“Can we get him?” the prime minister asked, then added, “Without all hell breaking loose?”
“Yes, sir, I believe we can.”
“Tell me how you intend to do it.”
Gabriel’s briefing spared no detail. The prime minister sat silently with his plump hands folded on the desk, listening intently. When Gabriel finished, the prime minister nodded once and turned his gaze toward Lev—I assume this is where you part company?
Lev, ever the technocrat, took a moment to organize his thoughts before answering. His response, when it finally came, was passionless and methodical. Had there been some way to plot it on a flow chart or actuarial table, Lev would surely have stood, pointer in hand, and droned on until dawn. As it was, he remained seated and soon reduced his audience to painful boredom. His speech was punctuated by pauses, during which he made a steeple of his forefingers and pressed them against his bloodless lips.
An impressive piece of investigatory work, Lev said in a backhanded compliment to Gabriel, but now is not the time to waste precious time and political capital settling scores with aged Nazis. The founders, except in the case of Eichmann, resisted the urge to hunt down the perpetrators of the Shoah because they knew it would detract from the primary purpose of the Office, the protection of the State. The same principles apply today. Arresting Radek in Vienna would lead to backlash in Europe, where support for Israel was hanging by a thread. It would also endanger the small, defenseless Jewish community in Austria, where the currents of anti-Semitism run strong and deep. What will we do when Jews are attacked on the streets? Do you think the Austrian authorities will lift a finger to stop it? Finally, his trump card: why is it Israel’s responsibility to prosecute Radek? Leave it to the Austrians. As for the Americans, let them lie in a bed of their own making. Expose Radek and Metzler, and walk away from it. The point will have been made, and the consequences will be less severe than a kidnapping operation.
The prime minister spent a moment in quiet deliberation, then looked at Gabriel. “There’s no doubt this man Ludwig Vogel is really Radek?”
“None whatsoever, Prime Minister.”
He turned to Shamron. “And we’re certain the Americans aren’t going to get cold feet?”
“The Americans are anxious to resolve this matter as well.”
The prime minister looked down at the documents before rendering his decision.
“I made the rounds in Europe last month,” he said. “While I was in Paris, I visited a synagogue that had been torched a few weeks earlier. The next morning there was an editorial in one of the French newspapers that accused me of picking the scabs of anti-Semitism and the Holocaust whenever it suited my political purposes. Perhaps it’s time to remind the world why we inhabit this strip of land, surrounded by a sea of enemies, fighting for our survival. Bring Radek here. Let him tell the world about the crimes he committed in order to hide the Shoah. Maybe it will silence, once and for all, those who contend that it was a conspiracy, invented by men like Ari and myself to justify our existence.”
Gabriel cleared his throat. “This isn’t about politics, Prime Minister. It’s about justice.”
The prime minister smiled at the unexpected challenge. “True, Gabriel, it is about justice, but justice and politics often go hand in hand, and when justice can serve the needs of politics, there is nothing immoral about it.”
Lev, having lost in the first round, attempted to snatch victory in the second by seizing control of the operation. Shamron knew his aim remained the same: killing it. Unfortunately for Lev, so did the prime minister.
“It was Gabriel who brought us to this point. Let Gabriel bring it home.”
“With all due respect, Prime Minister, Gabriel is a kidon, the best ever, but he is not an operational planner, which is exactly what we need.”
“His operational plan sounds fine to me.”
“Yes, but can he prepare and execute it?”
“He’ll have Shamron looking over his shoulder the entire time.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Lev said acidly.
The prime minister stood; the others followed suit.
“Bring Radek back here. And whatever you do, don’t even think about making a mess in Vienna. Get him cleanly, no blood, no heart attacks.” He turned to Lev. “Make certain they have every resource they need to get the job done. Don’t think you’ll be safe from the shit because you voted against the plan. If Gabriel and Shamron go down in flames, you’ll go down with them. So no bureaucratic bullshit. You’re all in this together. Shalom.”
THE PRIME MINISTER seized Shamron’s elbow on the way out the door and backed him into a corner. He placed one hand on the wall, above Shamron’s shoulder, and blocked any possible route of escape.
“Is the boy up to it, Ari?”
“He’s not a boy, Prime Minister, not anymore.”
“I know, but can he do it? Can he truly convince Radek to come here?”
“Have you read his mother’s testimony?”
“I have, and I know what I’d do in his position. I’m afraid I’d put a bullet in the bastard’s brain, like Radek did to so many others, and call it a day.”
“Would such an action be just, in your opinion?”
“There’s the justice of civilized men, the kind of justice that is dispensed in courtrooms by men in robes, and then there is the justice of the Prophets. God’s justice. How can one render justice for crimes so enormous? What punishment would be appropriate? Life in prison? A painless execution?”
“The truth, Prime Minister. Sometimes, the best revenge is the truth.”
“And if Radek doesn’t accept the deal?”
Shamron shrugged. “Are you giving me instructions?”
“I don’t need another Demjanuk affair. I don’t need a Holocaust show trial that turns into an international media circus. It would be better if Radek simply faded away.”
“Faded away, Prime Minister?”
The prime minister exhaled heavily into Shamron’s face.
“Are you certain it’s him, Ari?”
“Of this, there is no doubt.”
“Then, if the need arises, put him down.”
Shamron looked toward his feet but saw only the bulging midsection of the prime minister. “He shoulders a heavy burden, our Gabriel. I’m afraid I put it there back in ’72. He’s not up for an assassination job.”
“Erich Radek put that burden on Gabriel long before you came along, Ari. Now Gabriel has an opportunity to lose some of it. Let me make my wishes plain. If Radek doesn’t agree to come here, tell the prince of fire to put him down and let the dogs lap up his blood.”
30
VIENNA
M IDNIGHT IN THE First District, a dead calm, a silence only Vienna can produce, a stately emptiness. Kruz found it reassuring. The feeling didn’t last long. It was rare that the old man telephoned him at home, and never had Kruz been dragged from bed in the middle of the night for a meeting. He doubted the news would be good.
He looked down the length of the street and saw nothing out of the ordinary. A glance into his rearview mirror confirmed that he had not been followed. He climbed out and walked to the gate of the old man’s imposing graystone house. On the ground floor, lights burned behind drawn curtains. A single light glowed on the second level. Kruz rang the bell. He had the feeling of being watched, something almost imperceptible, like a breath on the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing.
He reached out toward the bell again, but before he could press it, a buzzer sounded and the deadbolt lock snapped back. He pushed open the gate and crossed the forecourt. By the time he reached the portico, the door was swinging open and a man was standing in the threshold with his suit jacket open and his tie loose. He made no effort to conceal the black leather shoulder holster containing a Glock pistol. Kruz was not alarmed by the sight; he knew the man well. He was a former Staatspolizei officer named Klaus Halder. It was Kruz who had hired him to serve as the
old man’s bodyguard. Halder usually accompanied the old man only when he went out or was expecting visitors to the house. His presence at midnight was, like the telephone call to Kruz’s house, not a good sign.
“Where is he?”
Halder looked wordlessly toward the floor. Kruz loosened the belt of his raincoat and entered the old man’s study. The false wall was moved aside. The small, capsulelike lift was waiting. He stepped inside and, with a press of a button, sent it slowly downward. The doors opened a few seconds later, revealing a small subterranean chamber decorated in the soft yellow and gilt of the old man’s baroque tastes. The Americans had built it for him so that he could conduct important meetings without fear the Russians were listening in. They’d built the passage, too, the one reached by way of a stainless-steel blast door with a combination lock. Kruz was one of the few people in Vienna who knew where the passage led and who had lived in the house at the other end.
The old man was seated at a small table, a drink before him. Kruz could tell he was uneasy, because he was twisting the glass, two turns to the right, two to the left. Right, right, left, left. A strange habit, thought Kruz. Menacing as hell. He reckoned the old man had picked it up in a previous life, in another world. An image took shape in Kruz’s mind: a Russian commissar chained to an interrogation table, the old man seated on the other side, dressed head to toe in black, twisting his drink and gazing at his quarry with those bottomless blue eyes. Kruz felt his heart lurch. The poor bastards were probably shitting themselves even before things got rough.
The old man looked up, the twisting stopped. His cool gaze settled on Kruz’s shirtfront. Kruz looked down and saw that his buttons were misaligned. He had dressed in the dark so as not to wake his wife. The old man pointed toward an empty chair. Kruz fixed his shirt and sat down. The twisting started again, two turns to the right, two to the left. Right, right, left, left.
He spoke without greeting or preamble. It was as if they were resuming a conversation interrupted by a knock at the door. During the past seventy-two hours, the old man said, two attempts had been mounted against the life of the Israeli, the first in Rome, the second in Argentina. Unfortunately, the Israeli survived both. In Rome, he apparently was saved by the intervention of a colleague from Israeli intelligence. In Argentina, things were more complicated. There was evidence to suggest that the Americans were now involved.
Kruz, naturally, had questions. Under normal circumstances he would have held his tongue and waited for the old man to say his piece. Now, thirty minutes removed from his bed, he showed none of his usual forbearance.
“What was the Israeli doing in Argentina?”
The old man’s face seemed to freeze, and his hand went still. Kruz had strayed over the line, the line that separated what he knew about the old man’s past and what he never would. He felt his chest tighten under the pressure of the steady gaze. It was not every day one managed to anger a man capable of orchestrating two assassination attempts on two continents in seventy-two hours.
“It’s not necessary you know why the Israeli was in Argentina, or even that he was there at all. What you need to know is that this affair has taken a dangerous turn.” The twisting resumed. “As you might expect, the Americans know everything. My real identity, what I did during the war. There was no hiding it from them. We were allies. We worked together in the great crusade against the Communists. In the past, I’ve always counted on their discretion, not out of any sense of loyalty to me, but out of a simple fear of embarrassment. I am under no illusions, Manfred. I am like a whore to them. They turned to me when they were lonely and in need, but now that the Cold War is over, I am like a woman they would rather forget. And if they are now cooperating with the Israelis in some fashion . . .” He left the thought unfinished. “Do you see my point, Manfred?”
Kruz nodded. “I assume they know about Peter?”
“They know everything. They possess the power to destroy me, and my son, but only if they are willing to endure the pain of a self-inflicted wound. I used to be quite certain they would never move against me. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Keep the Israeli and American embassies under constant watch. Assign physical surveillance to all known intelligence personnel. Keep an eye on the airports and the train stations. Also, contact your informants at the newspapers. They might resort to a damaging press leak. I don’t want to be caught off-guard.”
Kruz looked down at the table and saw his own reflection in the polished surface. “And when the minister asks me why I’m devoting so many resources to the Americans and the Israelis? What do I tell him?”
“Do I need to remind you what’s at stake, Manfred? What you say to your minister is your business. Just get it done. I will not let Peter lose this election. Do you understand me?”
Kruz looked up into the pitiless blue eyes and saw once again the man dressed head to toe in black. He closed his eyes and nodded once.
The old man raised his glass to his lips and, before drinking, smiled. It was about as pleasant as a sudden crack in a pane of glass. He reached into the breast pocket of his blazer, produced a slip of paper, and dealt it onto the tabletop. Kruz glanced at it as it spun his way, then looked up.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a telephone number.”
Kruz left the paper untouched. “A telephone number?”
“One never knows how a situation like this might resolve itself. It might be necessary to resort to violence. It’s quite possible I might not be in a position to order such measures. In that case, Manfred, the responsibility will fall to you.”
Kruz picked up the slip of paper and held it aloft between his first two fingers. “If I dial this number, who’s going to answer?”
The old man smiled. “Violence.”
31
ZURICH
H ERR CHRISTIAN ZIGERLI, special events coordinator at the Dolder Grand Hotel, was a good deal like the hotel itself—dignified and pompous, resolute and understated, a man who enjoyed his lofty perch in life because it allowed him to look down his nose at others. He was also a man who did not care for surprises. As a rule, he required seventy-two hours advance notice for special bookings and conferences, but when Heller Enterprises and Systech Wireless expressed a desire to conduct their final merger negotiations at the Dolder, Herr Zigerli agreed to waive the seventy-two-hour provision in exchange for a 15-percent surcharge. He could be accommodating when he chose to be, but accommodation, like everything else at the Dolder, came at a steep price.
Heller Enterprises was the suitor, so Heller handled the booking arrangements—not old man Rudolf Heller himself, of course, but a glossy Italian personal assistant who called herself Elena. Herr Zigerli tended to form opinions about people quickly. He would tell you that any hotelier worth his weight in sand did. He did not care for Italians in general, and the aggressive and demanding Elena quickly earned a high ranking on his long list of unpopular clients. She spoke loudly on the telephone, a capital crime in his estimation, and seemed to believe that the mere act of spending vast amounts of her master’s money entitled her to special privileges. She did seem to know the hotel well—odd, since Herr Zigerli, who had a memory like a file cabinet, could not recall her ever being a guest at the Dolder—and she was excruciatingly specific in her demands. She wanted four adjoining suites near the terrace overlooking the golf course, with good views of the lake. When Zigerli informed her that this was not possible—two and two, or three and one, but not four in a row—she asked whether guests could be moved to accommodate her. Sorry, said the hotelier, but the Dolder Grand is not in the habit of turning guests into refugees. She settled for three adjoining suites and a fourth farther down the hall. “The delegations will arrive at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “They’d like a light working lunch.” There followed ten more minutes of bickering over what constituted a “light working lunch.”
When the menu was complete, Ele
na lobbed one more demand his way. She would arrive four hours before the delegations, accompanied by Heller’s chief of security, in order to inspect the rooms. Once the inspections were complete, no hotel personnel would be allowed inside unless accompanied by Heller security. Herr Zigerli sighed heavily and agreed, then hung up the phone and, with his office door closed and locked, performed a series of deep-breathing exercises to calm his nerves.
The morning of the negotiations dawned gray and cold. The stately old turrets of the Dolder poked into the blanket of freezing fog, and the perfect asphalt in the front drive shone like polished black granite. Herr Zigerli stood watch in the lobby, just inside the sparkling glass doors, feet shoulder-width apart, hands at his sides, girded for battle. She’ll be late, he thought. They always are. She’ll need more suites. She’ll want to change the menu. She’ll be perfectly horrible.
A black Mercedes sedan glided into the drive and stopped outside the entrance. Herr Zigerli cast a discreet glance at his wristwatch. Ten o’clock precisely. Impressive. The bellman opened the rear door, and a sleek black boot emerged—Bruno Magli, noted Zigerli—followed by a shapely knee and thigh. Herr Zigerli rocked forward onto the balls of his feet and smoothed his hair over his bald spot. He had seen many beautiful women float through the famous doorway of the Dolder Grand, yet few had done it with any more grace or style than the lovely Elena of Heller Enterprises. She had a mane of chestnut hair, held in place by a clasp at the nape of her neck, and skin the color of honey. Her brown eyes were flecked with gold, and they seemed to grow lighter when she shook his hand. Her voice, so loud and demanding over the telephone line, was now soft and thrilling, as was her Italian accent. She released his hand and turned to an unsmiling companion. “Herr Zigerli, this is Oskar. Oskar does security.”