The Fallen Angel. Daniel Silva

old man entered a room.”

      “I remember,” said Gabriel distantly, and for a moment he was striding across the courtyard of the Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem, on a sun-bleached afternoon in September 1972. Seemingly from nowhere there appeared a small iron bar of a man with hideous black spectacles and teeth like a steel trap. The man didn’t offer a name, for none was necessary. He was the one they spoke of only in whispers. The one who had stolen the secrets that led to Israel’s lightning victory in the Six-Day War. The one who had plucked Adolf Eichmann, managing director of the Holocaust, from an Argentine street corner.

      As usual, Shamron had come well prepared that day. He had known, for example, that Gabriel descended from a long line of gifted artists, that he spoke fluent German with a pronounced Berlin accent, and that he was married to a fellow art student named Leah Savir. He had also known that Gabriel, having been raised by a woman who had survived the Nazi death camp at Birkenau, was a natural keeper of secrets. “The operation will be called Wrath of God,” he had said that day. “It’s not about justice. It’s about vengeance, pure and simple—vengeance for the eleven innocent lives lost at Munich.” Gabriel had told Shamron to find someone else. “I don’t want someone else,” Shamron had said. “I want you.”

      It was but one of many arguments Shamron would eventually win. Time and time again, he had managed to manipulate Gabriel into doing his bidding, always coming up with some excuse, some minor operational errand, to keep his gifted prodigy within reach of the Office. It had been Shamron’s wish that Gabriel assume his rightful place in the director’s suite at King Saul Boulevard. But Gabriel, in one final act of defiance, had turned his back on the offer, handing the job instead to an old rival named Uzi Navot. For a time, it seemed Navot would be willing to act merely as Shamron’s puppet. But now, having established his hold over the Office, Navot had banished Shamron to the Judean Wilderness, thus severing the old man’s ties to the intelligence service he had created in his own image. Shamron lived now in something akin to internal exile at his villa overlooking the Sea of Galilee. The politicians and generals who used to seek his advice no longer beat a path to his door. To fill the empty hours, he repaired antique radios and tried to concoct some way to convince Gabriel, whom he loved as a son, to come home again.

      “How often does he call to check up on me?”

      “Never,” replied Pazner, shaking his head for emphasis.

      “How often, Shimon?”

      “Twice a week, sometimes three. In fact, I just got off the phone with him before you called.”

      “What did he want?”

      “King Saul Boulevard is in an uproar. They’re convinced something is about to come down. Something big.”

      “Is there anything specific on the target?”

      Pazner took a final pull at his cigarette and sent the ember arcing into the darkness. “It might be an embassy or a consulate. It might be a synagogue or a community center. They think it’s going to happen in the south, probably Istanbul or Athens, but they can’t rule out Rome. We’ve barely finished rebuilding from the last time we were hit.” Pazner glanced at Gabriel and added, “Something tells me you remember that attack well.”

      Gabriel didn’t respond directly. “Is it al-Qaeda?”

      “After your last operation, there’s probably no al-Qaeda network or cell capable of carrying out a major attack in Europe. And since the Palestinians have no interest in hitting us here at the moment, that leaves only one other candidate.”

      “The Iranians.”

      “Acting through their favorite proxy, of course.”

       Hezbollah …

      They had reached the edge of the Piazza di Siena. The broad dusty oval was awash with pale moonlight, and the sound of the traffic along the Corso was but a whisper. It was almost possible to imagine they were the last two men alive in an ancient city.

      “What’s the source?” asked Gabriel.

      “Sources,” countered Pazner. “It’s a mosaic of intelligence, both human and signals. It appears the Qods Force of the Revolutionary Guard is running the operation. Department Five of VEVAK is apparently involved as well.”

      VEVAK was the Persian-language acronym of the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security, Iran’s formidable intelligence service. Department Five was among its most important divisions, for it dealt exclusively with the State of Israel.

      “According to one of our assets in southern Lebanon,” Pazner continued, “a team of Hezbollah operatives left Beirut about six weeks ago. We think it’s a straight revenge operation. Frankly, we’ve been expecting something like this for some time. They have good reason to be angry at us.”

      For much of the past decade, the Office had been waging a not-so-secret war against the Iranian nuclear weapons program. Scientists had been assassinated, destructive computer viruses had been introduced into labs and facilities, and faulty parts had been cleverly inserted into Iran’s nuclear supply chain—including several dozen sabotaged industrial centrifuges that destroyed four secret enrichment facilities. The operation had been one of Gabriel’s finest. Fittingly, it had been code-named Masterpiece.

      “Has my name come up in any of the intel?”

      “Not a whisper. But that doesn’t mean they don’t suspect you were the one behind it. Anyone who underestimates the Iranians does so at his own risk, you included.”

      “I’ve never underestimated them. But I have no intention of spending the rest of my life in hiding.”

      “No one’s suggesting that.”

      “What are you suggesting?”

      “Jerusalem is lovely this time of year.”

      “Actually, it’s miserable. But that’s beside the point. I’m too busy to leave Rome.”

      “So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that your friend the monsignor asked you to have a look at the suicide in the Basilica while the body was still in situ.”

      “Very impressive, Shimon. How did you know I was there?”

      “Because Lorenzo Vitale told one of his old friends in the Guardia di Finanza. And that friend told one of his friends in the Italian security service. And the friend from the Italian security service told me. He also told me that if you step out of line, he’ll put you on the first plane out of town.”

      “Tell him I’m living up to the letter and spirit of our agreement.”

      “Is that why Donati’s assistant invited you to coffee this afternoon?”

      “I see you’re monitoring my mobile phone again.”

      “What makes you think I ever stopped?” Pazner walked in silence for a moment. “I don’t suppose that woman actually threw herself from the dome of the Basilica, did she?”

      “No, Shimon, she didn’t.”

      “Any idea why she was killed?”

      “I have a theory, but I can’t pursue it without help.”

      “What kind of help?”

      “Forensic help,” replied Gabriel. “I need Unit 8200 to have a look under her fingernails.”

      Unit 8200 was Israel’s signals intelligence service, the equivalent of the National Security Agency in the United States. Though formally under the command of the military chief of staff, it carried out tasks for all the Israeli intelligence and security agencies, including the Office. Its alumni included some of the most successful entrepreneurs in Israel’s thriving high-tech industry.

      “Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Pazner said. “The State of Israel is currently facing existential threats too numerous to count, and you would like the Unit to expend valuable time and effort data-mining