The Confessor (30 page)

“This is Shamron.”

“Who?”

“Sham
-RON,”
he said irritably. “I need the file on the Cyprus kidnapping case. It was 1986, if I remember correctly. That’s probably before you were born, but do your best.”

He slammed down the phone and waited. Five minutes later, a bleary-eyed boy called Yossi appeared in Shamron’s ignoble door. “Sorry, boss. The girl is new.” He held up a bound file. “You wanted to see this?”

Shamron held out his hand, like a beggar.

IT HAD
not been one of Shamron’s prouder moments. In the summer of 1986, Israeli Justice Minister Meir Ben-David set sail from Tel Aviv for a three-week Mediterranean cruise aboard a private yacht along with twelve other guests and a crew of five. On day nine of their holiday, in the harbor at Larnaca, the yacht was seized by a team of terrorists claiming to represent a group called the Fighting Palestinian Cells. A rescue attempt was ruled out, and the Cypriots wanted the messiness resolved as quickly and as quietly as possible. That left the Israeli government with no choice but to negotiate, and Shamron opened a channel of communication with the German-speaking team leader. Three days later, the siege ended. The hostages were released, the terrorists were granted safe passage, and a month later a dozen hard-core PLO killers were released from Israeli jails.

Publicly, Israel denied there had been a quid pro quo, though no one believed it. For Shamron, it had been a bitter herb indeed, and now, flipping through the pages of the file, he relived it all again. He came to a photograph, the one image they had managed to capture of the team leader. It was useless, really: a long-distance shot, grainy and muddled, a face concealed behind sunglasses and a hat.

He placed the picture beside the surveillance photograph from London and spent several minutes comparing them.
Same man?
Impossible to tell. He picked up the phone and rang Research again. This time Yossi answered.

“Yes, boss?”

“Bring me the file on the Leopard.”

HE WAS
an enigma, an educated guess, a theory. Some said he was German. Some said Austrian. Some Swiss. One linguist who listened to the tapes of his conversations with Shamron, which were conducted in English, theorized that he was from the Alsace-Lorraine. It was the West Germans who had hung the code name Leopard on him; he had done a good deal of killing there and they wanted him the most. A terrorist for hire. A man who would work for any group, any cause, as long as it conformed to his core beliefs: Communist, anti-Western, anti-Zionist. It was the Leopard who was believed to have been behind the hijacking in Cyprus and the Leopard who had murdered three other Israelis in Europe on behalf of PLO commando Abu Jihad. Shamron had wanted him dead. His wish had gone unfulfilled.

He leafed through the file, which was hopelessly thin. Here a report from the French service, here an Interpol dispatch, here a rumor of an alleged sighting in Istanbul. There were three photographs as well, though it was not clear whether any were really him. The shot from the yacht in Cyprus, a surveillance photo taken in Bucharest, another at Charles de Gaulle airport. Shamron laid the photo from London next to them and looked up at Yossi, who was watching over his shoulder.

“That one and that one, boss.”

Shamron pulled the Bucharest shot out of the lineup and laid it next to London. Same angle, head-on, chin slightly to the left, obscuring half the face.

“I could be wrong, Yossi, but I think it’s possible that these are the same man.”

“Hard to say, boss, but the computer may be able to tell us for sure.”

“Run them,” Shamron said, then he picked up the files. “I want to keep these.”

“You have to sign a chit.”

Shamron looked at Yossi over spectacles.

Yossi said, “I’ll sign the chit for you.”

“Good boy.”

Shamron reached for the telephone one last time and dialed Travel. When he finished with his arrangements, he placed the files in his briefcase and headed downstairs.
I’m coming, Gabriel,
he thought.
But where in God’s name are you?

T
HE ROCKS OF
C
AP
C
ORSE
appeared at dawn. Chiara guided the yacht around the tip of the island and set it on a northwesterly heading. A line of gunpowder cloud stood before them, swollen with rain. The winds had increased by several knots, and it was suddenly much colder. “The
mistral,
” Chiara said. “It’s blowing hard today. I’m afraid the rest of the trip isn’t going to be so pleasant.”

A ferry appeared off the port side, steaming out of L’Ile Rousse toward the French coast. “That one’s going to Nice,” she said. “We can follow his heading, then steer toward Cannes as we get closer to the coastline.”

“How long?”

“Five to six hours, maybe longer because of the
mistral.
Take the wheel for a while. I’ll go down to the galley and see if there’s anything for breakfast.”

“Make sure Sleeping Beauty is still with us.”

“I will.”

Breakfast consisted of coffee, toasted bread, and a lump of hard cheese. They barely had time to eat, because thirty minutes after rounding Cap Corse, the storm closed in. For the next four hours, the boat was battered by a steady onslaught of wind-driven swells rolling out of the north, and sheets of rain that reduced visibility to less than a hundred meters. At some point they lost track of the ferry. It was no matter; Chiara simply navigated by compass and GPS.

The rain quit at noon, but the wind blew ceaselessly. It seemed to grow stronger as they drew closer to the coast. Behind the storm was a mass of bitterly cold air, and for the last hour of the journey, the sun was in and out of the clouds, shining one minute, hidden the next. The color of the water changed with the sun, now gray-green, now deep blue.

Finally, directly off the prow, Cannes: the distinctive line of gleaming white hotels and apartment houses along
La Croisette.
Chiara guided them away from the
Croisette,
toward the Old Port at the other end of town. In the summer season, the promenades around the
Vieux Port
would be teeming with tourists and the harbor jammed with luxury yachts. Now, most of the restaurants were tightly shuttered and there were plenty of berths available in the harbor.

Chiara left Gabriel on the boat and walked a few blocks to the rue d’Antibes to rent a car. While she was away, Gabriel untied the hands and feet of the unconscious boat captain. Chiara had given him an injection four hours earlier, which meant he would remain unconscious for several more hours.

Gabriel went back up to the deck and waited for Chiara. A few minutes later, a Peugeot hatchback pulled into a parking space on the Quai St-Pierre. Chiara stepped out of the car long enough to wave in Gabriel’s direction and slide over into the passenger seat. Gabriel climbed down off the boat and got behind the wheel.

“Any problems?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“We need clothes.”

“Ah, shopping on the
Croisette.
Just what I need after spending all night and half the day on the damned boat. I can’t decide between Gucci and Versace.”

“I was thinking of something a little more ordinary. Maybe one of those nice places along the boulevard Carnot where the real people go to buy their clothes.”

“Oh, how pedestrian.”

“Exactly.”

Gabriel wound his way across the old town, and a few minutes later they were heading north up the boulevard Carnot, the main thoroughfare linking the waterfront of Cannes to the inland towns. The
mistral
was howling; a few brave souls were out, backs bent, hands on their hats. The air was filled with dust and paper. After a few blocks, Gabriel spotted a small department store next to a bus stop. Chiara frowned. He pulled into an empty parking space, gave her a wad of cash, and recited his sizes. Chiara climbed out and walked the rest of the way.

Gabriel left the engine running and listened to the news. Still no sign of the suspected papal assassin. Italian police had stepped up security at the nation’s airports and border crossings. He switched off the radio.

Chiara emerged from the store twenty minutes later, a bulging plastic sack swinging from each hand. The wind was at her back, blowing her hair over her face. Because of the bags of clothing, she was defenseless to do anything about it.

She tossed the bags into the backseat and got in. Gabriel headed up the boulevard Carnot. Ten minutes later, he came to a large traffic circle and followed the signs for Grasse. A four-lane highway stretched before them, rising up the slope of the hills toward the base of the Maritime Alps. Chiara reclined the seat, pulled off her fleece shirt, and shimmied out of the heavy waterproof pants. Gabriel kept his eyes fastened on the road. She dug through the bags of clothing until she found the clean underwear and bra she had bought for herself.

“Don’t look.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Just hurry up and get some clothing on, please.”

“That’s the first time a man has ever said that to me.”

“I can see why.”

She swatted his arm and quickly changed into jeans, a sweater with a thick turtleneck, and fashionable black leather boots with square toes and thick heels. She looked very much like the attractive young woman he had seen for the first time in the ghetto in Venice. When she was finished, she sat up. “Your turn. Pull over and I’ll drive while you change.”

Gabriel did as she asked. From a purely fashion perspective, he did not fare as well: a pair of loose-fitting blue cotton trousers with an elastic waist, a thick wool fisherman’s sweater, a pair of tan espadrilles that scratched his feet. He looked like a man who spent his days idling in the town square playing
boule.

“I look ridiculous.”

“I think you look very handsome. More importantly, you can walk through any town in Provence and no one will think you’re anything but a local.”

For ten minutes, Chiara navigated the winding road through olive trees and eucalyptus. They came to the medieval town of Valbonne. Gabriel directed her northward, to a town called Opio, and from Opio to Le Rouret. She parked outside a
tabac
and waited in the car while Gabriel went inside. Behind the counter was a dark-complected man with tightly curled hair and Algerian features. When Gabriel asked whether he knew an Italian woman called Carcassi, the clerk shrugged his shoulders and suggested that Gabriel speak to Marc, the bartender next door at the
brasserie.

Gabriel found Marc polishing glasses with a dirty towel. When he put the same question to him, the bartender shook his head. He knew of no one named Carcassi in the village, but there was an Italian woman who lived on the road that led to the entrance of the nature park. He tossed his towel over his shoulder and stepped outside to point Gabriel in the right direction. Gabriel thanked him and rejoined Chiara.

“That way,” he said. “Across the main road, past the
gendarmerie,
then up the hill.”

The road was narrow, little more than a one-lane paved track, and the grade of the hill was steep. There were villas among the olive and pepper trees. Some were modest homes owned by locals; others were opulent, well-tended, and shielded by hedges and high stone walls.

The villa where the Italian woman purportedly lived fell into the second category. It was a stately old estate house with a turret rising above the main entrance. The garden was a terraced affair, surrounded by a stone wall. There was no name on the daunting, iron gate.

When Gabriel pressed the button on the intercom, dogs began to bark. A few seconds later, a pair of Belgian shepherds came galloping from the back of the villa, teeth bared, barking fanatically. They charged the gate and snapped at Gabriel through the bars. He took a quick step back and put a hand on the door latch of the car. He did not like dogs to begin with, and not long ago he’d had a run-in with an Alsatian that had left him with a broken arm and several dozen stitches. He inched forward cautiously so as not to further incite the dogs and pressed the intercom button once again. This time he received a response: a woman’s voice, barely audible above the wild barking.