The Messenger

digging through dreary ledger sheets and computer printouts, Gabriel could often be seen leafing through old catalogs, Impressionist monographs, and press clippings describing Zizi’s exploits on the world art scene.
    By the end of the tenth day, Gabriel had decided how he was going to slip an agent into Jihad Incorporated. He walked over to Yossi’s collage of photographs and gazed at a single image. It showed a gaunt, gray-haired Englishman, seated next to Zizi six months earlier at the Impressionist and Modern Art auction at Christie’s in New York. Gabriel removed the photograph and held it up for the others to see. “This man,” he said. “He has to go.” Then he called Adrian Carter on a private secure number at Langley and told him how he planned to penetrate the House of Zizi. “All you need now is a painting and a girl,” Carter said. “You find the painting. I’ll get you the girl.”

    G ABRIEL LEFT King Saul Boulevard a little earlier than usual and drove to Ein Kerem. There were still security guards posted outside the intensive care unit of the Hadassah Medical Center, but Shamron was alone when Gabriel entered his room. “The prodigal son has decided to pay me a visit,” he said bitterly. “It’s a good thing we’re a desert people. Otherwise you would put me on an ice floe and cast me out to sea.”
    Gabriel sat down next to the bed. “I’ve been here at least a half dozen times.”
    “When?”
    “Late at night when you’re asleep.”
    “You hover over me? Like Gilah and the doctors? Why can’t you come during the day like a normal person?”
    “I’ve been busy.”
    “The prime minister isn’t too busy to come see me at a reasonable hour.” Shamron, his injured neck immobilized by a heavy plastic brace, gave Gabriel a vindictive sideways glance. “He told me he’s allowing Amos to find his own man for Special Ops so that you can run this fool’s errand for Adrian Carter and the Americans.”
    “I take it you disapprove.”
    “Vehemently.” Shamron closed his eyes for a long moment—long enough for Gabriel to cast a nervous glance at the bank of monitors next to his bed. “Blue and white,” he said finally. “We do things for ourselves. We don’t ask others for help, and we don’t help others with problems of their own making. And we certainly don’t volunteer to serve as a patsy for Adrian Carter.”
    “You’re in this hospital bed instead of at your desk in the Prime Minister’s Office. That makes Zizi al-Bakari and Ahmed bin Shafiq my problem, too. Besides, the world has changed, Ari. We need to work together to survive. The old rules don’t apply.”
    Shamron lifted his heavily veined hand and pointed toward the plastic water cup on his bedside table. Gabriel held it to Shamron’s lips while he sipped water through the straw.
    “At whose request are you undertaking this errand?” Shamron asked. “Is it Adrian Carter, or higher up the chain of command?” Greeted by Gabriel’s silence, Shamron angrily pushed the water cup away. “Is it your intention to treat me as some sort of invalid? I’m still the prime minister’s special adviser on all matters dealing with security and intelligence. I’m still the…” His voice trailed off with a sudden fatigue.
    “You’re still the memuneh ,” Gabriel said, finishing the sentence for him. In Hebrew, memuneh meant the one in charge. For many years the title had been reserved for Shamron.
    “You’re not going after some kid from Nablus, Gabriel. You have Ahmed bin Shafiq and Zizi al-Bakari in your sights. If something goes wrong, the world will fall on you from a very great height. And your friend Adrian Carter won’t be there to help scrape you up. You might want to consider taking me into your confidence. I’ve done this sort of thing a time or two.”
    Gabriel poked his head into the corridor and asked the protective agents posted there to make certain any audio or visual surveillance of Shamron was switched off. Then he sat down again in the bedside chair and, with his mouth close to Shamron’s ear, told him everything. Shamron’s gaze, for a moment at least, seemed a little more focused. When he posed his first question it was almost possible for Gabriel to conjure an image of the iron bar of a man who had walked into his life one September afternoon in 1972.
    “You’ve made up your mind about using a woman?”
    Gabriel nodded.
    “You’re going to need someone whose story will withstand