The Fallen Angel

tradecraft. When pushed by Bittel to reveal more, he gently pushed back. And when threatened, he issued threats of his own. He offered no apology for his actions and sought no absolution. His was a confession without guilt or atonement. It was a business transaction, nothing more.
    “Have I left anything out?” asked Bittel.
    “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?”
    Bittel closed the notebook and summoned a warder to take Gabriel back to his cell. A proper Swiss breakfast was waiting, along with a toiletry kit and a change of clothing. He ate while watching the morning news. Once again, there was no mention of his detainment. In fact, the only news from St. Moritz had to do with an important World Cup ski race.
    After breakfast, he was escorted to the showers and told he had one hour to bathe and dress. Bittel was waiting when he returned to his cell. He had two aluminum attaché cases of Swiss manufacture. In one was the material Gabriel had requested. In the other were the fragments of the broken hydria. “If you prefer,” Bittel offered, “we can tell the French police we found it in an airport locker.”
    “Thanks,” Gabriel said, “but I’ll take care of it.”
    “Sooner rather than later,” Bittel admonished. “Let’s go. Your ride is here.”
    They headed upstairs to the main lobby of the building. Outside a Mercedes sedan waited in the drive, its tailpipes gently smoking. Bittel shook Gabriel’s hand warmly, as if they had spent the night watching old movies together. Then Gabriel turned and ducked into the back of the car. Seated opposite, a mobile phone pressed to his ear, was Uzi Navot. He looked at the bandages on Gabriel’s face and frowned.
    “Looks like they gave you a good going-over.”
    “It was worth it.”
    “What did you get?”
    “A suitcase full of help from my new best friends in the DAP.”
    “Good,” Navot said. “Because at this moment, we need all the help we can get.”

26
     
    BERN, SWITZERLAND
     
    G ABRIEL AND N AVOT ASSUMED the Swiss had planted transmitters in both attaché cases, so they said nothing more until they were safely inside the Israeli Embassy. It was located in a brooding old house in the diplomatic quarter, on a narrow street that was closed to normal civilian traffic. In anticipation of their arrival, the staff had filled the secure communications room with finger sandwiches and Swiss chocolates. Navot swore softly to himself as he lowered his thick frame into a chair.
    “When Shamron was running the Office, the local station chiefs always made certain to have a few packs of his Turkish cigarettes on hand. But whenever I arrive, they put out a platter of food. Sometimes I get the distinct impression I’m being fattened up for slaughter.”
    “You’re the most popular chief since Shamron, Uzi. The troops adore you. More important, they respect you. And so does the prime minister.”
    “But all that could change in the blink of an eye if I don’t get Iran right,” Navot said. “Thanks to you, we were able to slow them down for a while, but sabotage and assassinations won’t work forever. At some point in the near future, the Iranians will cross a red line, beyond which it will be impossible to stop them from becoming a nuclear power. I’m supposed to tell the prime minister when that’s about to happen. And if I’m wrong by so much as a few days, we’ll have no choice but to live under the threat of an Iranian bomb.” Navot looked at Gabriel seriously. “How would you like to have that hanging over your head?”
    “I wouldn’t. That’s why I told Shamron to make you the chief instead of me.”
    “Any chance you might reconsider?”
    “I’m afraid I’d be a letdown after you, Uzi.”
    “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” Navot pushed the tray of food toward Gabriel. “Eat something. You must be starving after everything you went through.”
    “Actually, they took good care of me.”
    “What did they feed you?”
    Gabriel told him.
    “Was it any good?”
    “The raclette was delicious.”
    “I’ve always loved raclette.”
    “It’s potatoes smothered in cheese. What’s not to love?”
    Navot plucked an egg and watercress sandwich from the tray and popped it into his mouth. “I’m sorry about having to leave you behind in St. Moritz, but I figured it would be easier to get one agent out of Swiss custody than nine. Thankfully, we had some help.”
    “Who?”
    “Your friends at the