The Fallen Angel

with tears, and prayed for the screaming of sirens.

35 VIENNA

AUSTRIA’S FEDERAL MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR occupied a magnificent old Hapsburg palace at Herengasse 7. Deep within the massive structure was a crisis center and situation room that had been constructed in the tense days after 9/11, when everyone in Europe, including the Austrians, assumed they were next on al- Qaeda’s hit list. Fortunately, Jonas Kessler had set foot in the crisis center only one time. It was the night Erich Radek was captured by the same man who now held Kessler’s career in the palm of his hand.

The center was arranged like a small amphitheater. On the lower level, in a space the staff referred to as “the pit,” liaison officers from the various branches of the Austrian Federal Police and security services sat at three common tables crowded with phones and computers. The more senior staff sat in an ascending staircase of workstations, with the uppermost deck reserved for chiefs, ministers, and, if necessary, the federal chancellor himself.

At 5:35, Jonas Kessler settled into his assigned seat, with the interior minister on one side and Uzi Navot on the other. Next to Navot was Ari Shamron. He was twirling his old Zippo lighter between his fingertips and staring at the largest image on the video display wall. It showed the exterior of the apartment house at Koppstrasse 34. At 5:50, the exact time Gabriel had predicted, four young Lebanese men emerged from the entrance. Each wore a heavy woolen overcoat. Their faces were clean-shaven, a sign they had ritually prepared themselves for the virginal delights that awaited them in Paradise.

The four Arabs walked two blocks to the Thaliastrasse and descended into a U-Bahn station. At 5:55, they boarded a train—separate carriages, just as Gabriel had said they would. Watching them on the video monitors, Kessler swore softly beneath his breath. Then he looked at Navot and Shamron.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” he said.

“Then don’t,” Shamron replied darkly. “Not until it’s over.”

“Bad karma?” asked Kessler.

Shamron made no reply other than to twirl his lighter nervously between his fingertips. He didn’t believe in karma. He believed in God. And he believed in his angel of vengeance, Gabriel Allon.

Regrettably, this was not the first time Arab terrorists had targeted Vienna’s historic Stadttempel. In 1981, two people were killed and thirty were wounded when Palestinian militants attacked a Bar Mitzvah party using machine guns and hand grenades. As a result of the attack, those wishing to enter the synagogue now had to pass through a cordon of youthful Israeli-born security guards. Members of the local Jewish community were usually admitted without delay, but visitors had to endure a maddening cross-examination and a search of their belongings. It was about as pleasant as boarding an El Al airplane.

Most of the guards were veterans of the diplomatic protection arm of Shabak, Israel’s internal security service. As a result, the two on duty that night recognized Yaakov Rossman as he approached the synagogue, trailed by Oded and Eli Lavon. Yaakov pulled the two guards aside and, as calmly as possible, told them that the synagogue was about to be attacked. Then he rattled off a quick set of instructions. The two guards immediately entered the offices of the Jewish community center, leaving Yaakov and Oded to handle security in the street. Eli Lavon, a former member of the community, covered his head with a kippah and entered the synagogue. Old habits die hard, he thought, even in wartime.

As usual, a small crowd of congregants was milling in the foyer. Lavon picked his way through them and entered the beautiful oval sanctuary. Looking up toward the women’s gallery, he saw faces aglow with candlelight between the Ionic columns. Their male relatives were now settling into their seats on the lower level. As Lavon walked past them and mounted the bimah, several heads turned in bewilderment. Then a few smiles appeared. It had been a long time since they had seen him.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Lavon began, his voice calm and pleasant. “It’s quite possible that some of you might remember me, but that’s not important right now. What is important is that you all leave the sanctuary through the back door as quickly and quietly as possible.”

Lavon had been expecting a Talmudic debate on why such a step was necessary, or even whether it was possible on the Sabbath. Instead, he watched in wonder as the congregants rose to their feet and followed his instructions to the letter. In his earpiece, he could hear a voice in German saying the four Hezbollah operatives had just changed onto a Number 3 U-Bahn train bound for the Innere Stadt. He looked at his watch. The time was 6:05. They were right on schedule.

At the far end of the Rotenturmstrasse, just a few paces from the banks of the Donaukanal, is a café called Aida. The awning that shades its tables is Miami pink, as is the exterior of the building, making it, arguably, the ugliest café in all of Vienna. In another lifetime, under another name, Gabriel had brought his son to Aida most afternoons for chocolate gelato. Now he sat there with Mikhail Abramov. Four members of EKO Cobra were huddled around a nearby table, as inconspicuous as a Times Square billboard. Gabriel had his back turned to the street, the weight of the .45-caliber Beretta tugging at his shoulder. Mikhail was drumming his fingers nervously on the tabletop.

“How long do you intend to do that?” asked Gabriel.

“Until I see those four boys from Hezbollah.”

“It’s giving me a headache.”

“You’ll live.” Mikhail’s fingers went still. “I wish we didn’t have to let him go.”

“Massoud?”

Mikhail nodded.

“I gave him my word.”

“He’s a murderer.”

“But I’m not,” said Gabriel. “And neither are you.”

“What if he wasn’t telling you the truth? Then you wouldn’t have to live up to your end of the bargain.”

“If four suicide bombers from Hezbollah come walking up that street in a few minutes,” Gabriel said, nodding toward the window, “we’ll know he was telling us the truth.”

Mikhail started drumming his fingers again. “Maybe we don’t actually have to kill him,” he said philosophically. “Maybe we could just . . . forget him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that Yossi and the others could just drive away from that house in Denmark with Massoud still chained to the wall. Eventually, someone would find his skeleton.”

“A dishonest mistake? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Shit happens.”

“It would still be murder.”

“No, it wouldn’t. It would be death by negligence.”

“I’m afraid that’s a distinction without a difference.”

“Exactly.” Mikhail opened his mouth to continue, but he could see Gabriel was listening to the radio.

“What is it?”

“They’re getting off the train.”

“Where?”

“The Stephansplatz.”

“Right where Massoud said they would.”

Gabriel nodded.

“I still think we should kill him.”

“You mean forget him.”

“That, too.”

“We’re not murderers, Mikhail. We are preventers of murder.”

“Let’s hope so. Otherwise, they’re going to have to pick us off the street with tweezers.”

“It’s better to think positive thoughts.”