The Black Widow (Gabriel Allon #16) - Daniel Silva Page 0,160
mobile phone. When the entire gathering erupted into a rousing version of “Happy Birthday,” Irene wept hysterically. Then Shamron whispered a bit of Polish-accented nonsense into her ear, and she giggled with delight.
By ten o’clock the first cars were moving slowly down the drive, and by midnight the party was over. Afterward, Shamron and Gabriel sat in their usual spot at the edge of the terrace, a gas heater burning between them, while the caterers cleared away the debris of the celebration. Shamron refrained from smoking because Raphael was sleeping soundly in Gabriel’s arms.
“You made quite an impression today at the announcement,” Shamron said. “I liked your clothing. And your title.”
“I wanted to send a signal.”
“What signal is that?”
“That I intend to be an operational chief.” Gabriel paused, then added, “That I can walk and chew gum at the same time.”
With a glance toward the Golan Heights, Shamron said, “I’m not sure you have much of a choice.”
The child stirred in Gabriel’s arms and then settled into sleep once more. Shamron twirled his old Zippo lighter in his fingertips. Two turns to the right, two turns to the left . . .
“Is this how you expected it would end?” he asked after a moment.
“How what would end?”
“You and me.” Shamron looked at Gabriel and added, “Us.”
“What are you talking about, Ari?”
“I’m old, my son. I’ve been clinging to life for this night. Now that it’s over, I can go.” He smiled sadly. “It’s late, Gabriel. I’m very tired.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Ari. I need you.”
“No, you don’t,” replied Shamron. “You are me.”
“Funny how it worked out that way.”
“You seem to think it was serendipitous. But it wasn’t. It was all part of a plan.”
“Whose plan?”
“Maybe it was mine, maybe it was God’s.” Shamron shrugged. “What difference does it make? We are on the same side when it comes to you, God and me. We are accomplices.”
“Who has the final say?”
“Who do you think?” Shamron laid his large hand across Raphael. “Do you remember the day I came for you in Cornwall?”
“Like it was yesterday.”
“You drove like a madman through the hedgerows of the Lizard. We had omelets in that little café atop the cliffs. You treated me,” Shamron added with a note of bitterness, “like a debt collector.”
“I remember,” said Gabriel distantly.
“How do you suppose your life would have turned out if I hadn’t come that day?”
“Just fine.”
“I doubt it. You’d still be restoring paintings for Julian and sailing that old ketch down the Helford to the sea. You would never have come back to Israel or met Chiara. And you wouldn’t be holding that beautiful child in your arms right now.”
Gabriel did not take issue with Shamron’s characterization. He had been a lost soul that day, a broken and bitter man.
“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” asked Shamron.
“I could have lived my entire life without seeing the inside of Lubyanka.”
“What about that dog in the Swiss Alps that tried to tear your arm off?”
“I got him in the end.”
“And that motorcycle you crashed in Rome? Or the antiquities gallery that blew up in your face in St. Moritz?”
“Good times,” said Gabriel darkly. “But I lost a lot of friends along the way.”
“Like Hannah Weinberg.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Like Hannah.”
“Perhaps a bit of old-fashioned vengeance is in order.”
“The deal is done.”
“Who’s going to handle it?”
“I’d like to see to it personally, but it’s probably not a wise move at the moment.”
Shamron smiled. “You’re going to be a great chief, my son.”
80
BETHNAL GREEN, LONDON
IN EVERY OPERATION THERE ARE loose threads, small problems that for one reason or another slip through the cracks. Jalal Nasser, talent spotter, recruiter, long arm of Saladin, fell into that category. An arrest was out of the question; a trial would expose not only Gabriel’s operation but the incompetence of the British and French security services as well. Nor was deportation an option. Were he to return to Jordan, he would have gone straight to the cellars of the Fingernail Factory—and then, in all likelihood, to an unmarked grave in a potter’s field. Such an outcome might have been acceptable during the earliest days of the global war on terror, but now that cooler, more civilized heads had prevailed, it was unthinkable. There would be international outrage, perhaps a lawsuit or even criminal prosecution of the spymasters involved. “Collateral damage,” intoned Fareed Barakat gravely. “And you know how His Majesty feels about collateral damage.”
There was a simple solution, a Shamronian solution. All that was required was the connivance