The Fallen Angel

his. And at the faces of the four Hezbollah terrorists who had been killed in Vienna. And at Massoud Rahimi riding a streetcar in Zurich. And at the text of the priority message that had gone out the previous evening to all Iranian intelligence stations and bases. Then, finally, she stared at the team’s battered television, where a small man in white was making his way slowly down the Via Dolorosa toward the church that Saladin had referred to as “the Dungheap.”

Blood never sleeps. . . .

And then she understood. She couldn’t prove any of it, just as she couldn’t prove that the man on the streetcar had been Massoud, but she knew it. And so she snatched up the receiver of her phone and dialed the extension for Uzi Navot’s office. Orit, his unhelpful executive secretary, answered after the first ring. Inside King Saul Boulevard, she was known as “the Iron Dome” because of her unrivaled ability to shoot down requests for a moment with the chief.

“Not possible,” she said. “He’s completely swamped.”

“It’s urgent, Orit. I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t.”

Navot’s secretary knew better than to ask what it was about. “I can give you two minutes,” she said.

“That’s all I need.”

“Get up here. I’ll squeeze you in as soon as I can.”

“Actually, I need him to come to me.”

“You’re pushing it, Dina.”

“Tell him if he wants there to be an Israel next week, he’ll drop everything and get down here right away.”

Dina hung up the phone and stared at the television. The pope had just arrived at the sixth station of the cross, the spot where Veronica wiped the face of Jesus.

“We adore thee, O Christ, and we praise thee.”

Blood never sleeps. . . .

42 TEL AVIV–JERUSALEM

“ARE YOU JOKING, DINA?”

With her expression, she made clear she wasn’t.

“Walk me through it,” Navot said.

“There isn’t time.”

“Make time.”

She pointed to a photo of the ruined Galleria Naxos in St. Moritz.

“What about it?”

“According to Massoud, David Girard knew that Gabriel was investigating the murder of Claudia Andreatti at the Vatican and that Gabriel had gotten too close to Carlo Marchese.”

“Go on.”

“Why was Girard still in Europe? Why didn’t he pull up stakes and head back to Hezbollah Land?”

“Because they wanted to leave him there as bait for Gabriel.”

“Correct. But why?”

“Because they wanted to kill him for blowing up their centrifuges.”

“It’s possible, Uzi. But I don’t think so. I think they wanted Gabriel to come to St. Moritz for another reason.”

“What’s that?”

“Taqiyya.” Dina pointed to another photo—the Iranian assassin named Ali Montezari and the El Greco girl who served as his accomplice. “They gave the job to someone we would recognize. They wanted us to know they were behind it.”

“Why?”

“Because they also wanted us to find this.” She was pointing to another photo—Massoud and Girard, side by side on a Zurich streetcar. “I checked the weather in Zurich on the day this picture was taken. The sun was shining, but it was bitterly cold.”

“Why is the weather important?”

“Because Massoud isn’t wearing gloves.” She pointed to the bandage on the back of his right hand. “He wasn’t wearing gloves because he wanted us to see it.” She paused, then whispered, “He wanted me to see it.”

“You’re saying Massoud wanted us to know he was linked to David Girard and the bombing of the gallery?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“Taqiyya,” she said again.

Navot’s expression had lost any trace of skepticism. “Keep going.”

“The Iranians dangled Massoud in front of us and left us no choice but to bite by bombarding us with chatter about a coming terrorist attack and putting Hezbollah’s forces on the move in southern Lebanon. It was a classic feint. And it had but one purpose. Taqiyya.”

“Displaying one intention while harboring another.”

Dina nodded.

“But the cell in Vienna was real.”

“True. But it was never going to be allowed to carry out its assignment. Massoud always planned to reveal its existence to us in dramatic fashion, leaving just enough time for us to act.”

“You’re saying the cell was taqiyya?”

She nodded. “It was like General Patton’s ghost army during the Second World War, the one the Allies put in East Anglia to make the Germans think the invasion of France would come at Calais instead of Normandy. The British and American deception officers filled the airwaves with false signals because they knew the Germans were listening. Even after the first troops landed on the beaches, the German army was paralyzed by indecision because they believed the decisive battle of the war would be fought at Calais.”

“So under your scenario, Vienna was Calais.”

“It’s not my scenario. It’s Massoud’s.”

“Prove it.”

“I can’t.”

“Do the best you can, Dina.”

She showed Navot the two steganographic images that had been discovered by Unit 8200. Navot furrowed his brow.

“David Girard standing in a cave, and a map that looks as though it was drawn by a five-year-old.”

“But look what happens when you compare that crude map to this.”

Using her computer, Dina superimposed the image over a map of the Temple Mount.

“Close,” Navot said.

“Close enough.” Dina quickly explained her theory about the significance of the number 689, that it represented the depth of the underground cavern where David Girard was standing in the photo.

“Are you certain he sent those images to Massoud?”

“No. But we have no choice but to assume that was the case.”

“Why would he?”

“Because he’s a classical archaeologist, not a geologist or an engineer. He needed someone with the right background to run the numbers for him.”

“What numbers?”

“He needed to know how much high explosive he would need to bring down the Temple Mount.”

Navot’s face was now ashen. “Who’s the other man in the photograph?”