JК
The English Assassin :: Silva Daniel
Страница: 26 из 209”
“You’re not upset by it?”
“Of course, but I’m not more upset because they’re athletes or because it’s the Olympics.”
“You can still be angry.”
“At who?”
“At the Palestinians. At the Black September terrorists who walk around with the blood of your people on their hands.”
“I never get angry.”
And though Gabriel did not realize it at the time, those words had sealed Shamron’s commitment to him, and the seduction was begun.
“You speak languages, yes?”
“A few.”
“A few?”
“My parents didn’t like Hebrew, so they spoke the languages from Europe.”
“Which ones?”
“You know already. You know all about me. Don’t play games with me.”
And so Shamron decided to play his pickup line. Golda had ordered Shamron to “send forth the boys” to take down the Black September bastards who had carried out this bloodbath. The operation was to be called Wrath of God. It was not about justice, Shamron had said. It was about taking an eye for an eye. It was about revenge, pure and simple.
“Sorry, not interested.”
“Not interested? Do you know how many boys in this country would give anything to be part of this team?”
“Go ask them.”
“I don’t want them. I want you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you have gifts. You have languages. You have a clear head. You don’t drink, and you don’t smoke hash. You’re not a crazy who’s going to go off half-cocked.”
And because you have the emotional coldness of a killer, Shamron thought, although he didn’t say these words to Gabriel then. Instead, he told him a story, the story of a young intelligence officer who had been chosen for a special mission because he had a gift, an unusually powerful grip for so small a man. The story of a night in a Buenos Aires suburb, when this young intelligence officer had seen a man waiting at a bus stop. Waiting like an ordinary man, Gabriel. An ordinary pathetic little man. And how this young intelligence officer had leapt from a car and grabbed the man by the throat and how he had sat on him as the car drove away and how he had smelled the stink of fear on his breath. The same stink the Jews had emitted as this pathetic little man sent them off to the gas chambers. And the story worked, as Shamron had known it would. Because Gabriel was the only son of two Auschwitz survivors, and their scars were his.
He was suddenly very tired. Imagine, all those years, all those killings, and now he was behind bars for the first time, for a murder he did not commit.
“You’re not upset by it?”
“Of course, but I’m not more upset because they’re athletes or because it’s the Olympics.”
“You can still be angry.”
“At who?”
“At the Palestinians. At the Black September terrorists who walk around with the blood of your people on their hands.”
“I never get angry.”
And though Gabriel did not realize it at the time, those words had sealed Shamron’s commitment to him, and the seduction was begun.
“You speak languages, yes?”
“A few.”
“A few?”
“My parents didn’t like Hebrew, so they spoke the languages from Europe.”
“Which ones?”
“You know already. You know all about me. Don’t play games with me.”
And so Shamron decided to play his pickup line. Golda had ordered Shamron to “send forth the boys” to take down the Black September bastards who had carried out this bloodbath. The operation was to be called Wrath of God. It was not about justice, Shamron had said. It was about taking an eye for an eye. It was about revenge, pure and simple.
“Sorry, not interested.”
“Not interested? Do you know how many boys in this country would give anything to be part of this team?”
“Go ask them.”
“I don’t want them. I want you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you have gifts. You have languages. You have a clear head. You don’t drink, and you don’t smoke hash. You’re not a crazy who’s going to go off half-cocked.”
And because you have the emotional coldness of a killer, Shamron thought, although he didn’t say these words to Gabriel then. Instead, he told him a story, the story of a young intelligence officer who had been chosen for a special mission because he had a gift, an unusually powerful grip for so small a man. The story of a night in a Buenos Aires suburb, when this young intelligence officer had seen a man waiting at a bus stop. Waiting like an ordinary man, Gabriel. An ordinary pathetic little man. And how this young intelligence officer had leapt from a car and grabbed the man by the throat and how he had sat on him as the car drove away and how he had smelled the stink of fear on his breath. The same stink the Jews had emitted as this pathetic little man sent them off to the gas chambers. And the story worked, as Shamron had known it would. Because Gabriel was the only son of two Auschwitz survivors, and their scars were his.
He was suddenly very tired. Imagine, all those years, all those killings, and now he was behind bars for the first time, for a murder he did not commit.