“Why?”
“Because we can make fun of you, and you’ll never know it.”
“How are you going to use me?”
“You speak French like a Frenchman, you have several clean passports, and you’re rather good with a gun. I’m sure we’ll think of something.”
“May I offer a piece of advice?”
“Just one.”
“You’re going to need a Russian.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gabriel. “I’ve got one.”
39
GRAYSWOOD, SURREY
The rambling
Tudor house stood a mile from the old Grayswood parish church, at the edge of
the Knobby Copse. A rutted beech drive led to it; thick hedgerows shielded it
from view. There was a tangled garden for thinking deep thoughts, eight private
acres for wrestling with one’s demons, and a stock pond that hadn’t been fished
in years. The bass that stalked its dark waters were now the size of sharks.
Housekeeping, the Office division that acquired and maintained secure
properties, referred to the pond as Loch Ness.
Gabriel and Keller arrived at the property shortly
after noon the next day, in a four-wheel-drive Land Rover that had been supplied
by Transport. In the back were two stainless steel crates filled with secure
communications equipment taken from the embassy safe room, along with several
bags of groceries from the Sainsbury’s supermarket in Guildford. After loading
the food into the pantry, they pulled the covers from the furniture, blew the
cobwebs from the eaves, and searched the old house from end to end for listening
devices. Then they went into the garden and stood on the banks of the stock
pond. Dorsal fins carved slits in the black surface.
“They weren’t joking,” said Keller.
“No,” said Gabriel.
“What do they eat?”
“They devoured one of my best officers the last
time we were here.”
“Is there any tackle?”
“In the mudroom.”
Keller went inside and found a pair of rods leaning
in the corner, next to a splintered old oar. While searching for a lure, he
heard a dull thud, like the snapping of a tree limb. Stepping outside, he
smelled the unmistakable odor of gunpowder on the air. Then he glimpsed Gabriel
coming up the garden path, a silenced Beretta in one hand, a two-foot fish in
the other.
“That hardly seems sporting,” Keller said.
“I don’t have time for sport,” said Gabriel. “I
have to figure out a way to get an agent inside a Russian oil company. And I
have many mouths to feed.”
Late
that afternoon, as the hedgerows melted into the gathering darkness and the air
turned brittle with cold, there arrived at the isolated Tudor house at the edge
of the Knobby Copse a caravan of three motorcars. The vehicles were of different
make and model, as were the nine operatives who emerged from them, weary after a
long day of clandestine travel. Within the corridors and conference rooms of
King Saul Boulevard, the operatives were known as Barak, the Hebrew word for
lightning, because of their ability to gather and strike quickly. The Americans,
jealous of the unit’s matchless list of operational accomplishments, referred to
them as “God’s team.”
Chiara entered the house first, followed by Rimona
Stern and Dina Sarid. Petite and dark-haired, Dina was the Office’s top
terrorism analyst, but she possessed a brilliant analytical mind that made her
an asset in any kind of operation. Rimona, a Rubenesque woman with
sandstone-colored hair, had started her career in military intelligence but was
now part of the Office unit that focused exclusively on the Iranian nuclear
program. She also happened to be Shamron’s niece. Indeed, Gabriel’s fondest
memories of Rimona were of a fearless child on a kick scooter careening down the
steep drive of her famous uncle’s house in Tiberias.
Next came a pair of all-purpose field operatives
named Oded and Mordecai, followed by Yaakov Rossman and Yossi Gavish. Yaakov, a
hard figure with black hair and a pockmarked face, was an agent runner by trade
who specialized in the recruitment and maintenance of Arab spies. Yossi was a
senior officer from Research, the Office’s analytical division. Born in London
and educated at Oxford, he still spoke Hebrew with a pronounced British
accent.
From the last car emerged two men—one of late
middle age, the other in the prime of life. The elder of the two was none other
than Eli Lavon: noted archaeologist, hunter of Nazi war criminals and looted
Holocaust assets, and surveillance artist extraordinaire. As usual, Lavon was
wearing many layers of mismatched clothing. He had thinning hair that defied
styling of any sort and the vigilant brown eyes of a terrier. His suede loafers
made no sound as he crossed the entrance hall and entered Gabriel’s warm
embrace. Eli Lavon did nearly everything silently. Shamron once said that the
legendary Office watcher could disappear while shaking your hand.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” asked