Page 43 of The Collector
“You’d better hurry, my son. Otherwise, I might not be alive when you get here.”
“I suppose I deserve that.”
“You do,” growled the voice, and the connection was lost.
But how to paint an accurate portrait of such a man to an outsider like Ingrid? It would have been easier, thought Gabriel, to explain Bach’s influence on the development of Western music—or the role that water had played in the formation and maintenance of life on earth. Ari Shamron was the captor of Adolf Eichmann and the twice-former director-general of the Office. He had given the service its identity, its creed, even its very language. He was the Memuneh, the one in charge. He was eternal.
His honey-colored villa stood atop an escarpment overlookingthe Sea of Galilee. Gabriel prepared himself for the worst as the SUV scaled the steeply sloped drive—Shamron had been battling a litany of serious ailments for years—but the man waiting in the forecourt appeared in remarkably good health. He was dressed, as usual, in a pair of neatly pressed khaki trousers, an oxford-cloth shirt, and a leather bomber jacket with an unrepaired tear in the left shoulder. His right hand, the hand he had clamped over Eichmann’s mouth, was clutching a handsome olive wood cane. His hated aluminum walker was nowhere to be seen.
“How long have you been standing there?” asked Gabriel.
“If you must know, I haven’t budged since the day you left Israel.” He looked at the woman at Gabriel’s side. “Who’s the girl?”
“Her name is Ingrid.”
“Ingrid what?”
“Johansen.”
“It’s not a Jewish name.”
“With good reason.”
“Is she planning to convert?” asked Shamron. “Or is your relationship purely physical?”
“Ingrid was with me in Denmark last night when—”
“A Russian assassin tried to kill you.”
“Actually,” said Gabriel, “I’m convinced that she was the target.”
“I’m relieved. But what did she do to irritate the Russians?”
“I’m still working on that.”
“In the Upper Galilee?” Shamron’s rheumy eyes settled on Mikhail. “With him?”
Gabriel smiled but said nothing.
“I don’t suppose my niece knows you’re here.”
Shamron’s niece was Rimona Stern, the first female director-general in the history of the Office.
“She’s under the impression I’m in Jerusalem,” said Gabriel.
Shamron’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not involved in some sort of palace intrigue, are you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You never fail to disappoint me, my son.” Shamron raised a liver-spotted hand toward the front door. “Perhaps we should have something to eat. It’s been a very long time.”
The dinnerthat Gilah Shamron served that evening was not authentically Israeli but hastily ordered Chinese takeaway. Her husband fumbled with a pair of plastic chopsticks for a moment or two, then cast them aside and attacked his beef and broccoli with a fork instead. Never one for small talk, or to squander a captive audience, he delivered a sober lecture on the state of the world. As was often the case, he was worried—worried that the old postwar order was collapsing, that democracy was under siege, that China and Russia were displacing the United States as the Middle East hegemons faster than anyone might have imagined. He was hearing rumors that Beijing was attempting to negotiate a rapprochement between the Saudis and the Iranians, an unimaginable prospect even a year ago.
He asked Gabriel about his new life in Venice, and seemed pleased to learn that Chiara and the children were thriving. He was most intrigued, however, by the presence of a newcomer at his table, this beautiful young Danish woman named Ingrid Johansen who claimed to be a freelance IT specialist. It was clear that Shamron, a lifelong inhabitant of the secret world, didn’t believe a word of it. He knew an operator when he set eyes on one.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet and, with apologies to Ingrid and Mikhail, led Gabriel downstairs to the room that doubled as his study and workshop. The innards of a 1958 Grundig 3088 werescattered across his worktable. Tinkering with old radios was Shamron’s only hobby. And when he had no radios at his disposal, he tinkered with Gabriel.
He settled atop a stool and switched on the lamp. “You first,” he said.
