gnawed fingertips. “It’s Mohammed Azziz, boss. He used to be a member of the Popular Front, but when the Front signed on with the peace process, Azziz joined Tariq’s outfit.”
“Who’s Mohammed Azziz?” asked Shamron, squinting at Shimon curiously through a cloud of smoke.
“The boy from the Musée d’Orsay. I had the technicians in the photo lab digitally enhance the surveillance videotape. Then I ran that through the database. There’s no doubt about it. The waiter with the cell phone was Mohammed Azziz.”
“You’re certain it’s Azziz?”
“Positive, boss.”
“And you’re certain Azziz is now working for Tariq?”
“I’d stake my life on it.”
“Choose your words carefully, Shimon.”
Shimon left the file on his desk and went out. Shamron now had what he wanted: proof that Tariq’s fingerprints were all over the attack in Paris. Later that same evening, a bleary-eyed Yossi appeared at Shamron’s door. “I just heard something interesting, boss.”
“Speak, Yossi.”
“A friend of ours from the Greek service just passed a message to Athens station. A Palestinian named Achmed Natour was murdered a couple of days ago on the Greek island of Samos. Shot through the head twice and left in a villa.”
“Who’s Achmed Natour?”
“We’re not sure. Shimon is having a look around.”
“Who owns the villa?”
“That’s the most interesting thing, boss. The villa was rented to an Englishman named Patrick Reynolds. The Greek police are trying to find him.”
“And?”
“There’s no Patrick Reynolds at the London address on the rental agreement. There’s no Patrick Reynolds at the London telephone number either. As far as the British and Greek authorities can figure, Patrick Reynolds doesn’t exist.”
The old man was going away for a while—Rami could sense it.
Shamron’s last night was a restless one, even by the lofty standards of the Phantom of Tiberias. He spent a long time pacing the terrace, then killed a few hours tinkering with a vintage Philco radio that had arrived that day from the States. He did not sleep, made no telephone calls, and had just one visitor: a penitent-looking Uzi Navot. He spoke to the old man on the terrace for fifteen minutes, then quickly departed. On the way out his face reminded Rami of the look Shamron had worn the night of the Paris attack: part grim determination, part self-satisfied smirk.
But it was the garment bag that confirmed Rami’s worst fears: Italian manufacture, black leather, audacious gold-plated snaps and buckles. It was everything the old man was not. The Phantom could carry his kit in his back pocket and still have room for his billfold. Then there was the name on the tag dangling from the grip: Rudolf Heller, Bern address, Bern telephone number. Shamron was going under.
Rami was distant over breakfast, like the mother who picks a fight with her child the morning of a separation. Instead of sitting with him at the table, he stood at the counter and violently flipped through the sports section of Maa’riv.
“Rami, please,” said Shamron. “Are you reading it or trying to beat a confession out of it?”
“Let me come with you, boss.”
“We’re not going to have this conversation again. I know you may find this difficult to believe, but I know how to function in the field. I was a katsa long before your parents saw fit to bring you into this world.”
“You’re not as young as you used to be, boss.”
Shamron lowered his newspaper and peered at Rami over his half-moon glasses. “Any time you think you’re ready, you may have a go at testing my fitness.”
Rami pointed his finger at Shamron like a gun and said, “Bang, bang, you’re dead, boss.”
But Shamron just smiled and finished his newspaper. Ten minutes later Rami walked him down to the gate and loaded the bag into the car. He stood and watched the car drive away, until all that was left of Ari Shamron was a puff of pink Galilee
“Who’s Mohammed Azziz?” asked Shamron, squinting at Shimon curiously through a cloud of smoke.
“The boy from the Musée d’Orsay. I had the technicians in the photo lab digitally enhance the surveillance videotape. Then I ran that through the database. There’s no doubt about it. The waiter with the cell phone was Mohammed Azziz.”
“You’re certain it’s Azziz?”
“Positive, boss.”
“And you’re certain Azziz is now working for Tariq?”
“I’d stake my life on it.”
“Choose your words carefully, Shimon.”
Shimon left the file on his desk and went out. Shamron now had what he wanted: proof that Tariq’s fingerprints were all over the attack in Paris. Later that same evening, a bleary-eyed Yossi appeared at Shamron’s door. “I just heard something interesting, boss.”
“Speak, Yossi.”
“A friend of ours from the Greek service just passed a message to Athens station. A Palestinian named Achmed Natour was murdered a couple of days ago on the Greek island of Samos. Shot through the head twice and left in a villa.”
“Who’s Achmed Natour?”
“We’re not sure. Shimon is having a look around.”
“Who owns the villa?”
“That’s the most interesting thing, boss. The villa was rented to an Englishman named Patrick Reynolds. The Greek police are trying to find him.”
“And?”
“There’s no Patrick Reynolds at the London address on the rental agreement. There’s no Patrick Reynolds at the London telephone number either. As far as the British and Greek authorities can figure, Patrick Reynolds doesn’t exist.”
The old man was going away for a while—Rami could sense it.
Shamron’s last night was a restless one, even by the lofty standards of the Phantom of Tiberias. He spent a long time pacing the terrace, then killed a few hours tinkering with a vintage Philco radio that had arrived that day from the States. He did not sleep, made no telephone calls, and had just one visitor: a penitent-looking Uzi Navot. He spoke to the old man on the terrace for fifteen minutes, then quickly departed. On the way out his face reminded Rami of the look Shamron had worn the night of the Paris attack: part grim determination, part self-satisfied smirk.
But it was the garment bag that confirmed Rami’s worst fears: Italian manufacture, black leather, audacious gold-plated snaps and buckles. It was everything the old man was not. The Phantom could carry his kit in his back pocket and still have room for his billfold. Then there was the name on the tag dangling from the grip: Rudolf Heller, Bern address, Bern telephone number. Shamron was going under.
Rami was distant over breakfast, like the mother who picks a fight with her child the morning of a separation. Instead of sitting with him at the table, he stood at the counter and violently flipped through the sports section of Maa’riv.
“Rami, please,” said Shamron. “Are you reading it or trying to beat a confession out of it?”
“Let me come with you, boss.”
“We’re not going to have this conversation again. I know you may find this difficult to believe, but I know how to function in the field. I was a katsa long before your parents saw fit to bring you into this world.”
“You’re not as young as you used to be, boss.”
Shamron lowered his newspaper and peered at Rami over his half-moon glasses. “Any time you think you’re ready, you may have a go at testing my fitness.”
Rami pointed his finger at Shamron like a gun and said, “Bang, bang, you’re dead, boss.”
But Shamron just smiled and finished his newspaper. Ten minutes later Rami walked him down to the gate and loaded the bag into the car. He stood and watched the car drive away, until all that was left of Ari Shamron was a puff of pink Galilee
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