The Defector

warning that the property was private and that anyone foolish enough to attempt a crossing would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. As they sped side by side along the fence, Gabriel noticed Fielding talking over his radio. By the time they reached the road, it was clear something was wrong. Fielding stopped and motioned for Gabriel to do the same.
    “You have a phone call.”
    Gabriel didn’t have to ask who had placed the call. Only one person knew where he was or how to reach him.
    “What’s it about?”
    “He didn’t say. He wants to talk to you right away, though.”
    Fielding led Gabriel back to the compound by the shortest route possible. It was dusk when they arrived, and the two Adirondack lodges were little more than silhouettes against the fiery horizon. Elena Kharkov stood on the porch of the main house, her arms folded beneath her breasts, her long dark hair moving in the frigid wind. Gabriel and Fielding swept past her without a word and entered the staff lodge. The telephone in Fielding’s office was off the hook. Gabriel raised the receiver swiftly to his ear and heard the voice of Adrian Carter.

    IF THERE was indeed a recording of the conversation that followed, it did not exist for long. Carter would never speak of it, except to say that it was among the most difficult of his long career. The only other witness was Ed Fielding. The security man could not hear Carter’s words, but could see the terrible toll they were taking. He saw a hand gripping the telephone with such force the knuckles were white. And he saw the eyes. The unusually bright green eyes now burning with a terrifying rage. As Fielding slipped quietly from the room, he realized he had never seen such rage before. He did not know what his friend Adrian Carter was saying to the legendary Israeli assassin. But he was certain of one thing. Blood was going to flow. And men were going to die.

PART THRE
    All Even

35
    TIBERIAS, ISRAEL
    ARI SHAMRON had long ago lost the gift of sleep. Like most men, it had been taken from him late in life, but for reasons that were uniquely his. He had told so many lies, spun so many deceptions, he could no longer tell fact from fiction, truth from untruth. Condemned by his work to remain forever awake, Shamron spent nights wandering ceaselessly through the secure file rooms of his past, reliving old cases, walking old battlefields, confronting enemies long since vanquished.
    And then there was the telephone. Throughout Shamron’s long and turbulent career, it had rung at the most appalling hours, usually with word of death. Because he had devoted his life to safeguarding the State of Israel, and by extension the Jewish people, the calls had been a veritable catalog of horrors. He had been told about acts of war and acts of terror, of hijackings and murderous suicide bombings, of embassies and synagogues reduced to rubble. And once, many years earlier, he had been awakened by the news that a man he adored as a son had just lost his family in a car bombing in Vienna. But the call from Uzi Navot that arrived late that evening was nearly one too many. It caused Shamron to unleash a cry of rage and to seize his chest in anguish. Gilah, who was lying beside him at the time, would later say she feared her husband was having another heart attack. Shamron quickly steadied himself and snapped off a few brisk commands before gently hanging up the phone.
    He remained motionless for a long moment, his breathing rapid and shallow. There was a ritual in the Shamron household. At the termination of such telephone calls, Gilah would usually pose a single question: “How many dead this time?” But Gilah could tell by her husband’s reaction that this call was different. So she reached out in the darkness and touched the papery skin of his hollowed cheek. For only the second time in their marriage, she felt tears.
    “What is it, Ari? What’s happened?”
    Hearing his answer, she raised both hands to her face and wept.
    “Where is he?”
    “America.”
    “Does he know yet?”
    “He’s just been told.”
    “Is he coming home?”
    “He’ll be here by morning.”
    “Do we know who did it?”
    “We have a good idea.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “Amos doesn’t want me around. He thinks I’ll be a distraction.”
    “Who is Amos to tell you what to do? Gabriel is like a son to you. Tell Amos he can to go to hell. Tell him you’re coming back to King Saul Boulevard.”
    Shamron was