The Fallen Angel (22 page)

34

VIENNA

A
FTER THAT, THE DEBATE ENDED,
and the two sides settled down to the business of hammering out an operational accord. Within a few minutes, they had the broad outlines of an agreement. Gabriel and Mikhail would see to the takedown; EKO Cobra, the surveillance. At Kessler's insistence, the Austrians reserved the right to move against the terrorists at any point prior to their arrival in the Jewish Quarter if the opportunity presented itself. Otherwise, they were to give the Hezbollah team a wide berth—or, as Shamron put it, they were to quietly escort them to death's door. Gabriel made the Austrians' job easier by telling Kessler the exact route the terrorists would take to the synagogue, including the streetcars they would use. Kessler was clearly impressed. He suggested a café on the Rotenturmstrasse that Gabriel could use as a staging post. Gabriel smiled and said he would use the one next door instead.

“Why?”

“Better view.”

“When exactly was the last time you were in Vienna?”

“It slips my mind.”

Which left only the rules of engagement. On this point, there was no room for debate. Gabriel and Mikhail were to take no lethal action until the terrorists drew their guns—and if they killed unarmed men, they would be prosecuted to the full extent of Austrian law, and any other law Kessler could think of. Gabriel agreed to the provision and even signed his name to a hastily drafted document. After adding his own signature to the agreement, Kessler handed over several miniature radios preset to the frequency the EKO Cobra teams would be using that night.

“Weapons?” asked Kessler.

“It's a little too early in the day for me,” said Gabriel.

Kessler frowned. “Your intelligence is very precise,” he said. “Let us hope it is also accurate.”

“It usually is. That's how we've managed to survive in a very dangerous neighborhood.”

“Are you ever going to tell me your source?”

“It would only complicate matters.”

“I don't suppose this has anything to do with that missing Iranian diplomat.”

“What missing diplomat?”

By then, it was approaching noon. Shamron gave Gabriel a cardkey to a hotel room in the Innere Stadt and told him to get a few hours of rest. Gabriel wanted to survey the battlefield in daylight first, so he set out on foot along the Kärntnerstrasse, trailed not so discreetly by a pair of oafs from Kessler's service. In the Stephansplatz, large crowds wandered a Lenten street fête. Gabriel briefly considered entering the cathedral to see an altarpiece he had once restored. Instead, he sliced his way through the colorful stalls and made his way to the Jewish Quarter.

Before the Second World War, the tangle of narrow streets and alleys had been the center of one of the most vibrant and remarkable Jewish communities in the world. At its height it numbered 192,000 people, but by November 1942 only 7,000 remained, the rest having fled or been murdered in the extermination camps of Nazi Germany. But the Holocaust was not the first destruction of Vienna's Jews. In 1421, the entire Jewish population was burned to death, forcibly baptized, or expelled after a scurrilous charge of ritual murder swept the city. The Austrians, it seemed, felt compelled to slaughter their Jews from time to time.

The heart of the Jewish Quarter was the Stadttempel synagogue. Built in the early nineteenth century, when an edict by Emperor Joseph II required non-Catholic houses of worship to be hidden from public view, it was tucked away behind a façade of old houses on a tiny cobbled lane called the Seitenstettengasse. On Kristallnacht, the organized spasm of anti-Jewish violence that swept Germany and Austria in November 1938, the synagogues of Vienna went up in flames as firefighters looked on and did nothing. But not the Stadttempel. Setting it alight would have destroyed the neighboring structures, so the mobs had to be content with merely smashing its windows and vandalizing its glorious sanctuary. It was the only synagogue or prayer room in the entire city to survive that night.

Gabriel approached the synagogue along the same route the terrorists would take later that evening. At sunset, most of the congregants would be gathered inside, but a few would surely be clustered around the entrance. Protecting them from collateral harm would be Gabriel's primary challenge. It meant that he and Mikhail would have to be extremely accurate and rapid in their use of firepower. Gabriel reckoned they would have only two seconds to act once the terrorists drew their weapons—two seconds to render four battle-hardened terrorists harmless. It was not the sort of thing that could be taught in a classroom or on a firing range. It took years of training and experience. And even then, an instant of hesitation could mean the difference between life and death, not only for the targets of the attack but for Gabriel and Mikhail as well.

He remained in the street until he had committed every crack and cobble to memory, then made his way to a quaint square lined with restaurants. One was the Italian restaurant where he had eaten his last meal with Leah and Dani, and in an adjacent street was the spot where their car had exploded. Gabriel stood motionless for a long moment, paralyzed by memories. He tried to control them but could not; it was as if he had contracted Leah's merciless affliction. Finally, he felt a gentle tap on his elbow and, turning sharply, saw the powdered face of an elderly Austrian woman. He calculated her age. It was his other affliction.

“Are you lost?” she asked in German.

“Yes,” he replied forthrightly.

“What are you looking for?”

“Café Central,” he answered without hesitation.

She pointed to the southwest, toward the Hofburg Quarter. Gabriel walked in that direction until he was out of the woman's sight. Then he turned and made his way back toward the cathedral. The hotel where the Office had booked a room for him was one street over. As Gabriel entered, he saw Yaakov and Eli Lavon drinking coffee in the lobby. Ignoring them, he walked over to the concierge to say he would be going upstairs to his room.

“Your wife arrived a few minutes ago,” the concierge said.

Gabriel felt as though a stone had been laid over his heart. “My wife?”

“Yes,” the concierge said. “Tall, long dark hair, dark eyes.”

“Italian?”

“Very.”

Gabriel felt himself breathe again. Turning, he walked past Yaakov and Lavon without a word and headed upstairs to his room.

 

A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the door latch. Gabriel inserted his cardkey into the slot and slipped quietly inside. From the bathroom came the sound of water splashing in the shower. Chiara was singing softly to herself. The tune was melancholy, her voice low and sultry. Gabriel padded over to the foot of the bed, where a change of his own clothing lay in a neat pile. Next to it was a gun, a sound suppressor, a box of ammunition, and a shoulder holster. The gun was a .45-caliber Beretta, larger than the 9mm he generally preferred but necessary for a quick and decisive kill. The ammunition was hollow-point, which would help to alleviate the threat of collateral casualties due to overpenetration. Gabriel loaded ten rounds into the magazine and inserted it into the butt. Then he screwed the suppressor into the end of the barrel and, extending his arm, checked the weapon for balance.

“What do you suppose normal people do when they come to Vienna?” Chiara asked.

“They have coffee and listen to music.”

Gabriel lowered the Beretta and looked at her. She was leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom, her body wrapped in a toweling robe, her face flushed from the heat of the shower.

“I thought I told you to stay in Jerusalem.”

“You did.”

“So why are you here?”

“I didn't want you to have to come back here alone.”

Gabriel ejected the magazine from the Beretta and unscrewed the suppressor.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Because the Austrians have never dealt with a scenario like this before. And even if they had, I wouldn't be willing to entrust them with Jewish lives.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“Why else would I be doing it?”

Chiara sat on the edge of the bed and studied him carefully. “You look dreadful,” she said.

“Thank you, Chiara. You look lovely as always.”

She ignored his remark. “I don't know what that night was really like,” she said, “but I have a fairly good idea. You relive it in your dreams more often than you realize. I hear everything. I hear you weeping over Dani's body. I hear you telling Leah that the ambulance will be there soon.”

She lapsed into silence and brushed a tear from her cheek. “But sometimes,” she continued, “everything turns out differently. You kill the terrorists before they can set off the bomb. Leah and Dani are unharmed. You live happily ever after. No explosion. No funeral for a child.” She paused. “No Chiara.”

“It's just a dream.”

“But it's how you wish things had turned out.”

“You're right, Chiara. I do wish Dani hadn't been killed that night. And I do wish Leah—”

“I don't blame you, Gabriel,” she said, cutting him off. “I knew that when I fell in love with you. I always knew I would only have part of your heart. The rest would always belong to Leah.”

Gabriel reached down and touched her face. “What does any of this have to do with tonight?”

“Because you're right about one thing, Gabriel. It is only a dream. Killing those terrorists tonight won't bring Dani back to life. And it won't make Leah the way she was. In fact, the only thing you might achieve is getting yourself killed in the same city where your son died.”

“The only people who are going to die tonight are the terrorists.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe you'll make a mistake, and I'll leave Vienna a widow.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Wouldn't that be poetic?”

“I'm not a poet. And I'm not going to make a mistake.”

She exhaled heavily in capitulation and pulled the robe tightly across her breasts. “I don't suppose you have room for one more person on your team tonight?”

Gabriel stared at her blankly.

“I thought that would be your answer.” She took hold of his hand. “How will I know, Gabriel? How will I know if you're alive or dead?”

“If you hear explosions, you'll know I'm dead. But if you hear sirens . . .” He shrugged.

“What?”

“It will all be over.” He kissed her lips and whispered, “And then we'll go home and live happily ever after.”

 

Gabriel showered and tried to sleep, but it was no good. His mind was aflame with too many memories of the past, his nerves too brittle with anxiety about what the next few hours would bring. And so he lay quietly next to Chiara as the afternoon shadows grew thin upon the bed, listening to the chatter over the radio that Jonas Kessler had given to him. EKO Cobra had established an observation post outside the apartment house on the Koppstrasse and, using a thermographic camera, had confirmed the presence of at least four people inside. Additional EKO Cobra teams were posted at various points along the route from the Koppstrasse to the Innere Stadt. It meant the terrorists would be running a gauntlet—a gauntlet that would lead them directly to the guns of Gabriel and Mikhail.

Sunset that evening was at 6:12. At half past four, Gabriel drank two cups of coffee—enough to make him alert, but not enough to make his hands shake—and dressed in the clothing that Chiara had brought from Jerusalem. Faded blue jeans, a dark woolen pullover, a shoulder holster: the uniform of a soldier of the night. He reassembled and loaded the Beretta and inserted it into the holster. Then, as Chiara looked on in silence, he repeatedly practiced drawing the weapon and firing two shots in rapid succession, both at a sharp upward trajectory.

When he felt ready, he holstered the gun and pulled on his leather jacket. Then he removed his wedding band and handed it to Chiara. She didn't ask why; she didn't need to. Instead, she kissed him one last time and tried not to cry as he slipped silently out the door. When he was gone, she stood alone in the window, her face wet with tears, and prayed for the screaming of sirens.

35

VIENNA

A
USTRIA'S
F
EDERAL
M
INISTRY OF THE
I
NTERIOR
occupied a magnificent old Hapsburg palace at Herengasse 7. Deep within the massive structure was a crisis center and situation room that had been constructed in the tense days after 9/11, when everyone in Europe, including the Austrians, assumed they were next on al-Qaeda's hit list. Fortunately, Jonas Kessler had set foot in the crisis center only one time. It was the night Erich Radek was captured by the same man who now held Kessler's career in the palm of his hand.

The center was arranged like a small amphitheater. On the lower level, in a space the staff referred to as “the pit,” liaison officers from the various branches of the Austrian Federal Police and security services sat at three common tables crowded with phones and computers. The more senior staff sat in an ascending staircase of workstations, with the uppermost deck reserved for chiefs, ministers, and, if necessary, the federal chancellor himself.

At 5:35, Jonas Kessler settled into his assigned seat, with the interior minister on one side and Uzi Navot on the other. Next to Navot was Ari Shamron. He was twirling his old Zippo lighter between his fingertips and staring at the largest image on the video display wall. It showed the exterior of the apartment house at Koppstrasse 34. At 5:50, the exact time Gabriel had predicted, four young Lebanese men emerged from the entrance. Each wore a heavy woolen overcoat. Their faces were clean-shaven, a sign they had ritually prepared themselves for the virginal delights that awaited them in Paradise.

The four Arabs walked two blocks to the Thaliastrasse and descended into a U-Bahn station. At 5:55, they boarded a train—separate carriages, just as Gabriel had said they would. Watching them on the video monitors, Kessler swore softly beneath his breath. Then he looked at Navot and Shamron.

“I don't know how to thank you,” he said.

“Then don't,” Shamron replied darkly. “Not until it's over.”

“Bad karma?” asked Kessler.

Shamron made no reply other than to twirl his lighter nervously between his fingertips. He didn't believe in karma. He believed in God. And he believed in his angel of vengeance, Gabriel Allon.

 

Regrettably, this was not the first time Arab terrorists had targeted Vienna's historic Stadttempel. In 1981, two people were killed and thirty were wounded when Palestinian militants attacked a Bar Mitzvah party using machine guns and hand grenades. As a result of the attack, those wishing to enter the synagogue now had to pass through a cordon of youthful Israeli-born security guards. Members of the local Jewish community were usually admitted without delay, but visitors had to endure a maddening cross-examination and a search of their belongings. It was about as pleasant as boarding an El Al airplane.

Most of the guards were veterans of the diplomatic protection arm of Shabak, Israel's internal security service. As a result, the two on duty that night recognized Yaakov Rossman as he approached the synagogue, trailed by Oded and Eli Lavon. Yaakov pulled the two guards aside and, as calmly as possible, told them that the synagogue was about to be attacked. Then he rattled off a quick set of instructions. The two guards immediately entered the offices of the Jewish community center, leaving Yaakov and Oded to handle security in the street. Eli Lavon, a former member of the community, covered his head with a
kippah
and entered the synagogue. Old habits die hard, he thought, even in wartime.

As usual, a small crowd of congregants was milling in the foyer. Lavon picked his way through them and entered the beautiful oval sanctuary. Looking up toward the women's gallery, he saw faces aglow with candlelight between the Ionic columns. Their male relatives were now settling into their seats on the lower level. As Lavon walked past them and mounted the
bimah
, several heads turned in bewilderment. Then a few smiles appeared. It had been a long time since they had seen him.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Lavon began, his voice calm and pleasant. “It's quite possible that some of you might remember me, but that's not important right now. What
is
important is that you all leave the sanctuary through the back door as quickly and quietly as possible.”

Lavon had been expecting a Talmudic debate on why such a step was necessary, or even whether it was possible on the Sabbath. Instead, he watched in wonder as the congregants rose to their feet and followed his instructions to the letter. In his earpiece, he could hear a voice in German saying the four Hezbollah operatives had just changed onto a Number 3 U-Bahn train bound for the Innere Stadt. He looked at his watch. The time was 6:05. They were right on schedule.

 

At the far end of the Rotenturmstrasse, just a few paces from the banks of the Donaukanal, is a café called Aida. The awning that shades its tables is Miami pink, as is the exterior of the building, making it, arguably, the ugliest café in all of Vienna. In another lifetime, under another name, Gabriel had brought his son to Aida most afternoons for chocolate gelato. Now he sat there with Mikhail Abramov. Four members of EKO Cobra were huddled around a nearby table, as inconspicuous as a Times Square billboard. Gabriel had his back turned to the street, the weight of the .45-caliber Beretta tugging at his shoulder. Mikhail was drumming his fingers nervously on the tabletop.

“How long do you intend to do that?” asked Gabriel.

“Until I see those four boys from Hezbollah.”

“It's giving me a headache.”

“You'll live.” Mikhail's fingers went still. “I wish we didn't have to let him go.”

“Massoud?”

Mikhail nodded.

“I gave him my word.”

“He's a murderer.”

“But I'm not,” said Gabriel. “And neither are you.”

“What if he wasn't telling you the truth? Then you wouldn't have to live up to your end of the bargain.”

“If four suicide bombers from Hezbollah come walking up that street in a few minutes,” Gabriel said, nodding toward the window, “we'll know he was telling us the truth.”

Mikhail started drumming his fingers again. “Maybe we don't actually have to
kill
him,” he said philosophically. “Maybe we could just . . . forget him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that Yossi and the others could just drive away from that house in Denmark with Massoud still chained to the wall. Eventually, someone would find his skeleton.”

“A dishonest mistake? Is that what you're suggesting?”

“Shit happens.”

“It would still be murder.”

“No, it wouldn't. It would be death by negligence.”

“I'm afraid that's a distinction without a difference.”

“Exactly.” Mikhail opened his mouth to continue, but he could see Gabriel was listening to the radio.

“What is it?”

“They're getting off the train.”

“Where?”

“The Stephansplatz.”

“Right where Massoud said they would.”

Gabriel nodded.

“I still think we should kill him.”

“You mean
forget
him.”

“That, too.”

“We're not murderers, Mikhail. We are
preventers
of murder.”

“Let's hope so. Otherwise, they're going to have to pick us off the street with tweezers.”

“It's better to think positive thoughts.”

“I've always preferred to dwell upon the worst-case scenario.”

“Why?”

“Motivation,” said Mikhail. “If I imagine a rabbi soaking up my blood for burial, it will motivate me to do my job properly.”

“Just wait until the guns appear. We can't kill them until we see the guns.”

“What if they don't draw their guns? What if they just detonate themselves in the street?”

“Positive thoughts, Mikhail.”

“I'm a Jew from Russia. Positive thoughts aren't in my nature.”

The waitress placed a check on the table. Gabriel gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change. Mikhail glanced at the four EKO Cobra men.

“They look more nervous than we do.”

“They probably are.”

Mikhail turned his gaze to the street. “Have you given any thought to what you're going to do next?”

“I'm going to sleep for several days.”

“Make sure you turn the phone off.”

“This is the last time, Mikhail.”

“Until some terrorist comes along who decides he wants to reduce the world's population of Jews by a few hundred. Then we'll be right back here again.”

“I'm afraid you're going to have to do it without me next time.”

“We'll see.” Mikhail looked at Gabriel. “Are you really sure you're up for this?”

“If you ask me that one more time, I'm going to shoot you.”

“That would be a very bad idea.”

“Why?”

“Look out the window.”

 

In the crisis center of the Austrian Interior Ministry, Ari Shamron stared at the video monitors, watching intently as the four Hezbollah terrorists turned into the narrow cobbled alley leading to the synagogue, followed by Gabriel and Mikhail. And at that moment, he had a chillingly clear premonition of disaster unlike any he had ever experienced before. It was nothing, he assured himself. The Stadttempel had survived Kristallnacht; it would survive this night, too. He ignited the Zippo lighter and stared at the jewel-like flame. Two seconds, he thought, maybe less. Then it would be done.

 

They had arranged themselves in a boxlike formation, with two in front and the other two trailing a few steps behind. Gabriel couldn't help but admire their tradecraft. With their winter coats and false casual demeanor, they looked like four young men out for an evening in Vienna's famed Bermuda Triangle—anything but four Hezbollah suicide bombers who were minutes from death. Gabriel knew a great deal about them. He knew each of their names, the villages where they had been born, and the circumstances of their recruitments. For now, though, they were simply Alef, Bet, Gimel, and Dalet—the first four letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Alef and Bet belonged to Gabriel; Gimel and Dalet, to Mikhail.
Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet
. . . Then it would be done.

The street rose at a pitched angle and curved slightly to the right. After a few more paces, Gabriel could see Yaakov and Oded standing in a pool of white light outside the synagogue's entrance. Oded was cross-examining a pair of American Jews who wished to attend Shabbat services in the city of their ancestry, but Yaakov was watching the four young men coming toward him up the street. He stared at them for an appropriate interval before forcing himself to look away. Oded seemed not to notice them. Having admitted the two Americans, he was now working his way through the rest of the small line of congregants waiting to enter. A dozen more, including a pair of young children, stood in the street, unaware of the horror that was approaching.

From the moment Gabriel and Mikhail had left the café, they had been gradually closing the distance between themselves and their targets. Twenty-five feet now separated them—four terrorists, two secret soldiers, each committed to his mission, each certain of his cause and his God. Tonight the ancient war for control of the Land of Israel would once again be played out on a pretty Viennese street. Gabriel couldn't help but feel the weight of history pressing down upon his shoulders as he climbed the sloping cobbles—his own history, the history of his people,
Shamron . . .
He imagined Shamron in his youth stalking Adolf Eichmann along a desolate lane north of Buenos Aires. Shamron had tripped over a loose shoelace that night and nearly fallen. After that, he had always double-knotted his laces whenever he went into the field. Gabriel had done the same tonight in Shamron's honor. No loose shoelaces. No nightmare of blood and fire at a synagogue in Vienna.

Gabriel and Mikhail quickened their pace slightly, closing the gap further still. As the terrorists passed through a cone of lamplight, Gabriel noticed the wire of a detonator switch running along the inside of Alef's wrist. All four of the terrorists wore their overcoats tightly buttoned, and, not coincidentally, all four had their right hands in their pockets. That's where the guns would be.
Draw them
, thought Gabriel. Two seconds, maybe less.
Alef, Bet, Gimel, Dalet
. . . Then it would be done.

Gabriel quickly glanced over his shoulder and saw the EKO Cobra team trailing quietly behind. Yaakov and Oded had managed to usher most of the crowd inside, but a few congregants were still milling about in the street, including the two young children. Mikhail drew several long, heavy breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart, but Gabriel didn't bother. It wouldn't be possible. Not tonight. And so he stared at Alef's right hand, his heart beating in his chest like a kettledrum, and waited for the gun to emerge. In the end, though, it was one of the children, a young boy, who saw it first. His scream of terror set fire to the back of Gabriel's neck.