The Confessor

Israel.
    "I don't want to go to Israel. I want to find out who killed Benjamin."
    "You can't move anywhere in Europe now. You're blown. You're going home--period. Shamron isn't the chief any more. Lev is the chief, and he's not going to be brought down by one of the old man's adventures."
    "How are you going to get me out of the country?" "The same way we got Vanunu out. By boat." "If I remember correctly, that was one of Shamron's adventures too."
    Mordechai Vanunu had been a disgruntled worker at the Di-mona atomic facility who revealed the existence of Israel's nuclear arsenal to a London newspaper. A female agent named Cheryl Ben-Tov lured Vanunu from London to Rome, where he was kidnapped and taken by small boat to an Israeli naval vessel lying in wait off the Italian coast. Few people outside the Office knew the truth about the episode: that Vanunu's defection and betrayal of Israeli secrets had been choreographed and manipulated by Ari Shamron as a way to warn Israel's enemies that they had no hope of ever bridging the nuclear gap, while at the same time leaving Israel with the ability to deny publicly that it possessed nuclear weapons.
    "Vanunu left Italy in chains and under heavy sedation," Pazner said. "You'll be spared that indignity as long as you behave yourself." "Where do we set sail?"
    "There's a beach near Fiumicino that's perfect. You'll take a motor launch from there at nine o'clock. Five miles offshore, you'll meet an oceangoing motor yacht, crew of one. He's Office now, but for many years he captained a navy gunboat. He'll take you back to Tel Aviv. A few days at sea will be good for you." "Who's taking me to the yacht?"
    Pazner looked at Chiara. "She grew up in Venice. She's damned good with a boat."
    "She does handle a motorcycle well," Gabriel said. Pazner leaned forward across the table. "You should see her with a Beretta."
    Eric Lange arrived at Fiumicino airport at nine o'clock that morning. After clearing customs and passport control, he spotted Rashid Husseini's man standing in the terminal hall, clutching a brown cardboard sign that read Transeuro Technologies -- Mr. Bowman. He had a car waiting outside in the covered parking lot, a battered beige Lancia that he piloted with unwarranted caution. He called himself Aziz and spoke English with a faint British accent. Like Husseini, he had the air of an academic.
    He drove to a faded apartment house at the base of the Aventine Hill and led Lange up a crumbling staircase that spiraled upward into the gloom. The flat was empty of furniture except for a television connected to a satellite dish on the tiny balcony. Aziz gave Lange a gun, a Makarov nine-millimeter with a silencer screwed into the barrel, then brewed Turkish coffee in the galley kitchen. They spent the next three hours sitting cross-legged on the floor like Bedouins, drinking coffee and watching the war in the territories on al-Jazeera television. The Palestinian chain-smoked American cigarettes. With each televised outrage he let loose a string of Arabic curses.
    At two in the afternoon, he went downstairs to fetch bread and cheese from the grocer. He returned to discover Lange enthralled by a cooking program on an American cable channel. He brewed more coffee and changed the channel back to al-Jazeera without asking Lange's permission. Lange ate a bit of lunch, then made a pillow of his overcoat and stretched out on the bare floor for a nap. He was awakened by the purr of Aziz's cellular telephone. He opened his eyes to find the Arab listening intently and scribbling a note on a paper sack.
    Aziz rang off and his gaze was drawn back to the television. An anchorman was offering breathless narration to a piece of video depicting Israeli soldiers firing into a crowd of Palestinian boys.
    Aziz lit another cigarette and looked at Lange.
    "Let's go kill the bastard."
    BY SUNSET, Gabriel's wound hurt less and his appetite had returned. Chiara cooked fettuccine with mushrooms and cream, and they watched the evening news. The first ten minutes of the broadcast was devoted to the search for the papal assassin. Over video of heavily armed Italian security forces patrolling the nation's airports and borders, the correspondent described it as one of the largest manhunts in Italian history. When Gabriel's photograph appeared on the screen, Chiara squeezed his hand.
    After supper, she put a clean dressing on his wound and gave him another shot of antibiotics. When she offered Gabriel something