The Defector

silent for a moment. “Maybe he won’t want me there.”
    “Who?”
    “Gabriel.”
    “Why would you say that, Ari?”
    “Because if I hadn’t . . .” His voice trailed off.
    “Because if you hadn’t recruited him a long time ago, none of this would have ever happened? Is that what you were going to say?”
    Shamron made no response.
    “Gabriel is more like you than he realizes. He had no choice but to fight. None of us do.” Gilah wiped the tears from her husband’s cheeks. “Get out of bed, Ari. Go to Tel Aviv. And make sure you’re waiting at Ben-Gurion when he arrives. He needs to see a familiar face.” She paused, then said, “He needs to see his abba .”
    Shamron sat up and swung his feet slowly to the floor.
    “Can I make you some coffee or something to eat?”
    “There isn’t time.”
    “Let me get you some clean clothes.”
    Gilah switched on her lamp and climbed out of bed. Shamron snatched up the receiver of his telephone again and placed a call to the guard shack at the foot of his drive. It was answered by Rami, the longtime chief of his permanent security detail.
    “Get the car ready,” Shamron said.
    “Something wrong, boss?”
    “It’s Gabriel. You’ll know the rest soon enough.”
    Shamron hung up the phone and got to his feet. By then Gilah had laid his clothes out at the foot of the bed: pressed khaki trousers, an oxford-cloth shirt, a leather bomber jacket with a tear in the right breast. Shamron reached down and tugged at it gently. We’ll wage one more fight together , he thought. One last operation.
    He lit a cigarette and dressed slowly, as if armoring himself for the battle ahead. Pulling on his jacket, he made his way to the kitchen, where Gilah was brewing a pot of coffee.
    “I told you there isn’t time.”
    “It’s for me, Ari.”
    “You should go back to bed, Gilah.”
    “I won’t be able to sleep now.” She looked at the cigarette burning between his yellowed fingers but knew better than to scold him. “Try not to smoke too much. The doctor says—”
    “I know what he says.”
    She kissed his cheek. “You’ll call me when you can?”
    “I’ll call.”
    Shamron stepped outside. The house faced east, toward the Sea of Galilee and the looming dark mass of the Golan Heights. Shamron had bought it many years ago because it allowed him to keep watch on Israel’s enemies. Tonight those enemies were beyond the horizon. By their actions they had just declared war on the Office. And now the Office would make war on them in return.
    Shamron’s armored limousine was waiting in the drive. Rami helped him into the back before settling into the front passenger seat. As the car lurched forward, the bodyguard shot a glance over his shoulder and asked where they were going.
    “King Saul Boulevard.”
    Rami gave a terse nod. Shamron reached for his secure phone and pressed a speed-dial button. The voice that answered was young, male, and impertinent. It immediately set Shamron’s teeth on edge. Making mincemeat of such voices was one of his favorite pastimes.
    “I need to speak to him right away.”
    “He’s asleep.”
    “Not for long.”
    “He asked not to be disturbed unless it’s a matter of national crisis.”
    “Then I suggest you wake him.”
    “It better be important.”
    The aide placed Shamron on hold, never a good idea. Thirty seconds later, another voice came on the line. Heavy with sleep, it belonged to Israel’s prime minister.
    “What is it, Ari?”
    “We lost two boys in Italy tonight,” Shamron said. “And Gabriel’s wife is missing.”

    IT WAS MARGHERITA, the housekeeper, who had made the discovery. Later, under questioning from Italian authorities, she would place the time at perhaps five minutes past ten, though she admitted to not having checked her wristwatch. The time happened to correspond satisfactorily to her mobile-phone records, which showed she placed her first call at 10:07. The time also dovetailed well with her movements that night. Several witnesses would recall seeing her leave a café in Amelia at roughly 9:50 p.m., leaving her plenty of time to make the drive back to Villa dei Fiori aboard her little motor scooter.
    The first indication of trouble, she said, was the presence of a car outside the security gate. A Fiat sedan, it was parked at a drunken angle, nose against a tree, headlamps doused. She told the police she assumed it had been abandoned or involved in a minor accident. Rather than approach the car,