Authors: Daniel Silva
He sat on the end of the bed and waited. Five minutes later there was a knock at the door. The clock read 2:12
A
.
M
.
“H
OW CERTAIN ARE
your experts?”
The prime minister looked up at the bank of video monitors and waited for an answer. In one of the monitors was Lev’s image. The director-general of Shabak, Moshe Yariv, occupied the second; General Amos Sharret, chief of Aman, the third.
“There’s no doubt whatsoever,” replied Lev. “The man in the photo given to us by Mahmoud Arwish is the same man who just walked into the apartment building in Marseilles. All we need now is your approval for the final phase of the operation to commence.”
“You have it. Give the order to
Fidelity.
”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“I assume you’ll be able to hear the radio traffic?”
“
Fidelity
will send it to us via the secure link. We’ll maintain operational control until the final second.”
“Send it here, too,” the prime minister said. “I don’t want to be the last to know.”
Then he pressed a button on his desk, and the three screens turned to black.
T
HE MOTORBIKE WAS
a Piaggio X9 Evolution, charcoal gray, with a twist-and-go throttle and a listed top speed of 160 kilometers per hour—though Yaakov, on a practice escape run the previous day, had topped out at 190. The saddle sloped severely downward from back to front so that the passenger sat several inches above the driver, which made it a perfect bike for
an assassin, though surely its designers had not had that in mind when they’d conceived it. The engine, as usual, fired without hesitation. Yaakov headed toward the spot along the quay where the helmeted figure of Gabriel awaited him. Gabriel climbed onto the passenger seat and settled in.
“Take me to the boulevard St-Rémy.”
“You sure?”
“One pass,” he said. “I want to see it.”
Yaakov banked hard to the left and raced up the hill.
I
T WAS A GOOD BUILDING
on the Corniche, with a marble floor in the lobby and an elevator that worked most of the time. The flats facing the street had a fine view of the Nile. The ones on the back looked down into the walled grounds of the American embassy. It was a building for foreigners and rich Egyptians, another world from the drab cinder-block tenement in Heliopolis where Zubair lived, but then being a policeman in Egypt didn’t pay much, even if you were a secret policeman working for the Mukhabarat.
He took the stairs. They were wide and curved, with a faded runner held in place by tarnished brass fittings. The apartment was on the top floor, the tenth. Zubair cursed silently as he trod upward. Two packs of Cleopatra cigarettes a day had ravaged his lungs. Three times he had to pause on a landing to catch his breath. It took him a good five minutes to reach the flat.
He pressed his ear to the door and heard no sound from within. Hardly surprising. Zubair had followed the Englishman last night during a liquor-soaked excursion through the hotel
bars and nightclubs along the river. Zubair was confident he was still sleeping.
He reached into his pocket and came out with the key. The Mukhabarat had a fine collection: diplomats, dissidents, Islamists, and especially foreign journalists. He inserted the key into the lock and turned, then pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The flat was cool and dark, the curtains tightly drawn against the early-morning sun. Zubair had been in the flat many times and found his way to the bedroom without bothering to switch on the lights. Quinnell slept soundly in sheets soaked with sweat. On the stagnant air hung the overpowering stench of whiskey. Zubair drew his gun and walked slowly across the room toward the foot of the bed. After a few paces his right foot fell upon something small and hard. Before he could relieve the downward pressure something snapped, emitting a sharp crack. In the deep silence of the room it sounded like a splintering tree limb. Zubair looked down and saw that he’d stepped on Quinnell’s wristwatch. The Englishman, in spite of his drunkenness, sat bolt-upright in bed.
Shit,
thought Zubair. He was not a professional assassin. He’d hoped to kill Quinnell in his sleep.
“What the devil are you doing in here?”
“I bring a message from our friend,” Zubair said calmly.
“I don’t want anything more to do with him.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“So then what in God’s name are you doing in my flat?”
Zubair raised the gun. A moment later he let himself out of the flat and started back down the stairs. Halfway down he was breathing like a marathoner and sweating hard. He stopped and leaned against the balustrade. The damned Cleopatras. If he didn’t quit soon they’d be the death of him.
M
ARSEILLES
: 5:22
A
.
M
. The door of the apartment house swings open. A figure steps into the street. Dina’s verbal alert is heard in the Operations Center of King Saul Boulevard and in Jerusalem by Shamron and the prime minister. And it is also heard in the dirty esplanade along the cours Belsunce, where Gabriel and Yaakov are sitting on the edge of a stagnant fountain, surrounded by drug addicts and immigrants with nowhere else to sleep.
“Who is it?” Gabriel asks.
“The girl,” Dina says, then she adds quickly: “Khaled’s girl.”
“Which way is she going?”
“North, toward the Place de la Préfecture.”
There follows several empty seconds of dead air. In Jerusalem, Shamron is pacing the carpet in front of the prime minister’s desk and waiting anxiously for Gabriel’s order. “Don’t try it,” he murmurs. “If she spots the watcher, she’ll warn Khaled, and you’ll lose him. Let her go.”
Ten more seconds pass before Gabriel’s voice comes back on the air.
“It’s too risky,” he whispers. “Let her go.”
I
N
R
AMALLAH THE MEETING
broke up at dawn. Yasir Arafat was in high good humor. To those in attendance he seemed a bit like the Arafat of old, the Arafat who could argue ideology and strategy all night with his closest comrades, then sit down for a meeting with a head of state. As his lieutenants filed out of the room, Arafat motioned for Mahmoud Arwish to remain.
“It’s begun,” Arafat said. “Now we can only hope that Allah has blessed Khaled’s sacred endeavor.”
“It is
your
endeavor, too, Abu Amar.”
“True,” said Arafat, “and it wouldn’t have been possible without you, Mahmoud.”
Arwish nodded cautiously. Arafat held him in his gaze.
“You played your role well,” said Arafat. “Your clever deception of the Israelis almost makes up for your betrayal of me and the rest of the Palestinian people. I’m tempted to overlook your crime, but I cannot.”
Arwish felt his chest tighten. Arafat smiled.
“Did you really think your treachery would ever be forgiven?”
“My wife,” Arwish stammered. “The Jews made me—”
Arafat waved his hand dismissively. “You sound like a child, Mahmoud. Don’t compound your humiliation by begging for your life.”
Just then the door swung open, and two uniformed security men stepped into the room, guns at the ready. Arwish tried to get his sidearm out of its holster, but a rifle butt slammed into his kidney, and a burst of blinding pain sent him to the floor.
“Today you die the death of a collaborator,” Arafat said. “A death fit for a dog.”
The security men hauled Arwish to his feet and frogmarched him out of the office and down the stairs. Arafat went to the window and looked down into the courtyard as Arwish and the security men emerged into view. Another rifle butt to the kidney drove Arwish to the ground for a second time. Then the firing began. Slow and rhythmic, they started with the feet and worked their way slowly upward. The Mukata echoed with the popping of the Kalashnikovs and the screams of the dying
traitor. To Arafat it was a most satisfying sound—the sound of a revolution. The sound of revenge.
When the screaming stopped there was one final shot to the head. Arafat drew the blind. One enemy had been dealt with. Soon another would meet with a similar fate. He switched off the lamp and sat there in the half-light, waiting for the next update.
L
ATER
,
WHEN IT WAS OVER
, D
INA WOULD SEARCH
in vain for any symbolism in the time Khaled chose to make his appearance. As for the exact words she used to convey this news to the teams, she had no memory of it, though they were captured for eternity on audiotape:
“It’s him. He’s on the street. Heading south toward the park.”
All those who heard Dina’s summons were struck by its composure and lack of emotion. So tranquil was her delivery that for an instant Shamron did not comprehend what had just happened. Only when he heard the roar of Yaakov’s motorbike, followed by the sound of Gabriel’s rapid breathing, did he understand that Khaled was about to get his due.
Within five seconds of hearing Dina’s voice, Yaakov and
Gabriel had pulled on their helmets and were racing eastward at full throttle along the cours Belsunce. At the Place de la Préfecture, Yaakov leaned the bike hard to the right and sped across the square toward the entrance of the boulevard St-Rémy. Gabriel clung to Yaakov’s waist with his left hand. His right was shoved into his coat pocket and wrapped around the chunky grip of the Barak. It was just beginning to get light, but the street was still in shadow. Gabriel saw Khaled for the first time, walking along the pavement like a man late for an important meeting.
The bike slowed suddenly. Yaakov had a decision to make—cross over to the wrong side of the street and approach Khaled from behind, or stay on the right side of the street and loop around for the kill. Gabriel spurred him to the right with a jab of the gun barrel. Yaakov twisted the throttle, and the bike shot forward. Gabriel fastened his eyes on Khaled. The Palestinian was walking faster.
Just then a dark-gray Mercedes car nosed out of a cross street and blocked their path. Yaakov slammed on the brakes to avoid a collision, then blew his horn and waved at the Mercedes to get out of the way. The driver, a young Arab-looking man, stared coldly back at Yaakov and punished him for his recklessness by inching slowly out of their path. By the time Yaakov was under way again, Khaled had turned the corner and disappeared from Gabriel’s sight.
Yaakov sped to the end of the street and turned left, into the boulevard André Aune. It rose sharply away from the old port, toward the looming tower of the Church of Notre Dame de la Garde. Khaled had already crossed the street and at that moment was slipping into the entrance of a covered passageway. Gabriel had used the computer program to memorize the route of
every street in the district. He knew that the passageway led to a flight of steeply pitched stone steps called the Montée de l’Oratoire. Khaled had rendered the motorbike useless.
“Stop here,” Gabriel said. “Don’t move.”
Gabriel leapt from his bike and, with his helmet still on his head, followed the path Khaled had taken. There were no lights in the passage, and for a few paces in the center Gabriel was in pitch darkness. At the opposite end he emerged back into the dusty pink light. The steps began—wide and very old, with a painted metal handrail down the middle. To Gabriel’s left was the khaki-colored stucco facade of an apartment house; to his right a tall limestone wall overhung with olive trees and flowering vines.
The steps curved to the left. As Gabriel came around the corner he saw Khaled again. He was halfway to the top and bounding upward at a trot. Gabriel started to draw the Barak but stopped himself. At the top of the steps was another apartment building. If Gabriel missed Khaled, the errant round would almost certainly plunge into the building. He could hear voices through his earpiece: Dina asking Yaakov what was going on; Yaakov telling Dina about the car that had blocked their way and the flight of steps that had forced them to separate.
“Can you see him?”
“No.”
“How long has he been out of sight?”
“A few seconds.”
“Where’s Khaled going? Why is he walking so far? Where’s his protection? I don’t like it. I’m going to tell him to back off.”
“Leave him to it.”
Khaled gained the top and disappeared from sight. Gabriel took the steps two at a time and arrived no more than ten
seconds after Khaled had. Confronting him was a V-shaped intersection of two streets. One of them, the one to Gabriel’s right, ran up the hill directly toward the front of the church. It was empty of cars or pedestrians. Gabriel hurried to his left and looked up the second street. There was no sign of Khaled here either, only a pair of red taillights, receding rapidly into the distance.
“E
XCUSE ME
,
MONSIEUR
, are you lost?”
Gabriel turned and raised the visor of his helmet. She was standing at the head of the stairs, young, no more than thirty, with large brown eyes and short dark hair. She had spoken to him in French. Gabriel responded in the same language.