Neither he nor Chiara would ever be able to recall the actual sound of the explosion, only the searing wave of air and the helpless sensation of being hurled into the street like toys thrown by a petulant child. They came to rest side by side, Gabriel facedown with his hands flung over his head, Chiara on her back with her eyes tightly closed in pain. Gabriel managed to shield her from the hailstorm of masonry and shattered glass that rained down upon them but not from the sight of Alfonso Ramirez. He was lying in the center of the street, his clothing blackened by fire. Fluttering all around them were thousands of pieces of paper, the priceless files of Ramirez’s archives. Gabriel crawled to Ramirez’s side and felt his neck for a pulse. Then he rose and returned to Chiara.

“Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

“Can you stand up?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You have to try.”

“Help me.”

Gabriel pulled Chiara gently to her feet, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Chiara’s first steps were unsteady, but by the time the sirens began to sound in the distance she was moving along the devastated street at a brisk pace. Gabriel led her around a corner, then pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number from memory. A female voice answered calmly in Hebrew; in the same language, Gabriel recited a code phrase followed by a series of numbers. After a few seconds, the female voice asked, “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“I need an extraction.”

“How soon?”

“Immediately.”

“Are you alone?”

“No.”

“How many in your party?”

“Two.”

“What is your present location?”

“Avenida Caseros, San Telmo, Buenos Aires…”

CHAPTER 37

37

BEN GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL

There is a room at Ben Gurion Airport known to only a handful of people. It is located to the left of passport control, behind an unmarked door kept locked at all times. Its walls are faux Jerusalem limestone; its furnishings are typical airport fare: black vinyl couches and chairs, modular end tables, cheap modern lamps that cast an unforgiving light. There are two windows, one looking onto the tarmac, the other onto the arrivals hall. Both are fashioned of high-quality one-way glass. Reserved for Office personnel, it is the first stop for operatives returning from secret battlefields abroad, thus the permanent odor of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and male tension. The cleaning staff has tried every product imaginable to expel it, but the smell remains. Like Israel’s enemies, it cannot be defeated by conventional means.