Free Moscow Rules by Daniel Silva Page A

did for your honeymoon.”
     
     
    Shamron smiled. It was an exaggeration, of course, but only a slight one. Within the corridors and conference rooms of the Israeli intelligence and security services, Ari Shamron was a legend. He had penetrated the courts of kings, stolen the secrets of tyrants, and killed the enemies of Israel, sometimes with his bare hands. His crowning achievement had come on a rainy night in May 1960, in a squalid suburb north of Buenos Aires, when he had leapt from the back of a car and seized Adolf Eichmann, architect of the Holocaust. Even now, Shamron could not go out in public in Israel without being approached by aging survivors who simply wanted to touch the hands that had clamped around the neck of the monster.
     
     
    “Gilah and I were married in April of ’forty-seven, at the height of the War of Independence. I put my foot on a glass, our friends and family shouted ‘Mazel tov,’ then I kissed my new wife and went back to join my Palmach unit.”
     
     
    “They were different times, Ari.”
     
     
    “Not so different. We were fighting for survival then and we fight for survival now.” Shamron scrutinized Gabriel for a long moment through his spectacles. “But you already know that, don’t you, Gabriel? That explains why you simply didn’t ignore my message and return to your villa in Umbria.”
     
     
    “I should have ignored your original summons. Then I wouldn’t be back here.” He made a show of looking around the dreary furnishings. “Back in this room.”
     
     
    “I wasn’t the one who summoned you. Boris Ostrovsky did. Then he had the terrible misfortune of dying in your arms. And now you’re going to find out who killed him and why. Under the circumstances, it is the least you can do for him.”
     
     
    Gabriel glanced at his wristwatch. “Did Eli make it in all right?”
     
     
    They had traveled on separate planes and by different routes. Lavon had taken the direct flight from Fiumicino to Ben-Gurion; Gabriel had flown first to Frankfurt, where he had spent three hours waiting for a connecting flight. He had put the time to good use by walking several miles through Frankfurt’s endless terminals, searching his tail for Russian assassins.
     
     
    “Eli’s already inside King Saul Boulevard undergoing a rather unpleasant debriefing. When they’re finished with him, they’d like a crack at you as well. As you might expect, Amos is unhappy about the way things turned out in Rome. Given his precarious position, he wants to make certain that you’re the one who gets the blame rather than him.”
     
     
    Amos Sharret was the director of the Office. Like nearly everyone else at the top of Israel’s security and military establishment, he had come under intense criticism for his performance during the most recent war in Lebanon and was now hanging on to the reins of power by his fingernails. Shamron and his allies in the Prime Minister’s Office were quietly trying to pry them loose.
     
     
    “Someone should tell Amos that I’m not interested in his job.”
     
     
    “He wouldn’t believe it. Amos sees enemies everywhere. It’s a professionalaffliction.” Shamron inched toward the edge of his chair and used his cane to leverage himself upright. “Come,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”
     
     
    An armored Peugeot limousine was waiting outside in the secure VIP parking area. They climbed into the back and headed toward the Judean Hills.
     
     
    “There were developments in Rome this evening after you boarded your flight in Frankfurt. The Italian Ministry of Justice sent a letter to the Vatican, formally requesting permission to take over the investigation into Ostrovsky’s death. I don’t suppose I have to tell you how the Vatican responded.”
     
     
    “Donati agreed immediately.”
     
     
    “Actually, it was the Vatican secretary of state who issued the formal response, but I’m sure your friend the monsignor was whispering into his