and dressed him in a blue-and-white tracksuit, extra large to fit his bulky frame. A plate of food awaited him in the dining room, along with a cup of sweetened Persian tea. Despite his intense hunger, and the fact that they gave him no utensils other than a harmless plastic spoon, he managed to eat with dignity.
“Nothing for you?” he asked, nodding toward the empty table in front of Gabriel.
“I wouldn’t be able to keep it down.”
“Don’t be so judgmental, Allon. We’re professionals, you and I.”
“You’re a murderer.”
“So are you.”
Gabriel glanced at Yaakov, and the food was removed. Massoud showed no anger.
“First rule of interrogation, Allon. Don’t let the subject get under your skin.”
“Second rule, Massoud. Don’t piss off the interrogator.”
“I’d like to smoke.”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you would be good enough to allow me to pray.”
“If you must.”
“I must,” replied Massoud. “What time is it?”
“Isha.”
“Which direction is Mecca?”
Gabriel pointed to the right. Massoud smiled.
“Third rule of interrogation, Allon. Don’t tell the subject where he is.”
“You’re in hell, Massoud. And the only way you’re going to get out is to tell me the truth.”
He prayed for thirty minutes. When he was finished, Mikhail and Yaakov started to secure him to the metal chair, but Gabriel intervened and in Hebrew said the restraints would not be necessary. Massoud furrowed his brow, as though he did not understand, which Gabriel suspected was not the case. He permitted the Iranian to eat the remainder of his dinner. Then, afterward, he gave him a fresh glass of warm tea.
“How beneficent of you,” remarked Massoud.
“I assure you my motives are entirely selfish,” Gabriel responded. “We have a long night ahead of us.”
“Where would you like to start?”
“The beginning.”
“In the beginning,” Massoud recited, “God created the heavens and the earth. Then he created the Jews and ruined the whole thing.”
“Let’s advance the calendar a few years, shall we?”
“How far?”
“David Girard,” answered Gabriel, “aka Daoud Ghandour.”
It was not possible to tell the story of Daoud Ghandour, he said, without first telling the story of Israel’s ill- fated occupation of Lebanon. At first, Gabriel was reluctant to give Massoud a platform to engage in triumphalist breast-beating, but he quickly realized it was a rare opportunity that could not be spurned. And so he sat patiently, his hands folded on the table, as Massoud recounted how the Iranians had skillfully exploited the chaos in Lebanon to create a death trap for hundreds of Israeli soldiers. “You came to Lebanon to destroy the PLO,” he said, taunting Gabriel ever so slightly, “and in its place you left Hezbollah.”
As Massoud continued, he shed the mantle of the aggrieved political hostage and adopted the air of a university professor leading a small seminar. Watching him, Gabriel understood why he had prospered in the cutthroat world of the Revolutionary Guard and VEVAK. In a parallel universe, Massoud might have been a
