Prince of Fire

She lapsed into silence and looked out the window.

“Look at the snow,” she said. “God, how I hate this city, but the snow makes it beautiful. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins.”

Gabriel searched his memory for the first time he’d heard those words and then remembered. They’d been walking from the restaurant to the car. Dani had been sitting atop his shoulders. The snow absolves Vienna of its sins. Snow falls on Vienna while the missiles rain down on Tel Aviv.

“It’s beautiful,” he agreed, trying to prevent a note of despondency from creeping into his voice. “But we’re not in Vienna. We’re in Paris. Do you remember? The girl brought you to Paris.”

She was no longer listening to him. “Hurry, Gabriel,” she said. “I want to talk to my mother. I want to hear the sound of my mother’s voice.”

Please, Leah, he thought. Turn back. Don’t do this to yourself.

“We’ll call her right away,” he said.

“Make sure Dani is buckled into his seat tightly. The streets are slippery.”

He’s fine, Leah, Gabriel had said that night. Be careful driving home.

“I’ll be careful,” she said. “Give me a kiss.”

He leaned over and pressed his lips against Leah’s ruined cheek.

“One last kiss,” she whispered.

Then her eyes opened wide. Gabriel held her scarred hand and looked away.

MADAME TOUZET poked her head from her apartment as Martineau entered the foyer.

“Professor Martineau, thank God it’s you. I was worried to death. Were you there? Was it terrible?”

He had been a few hundred meters away from the station at the time of the explosion, he told her truthfully. And yes, it was terrible, though not as terrible as he had hoped. The station should have been demolished by the destructive force of three suitcase bombs. Obviously something had gone wrong.

“I’ve just made some chocolate. Will you sit with me and watch the television? I do hate to watch such a horrible business alone.”

“I’m afraid I’ve had a terribly long day, Madame Touzet. I’m going to turn in early.”

“A Paris landmark, in ruins. What’s next, Professor? Who could do such a thing?”

“Muslims, I suppose, although one never knows the motivations of someone who could commit an act as barbaric as this. I suspect we may never know the truth.”

“Do you think it might have been a conspiracy?”

“Drink your chocolate, Madame Touzet. If you need anything, I’ll be upstairs.”

“Good night, Professor Martineau.”

THE BODEL, a fawn-eyed Moroccan Jew from the Marais named Moshe, arrived at the safe flat an hour later. He carried two bags. One contained a change of clothing for Gabriel, the other groceries for the pantry. Gabriel went into the bedroom and stripped off the clothing the girl had given him in the house in Martigues, then stood for a long time beneath the showerhead and watched the blood of Khaled’s victims swirling down the drain. He changed into the fresh clothing and placed the old things into the bag. The living room, when he went out again, was in semidarkness. Leah was asleep on the couch. Gabriel adjusted the flowered quilt that covered her body, then went into the kitchen. Navot was standing in front of the stove, with a spatula in one hand and a tea cloth tucked into the waistband of his trousers. The bodel was sitting at the table, contemplating a glass of red wine. Gabriel handed him the bag of dirty clothing.

“Get rid of these things,” he said. “Someplace where no one’s going to find them.”

The bodel nodded, then slipped out of the safe flat. Gabriel took his place at the table and looked at Navot. The Paris katsa was a compact man, no taller than Gabriel, with a wrestler’s heavy shoulders and thick arms. Gabriel had always seen something of Shamron in Navot, and he suspected that Shamron did, too. They’d clashed in the past, Gabriel and Navot, but Gabriel had come to regard the younger officer as a thoroughly competent field man. They’d worked together most recently on the Radek case.

“There’s going to be a shit storm over this.” Navot handed Gabriel a glass of wine. “We might as well break out the hip-waders now.”

“How much warning did we give them?”

“The French? Two hours. The prime minister called Grey Poupon directly. Grey Poupon had a few choice words, then he raised the terror alert status to Level Red. You didn’t hear any of it?”

Gabriel told Navot about the disabled car radio. “The first time I sensed any increase in security was the moment I was walking into the station.” He swallowed some of the wine. “How much did the prime minister tell them?”

Navot relayed to Gabriel what details of the conversation he knew.

“How did they explain my presence in Marseilles?”

“They said you were looking for someone in connection with the Rome bombing.”

“Khaled?”

“I don’t think they went into specifics.”

“Something tells me we need to get our stories straight. Why did they wait so long to alert the French?”

“They were hoping you’d turn up, obviously. They also needed to make sure all the members of the Marseilles team had left French soil.”

“Had they?”

Navot nodded.

“I suppose we could consider ourselves lucky the prime minister went on the record with Elysee Palace.”

“Why is that?”

Gabriel told Navot about the three shaheeds. “We were at the same table in Cairo together. I’m sure someone made a very nice photograph of the occasion.”

“A setup?”

“Designed to make it look as though I was somehow involved in the conspiracy.”

Navot inclined his head in the direction of the living room. “Will she eat anything?”

“Let her sleep.”

Navot slid an omelet onto a plate and placed it in front of Gabriel.

“Specialty of the house: mushrooms, Gruyere, fresh herbs.”

“I haven’t eaten in thirty-six hours. When I’m finished with the eggs, I plan on eating the plate.”

Navot began breaking more eggs into his mixing bowl. His work was interrupted by the flashing red light atop the telephone. He snatched up the receiver, listened for a moment, then murmured a few words in Hebrew and rang off. Gabriel looked up from his food.

“What was that?”

“ King Saul Boulevard. The escape plan will be ready in an hour.”

AS IT TURNED OUT, they had only forty minutes to wait for the plan. It was transmitted to the safe flat by way of secure fax-three sheets of Hebrew text, composed in Naka, the field code of the Office. Navot, seated next to Gabriel at the kitchen table, handled the decryption.

“There’s an El Al charter on the ground in Warsaw right now,” Navot said.

“Polish Jews visiting the old country?”

“Actually, visiting the scene of the crime. It’s a packaged tour of the death camps.” Navot shook his head. He had been at Treblinka that night with Gabriel and Radek and had walked among the ashes at the side of the murderer. “Why anyone would want to go to such a place is beyond me.”

“When does the flight depart?”

“Tomorrow night. One of the passengers will be asked to volunteer for a rather special assignment-traveling home on a false Israeli passport from a different point of departure.”

“And Leah will take her place on the charter?”

“Exactly.”

“ Does King Saul Boulevard have a candidate?”

“Three, actually. They’re making the final decision now.”