The Fallen Angel (21 page)

The Iranian made no reply.

“How do you plead, Massoud?”

“What do you want to know?”

32

KANDESTEDERNE, DENMARK

T
HEY GAVE HIM A HOT
shower at gunpoint and dressed him in a blue-and-white tracksuit, extra large to fit his bulky frame. A plate of food awaited him in the dining room, along with a cup of sweetened Persian tea. Despite his intense hunger, and the fact that they gave him no utensils other than a harmless plastic spoon, he managed to eat with dignity.

“Nothing for you?” he asked, nodding toward the empty table in front of Gabriel.

“I wouldn't be able to keep it down.”

“Don't be so judgmental, Allon. We're professionals, you and I.”

“You're a murderer.”

“So are you.”

Gabriel glanced at Yaakov, and the food was removed. Massoud showed no anger.

“First rule of interrogation, Allon. Don't let the subject get under your skin.”

“Second rule, Massoud. Don't piss off the interrogator.”

“I'd like to smoke.”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you would be good enough to allow me to pray.”

“If you must.”

“I must,” replied Massoud. “What time is it?”

“Isha.”

“Which direction is Mecca?”

Gabriel pointed to the right. Massoud smiled.

“Third rule of interrogation, Allon. Don't tell the subject where he is.”

“You're in hell, Massoud. And the only way you're going to get out is to tell me the truth.”

 

He prayed for thirty minutes. When he was finished, Mikhail and Yaakov started to secure him to the metal chair, but Gabriel intervened and in Hebrew said the restraints would not be necessary. Massoud furrowed his brow, as though he did not understand, which Gabriel suspected was not the case. He permitted the Iranian to eat the remainder of his dinner. Then, afterward, he gave him a fresh glass of warm tea.

“How beneficent of you,” remarked Massoud.

“I assure you my motives are entirely selfish,” Gabriel responded. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

“Where would you like to start?”

“The beginning.”

“In the beginning,” Massoud recited, “God created the heavens and the earth. Then he created the Jews and ruined the whole thing.”

“Let's advance the calendar a few years, shall we?”

“How far?”

“David Girard,” answered Gabriel, “aka Daoud Ghandour.”

 

It was not possible to tell the story of Daoud Ghandour, he said, without first telling the story of Israel's ill-fated occupation of Lebanon. At first, Gabriel was reluctant to give Massoud a platform to engage in triumphalist breast-beating, but he quickly realized it was a rare opportunity that could not be spurned. And so he sat patiently, his hands folded on the table, as Massoud recounted how the Iranians had skillfully exploited the chaos in Lebanon to create a death trap for hundreds of Israeli soldiers. “You came to Lebanon to destroy the PLO,” he said, taunting Gabriel ever so slightly, “and in its place you left Hezbollah.”

As Massoud continued, he shed the mantle of the aggrieved political hostage and adopted the air of a university professor leading a small seminar. Watching him, Gabriel understood why he had prospered in the cutthroat world of the Revolutionary Guard and VEVAK. In a parallel universe, Massoud might have been a renowned jurist or a statesman from a decent country. Instead, the turbulent history of Islam and the Middle East had conspired to turn him into a facilitator of mass murder. Even so, Gabriel couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for him. To anesthetize himself, he glanced frequently at the enlarged photographs of Massoud's handiwork. So did Massoud. He seemed proudest of one in particular—the one that showed smoke rising from the U.S. Marine barracks in Beirut. The event, he said, had been a watershed in the history of American involvement in the Middle East. It had shown America to be a paper tiger that would cut and run at the first sight of blood. And it had made a profound impression on a young Lebanese Shiite named Daoud Ghandour.

“Within a few hours of the attack, he went to see the Hezbollah recruiter in his neighborhood in south Beirut. But there was one problem,” Massoud added. “Ghandour had just been accepted at the Sorbonne in Paris. He said he wanted to stay in Lebanon to fight the Jews and the Americans instead. The recruiter had a better idea. He told Ghandour to get his education. And then he called me.”

“So Ghandour was an Iranian asset from the beginning?”

“You're being far too linear in your thinking, Allon. Remember, we were active at nearly every level of Hezbollah from the beginning. Hezbollah itself was an Iranian asset.”

“Who ran him?”

“Our station in Paris. When he wasn't studying, he helped us keep tabs on all the Iranian exiles and dissidents who set up shop in France after the fall of the Shah.”

“And when he went to England?”

“London handled him while he finished his doctorate at Oxford. By the time he started working at Sotheby's, I'd shed my fatigues and was a respectable diplomat.”

“You took control of him?”

Massoud nodded. “But now, he was no longer Daoud Ghandour, a poor boy from southern Lebanon. He was David Girard, an antiquities expert who traveled the world on behalf of a respected international auction house.”

“Your dream come true.”

“Yours, too, I imagine.”

“How did you use him?”

“Carefully. He could go places I couldn't go and talk to people who couldn't come within a mile of me.”

“So you used him as a courier?”

“He was my own private Federal Express. If VEVAK wanted a Hezbollah cell in, say, Istanbul to carry out an attack, we could do it at arm's length through David. He would serve as the conduit for communications with the cell and see to its financial needs. In some cases, he even coordinated the shipment of explosives and other weapons. It was perfect.” Massoud paused. “And then there was the money.”

“From trading in illicit antiquities?”

Massoud nodded. “David came up with the idea while he was working at Sotheby's. He knew there was a great deal of money to be made by those willing to ignore the law. He also knew that much of the trade was controlled by one man.”

“Carlo Marchese.”

“Friend of the Vatican,” Massoud added contemptuously. “But Carlo's organization had one flaw. It was very strong in Europe, but it needed product from the Middle East.”

“Product that Hezbollah was able to supply.”

“Not only Hezbollah. Many of the antiquities were pieces from the Persian Empire that had come out of the ground in Iran. Within a short time, the operation was generating several million dollars a month, all of which went directly into Hezbollah's coffers.”

“Then a curator at the Vatican started asking too many questions.”

“Yes,” Massoud agreed. “And the party was over.”

 

When Massoud requested a cigarette a second time, Gabriel relented and gave him one of Yaakov's Marlboros. He smoked it slowly, as though he suspected he would not receive another, and was careful to direct his exhalations away from Gabriel. VEVAK, it seemed, was aware of Gabriel's aversion to tobacco.

But that was not all it knew about him. It knew, Massoud boasted, that Monsignor Luigi Donati, private secretary to His Holiness Pope Paul VII, had asked Gabriel to investigate the death of Claudia Andreatti. It also knew that Gabriel had discovered the body of a tomb raider named Roberto Falcone. It knew this, Massoud said, because Carlo Marchese had told his business partner David Girard.

“Carlo was aware of your investigation from the very beginning,” Massoud explained. “And he believed correctly that you were a threat to him. When the other members of the network started to get jumpy, he told them not to worry, that he would find an Italian solution to the problem.”

“Killing me?”

Massoud nodded. “But first, he wanted to get a sense of how much you knew about his operation. So he threw a dinner party in your honor. Then he tried to kill you as you were walking home.” He shook his head slowly. “Frankly, we weren't surprised when the attempt on your life failed. The man Carlo sent to do the job might have been good enough to earn a living in Italy, but not in our world.”

“So you decided to do it yourself.”

“We looked upon the situation as a unique opportunity to cause a scandal for your service at a time it could least afford one. We also regarded it as a chance to exact some revenge over the damage you did to our nuclear program.”

“How did you know we would find Girard?”

“Let's just say that we had great faith in your ability, though we never imagined you'd have a stolen Greek amphora in your back pocket. That was a masterstroke, Allon.”

“I can't tell you how much your approval means to me,” Gabriel said. “But you were about to explain how the two professional assassins you sent to St. Moritz to kill me muffed the job.”

“We felt it was important that your body be clearly recognizable. If you'd been blown to bits, your service would have been able to deny you were ever there.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

The Iranian shrugged off Gabriel's sarcasm.

“So you killed one of Hezbollah's top operatives in order to kill me under circumstances that were embarrassing to our service?”

Massoud nodded. “Once Hezbollah's links to Carlo's smuggling network had been exposed, Girard had outlived his usefulness. He was expendable.”

“So are you,” Gabriel replied. “We know a big attack is coming, and you're going to help me stop it. Otherwise, I'm going to do to you what I did to those secret uranium-enrichment plants. I'm going to blow you to bits. And then I'm going to send you home to your masters in Tehran in a box.”

 

He tried to wriggle out of the noose, but then, Gabriel expected nothing less. He denied, he deferred, he deflected, and, finally, he spun several fabrications that he hoped would satisfy his small but attentive audience. With his expression, Gabriel made it plain he had seen such performances before. His demands were clear and unyielding. He wanted verifiable details of the pending attack—the time, the place, the target, the weapons, the members of the action cell. Once the attack had been interdicted, Massoud would be quietly released. But if he refused to provide the information, or if he attempted to run out the clock, Gabriel would destroy him.

“As your only friend in the world,” said Gabriel, “I would advise you to accept our generous offer. All you have to do is surrender the details of a single attack. In return, you'll be free to maim and murder to your heart's content.”

“Rest assured, you'll be at the top of my list, Allon.”

“That's why I would also advise you to accept a desk job at VEVAK headquarters in Tehran,” Gabriel countered. “Because if you ever set foot outside Iran again, my friends and I are going to hunt you down and kill you.”

“How can I be sure you won't kill me in any case?”

“Because we're not like you, Massoud. When we enter into an agreement, we mean it. Besides,” Gabriel added, “killing hostages in cold blood has never been our style.”

Massoud's gaze traveled over the photographs of his handiwork before settling once again on Gabriel.

“I have no idea what day it is.”

“It's Friday,” answered Gabriel.

Massoud's expression darkened. “What time on Friday?”

“That depends.”

“Central European.”

Gabriel woke his BlackBerry and looked at the screen. “Two-twelve a.m.”

“Good,” Massoud said. “That means there's still a bit of time.”

“When is the attack?”

“Tonight, shortly after sundown.”

“The Sabbath?”

Massoud nodded.

“What's the target?”

“A city you know well, Allon. In fact,” the Iranian said, smiling, “we chose it in your honor.”

33

VIENNA

T
HERE WAS A SIX-THIRTY A.M.
flight from Copenhagen that arrived in Vienna midmorning. After entering Austria on an American passport that he had conveniently forgotten to return to Adrian Carter, Gabriel went to an airport café and read the morning papers for an hour until he spotted Mikhail, Oded, Yaakov, and Eli Lavon crossing the arrivals hall. He followed them outside and watched as they climbed into four separate taxis. Then he walked over to a black sedan with Vienna registration and ducked into the back. Seated on the opposite side was Ari Shamron. He had shed the tailored worsted-and-silk clothing of Herr Heller and was once again dressed in khaki, oxford cloth, and leather. He tossed his cigarette out the window as the car lurched forward.

“You look as though you haven't slept in a week.”

“I haven't.”

“Just a few more hours, my son. Then it will all be over.”

The car turned onto the A4 Ost Autobahn and headed toward central Vienna. The weather was miserable, windblown rain mixed with ice pellets and snow.

“How much have we told the Austrians?” asked Gabriel.

“Uzi woke Jonas Kessler, the chief of the Austrian security service, early this morning and told him that his country was to be the target of a terrorist attack it had done nothing to provoke.”

“How did Kessler take it?”

“After delivering the obligatory lecture about how Israel is making the world less safe by its actions, he demanded to know the origin of the intelligence. As you might expect, Uzi was rather vague in his response, which didn't sit well with Kessler.”

“Does he know the time frame?”

“He knows we're talking about hours rather than days, but Uzi insisted on telling him the rest in person. Actually,” Shamron added, “we thought it might be a good idea if you handled the briefing.”

“Me?”

Shamron nodded. “Some of our fickle allies here in Europe are under the impression that we feed them information about potential plots simply to bolster our own standing. But if the warning comes from you, it would send a clear message that we're serious.
Deadly
serious.”

“Because they know I wouldn't set foot here unless lives were at stake?”

“Exactly.”

“And when they ask about the source of the intelligence?”

“You say that a little bird told you. And then you move on.”

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “If Massoud is telling us the truth,” he said finally, “the situation is probably beyond the capabilities of the Austrians. This needs to be handled properly, Ari. Otherwise, people will die. Lots of people.”

“Then perhaps we can come to an equitable solution.”

“How equitable?”

“We'll save the lives, and they'll take the credit.”

Gabriel smiled. Then he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

 

As usual, there was an inter-service spat over the venue. Uzi Navot wanted to hold the conference in a secure room at the Israeli Embassy, but Jonas Kessler chose an imposing government building in Vienna's elegant Innere Stadt, just around the corner from the State Opera House. A temporary sign in the lobby declared the premises were to be used that day for a conference having something to do with sustainable agriculture, but at the entrance to the main salon was a plastic bin where arriving guests were instructed to deposit their mobile phones and other electronic devices. The chamber itself was a Hapsburg monstrosity hung with gold curtains and crystal chandeliers that floated overhead like candlelit clouds. As Gabriel and Shamron entered, Navot was hovering over a buffet table piled high with Viennese cakes and cream-filled tarts. Kessler, an angular figure with dark hair combed close to the scalp, stood on the opposite end of the room, surrounded by a protective cordon of aides. He was staring at his watch, as if wondering whether he could wrap things up in time for his midday workout.

At Kessler's suggestion, they took their assigned seats at a formal rectangular table that looked more suited to Cold War summitry than a gathering of spies. Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot sat on one side, the Austrians on the other. Most were from the counterterrorism division of the security service, but there were also several senior officers from the Bundespolizei, Austria's national police force. Kessler didn't bother with introductions. Nor were there any issues regarding language; Gabriel, Shamron, and Navot all spoke fluent German. In fact, Navot's had the faint trace of a Viennese accent. His ancestors had lived in Vienna when the Germans annexed Austria in 1938. Those who managed to escape were first robbed of everything—everything but their Viennese accents.

“We're honored to have so many distinguished officers from your service here today,” Kessler said without conviction, tapping a silver spoon against the rim of his china coffee cup like a gavel. “Especially you, Herr Allon. It's been a long time since your last visit to Vienna.”

“Not as long as you think,” Gabriel remarked.

Kessler managed a tight smile. “I was working the night the PLO set off that bomb beneath your car,” he said after a moment. “I remember it all as though it were yesterday.”

“So do I,” Gabriel replied evenly.

“I imagine,” said Kessler. “I was also working the night you kidnapped Erich Radek from his home in the First District and smuggled him back to Israel.”

“Radek agreed to go to Israel voluntarily.”

“Only after you took him to the scene of the crime at Treblinka. But that, as they say, is ancient history.” Another forced smile. “Herr Navot tells me that Hezbollah has set its sights on Vienna.”

Gabriel nodded.

“When will this attack occur?”

“Shortly after sundown.”

“The target?”

“The Stadttempel synagogue and community center. If the terrorists are successful, more than a hundred people could die tonight. If, on the other hand, we work together . . .” Gabriel's voice trailed off, the thought unfinished.

“Yes?”

“Only the four terrorists will die.”

“We haven't agreed to work with you, Herr Allon. And we're certainly not going to engage in some sort of targeted killing operation.”

“When I finish telling you what you're up against, you'll realize you have no other option.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell us the source of your information.”

“Rule number one about working with the Office,” said Gabriel. “Don't ask too many questions.”

 

If Gabriel's unorthodox opening remarks had one effect, it was to render his audience speechless. Indeed, as he relayed the information that had been given to him by Massoud, the Austrians emitted no sound except for the occasional gasp of disbelief. Gabriel could scarcely blame them, for at that moment a four-member team of Hezbollah operatives was holed up in an apartment at Koppstrasse 34, preparing to carry out the worst terrorist attack in Austria's history. Each member of the cell would be armed with a semiautomatic pistol and a suicide vest filled with dozens of pounds of explosives and lethal shrapnel. They would use their pistols to overpower the security guards who stood watch over the historic complex during services. Once the guards were neutralized, the team would split in half—two for the synagogue, two for the community center located directly across the narrow street. They intended to detonate their explosives simultaneously.
Allahu Akbar
.

“Why shouldn't we simply move in and arrest them now?” asked Kessler.

“Because they're not amateurs from the Muslim slums of Western Europe. These are hardened Hezbollah terrorists who cut their teeth fighting the Israeli military in southern Lebanon.”

“Meaning?”

“They went fully operational several hours ago. If you try to enter that apartment, they'll detonate their explosives. The same thing will happen if you try to quietly evacuate the building or try to take them into custody at any stage along their journey to Paradise.”

“Why not simply cancel services this evening?”

“Nothing would make us happier. But if the terrorists arrive to find the synagogue closed, they'll go in search of another target. At that hour, I'm sure they won't have any trouble finding one. In fact, if I had to guess, they'll go to the Kärntnerstrasse and kill as many innocent Austrians as they can.”

The Kärntnerstrasse was a busy pedestrian boulevard that ran from the State Opera House to the Stephansdom cathedral. The economic and social heart of Vienna, the street was lined with cafés, exclusive shops, and department stores. On a Friday evening, an attack there would be devastating. Jonas Kessler understood that, of course, which explained why he looked as though he had just swallowed his cuff links. When he finally spoke again, his voice contained none of its previous sarcasm. In fact, Gabriel thought he could detect the slightest trace of gratitude.

“What are you suggesting, Herr Allon?”

“I'm afraid there's only one possible course of action.”

“And that is?”

“We wait for the terrorists to approach the synagogue and declare their intentions. And then we put them down before they can hit their detonation switches.”

“Kill them?”

Gabriel made no response. Neither did Shamron or Navot.

“We have a highly capable tactical police unit that is more than up to a job like this.”

“Einsatzkommando Cobra,” Shamron interjected. “Better known as EKO Cobra.”

Kessler nodded. “They've trained for just this kind of scenario.”

“With all due respect, Herr Kessler, when was the last time a member of EKO Cobra shot a living, breathing terrorist through the brain stem so he couldn't detonate his bomb with a dying twitch of his fingers?”

Kessler was silent.

“I thought so,” Shamron said. “Do you happen to recall when EKO Cobra was formed, Herr Kessler?”

“It was shortly after the Munich Olympics massacre.”

“That's correct,” Shamron said. “And I was there
that
night, Herr Kessler. We begged the Germans to let us handle the rescue operation at Fürstenfeldbruck Air Base, but they refused. I had to listen to the screams of my people as they were being butchered. It was . . .” Shamron's voice trailed off, as though he were searching for the appropriate word. Finally, he said, “It was unbelievable.”

“The people who will enter that synagogue tonight are Austrian citizens.”

“That's true,” Shamron said. “But they're also Jews, which means that we are their guardians. And we're going to make sure they come out of that synagogue alive.”