The Fallen Angel

Gabriel’s grandfather, the renowned German Expressionist Viktor Frankel, and several more works by his mother. There was also a three-quarter-length portrait, unsigned, of a gaunt young man who appeared haunted by the shadow of death. Gazing up at it, as though lost in memories, was Ari Shamron. He was dressed, as usual, in pressed khaki trousers, a white oxford cloth shirt, and a leather jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. As Gabriel, Chiara, and Navot entered, he hastily crushed out his filterless Turkish cigarette and placed the butt in the decorative dish he was using as an ashtray.
    “How did you get in here?” asked Gabriel.
    Shamron held up a key.
    “I thought I took that away from you.”
    “You did,” answered Shamron with a shrug. “Housekeeping was good enough to give me another copy.”
    Housekeeping was the Office division that managed safe houses and other secure properties. The apartment on Narkiss Street had once fallen into that category, but Shamron had bequeathed it to Gabriel as payment for services rendered—an act of generosity that, in Shamron’s opinion, entitled him to enter the apartment whenever he pleased. He slipped the key into his pocket and scrutinized Gabriel with his rheumy blue eyes. His liver-spotted hands were bunched atop the crook of his olive wood cane. They looked as though they had been borrowed from a man twice his size.
    “I was beginning to think we would never see each other again,” he said after a moment. “Now it seems Carlo has reunited us.”
    “I didn’t realize you two were on a first-name basis.”
    “Carlo?” Shamron squeezed his deeply lined face into an expression of profound disdain. “Carlo Marchese has occupied a special place in our hearts for some time. He’s the transnational threat of tomorrow, a criminal without borders, creed, or conscience who’s willing to do business with anyone as long as the money keeps rolling in.”
    “Who are his partners?”
    “As you might expect, Carlo prefers his crime organized. He’s also something of a globalist, which I admire. He does business with the Russian mafiya , the Japanese yakuza , and the Chinese gangs that control Hong Kong and Taiwan. But what concerns us most are his ties to numerous criminal gangs from southern Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley. Their members come almost entirely from the Shiite branch of Islam. They also happen to be affiliated with the world’s most dangerous terrorist group.”
    “Hezbollah?”
    Shamron nodded slowly. “Now that I have your attention, I’m wondering whether you will indulge me by listening to the rest of the story.”
    “I suppose that depends on the ending.”
    “It ends the way it always ends.”
    Shamron gave a seductive smile, the one he reserved for recruitments, and ignited another cigarette.
     
     
    Housekeeping had taken the liberty of provisioning the depleted pantry with all the supplies required for a war party. Chiara saw to the coffee while Gabriel prepared a tray of cookies and other assorted sweets. He placed it directly in front of Navot and then pushed open the French doors leading to the terrace. The chill afternoon air smelled of eucalyptus and pine and faintly of jasmine. He stood there for a moment, watching the shadows lengthening in the quiet street, as Shamron described the origins of the unholy alliance between Carlo Marchese and the Shiite fanatics of Hezbollah.
    It began, he said, shortly after the brief but destructive war between Israel and Hezbollah in 2006. The conflict left Hezbollah’s military forces in ruins. It also destroyed much of the extensive social infrastructure—the schools, hospitals, and housing—that Hezbollah used to purchase the support of Lebanon’s traditionally impoverished Shiites. Hezbollah’s leadership needed a large infusion of money to quickly rebuild and rearm. Not surprisingly, they turned to their two most reliable patrons, Syria and Iran.
    “The money poured in for a while,” Shamron continued, “but then the ground shifted suddenly under Hezbollah’s feet. The so-called Arab Spring came to Syria with a vengeance. And the international community finally decided it was time to impose real sanctions on Iran over its nuclear program. The mullahs were forced to pinch their pennies. Once they had funded Hezbollah to the tune of two hundred million dollars a year. Now it’s a fraction of that.”
    Shamron lapsed into silence. He was seated with his arms folded