Shamron nodded in agreement. “Well, at least there’s something to be said for
consistency.”
“DOES THE NAME Ali Massoudi mean anything to you?”
“He’s professor of something or other at a university in Germany,” Gabriel
replied. “Likes to play the role of an iconoclast and a reformer. I actually met
him once.”
Shamron’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really? Where?”
“He came to Venice a couple of years ago for a big Middle East symposium. As
part of their stipend the participants got a guided tour of the city. One of
their stops was the Church of San Zaccaria, where I was restoring the Bellini
altarpiece.”
For several years Gabriel had lived and worked in Venice under the name Mario
Delvecchio. Six months earlier he had been forced to flee the city after being
discovered there by a Palestinian masterterrorist named Khaled al-Khalifa. The
affair had ended at the Gare de Lyon, and in the aftermath Gabriel’s name and
secret past had been splashed across the French and European press, including an
exposé in The Sunday Times that referred to him as “Israel’s Angel of Death.” He
was still wanted for questioning by the Paris police, and a Palestinian civil
rights group had filed a lawsuit in London alleging war crimes.
“And you actually met Massoudi?” Shamron asked incredulously. “You shook his
hand?”
“As Mario Delvecchio, of course.”
“I suppose you didn’t realize that you were shaking hands with a terrorist.”
Shamron stuck the end of the cigarette between his lips and struck his Zippo.
This time Gabriel didn’t intervene.
“Three months ago we got a tip from a friend at the Jordanian GID that
Professor Ali Massoudi, that great moderate and reformer, was actually a talent
scout for al-Qaeda. According to the Jordanians, he was looking for recruits to
attack Israeli and Jewish targets in Europe. Peace conferences and anti-Israel
demonstrations were his favorite hunting grounds. We weren’t surprised by that
part. We’ve known for some time that the peace conferences have become a meeting
place for al-Qaeda operatives and European extremists of both the left-wing and
right-wing variety. We decided it would be wise to put Professor Massoudi under
watch. We got to the telephone in his apartment in Bremen, but the yield was
disappointing, to put it mildly. He was very good on the phone. Then about a
month ago, London Station chipped in with a timely piece of information. It
seems the Cultural section of the London embassy had been asked to provide a
warm body for something called the Policy Forum for Peace and Security in
Palestine, Iraq, and Beyond. When Cultural asked for a list of the other
participants, guess whose name appeared on it?”
“Professor Ali Massoudi.”
“Cultural agreed to send a representative to the conference, and Special Ops
set its sights on Massoudi.”
“What kind of operation was it?”
“Simple,” Shamron said. “Catch him in the act. Compromise him. Threaten him.
Turn him around. Can you imagine? An agent inside the al-Qaeda personnel
department? With Massoudi’s help we could have rolled up their European
networks.”
“So what happened?”
“We put a girl on his plate. She called herself Hamida al-Tatari. Her real
name is Aviva and she’s from Ramat Gan, but that’s neither here nor there. She
met Massoudi at a reception. Massoudi was intrigued and agreed to meet her again
later that evening for a more lengthy discussion of the current state of the
world. We followed Massoudi after the last session of the conference, but
Massoudi apparently spotted the watcher and started to run. He looked the wrong
way while crossing the Euston Road and stepped in front of a delivery truck.”
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