A Death in Vienna

Gabriel, lost in thought for a long moment, finally looked up at Shamron. “Have you forgotten that Vienna is the forbidden city for me?”

Shamron lit one of his foul-smelling Turkish cigarettes and placed the dead match in the saucer next to his teaspoon. He pushed his eyeglasses onto his forehead and folded his arms. They were still powerful, braided steel beneath a thin layer of sagging suntanned skin. So were the hands. The gesture was one Gabriel had seen many times before. Shamron the unmovable. Shamron the indomitable. He’d struck the same pose after dispatching Gabriel to Rome to kill for the first time. He’d been an old man even then. Indeed, he’d never really been young at all. Instead of chasing girls on the beach at Netanya, he’d been a unit commander in the Palmach, fighting the first battle in Israel ’s war without end. His youth had been stolen from him. In turn he had stolen Gabriel’s.

“I volunteered to go to Vienna myself, but Lev wouldn’t hear of it. He knows that because of our regrettable history there, I’m something of a pariah. He reckoned the Staatspolizei would be more forthcoming if we were represented by a less polarizing figure.”

“So your solution is to send me?”

“Not in any official capacity, of course.” These days Shamron did almost nothing in an official capacity. “But I would feel much more comfortable if someone I trusted was keeping an eye on things.”

“We have Office personnel in Vienna.”

“Yes, but they report to Lev.”

“Heis the chief.”

Shamron closed his eyes, as if he were being reminded of a painful subject. “Lev has too many other problems at the moment to give this the attention it deserves. The boy emperor in Damascus is making troublesome noises. The mullahs of Iran are trying to build Allah’s bomb, and Hamas is turning children into bombs and detonating them on the streets of Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. One minor bombing in Vienna is not going to get the attention it deserves, even though the target was Eli Lavon.”

Shamron stared compassionately at Gabriel over the rim of his coffee cup. “I know you have no desire to go back to Vienna, especially after another bombing, but your friend is lying in a Viennese hospital fighting for his life! I would think you’d like to know who put him there.”

Gabriel thought of the half-completed Bellini altarpiece in the church of San Giovanni Crisostomo and could feel it slipping away from him. Chiara had turned away from Shamron and was eyeing him intently. Gabriel avoided her gaze.

“If I went to Vienna,” he said quietly, “I would need an identity.”

Shamron shrugged, as if to say there were ways-obvious ways, dear boy-of getting around a small problem such as cover. Gabriel had expected this would be Shamron’s response. He held out his hand.

Shamron opened his briefcase and handed over a manila envelope. Gabriel lifted the flap and poured the contents on the coffee table: airline tickets, a leather billfold, a well-traveled Israeli passport. He opened the cover of the passport and saw his own face staring back at him. His new name was Gideon Argov. He’d always liked the name Gideon.

“What does Gideon do for a living?”

Shamron inclined his head toward the billfold. Among the usual items-credit cards, a driver’s license, a health-club and video-club membership-he found a business card:

GIDEON ARGOV

WARTIME CLAIMS AND INQUIRIES

17 MENDELE STREET

JERUSALEM 92147

5427618

Gabriel looked up at Shamron. “I didn’t know Eli had an office in Jerusalem.”

“He does now. Try the number.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I believe you. Does Lev know about this?”

“Not yet, but I plan on telling him once you’re safely on the ground in Vienna.”

“So we’re deceiving the Austrians and the Office. That’s impressive, even for you, Ari.”

Shamron gave a sheepish smile. Gabriel opened the airline jacket and examined his travel itinerary.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to travel directly to Vienna from here. I’ll accompany you back to Tel Aviv in the morning-separate seats, of course. You’ll turn around and catch the afternoon flight into Vienna.”

Gabriel lifted his gaze and stared at Shamron, his expression dubious. “And if I’m recognized at the airport and dragged into a room for some special Austrian attention?”

“That’s always a possibility, but it has been thirteen years. Besides, you’ve been to Vienna recently. I recall a meeting we had in Eli’s office last year concerning an imminent threat to the life of His Holiness Pope Paul the Seventh.”

“I have been back to Vienna,” Gabriel conceded, holding up the false passport. “But never like this, and never through the airport.”

Gabriel spent a long moment appraising the false passport with his restorer’s eye. Finally he closed the cover and slipped it into his pocket. Chiara stood and walked out of the room. Shamron watched her go, then looked at Gabriel.

“It seems I’ve managed to disrupt your life once again.”

“Why should this time be any different?”

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

Gabriel shook his head. “She’ll get over it,” he said. “She’s a professional.”

THERE WERE MOMENTS of Gabriel’s life, fragments of time, which he rendered on canvas and hung in the cellar of his subconscious. To this gallery of memory he added Chiara as he saw her now, seated astride his body, bathed in a Rembrandt light from the streetlamps beyond their bedroom window, a satin duvet bunched at her hips, her breasts bared. Other images intruded. Shamron had opened the door to them, and Gabriel, as always, was powerless to push them back. There was Wadal Adel Zwaiter, a skinny intellectual in a plaid jacket, whom Gabriel had killed in the foyer of an apartment house in Rome. There was Ali Abdel Hamidi, who had died by Gabriel’s hand in a Zurich alley, and Mahmoud al-Hourani, older brother of Tariq al-Hourani, whom Gabriel had shot through the eye in Cologne as he lay in the arms of a lover.

A mane of hair fell across Chiara’s breasts. Gabriel reached up and gently pushed it away. She looked at him. It was too dark to see the color of her eyes, but Gabriel could sense her thoughts. Shamron had trained him to read the emotions of others, just as Umberto Conti had taught him to mimic the Old Masters. Gabriel, even in the arms of a lover, could not suspend his ceaseless search for the warning signs of betrayal.

“I don’t want you to go to Vienna.” She placed her hands on Gabriel’s chest. Gabriel could feel his heart beating against the cool skin of her palm. “It’s not safe for you there. Of all people, Shamron should know that.”

“Shamron is right. It was a long time ago.”

“Yes, it was, but if you go there and start asking questions about the bombing, you’ll rub up against the Austrian police and security services. Shamron is using you to keep his hand in the game. He doesn’t have your best interests in mind.”

“You sound like a Lev man.”

“It’s you I care about.” She bent down and kissed his mouth. Her lips tasted of blossom. “I don’t want you to go to Vienna and become lost in the past.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “I’m afraid I’ll lose you.”

“To who?”

She lifted the duvet to her shoulders and covered her breasts. Leah’s shadow fell between them. It was Chiara’s intention to let her into the room. Chiara only talked about Leah in bed, where she believed Gabriel would not lie to her. Gabriel’s entire life was a lie; with his lovers he was always painfully honest. He could make love to a woman only if she knew that he had killed men on behalf of his country. He never told lies about Leah. He considered it his duty to speak honestly of her, even to the women who had taken her place in his bed.

“Do you have any idea how hard this is for me?” Chiara asked. “Everyone knows about Leah. She’s an Office legend, just like you and Shamron. How long am I supposed to live with the fear that one day you’ll decide you can’t do this anymore?”