Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (163 page)

He arrived at the safe flat in Lehel late that evening, bearing two suitcases filled with research material and a chip on his shoulder over the way his summons had been handled. “How do you expect to snatch a man like Erich Radek if you can’t grab one fat archivist? Come on,” he said, pulling Gabriel into the privacy of the back bedroom. “We have a lot of ground to cover and not much time to do it.”

ON THE SEVENTH DAY, Adrian Carter came to Munich. It was a Wednesday; he arrived at the safe flat in the late afternoon, as the dusk was turning to dark. The passport in the pocket of his Burberry overcoat still said Brad Cantwell. Gabriel and Shamron were just returning from an outing in the English Gardens and were bundled in their hats and scarves. Gabriel had dispatched the rest of the team members to their final staging positions, so the safe flat was empty of Office personnel. Only Rivlin remained. He greeted the deputy director of the CIA with his shirttail out and his shoes off and called himself Yaacov. The archivist had adapted well to the discipline of the operation.

Gabriel made the tea. Carter unbuttoned his coat and led himself on a preoccupied tour of the flat. He spent a long time in front of the maps. Carter believed in maps. Maps never lied to you. Maps never told you what they thought you
wanted
to hear.

“I like what you’ve done with the place, Herr Heller.” Carter finally removed his overcoat. “Neocontemporary squalor. And the smell. I’m sure I know it. Carryout from the Wienerwald down the block, if I’m not mistaken.”

Gabriel handed him a mug of tea with the string from the bag still dangling over the edge of the rim. “Why are you here, Adrian?”

“I thought I’d pop over to see if I could be of help.”

“Bullshit.”

Carter cleared a spot on the couch and sat down heavily, a salesman at the end of a long and fruitless road trip. “Truth be told, I’m here at the behest of my director. It seems he’s getting a serious case of preoperative jitters. He feels we’re out on a limb together and you boys are the ones holding the chainsaw. He wants the Agency to be brought into the picture.”

“Meaning?”

“He wants to know the game plan.”

“You know the game plan, Adrian. I told you the game plan in Virginia. It hasn’t changed.”

“I know the broad strokes of the plan,” Carter said. “Now I’d like to see the fine print.”

“What you’re saying is that your director wants to review the plan and sign off on it.”

“Something like that. He also wants me standing on the sidelines with Ari when it goes down.”

“And if we tell him to go to hell?”

“I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance someone will whisper a warning in Erich Radek’s ear, and you’ll lose him. Play ball with the director, Gabriel. It’s the only way you’ll get Radek.”

“We’re ready to move, Adrian. Now is not the time for helpful suggestions from the seventh floor.”

Shamron sat down next to Carter. “If your director had an ounce of brains, he’d stay as far away from this as possible.”

“I tried to explain that to him—not in those terms, mind you, but something close. He’d have none of it. He came from Wall Street, our director. He likes to think of himself as a hands-on, take-charge sort of fellow. Always knew what every division of the company was doing. Tries to run the Agency the same way. And as you know, he’s also a friend of the president. If you cross him, he’ll call the White House, and it’ll be over.”

Gabriel looked to Shamron, who gritted his teeth and nodded. Carter got his briefing. Shamron remained seated for a few minutes, but soon he was up and pacing the room, a chef whose secret recipes are being given to a competitor up the street. When it was finished, Carter took a long time loading the bowl of his pipe with tobacco.

“Sounds to me as if you gentlemen are ready,” he said. “What are you waiting for? If I were you, I’d put it in motion be fore my hands-on director decides he wants to be part of the snatch team.”

Gabriel agreed. He picked up the telephone and dialed Uzi Navot in Zurich.

33

VIENNA • MUNICH

K
LAUS HALDER KNOCKED softly on the door of the study. The voice on the other side granted permission for him to enter. He pushed open the door and saw the old man seated in the half-light, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen of the television: a Metzler rally that afternoon in Graz, adoring crowds, talk already turning to the composition of the Metzler cabinet. The old man killed the image by remote and turned his blue eyes on the bodyguard. Halder glanced toward the telephone. A green light was winking.

“Who is it?”

“Herr Becker, calling from Zurich.”

The old man picked up the receiver. “Good evening, Konrad.”

“Good evening, Herr Vogel. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m afraid it couldn’t wait.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh, no, quite the contrary. Given the recent election news from Vienna, I’ve decided to quicken the pace of my preparations and proceed as though Peter Metzler’s victory is a fait accompli.”

“A wise course of action, Konrad.”

“I thought you’d agree. I have several documents that require your signature. I thought it would be best for us to start that process now rather than waiting until the last moment.”

“What sort of documents?”

“My lawyer will be able to explain them better than I can. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to come to Vienna for a meeting. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

“How does Friday sound?”

“Friday would be fine, as long as it’s late afternoon. I have an appointment in the morning that can’t be moved.”

“Shall we say four o’clock?”

“Five would be better for me, Herr Vogel.”

“All right, Friday at five o’clock.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Konrad?”

“Yes, Herr Vogel.”

“This lawyer—tell me his name, please.”

“Oskar Lange, Herr Vogel. He’s a very talented man. I’ve used him many times in the past.”

“I assume he’s a fellow who understands the meaning of the word ‘discretion’?”

“Discreet doesn’t even begin to describe him. You’re in very capable hands.”

“Goodbye, Konrad.”

The old man hung up the phone and looked at Halder.

“He’s bringing someone with him?”

A slow nod.

“He’s always come alone in the past. Why is he suddenly bringing along a helper?”

“Herr Becker is about to receive one hundred million dollars, Klaus. If there’s one man in the world we can trust, it’s the gnome from Zurich.”

The bodyguard moved toward the door.

“Klaus?”

“Yes, Herr Vogel?”

“Perhaps you’re right. Call some of our friends in Zurich. See if anyone’s heard of a lawyer named Oskar Lange.”

ONE HOUR LATER, a recording of Becker’s telephone call was sent by secure transmission from the offices of Becker & Puhl in Zurich to the safe flat in Munich. They listened to it once, then again, then a third time. Adrian Carter did not like what he heard.

“You realize that as soon as Radek put down the phone, he made a second phone call to Zurich to check out Oskar Lange. I hope you’ve accounted for that.”

Shamron seemed disappointed in Carter. “What do you think, Adrian? We’ve never done this sort of thing before? We’re children who need to be shown the way?”

Carter put a match to his pipe and puffed smoke, awaiting his answer.

“Have you ever heard of the term
sayan
?” Shamron said. “Or
sayanim
?”

Carter nodded with the pipe between his teeth. “Your little volunteer helpers,” he said. “The hotel clerks who give you rooms without checking in. The rental car agents who give you cars that can’t be traced. The doctors who treat your agents when they have wounds that might raise difficult questions. The bankers who give you emergency loans.”

Shamron nodded. “We’re a small intelligence service, twelve hundred full-time employees, that’s all. We couldn’t do what we do without the help of the
sayanim.
They’re one of the few benefits of the Diaspora, my private army of little volunteer helpers.”

“And Oskar Lange?”

“He’s a Zurich tax and estate lawyer. He also happens to be Jewish. It’s something that he doesn’t advertise in Zurich. A few years ago, I took Oskar to dinner in a quiet little restaurant on the lake and added him to my list of helpers. Last week, I asked him for a favor. I wanted to borrow his passport and his office, and I wanted him to disappear for a couple of weeks. When I told him why, he was all too willing to help. In fact, he wanted to go to Vienna himself and help capture Radek.”

“I hope he’s in a secure location.”

“You might say so, Adrian. He’s in a safe flat in Jerusalem at the moment.”

Shamron reached down toward the tape player, pressed REWIND, STOP, then PLAY:

“How does Friday sound?”

“Friday would be fine, as long as it’s late afternoon. I have an appointment in the morning that can’t be moved.”

“Shall we say four o’clock?”

“Five would be better for me, Herr Vogel.”

“All right, Friday at five o’clock.”

STOP.

MOSHE RIVLIN LEFT the safe flat the following morning and returned to Israel on an El Al flight, with an Office minder in the seat next to him. Gabriel remained until seven o’clock Thursday evening, when a Volkswagen van with two pairs of skis mounted to the roof pulled up outside the flat and honked its horn twice. He slipped his Beretta into the waist of his trousers. Carter wished him luck; Shamron kissed his cheek and sent him down.

Shamron opened the curtains and peered into the darkened street. Gabriel emerged from the passageway and went to the driver’s side window. After a moment of discussion, the door opened and Chiara emerged. She walked around the front of the van and was briefly illuminated by the glow of the headlights before climbing into the passenger seat.

The van eased away from the curb. Shamron followed its progress until the crimson taillights disappeared around a corner. He did not move. The waiting. Always the waiting. His lighter flared, a cloud of smoke gathered against the glass.

34

ZURICH

K
ONRAD BECKER AND Uzi Navot emerged from the offices of Becker & Puhl at precisely four minutes past one o’clock on Friday afternoon. An Office watcher called Zalman, posted on the opposite side of the Talstrasse in a gray Fiat sedan, recorded the time as well as the weather, a drenching downpour, then flashed the news to Shamron in the Munich safe flat. Becker was dressed for a funeral, in a gray pinstripe suit and charcoal-colored tie. Navot, mimicking Oskar Lange’s stylish attire, wore an Armani blazer with matching electric blue shirt and tie. Becker had ordered a taxi to take him to the airport. Shamron would have preferred a private car, with an Office driver, but Becker always traveled to the airport by taxi and Gabriel wanted his routine left undisturbed. So it was an ordinary city taxi, driven by a Turkish immigrant, that bore them out of central Zurich and across a fogbound river valley to Kloten Airport, with Gabriel’s watcher in tow.

They were soon confronted with the first glitch. A cold front had moved over Zurich, turning the rain to sleet and ice and forcing Kloten Airport authorities to briefly suspend operations. Swiss International Airlines Flight 1578, bound for Vienna, boarded on time, then sat motionless on the tarmac. Shamron and Adrian Carter, monitoring the situation on the computers in the Munich safe flat, debated their next move. Should they instruct Becker to call Radek and warn him about the delay? What if Radek had other plans and decided to cancel the meeting and reschedule it for another time? The teams and vehicles were at final staging positions. A temporary stand-down would jeopardize operational security. Wait, counseled Shamron, and wait is what they did.

By 2:30, weather conditions had improved. Kloten reopened and Flight 1578 took its place in the queue at the end of the runway. Shamron made the calculations. The flight to Vienna took less than ninety minutes. If they got off the ground soon, they could still make it to Vienna in time.

At 2:45, the plane was airborne, and disaster was averted. Shamron flashed the reception team at Schwechat Airport in Vienna that their package was on its way.

The storm over the Alps made the flight to Vienna a good deal more turbulent than Becker would have preferred. To settle his nerves he consumed three miniature bottles of Stolichnaya and visited the toilet twice, all of which was recorded by Zalman, who was seated three rows behind. Navot, a picture of concentration and serenity, stared out the window at the sea of black cloud, his sparkling water untouched.

They touched down at Schwechat a few minutes after four o’clock in a dirty gray twilight. Zalman shadowed them through the terminal toward passport control. Becker made one more visit to the toilet. Navot, with an almost imperceptible movement of his eyes, commanded Zalman to go with him. After availing himself of the facilities, the banker spent three minutes primping in front of the mirror—an inordinate amount of time, thought Zalman, for a man with virtually no hair. The watcher considered giving Becker a kick in the ankle to move him along, then decided to let him have the reins instead. He was, after all, an amateur acting under duress.