The Fallen Angel

“And the Holocaust isn’t the only reason we have a home in the Land of Israel. We’re there because it was ours in the beginning. We belong there.”
    “Even some of our friends aren’t so sure of that anymore.”
    “That’s because the Palestinians and their allies have managed to convince much of the world that we are appropriators of Arab land. They like to pretend that the ancient kingdoms of Israel were a myth, that the Temple of Jerusalem was nothing but a Bible story.”
    “You sound like Eli.”
    Shamron gave a brief smile. “In his own way, your friend Eli is waging war in those excavation trenches beneath the Western Wall. Our Muslim brothers have conveniently forgotten that their great Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque are built on the ruins of the First and Second Jewish Temples. The political battle for Palestine is now a religious war for Jerusalem. And we have to prove to the world that we were there first.”
    A gust of wind moaned amid the stones of the memorial. Shamron turned up his coat collar and rounded the corner into a street named for Hannah Arendt, the philosopher and political theorist who coined the phrase “the banality of evil” to describe Eichmann’s role in the extermination of six million European Jews. Shamron, who had spent hours alone with the murderer in a Buenos Aires safe house, regarded the characterization as misguided at best. He entered a coffeehouse, then, after noticing the No Smoking sign, sat at a table outside.
    “Healthy Germans,” he said, lighting a cigarette. “Just what the world needs.”
    “I thought you’d forgiven them.”
    “I have,” Shamron said, “but I’m afraid I’ll never forget. I also wish their government would consider putting some distance between itself and the Islamic Republic of Iran. But I learned long ago not to pray for impossible things.”
    Shamron fell silent as the waitress, a beautiful girl with milk-white skin, delivered their coffee. When she was gone, he looked around the busy street and treated himself to a smile.
    “What’s so funny?” asked Gabriel.
    “When you came out of that Saudi prison, you told me you would never do another job for the Office. And now you’re about to carry out one of our most daring operations ever, all because some girl took a nasty fall in St. Peter’s Basilica.”
    “She had a name,” Gabriel replied. “And she didn’t fall. She was pushed by Carlo Marchese.”
    “We’ll deal with Carlo when we’re finished with Massoud.”
    “I assume you’ve reviewed the plan?”
    “Thoroughly. And my instincts tell me you have no more than thirty seconds to get Massoud into the first car.”
    “We’ve rehearsed it at twenty. But in my experience, things always go faster when they’re live.”
    “Especially when you’re involved,” Shamron quipped. “But tonight you’ll only be a spectator.”
    “A very nervous spectator.”
    “You should be. If this goes wrong, it will be a diplomatic disaster, not to mention a major propaganda victory for the Iranians. The world doesn’t seem to notice or care that they target our people whenever it suits them. But if we respond in kind, we’re branded as rogue gunslingers.”
    “There are worse things they could call us.”
    “Like what?”
    “Weak,” replied Gabriel.
    Shamron nodded in agreement and stirred his coffee thoughtfully. “Getting Massoud out of his car and into yours is going to be the easiest part of this operation. Convincing him to talk is going to be another thing altogether.”
    “I’m sure you have a suggestion. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
    Shamron acknowledged the remark with a nod of his head. “Massoud isn’t the sort of man who scares easily. The only way you’ll succeed is to present him with a fate worse than death. And then you have to throw him a lifeline and hope that he grasps it.”
    “And if he does?”
    “The temptation will be to get every drop of information you can. But in my humble opinion, that would be a mistake. Besides,” he added, “there isn’t time for that. Get the intelligence you need to stop this attack. And then . . .”
    Shamron’s voice trailed off. Gabriel finished the thought for him.
    “Let him go.”
    Frowning, Shamron nodded slowly. “We are not our enemies. And that means we do not kill men who carry diplomatic passports, even if they have the blood of our children on their hands.”
    “And even if we know he will kill again in the