House of Spies (Gabriel Allon #17)(36)

“Apparently,” added Rimona, “a fragrance is in development.”

“What does it smell like?” asked Gabriel.

“Hashish,” she quipped.

But was there another side to JLM Enterprises? A side other than hospitality and drugs? The case of Nouredine Zakaria suggested it was so. The Moroccan had managed to insert at least fifteen Kalashnikov assault rifles into the United Kingdom, an impressive feat of smuggling and logistics. Undoubtedly, he had used a portion of the network that moved Martel’s drugs to Britain and the rest of Europe. But was Nouredine the exception, or were there others? Fortunately, the Office had in its possession several thousand French intelligence documents that Paul Rousseau had handed over after the attack on the Weinberg Center in Paris. With the help of an Alpha Group analyst in Paris, Dina Sarid compared the names in the database with known or reputed members of Jean-Luc Martel’s army of dealers and enforcers, most of whom were of North African descent. Six names appeared on both lists: three Moroccans, two Algerians, and a Tunisian. Four of the men had served time in French prisons for drug offenses; two were thought to have spent time in Syria fighting for ISIS. But when Dina broadened the parameters to include second-and third-degree levels of association, the results were even more alarming. “JLM Enterprises,” she concluded, “is an ISIS battalion in waiting.”

Gabriel forwarded Dina’s analysis to Paul Rousseau in Paris, and Rousseau put the worst of the worst under Alpha Group watch. That same evening the last member of the Barak team arrived in Tel Aviv aboard a flight from Zurich, where he had spent the past several days on a wholly unrelated matter. Entering Room 456C, he paused briefly before the enlarged photograph of Saladin, bade him an unpleasant evening, and sat down at his old desk, where Gabriel had personally placed two towering stacks of files. He opened the first and frowned. “Ivan Kharkov,” he murmured. “Long time no see, you miserable son of a bitch.”



It was Ari Shamron who once described Mikhail Abramov as “Gabriel without a conscience.” It was not an altogether fair characterization, but nor was it far from the truth. Born in Moscow to a pair of dissident Soviet academics, Mikhail had served in the elite Sayeret Matkal, Israel’s version of the British SAS, before joining the Office. His enormous talents, however, were not limited to the gun, thus the two stacks of files Gabriel had placed on his desk.

In appearance, he was Gabriel’s opposite. Tall and lanky, with a bloodless pallor and colorless gray eyes, he was the prince of ice to Gabriel’s prince of fire. During those intense days of preparation, he all but ignored Jean-Luc Martel and Olivia Watson. They were lights on a distant shore—or, as Gabriel liked to say, on the other side of a horseshoe bay. Mikhail had only one assignment, to prepare himself for the role he would soon be playing. Not by coincidence, the character whose life he would inhabit had much in common with his quarry. Like Jean-Luc Martel, he was a man of two faces, one he showed to the rest of the world, the other he kept carefully hidden from view.

Much of Mikhail’s course of study was self-directed, as it involved Russian armaments, a subject he knew well. But Gabriel, in yet another departure from Office tradition, personally oversaw the rest. On the evening Martel and Olivia Watson departed Saint Barthélemy, he summoned Mikhail to his suite for a final examination. Gabriel stood before a video monitor, a clicker in his hand, while Mikhail sat on the executive leather couch, his long legs propped on the coffee table, his eyes half closed with affected boredom, his default expression.

“Tintoretto,” he said.

Gabriel pressed the clicker, and another image appeared on the screen.

“Titian,” said Mikhail, suppressing an elaborate yawn.

The image changed.

“Rembrandt, for heaven’s sake. Next.”

When the image appeared, he placed a hand to his forehead in a show of deep thought. “Is that a Parmigianino or a Perugino?”

“Which is it?” asked Gabriel.

“Parmigianino.”

“Right again.”

“Why don’t you give me something a bit more challenging?”

“How about this?”

Another image appeared on the screen. This time it was not a painting, but the face of a woman.

“Natalie Mizrahi,” said Mikhail.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Is she ready? Is that what you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

Gabriel switched off the video monitor and shook his head slowly. It wasn’t the sort of job for a lover, he thought. Only a chief could ask such a thing.





20





Jezreel Valley, Israel



Early the following afternoon, having cleared his in-box and returned the necessary phone calls, Gabriel eased into the back of his armored SUV and set out for the valley of his youth. The landscape beyond his window was yellowed like an old photograph. Overnight, a Palestinian arsonist had set fire to the Carmel Ridge. Whipped by high winds, the flames had consumed three thousand acres of highly combustible Aleppo pine and were now advancing toward the outskirts of Haifa. Israel’s firefighters had proven themselves incapable of containing the blaze, leaving the prime minister no choice but to request international assistance. Economically crippled Greece had dispatched two hundred men; Russia had agreed to send a tanker aircraft. Even the ruler of Syria, who was battling for his very survival, had mockingly offered to come to Israel’s aid. Gabriel found his country’s impotence deeply unsettling. The Jewish people had drained the malarial swamps, watered the deserts, and prevailed in three existential conflicts against an enemy far greater in number. And yet a Palestinian with a pack of matches could bring the northwest corner of the country to a standstill and threaten its third-largest city.