PART THREE
RESTORATION
35
Before the Catastrophe, Daoud al-Hourani lived in the Upper Galilee. He was a muktar and the richest man in the village. He owned livestock—several head of cattle, many goats, and a large flock of sheep—as well as a grove of lemon, orange, and olive trees. When it was time to pick the fruit, he and the other village elders organized a communal harvest. The family lived in a whitewashed house with cool tile floors and fine rugs and cushions. His wife bore him five daughters but only one son, Mahmoud.
Daoud al-Hourani kept up good relations with the Jews who had settled on land near the village. When the Jews’ well became fouled, he drafted men from the village to help them dig a new one. When several Arabs in the village fell sick with malaria, Jews from the settlement came and drained a nearby swamp. Daoud al-Hourani learned to speak Hebrew. When one of his daughters fell in love with a Jewish man from the settlement, he permitted them to marry.
Then came the war, and then the Catastrophe. The al-Hourani clan, along with most of the Arabs of the Upper Galilee, fled across the border into Lebanon and settled in a refugee camp near Sidon. The camp itself was organized much like the villages of the Upper Galilee, and Daoud al-Hourani retained his status as an elder and a respected man, even though his land had been taken and his animals lost. His large whitewashed home was replaced by a cramped tent, broiling in the heat of summer, freezing and porous in the cold rains of winter. In the evenings, the men sat outside the tents and told stories of Palestine. Daoud al-Hourani assured his people that the exile would only be temporary—that the Arab armies would gather themselves and hurl the Jews into the sea.
But the Arab armies didn’t gather themselves, and they didn’t try to hurl the Jews into the sea. At the camp in Sidon, the tents turned to tattered rags, only to be replaced by crude huts, with open sewers. Slowly, as the years passed, Daoud al-Hourani began to lose influence over his villagers. He had told them to be patient, but their patience had gone unrewarded. Indeed, the plight of the Palestinians seemed only to worsen.
During those first awful years in the camp, there was only one piece of joyous news. Daoud al-Hourani’s wife became pregnant, even though she had reached the age when most women can no longer bear children. In the spring of that year, five years to the day after the al-Hourani clan fled its home in the Upper Galilee, she gave birth to a son in the infirmary of the camp. Daoud al-Hourani called the boy Tariq.
Branches of the al-Hourani clan were scattered throughout the diaspora. Some were across the border in Syria, some in camps in Jordan. A few, including al-Hourani’s brother, had managed to make it to Cairo. A few years after the birth of Tariq, Daoud al-Hourani’s brother died. He wished to attend his brother’s funeral, so he traveled to Beirut and obtained the necessary visas and permits to make the journey. Because he was a Palestinian, he had no passport. The following day he boarded a flight for Cairo but was turned back at the airport by a customs official who declared his papers were not in order. He returned to Beirut, but an immigration official denied him permission to reenter Lebanon. He was locked in a detention room at the airport, with no food or water.
A few hours later a dog was placed in the room. It had arrived unaccompanied on a flight from London, and, like Daoud al-Hourani, its papers had been challenged by Lebanese immigration officials. But one hour later a senior customs officer appeared and led the dog away. The animal had been granted special dispensation to enter the country.
Finally, after a week, Daoud al-Hourani was allowed to leave the airport and return to the camp at Sidon. That night, as the men sat around the fires, he gathered his sons to his side and told them of his ordeal.
“I asked our people to be patient. I promised them that the Arabs would come to our rescue, but here we are, many years later, and we are still in the camps. The Arabs treat us worse than the Jews. The Arabs treat us worse than dogs. The time for patience has ended. It is time to fight.”
Tariq was too young to fight; he was still just a boy. But Mahmoud was nearly twenty now, and he was ready to take up arms against the Jews. That night he joined the fedayeen. It was the last time Tariq would see him alive.
CHARLES DE GAULLE AIRPORT, PARIS
Yusef slipped his hand into Jacqueline’s and guided her through the crowded terminal. She was exhausted. She had slept miserably and shortly before dawn had been awakened by a nightmare in which Gabriel assassinated Yusef while Yusef was making love to her. Her ears were ringing, and there was a flickering in the periphery of her vision, like flashbulbs popping on a runway. They passed through the transit lounge, cleared a security check, and entered the departure terminal. Yusef released her hand, then kissed her cheek and placed his lips close to her ear. When he spoke, it reminded her of the way Gabriel had spoken to her the previous night in the gallery—softly, as if he were telling her a bedtime story.
“You’re to wait in that café. You’re to order a cup of coffee and read the newspaper that I’ve slipped into the flap of your bag. You’re not to leave the café for any reason. He’ll come for you unless he thinks there’s a problem. If he doesn’t appear within an hour—”
“—Get on the next available flight for London, and don’t try to contact you when I arrive,” Jacqueline said, finishing his sentence for him. “I remember everything you’ve told me.”
Another kiss, this time on her other cheek. “You have a spy’s memory, Dominique.”
“Actually, I have my mother’s memory.”
“Remember, you have nothing to fear from this man and nothing to fear from the authorities. You’re doing nothing wrong. He’s a kind man. I think you’re going to enjoy his company. Have a safe trip, and I’ll see you when you get back.”
He kissed her forehead and gave her a gentle nudge in the direction of the café, as if she were a toy boat adrift on a pond. She walked a few steps, then stopped and turned to have one last look at him, but he had already melted into the crowd.
It was a small airport restaurant, a few wrought-iron tables spilling into the terminal to create the illusion of a Parisian café. Jacqueline sat down and ordered a café au lait from the waiter. She was suddenly conscious of her appearance and felt an absurd desire to make a good first impression. She wore black jeans and an ash-colored cashmere pullover. Her face had no makeup, and she had done nothing with her hair except pull it back. When the waiter brought her coffee, Jacqueline lifted the spoon and looked at the distorted reflection of her eyes. They were red-rimmed and raw.
She stirred sugar into her coffee and looked around her. At the table behind her a young American couple were quietly quarreling. At the next table were a pair of German businessmen studying a performance chart on the screen of a laptop computer.
Jacqueline suddenly remembered she was supposed to be reading the newspaper. She removed the Times that Yusef had left in her bag and unfolded it. A British Airways cocktail napkin fell out onto the table. Jacqueline picked it up and turned it over. On the back was a note, penned in Yusef’s chaotic hand: I’ll miss you. With love and fond memories, Yusef.
She crumpled it and left it next to her coffee. Sounds like a farewell note. She picked up the newspaper and leafed through the front section. She paused to scan the news from the Middle East: U.S. PRESIDENT APPLAUDS INTERIM AGREEMENT REACHED BETWEEN ISRAEL AND THE PALESTINIANS . . . SIGNING CEREMONY NEXT WEEK AT UNITED NATIONS. She licked the tip of her finger and turned another page.
Boarding announcements blared from the public address system. She had a terrible headache. She reached into her purse, removed a bottle of aspirin, washed down two tablets with the coffee. She looked for Gabriel. Nothing. Damn it, where the hell are you, Gabriel Allon? Tell me you haven’t left me here alone with them. . . . She placed the cup carefully in the saucer and returned the aspirin bottle to her purse.
She was about to resume reading when a stunningly attractive woman with lustrous black hair and wide brown eyes appeared at the table. “Do you min
d if I join you?” the woman said in French.
“Actually, I’m meeting someone.”
“You’re meeting Lucien Daveau. I’m Lucien’s friend.” She pulled out the chair and sat down. “Lucien asked me to collect you and take you to your flight.”
“I was told that Lucien himself would meet me here.”
“I understand, but I’m afraid there’s been a slight change in plan.” She smiled a radiant, seductive smile. “You have nothing to be afraid of. Lucien asked me to take good care of you.”
Jacqueline had no idea what to do. They had violated the terms of the agreement. She had every right to stand up and walk off and be done with it. But then what? Tariq would slip away and continue his campaign of terror. More innocent Jews would die. The peace process would be placed in jeopardy. And Gabriel would go on blaming himself for what had happened to Leah and his son in Vienna.
“I don’t like this, but I’ll do it.”
“Good, because they’ve just called our flight.”
Jacqueline stood up, picked up her bag, and followed the woman out of the café. “Our flight?” she asked.
“That’s right. I’m going to be traveling with you for the first leg of your journey. Lucien will join you later.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out in a moment.”
“Since we’re going to be traveling together, do you think you could tell me your name?”
The girl smiled again. “If you feel you must call me something, you may call me Leila.”
Gabriel stood in a duty-free shop one hundred feet away, pretending to look at cologne, while he watched Jacqueline at the café. Shamron was aboard Benjamin Stone’s private plane. All they needed was Tariq.
Suddenly, he realized that he was excited by the prospect of finally seeing Tariq. The photographs in Shamron’s file were useless—too old, too grainy. Three of them were only presumed to be pictures of Tariq. The truth was no one inside the Office really knew what he looked like. Gabriel was about to get the first good look at him in years. Was he tall or short? Was he handsome or ordinary-looking? Did he look like a ruthless killer? Of course not, Gabriel thought. He’ll be someone who blends naturally into his surroundings.
He’ll be like me. Then he thought: Or am I like him?
When the attractive, raven-haired girl sat down at Jacqueline’s table, he thought for a moment that it was just one of those horrid accidents that sometimes sends operations into a tailspin—girl needs a seat, girl assumes Jacqueline’s alone, girl helps herself to the empty chair. Then he realized it was part of Tariq’s game. He had survived all these years because he was unpredictable. He made plans and changed plans constantly—told different stories to different members of his organization. Never let the left hand know what the right was doing.
The two women stood up and started walking. Gabriel waited for a moment, then trailed them from a safe distance. He felt dejected. The game had barely begun and already Tariq had bested him. He wondered whether he was really ready to do battle with a man like Tariq. He had been out of the game too long. Perhaps his reactions had slowed, his instincts for survival waned. He thought of the night he’d planted the bugs in Yusef’s flat, how he had nearly been caught because he had lost his concentration for a few seconds.
He felt the sickening rush of adrenaline all over again. For a moment he considered rushing forward and pulling her out. He forced himself to calm down and think clearly. She was just getting on an airplane. She would be safe while they were in the air, and Shamron would have a team waiting at the other end. Tariq had won the first round, but Gabriel decided to let the game continue.
The girl led Jacqueline into a glass-enclosed gate area. Gabriel watched as they passed through a final security check and handed over their tickets to a gate attendant. Then they headed into the Jetway and were gone. Gabriel glanced up at the monitor one last time to make certain he had seen it right: Air France flight 382, destination Montreal.
A few moments after takeoff Shamron hung up the secure telephone in the office of Benjamin Stone’s private jet and joined Gabriel in the luxuriously appointed salon. “I just notified Ottawa station.”
“Who’s in Ottawa these days?”
“Your old friend Zvi Yadin. He’s on his way to Montreal now with a small team. They’ll meet the plane and put Jacqueline and her new friend under watch.”
“Why Montreal?”
“Haven’t you read the papers?”
“I’m sorry, Ari, but I’ve been a bit busy.”
On the table next to Shamron’s chair was a stack of newspapers, neatly arranged so the mastheads were visible. He snatched the top paper and flipped it into Gabriel’s lap. “There’s going to be a signing ceremony at the UN in three days. Everyone’s going to be there. The American president, the prime minister, Arafat and all his deputies. It looks as though Tariq’s going to try to spoil the party.”
Gabriel glanced at the newspaper and tossed it back onto the table.
“Montreal is a natural staging point for a man like Tariq. He speaks fluent French and has the capability to secure false passports. He flies to Montreal as a Frenchman and enters Quebec without a visa. Once he’s in Canada he’s almost home. There are tens of thousands of Arabs living in Montreal. He’ll have plenty of places to hide. Security along the U.S.-Canadian border is lax or nonexistent. On some roads there are no border posts at all. In Montreal he can switch passports—American or Canadian—and simply drive into the States. Or, if he’s feeling adventurous, he can walk across the border.”
“Tariq never struck me as an outdoorsman.”
“He’ll do whatever is necessary to get his target. And if that means walking ten miles through the snow, he’ll walk through the snow.”
“I don’t like the fact that they changed the rules in Paris,” Gabriel said. “I don’t like the fact that Yusef lied to Jacqueline about how this was going to work.”
“All it means is that for reasons of security Tariq finds it necessary to deceive his own people. That’s standard procedure for a man like him. Arafat did it for years. That’s the reason he’s alive today. His enemies within the Palestinian movement couldn’t get to him.”
“And neither could you.”
“Point well taken.”
The door connecting the salon to the office opened, and Stone entered the room.
Shamron said, “There’s a stateroom in the back of the plane. Go get some sleep. You look terrible.”
Gabriel stood up without a word and left the salon. Stone lowered his mammoth body into a chair and scooped up a handful of Brazil nuts. “He has passion,” he said, popping a pair of nuts into his mouth. “An assassin with a conscience. I like that. The rest of the world is going to like him even better.”
“Benjamin, what on earth are you talking about?”
“He’s the meal ticket. Don’t you understand, Ari? He’s the way you repay your debts to me. All of them, wiped out in a single neat payment.”
“I didn’t realize you were keeping a ledger. I thought you helped us because you believed in us. I thought you helped us because you wanted to help protect the State.”
“Let me finish, Ari. Hear me out. I don’t want your money. I want him. I want you to let me tell his story. I’ll assign it to my best reporter. Let me publish the story of the Israeli who restores old master paintings by day and kills Palestinian terrorists by night.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“On the contrary, Ari. I’m quite serious. I’ll serialize it. I’ll sell the film rights to Hollywood. Give me an exclusive on this manhunt. The view from the inside. It will send a message to my troops that we still have what it takes to shake up Fleet Street. And—this is the best part, Ari—and it will send a strong signal to my backers in the City that I’m still a force to be reckoned with.”
Shamron made an elaborate show of lighting his next cigarette. He studied Stone through a cloud of smoke, nodding slowly while
he considered the gravity of his proposition. Stone was a drowning man, and unless Shamron did something to cut him away, he would take them both straight to the bottom.
Gabriel tried to sleep, but it was no use. Each time he closed his eyes, images of the case appeared in his mind. Instinctively he saw them rendered as motionless reproductions captured in oil on canvas. Shamron on the Lizard, calling him back to service. Jacqueline making love to Yusef. Leah in her greenhouse prison in Surrey. Yusef meeting his contact in Hyde Park. . . . Don’t worry, Yusef. Your girlfriend won’t say no to you.
Then he thought of the scene he had just witnessed at Charles de Gaulle. Restoration had taught Gabriel a valuable lesson. Sometimes what appears on the surface is quite different from what is taking place just below. Three years earlier he had been hired to restore a Van Dyck, a piece the artist had painted for a private chapel in Genoa depicting the Assumption of Mary. When Gabriel performed his initial analysis of the painting’s surface, he thought he saw something beneath the Virgin’s face. Over time the light-toned paints Van Dyck had used to render her skin had faded, and it seemed an image below was beginning to rise. Gabriel performed an extensive X-ray examination of the picture to view what was taking place beneath the surface. He discovered a completely finished work, a portrait of a rather fleshy woman clad in a white gown. The black-and-white film of the X ray made her appear specterlike. Even so, Gabriel recognized the shimmering quality of Van Dyck’s silks and the expressive hands that characterized the paintings he produced while living in Italy. He later learned that the work had been commissioned by a Genoese aristocrat whose wife had hated it so much that she refused to accept it. When Van Dyck was commissioned to paint the chapel piece, he simply covered up the old portrait in white paint and reused the canvas. By the time the canvas reached Gabriel’s hands, more than three and a half centuries later, the wife of the Genoese aristocrat had taken her revenge on the artist by rising to the surface of his painting.