“Sometimes,” agreed Keller grudgingly. “What’s your point?”

“My point,” said Seymour, handing Keller his drink, “is that we now have no choice but to share Nouredine Zakaria’s name with our friends in French intelligence.”

“And what do we tell the French about Nouredine’s current whereabouts?”

“As little as possible.”

“If you don’t mind,” said Keller, “I think I’ll skip that meeting.”

“Actually, I have no intention of talking to them, either.”

“Who are you planning to send?”

When Graham Seymour spoke the name, Keller smiled.

“Does he know about any of this?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re a devious bastard.”

“It’s in our blood.” Seymour sipped his drink and frowned. “Didn’t they teach you anything down at the Fort?”

13

King Saul Boulevard, Tel Aviv

If there was an official record of the affair, which there certainly was not, it would have revealed the fact that Gabriel Allon spent much of that same evening in the Op Center of King Saul Boulevard. Of Christopher Keller’s sojourn to France—or the meeting at the Stockwell safe house—he knew nothing. He had eyes only for the video display monitors, where a convoy of four cargo trucks was moving west from Damascus toward the border with Lebanon. On one screen was an overhead shot from an Israeli Ofek 10 spy satellite floating high above Syria. On another, the view was from an IDF surveillance camera high atop Mount Hermon. Both were utilizing infrared technology. As a result, the engines of the trucks glowed white and hot against a black background. The Office had it on the highest authority that the convoy contained chemical weapons bound for Hezbollah, payment in kind for the radical Shiite group’s support of the embattled Syrian regime. For obvious reasons, the weapons could not be allowed to reach their intended destination, which was a Hezbollah storage depot in the Beqaa Valley.

The Op Center was far smaller than its Anglo and American counterparts, more Spartan and utilitarian, a secret warrior’s chamber. There was a chair reserved for the chief and a second for his deputy. Both men, however, were on their feet, Navot with his heavy arms folded across his chest, Gabriel with a hand to his chin and his head tilted slightly to one side. His green eyes were fixed on the shot from the Ofek. He had no assets on the ground, no operatives in harm’s way. Still, he was tense and unsettled. This is what it means to be the chief, he thought. The terrible burden of command. Nor did he care for the aerial high-tech trappings of tonight’s operation. He much preferred to deal with his enemies at a meter rather than a mile.

All at once a memory was upon him. It was October 1972, the Piazza Annibaliano in Rome, his first mission. An angel of vengeance waiting by the coin-operated elevator, a Palestinian terrorist with the blood of eleven Israeli coaches and athletes on his hands.

“Excuse me, but are you Wadal Zwaiter?”

“No! Please, no!”

The distinctive ring of the chief’s phone hauled Gabriel back to the present. Navot reached for it instinctively, but stopped. Smiling, Gabriel lifted the receiver to his ear, listened in silence, and rang off. Afterward, he and Navot stood side by side, Boaz and Jachin, each contemplating a screen.

Finally, Gabriel said, “The IAF is going to hit them the minute they cross the border.”

Navot nodded thoughtfully. Waiting until the convoy was in Lebanon would eliminate the risk of hitting any Russian or Syrian forces, thus reducing the likelihood of starting World War III.

“What were you thinking about just now?” Navot asked after a moment.

“The operation,” answered Gabriel, surprised.

“Bullshit.”

“How could you tell?”

“You were pulling a trigger with your right forefinger.”

“Was I?”

“Eleven times.”

Gabriel was silent for a moment. “Rome,” he said at last. “I was thinking about Rome.”

“Why now?”

“Why ever?”

“I thought you shot him with your left hand.”

Gabriel watched the four-truck convoy moving steadily westward. At ten minutes past nine o’clock Tel Aviv time, it crossed into Lebanon.

“Uh-oh,” said Navot.

“Should have checked navigation,” quipped Gabriel.

There was a crackle over the secure communications net, and a few seconds later a pair of missiles flashed across the screen, left to right. Viewed through the infrared cameras, the resulting explosions were so bright Gabriel had to turn away. When he looked up again, he saw a single burning man running from the shattered convoy. He only wished it was Saladin. No, he thought coldly as he slipped from the Op Center. Better a meter than a mile.

Gabriel stopped in his office to collect his coat and briefcase before heading down to the underground garage and sliding into the back of his armored SUV. As he was nearing the outskirts of West Jerusalem his secure phone rang. It was Kaplan Street; the prime minister wanted a word. For ninety minutes, over a dinner of kung pao chicken and egg rolls, he held Gabriel captive, interrogating him on current operations and estimates. Iran was his primary obsession, with the new administration in Washington a close second. His relationship with the last American president had been disastrous. The new president had promised closer ties between Washington and Israel and was even threatening to formally relocate the U.S. Embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, a move that would likely ignite a firestorm of protest in the Arab and Islamic worlds. There were elements in the prime minister’s coalition who wanted to seize upon the favorable conditions by rapidly expanding Jewish settlement in the West Bank. Annexation was in the air. Gabriel was a voice of caution. As chief of the Office, he needed the help of Arab intelligence services in Amman and Cairo to protect Israel’s periphery. What’s more, he was making important inroads with the Saudis and the Sunni emirates of the Gulf, who feared the Persians more than Jews. The last thing he wanted now was a unilateral move on the Palestinian front.