Shamron didn’t appear convinced.
“Perhaps you merely used her as an excuse to justify that reckless leak to that British reporter friend of yours.”
“Why would I have done something like that?”
“Maybe you wanted Saladin’s followers to know that you were the one who killed him. Maybe,” said Shamron, “you wanted to sign your name.”
They had withdrawn from the party to Shamron’s favorite spot on the terrace. The lake shone silver in the moonlight, the skies above the Golan Heights flashed yellow and white with American ordnance. They were hitting targets all over Syria.
With his old Zippo lighter, Shamron ignited a cigarette. “Do they know what they’re doing?”
“The Americans?”
Shamron nodded slowly.
“To be determined,” said Gabriel.
“That doesn’t sound hopeful.”
“I’ve never cared for the word.”
“Optimistic,” suggested Shamron.
“There’s little reason for it,” said Gabriel. “Let’s assume the Americans and their allies eventually defeat ISIS and roll back the caliphate. What then? Will Syria be put back together again? Will Iraq? Will the Americans stay this time to ensure the peace? Unlikely, which means there’s going to be several million disaffected and disenfranchised Sunni Muslims living between the Tigris and the Euphrates. They will be a source of regional instability for generations to come.”
“They were artificial countries to begin with, Iraq and Syria. Maybe it’s time to draw new lines in the sand.”
“Another failed Arab state in the making,” said Gabriel. “Just what the Middle East needs.”
“Perhaps now that Saladin is gone, they might actually stand a chance.” Shamron gave Gabriel a sidelong look. “I must say, my son, you took the concept of operational chiefdom rather too far.”
“You were the one who gave me that speech about walking and chewing gum at the same time.”
“That didn’t mean I wanted you to rush headlong into a room and personally kill Saladin. What if he had been holding a gun instead of a cell phone?”
“The result would have been the same.”
“I hope so.”
“There’s that word again.”
Shamron smiled. “I hope you saved some of that money.”
“The Butcher of Damascus,” said Gabriel, “will be funding Office covert operations for many years to come.”
“You gave an awful lot to help care for his victims.”
“It will pay dividends down the road.”
“Charity begins at home,” said Shamron in disapproval.
“Is that a Corsican proverb?”
“Actually,” said Shamron, “I’m fairly certain I coined it.”
“One-fourth of the Syrian population is living outside Syria’s borders,” explained Gabriel. “And most are Sunni Muslims. Helping to care for them is smart policy.”
“One-fourth,” repeated Shamron, “and hundreds of thousands more are dead. And yet we are the ones the world blames for the suffering of the Arabs. As if the creation of a Palestinian state would magically solve all the many problems of the Arab world. The lack of education and jobs, the brutal dictators, the repression of women.”
“It’s a party, Ari. Try to enjoy yourself.”
“There isn’t time. Not for me at least.” Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette. “This horrible war in Syria should make it abundantly clear what would happen if our enemies ever managed to breach our defenses. If the Butcher of Damascus is willing to slaughter his own people, what would he do to ours? If ISIS is willing to kill other Muslims, what would they do if they could get their hands on the Jews?” He patted Gabriel’s knee paternally. “But these are your problems now, my son. Not mine.”
They watched the light show in the sky, the former chief, the current chief, while behind them their friends and colleagues and loved ones forgot for a few moments the world of trouble that surrounded them.
“When I was a boy,” said Shamron at last, “I used to have dreams.”
“I had them, too,” said Gabriel. “I still do.”
The wind blew softly from the west, from the ancient battlefield of Hittin.
“Do you hear that?” asked Shamron.
“Hear what?”
“The clashing of the swords, the screams of the dying.”
“No, Ari, I only hear the music.”
“You’re a lucky guy.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “I suppose I am.”
Author’s Note
House of Spies is a work of entertainment and should be read as nothing more. The names, characters, places, and incidents portrayed in the story are the product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
There are many graceful old buildings on the rue de Grenelle in Paris, entirely intact, but none house an elite counterterrorism unit of the DGSI called the Alpha Group, for no such unit exists. Also, one will search in vain for the headquarters of the Israeli secret intelligence service on King Saul Boulevard in Tel Aviv; it was moved long ago to a spot north of the city. The Liberty Crossing Intelligence Campus in McLean, Virginia—home of the National Counterterrorism Center and the Office of the Director of National Intelligence—was destroyed in a terrorist attack in The Black Widow but, fortunately, not in real life. Employees of the two agencies work day and night to keep the American homeland safe.
Gabriel Allon and his family do not reside at 16 Narkiss Street in Jerusalem, but occasionally they can be spotted at Focaccia or Mona, two of their favorite neighborhood restaurants. There are several art galleries in the centre ville of Saint-Tropez, some better than others, but none bear the name Olivia Watson. Nor will visitors to the St. James’s section of London find an Old Master art gallery owned by anyone named Julian Isherwood, Oliver Dimbleby, or Roddy Hutchinson. The paintings referenced in House of Spies were quite obviously used fictitiously. The author has no comment on the manner in which they were acquired. Nor does he wish to imply that the murderous ruler of Syria maintains an account at the esteemed Bank of Panama.