“Needless to say, the Kremlin would like the incumbent to remain in office. Therefore, it stands to reason that Arkady and the Haydn Group are putting their thumb on the scale. But they’re far more interested in helping the Americans destroy themselves. They spend most of their time sowing discord and rancor on social media and other Internet forums, including message boards used by racists and other extremists. Arkady told me that one of his operatives had managed to inspire several acts of political violence.”
“How?”
“By anonymously whispering into the ear of someone who’s on the edge. Have you been watching the news from America lately? They’re not so hard to find.”
Morosov drained another glass of vodka with a snap of his wrist.
“If you keep drinking that stuff, your liver is going to turn to concrete.”
“It’s not as if I have much else to do.”
Gabriel took up the dossier and rose. “Is there anything else you forgot to tell me, Sergei?”
“Just one thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“If Arkady can get to Viktor Orlov, he can get to you, too.”
25
Tiberias, Israel
Twenty-five kilometers south of Rosh Pina, rising from the depths of the Jordan Rift Valley, stands Mount Arbel. The ancient Jews who inhabited the mountain during the brutal Roman occupation of Palestine dwelled in fortified caves carved into its sheer cliffs. Now they resided in three tidy agricultural settlements on the tabletop summit. One of the settlements, Kfar Hittim, stood on the scalding plain where Saladin, on a blazing summer afternoon in 1187, defeated the thirst-crazed armies of the Crusaders in a climactic battle that would leave Jerusalem once again in Muslim hands. Ari Shamron claimed that, when the winds were right, he could still hear the clashing of swords and the screams of the dying.
His honey-colored villa stood on the outskirts of Kfar Hittim, atop a rocky escarpment overlooking the Sea of Galilee andthe ancient holy city of Tiberias. Gilah, his long-suffering wife, greeted Gabriel in the entrance hall. With her melancholy eyes and wild gray hair, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Golda Meir. She spread her arms wide and demanded to be embraced.
Masked, Gabriel kept his distance. “It’s not safe, Gilah. I’ve been traveling.”
She threw her arms around him nonetheless. “We were beginning to think we would never see you again. My God, how long has it been?”
“Don’t make me say it aloud. It’s too depressing.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood. I wanted to surprise you.”
She squeezed him tightly. “You’re too thin.”
“You always say that, Gilah.”
“I’ll bring you some dinner. Ari is working on a new radio. The isolation has been very hard on him.” She laid her hand on Gabriel’s cheek. “So has your absence.”
She drew away without another word and disappeared into the kitchen. Steeling himself for the worst, Gabriel headed downstairs to the room that doubled as Shamron’s study and workshop. The shelves were lined with the memorabilia of a secret life, including a small glass case containing eleven .22-caliber shell casings. Eli Lavon had collected them from the lobby of an apartment building in Rome’s Piazza Annibaliano a few minutes after Gabriel killed a Palestinian named Wadal Abdel Zwaiter.
“You really have to get rid of these things, Ari.”
“I’m saving them for you.”
“I told you, I don’t want them.”
“One of the American networks is preparing a major new documentary. The producers would like to interview me while I am still among the living. I suggested that they might want to speak to you as well.”
“Why on earth would I want to talk about it now, after all these years? It will only reopen old wounds.”
“It’s not exactly a secret that you were the primary gunman for Operation Wrath of God. In fact, I have it on good authority that you have finally told your children about the things you did to defend your country and your people.”
“Is there anything youdon’tknow about my life?”
