A Death in Vienna

prime minister’s aide poked his head into the waiting room and announced that the great man was finally ready to see them. Gabriel and Shamron stood and moved toward the open door. Chiara remained seated. Shamron stopped and turned to face her.
    “What are you waiting for? The prime minister is ready to see us.”
    Chiara’s eyes opened wide. “I’m just abat leveyha, ” she protested. “I’m not going in there to brief the prime minister. My God, I’m not even Israeli.”
    “You’ve risked your life in defense of this country,” Shamron said calmly. “You have every right to be in his presence.”
    They entered the prime minister’s office. It was large and unexpectedly plain, dark except for an area of illumination around the desk. Lev somehow had managed to slip in ahead of them. His bald, bony skull shone in the recessed lighting, and his long hands were folded beneath a defiant chin. He made a half-hearted effort to stand and shook their hands without enthusiasm. Shamron, Gabriel, and Chiara sat down. The worn leather chairs were still hot from other bodies.
    The prime minister was in his shirtsleeves and looked fatigued after his long night of political combat. He was, like Shamron, an uncompromising warrior. How he managed to rule a roost as diverse and disobedient as Israel was something of a miracle. His hooded gaze fell instantly upon Gabriel. Shamron was used to this. Gabriel’s striking appearance was the one thing that had given Shamron cause for concern when he recruited him for the Wrath of God operation. Peoplelooked at Gabriel.
    They had met once before, Gabriel and the prime minister, though under very different circumstances. The prime minister had been chief of staff of the Israel Defense Forces in April 1988 when Gabriel, accompanied by a team of commandos, had broken into a villa in Tunis and assassinated Abu Jihad, the second-in-command of the PLO, in front of his wife and children. The prime minister had been aboard the special communications plane, orbiting above the Mediterranean Sea, with Shamron at his side. He had heard the assassination through Gabriel’s lip microphone. He had also listened to Gabriel, after the killing, use precious seconds to console Abu Jihad’s hysterical wife and daughter. Gabriel had refused the commendation awarded him. Now, the prime minister wanted to know why.
    “I didn’t feel it was appropriate, Prime Minister, given the circumstances.”
    “Abu Jihad had a great deal of Jewish blood on his hands. He deserved to die.”
    “Yes, but not in front of his wife and children.”
    “He chose the life he led,” the prime minister said. “His family shouldn’t have been there with him.” And then, as if suddenly realizing that he had strayed into a minefield, he attempted to tiptoe out. His girth and natural brusqueness would not permit a graceful exit. He opted for a rapid change of subject instead. “So, Shamron tells me you want to kidnap a Nazi,” the prime minister said.
    “Yes, Prime Minister.”
    He held up his palms—Let’s hear it.
    GABRIEL, IF HEwas nervous, did not reveal it. His presentation was crisp and concise and full of confidence. The prime minister, notorious for his rough treatment of briefers, sat transfixed throughout. Hearing Gabriel’s description of the attempt on his life in Rome, he leaned forward, his face tense. Adrian Carter’s confession of American involvement made him visibly irate. Gabriel, when it came time to present his documentary evidence, stood next to the prime minister and placed it piece by piece on the lamplit desk. Shamron sat quietly, his hands squeezing the arms of the chair like a man struggling to maintain a vow of silence. Lev seemed locked in a staring contest with the large portrait of Theodor Herzl that hung on the wall behind the prime minister’s desk. He made notes with a gold fountain pen and once took a ponderous look at his wristwatch.
    “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