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of the operation had been provided by Abu Jihad’s wife, Umm Jihad, who had been present that night. The entry for Vienna was terse and noteworthy for its one glaring factual error: Wife and son killed by car bomb, Vienna, January 1991. Reprisal ordered by Abu Amar . Abu Amar was none other than Yasir Arafat. Gabriel had always suspected Arafat’s personal involvement. Until now he had never seen evidence confirming it.
    He held up the pages of the dossier. “Where did you get this?”
    “Milan,” Shamron said. He then told Gabriel about the raid on the pensione and the computer disk found in one of the suspects’ bags. “When the Italians couldn’t break the security code, they turned to us. I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate. If they’d been able to get inside that disk they would have been able to solve a thirty-year-old Roman murder in a matter of minutes.”
    Contained in the dossier was the fact that he had killed a Black September operative named Wadal Abdel Zwaiter in a Rome apartment house in 1972. It was that killing, Gabriel’s first, which had caused his temples to gray virtually overnight. He handed the dossier back to Shamron.
    “What do we know about the men who were hiding in that pensione ?”
    “Based on fingerprints discovered on the material and in the room, along with the photos in the false passports, we’ve managed to identify one of them. His name is Daoud Hadawi, a Palestinian, born in the Jenin refugee camp. He was a ringleader during the first intifada and was in and out of prison. At seventeen he joined Fatah, and when Arafat came to Gaza after Oslo, Hadawi went to work for Al-Amn Al-Ra’isah, the Presidential Security Service. You may know that organization by its previous name, the name it used before Oslo: Force 17, Arafat’s praetorian guard. Arafat’s favorite killers.”
    “What else do we know about Hadawi?”
    Shamron reached into his coat pocket for his cigarettes. Gabriel stopped him and explained that the smoke was harmful to the paintings. Shamron sighed and carried on with his briefing.
    “We were convinced he was involved in terror operations during the second intifada. We placed him on a list of wanted suspects, but the Palestinian Authority refused to hand him over. We assumed he was hiding inside the Mukata with Arafat and the rest of the senior men.” The Mukata was the name of Arafat’s walled, militarized compound in Ramallah. “But when we smashed into the Mukata during Operation Defense Shield, Hadawi was not among the men we found hiding there.”
    “Where was he?”
    “Shabak and Aman assumed he’d fled to Jordan or Lebanon. They turned the case file over to the Office. Unfortunately, locating Hadawi was not high on Lev’s list of priorities. It turned out to be a very costly mistake.”
    “Is Hadawi still a member of Force 17?”
    “Unclear.”
    “Does he still have links to Arafat?”
    “We simply don’t know yet.”
    “Does Shabak think Hadawi was capable of pulling off something like this?”
    “Not really. He was considered a foot soldier, not a mastermind. Rome was planned and executed by a class act. Someone very smart. Someone capable of pulling off a shocking act of terrorism on the world stage. Someone with experience in this sort of thing.”
    “Like who?”
    “That’s what we want you to find out.”
    “Me?”
    “We want you to find the animals who carried out this massacre, and we want you to put them down. It will be just like seventy-two, except this time you’ll be the one in command instead of me.”
    Gabriel shook his head slowly. “I’m not an investigator. I was the executioner. Besides, this isn’t my war any longer. It’s Shabak’s war. It’s the Sayaret’s war.”
    “They’ve come back to Europe,” Shamron said. “Europe is Office turf. This is your war.”
    “Why don’t you lead the team?”
    “I’m a mere adviser with no operational authority.” Shamron’s tone was heavy with irony.