To move the Allon family was no easy feat. The children’s car seats had to be buckled into the back of Gabriel’s SUV, and an additional vehicle added to the motorcade. It barreled down the Bab al-Wad at rush hour, sped northward up the Coastal Plain, and then raced westward across the Galilee. Shamron’s honey-colored villa stood atop a rocky bluff overlooking the lake. At the base of the drive was a small guardhouse where a security detail kept watch behind a metal gate. It was like entering a forward military base in a hostile land.
It was precisely three minutes before sunset when the motorcade rumbled to a stop outside the entrance of the villa. Gilah Shamron was standing on the steps, tapping her wristwatch to indicate that time was running short if they were going to light the candles in time. Gabriel carried the children inside while Chiara saw to the food she had spent the afternoon preparing. Gilah, too, had spent the day cooking. There was enough to feed a multitude.
Chiara’s description of Shamron’s failing health had left Gabriel expecting the worst, and he was deeply relieved to find Shamron looking rather well. Indeed, if anything, his appearance had improved since Gabriel saw him last. He was dressed, as usual, in a white oxford cloth shirt and pressed khaki trousers, though tonight he had added a navy cardigan against the November chill. Little remained of his hair and his skin was pale and translucent, but his blue eyes shone brightly behind his ugly steel spectacles when Gabriel entered with a child in each arm. Shamron raised his liver-spotted hands—hands that were far too large for so small a man—and without apprehension Gabriel entrusted them with Raphael. Shamron held the child as though he were a live grenade and whispered nonsense into his ear in his murderous Polish accent. When Raphael emitted a peal of laughter, Gabriel was instantly glad he had come.
He had been raised in a home without religion, but as always, when Gilah drew the light of the Sabbath candles to her eyes while reciting the blessing, he thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Shamron then recited the blessings of the bread and the wine in the Yiddish intonations of his youth, and the meal commenced. Gabriel had yet to take his first bite when Shamron attempted to quiz him on the operation, but Gilah adroitly changed the subject to the children. Chiara briefed them on the latest developments—the dietary changes, the growth and weight gain, the attempts at speech and movement. Gabriel had caught only passing glimpses of the changes during the many months of the operation. In a few weeks’ time they would gather again in Tiberias to celebrate the children’s first birthday. He wondered whether Saladin would allow him to attend the party.
For the most part, though, he tried to forget the operation long enough to enjoy a quiet evening in the company of his family. He didn’t dare turn off his phone, but he didn’t check for updates from Paris, either. It wasn’t necessary. He knew that in a few minutes Natalie would be leaving the clinic on the Avenue Victor Hugo, in the banlieue of Aubervilliers. Perhaps she would go to her café for something to eat or drink, or perhaps she would repair directly to her flat for another evening alone. Gabriel felt a stab of guilt—Natalie, he thought, should be passing the Sabbath in the company of her family, too. He wondered how much longer she could go on. Long enough, he hoped, for Saladin to come calling.
Shamron was quiet at dinner, for small talk had never been his strong suit. After finishing his coffee, he pulled on his old leather bomber jacket and led Gabriel outside to the terrace. It looked east toward the silvery surface of the lake and the looming black mass of the Golan Heights. Behind them was Mount Arbel, with its ancient synagogue and cave fortresses, and on the southeastern slope was a small town by the same name. The town had once been an Arab village called Hittin, and long before that, a thousand years ago, it had been known as Hattin. It was there, a stone’s throw from the spot where Gabriel and Shamron now stood, that Saladin, the real Saladin, had laid waste to the armies of Rome.
Shamron ignited a pair of gas heaters to take the sharp chill off the air. Then, after fending off a halfhearted attack by Gabriel, he ignited one of his Turkish cigarettes, too. They sat in a pair of chairs at the edge of the terrace, Gabriel at Shamron’s right hand, his phone resting on the small table between them. A minaret moon floated above the Golan Heights, shining its benevolent light on the lands of the caliphate. From behind them, through an open door, came the voices of Gilah and Chiara and the chirp and laughter of the children.
“Have you noticed,” asked Shamron, “how much your son looks like Daniel?”
“It’s difficult not to.”
“It’s shocking.”
“Yes,” said Gabriel, his eyes on the moon.
“You’re a lucky man.”
“Am I really?”
“It’s not often we are given a second chance at happiness.”
“But with happiness,” said Gabriel, “comes guilt.”
“You have nothing to feel guilty about. I was the one who recruited you. And I was the one who allowed you to take your wife and child with you to Vienna. If there’s anyone who should feel guilty,” said Shamron gravely, “it’s me. And I’m reminded of my guilt each time I gaze into your son’s face.”
“And every time you put on that old jacket.”
Shamron had torn the left shoulder of the jacket while hastily climbing into the back of his car on the night of the bombing in Vienna. He had never repaired it—it was Daniel’s tear. From behind them came the soft voices of women and the laughter of a child, which one Gabriel could not tell. Yes, he thought, he was happy. But not an hour of a day went by when he did not hold the lifeless body of his son, or pull his wife from behind the wheel of a burning car. Happiness was his punishment for having survived.
“I enjoyed the article about the coming change in leadership at the Office.”
“Did you?” Even Shamron seemed pleased by the change in subject. “I’m glad.”
“That was low, Ari, even by your standards.”
“I’ve never believed in fighting cleanly. That’s why I’m a spy instead of a soldier.”
“It was disruptive,” said Gabriel.
“That’s why I did it.”
“Does the prime minister know you were behind it?”
“Who do you think asked me to do it in the first place?” Shamron raised his cigarette to his lips with a tremulous hand. “This situation,” he said disdainfully, “has gone on long enough.”
“I’m running an operation.”
“You can walk and chew gum at the same time.”
“Your point?”
“I was an operational chief,” answered Shamron, “and I expect you to be an operational chief, too.”
“The minute Saladin’s network makes contact with Natalie, we’ll have to go on a war footing. I can’t be worrying about personnel matters and parking privileges while trying to stop the next attack.”
“If he makes contact with her.” Shamron slowly crushed out his cigarette. “Two and a half months is a long time.”
“Two and a half months is nothing, and you know it. Besides, it fits the network’s profile. Safia Bourihane was dormant for many months after her return from Syria. So dormant, in fact, that the French lost interest in her, which is exactly what Saladin wanted to happen.”
“I’m afraid the prime minister isn’t prepared to wait much longer. And neither am I.”