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Wrong Ari Shamron?

Ari Shamron


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Background Information

Employment History


Israeli army

Web References(14 Total References)

Daniel Silva - Official Website

www.danielsilvabooks.com [cached]

Ari Shamron, the legendary Israeli master spy, would find this almost laughable, though Shamron often disagreed with Lev simply as a matter of sport.Ari Shamron, the twice former director-general of the Israeli secret service, now special adviser to the prime minister on all matters dealing with security and intelligence, took the call in his study.He listened in silence for a moment, his eyes closed tightly in anger."I'm on my way," he said, and hung up the phone. Turning around, he saw Gilah standing in the doorway of the study.She was holding his leather bomber jacket in her hand, and her eyes were damp with tears. Shamron had been awakened by the first crack of thunder, which he had mistaken for a gunshot, and had lain awake for the rest of the night.For Shamron, sleep was like contraband.It came to him rarely and, once interrupted, never twice in the same night.Usually he found himself wandering the secure file rooms of his memory, reliving old cases, walking old battlefields and confronting enemies vanquished long ago.Last night had been different.He'd had a premonition of imminent disaster, an image so clear that he'd actually placed a call to the night desk of his old service to see if anything had happened."Go back to sleep, Boss," the youthful duty officer had said."Everything's fine." His black Peugeot, armored and bulletproof, waited at the top of the drive.Rami, the dark-haired head of his security detachment, stood next to the open rear door.Shamron had made many enemies over the years, and because of the tangled demographics of Israel, many lived uncomfortably close to Tiberias.Rami, quiet as a lone wolf and far more lethal, rarely left his master's side. Shamron paused for a moment to light a cigarette, a vile Turkish brand he'd been smoking since the Mandate days, then stepped off the veranda.He was short of stature, yet even in old age, powerful in build.His hands were leathery and liver-spotted and seemed to have been borrowed from a man twice his size.His face, full of cracks and fissures, looked like an aerial view of the Negev Desert.His remaining fringe of steel-gray hair was cropped so short as to be nearly invisible.Infamously hard on his eyeglasses, he had resigned himself to ugly frames of indestructible plastic.The thick lenses magnified blue eyes that were no longer clear.He walked as though anticipating an assault from behind, with his head down and his elbows out defensively.Within the corridors of King Saul Boulevard, the headquarters of his old service, the walk was known as "the Shamron shuffle."He knew of the epithet and he approved. He ducked into the backseat of the Peugeot.But it had occurred in Italy, not Israel, and Shamron was at the mercy of the Italian police.It had been a long time since the Italians had dealt with a major act of terrorism.What's more, Israel's link to the Italian government-its embassy-was in ruins.So, too, Shamron suspected, was a very important station of the Israeli secret service.Rome was the regional headquarters for southern Europe.It was led by a katsa named Shimon Pazner, a man whom Shamron had personally recruited and trained.Three times, Shamron anxiously reached for his secure cellular phone and three times he snapped it back into its cradle without dialing a number.Leave them to it, he thought.Shamron, master manipulator and puppeteer, had learned that he could exercise nearly as much power from the prime minister's office as he could from the executive suite of King Saul Boulevard.Experience had taught him to be patient.Eventually it would end up in his lap.It always seemed to. They began the ascent toward Jerusalem.Shamron could not make this remarkable drive without thinking of old battles.The premonition came to him again.Was it Rome he had seen the night before or something else?Something bigger than even Rome?An old enemy, he was sure of it.A dead man, risen from his past. THE OFFICE OF the Israeli prime minister is located at 3 Kaplan Street, in the Kiryat Ben-Gurion section of West Jerusalem.Shamron entered the building through the underground parking garage, then went up to his office.Shamron, by charter and reputation, had a permanent seat at the table. Shamron sat down at his desk and, remote in hand, spent the next five minutes scanning the world's television media for as many overt details as he could.Then he picked up the telephone and made three calls, one to an old contact at the Italian Embassy named Tommaso Naldi; the second to the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs, located a short distance away on Yitzhak Rabin Boulevard; and the third to Office headquarters on King Saul Boulevard. "He can't talk to you now," said Lev's secretary.Shamron had anticipated her reaction.It was easier to get through an army checkpoint than Lev's secretary. "Put him on the phone," Shamron said, "or the next call will be from the prime minister." Lev kept Shamron waiting five minutes. Shamron asked. "The truth?Nothing." "I'll see you at five o'clock," Shamron said to Lev, and rang off. Shamron slipped past and went inside. The shades were drawn, the room cool and in semidarkness.Shamron had been in this room many times, yet it never failed to quicken his pulse.For Shamron this chamber represented the end of a remarkable journey, the reconstitution of Jewish sovereignty in the Land of Israel.Birth and death, war and Holocaust-Shamron, like the prime minister, had played a leading role in the entire epic.Privately, they regarded it as their State, their creation, and they guarded it jealously against all those-Arab, Jewish, or Gentile-who sought to weaken or destroy it. The prime minister, without a word, nodded for Shamron to sit.Small at the head and very wide at the waist, he looked rather like a formation of volcanic rock.His stubby hands lay folded on the desktop; his heavy jowls hung over his shirt collar. "How bad, Ari?" "By the end of the day, we'll have a clearer picture," Shamron said.Shamron nodded."And their deputies." Shamron repeated what he'd just learned from Lev."Hard to say," Shamron said."You know about loss, Ari.Ari Shamron would later boast that the Office computer geniuses cracked the code in the span of an average Italian coffee break.Shamron, of course, was at his master's side. Shamron shook his head."He's mine.I'll bring him home."He paused.Shamron looked up and saw that the prime minister's eyes were on him. "He'll have to stay here until this blows over," the prime minister said. "Yes, he will," agreed Shamron. "Perhaps we should find something for him to do to help pass the time." Shamron nodded once, and it was done.

ReadersRead.com -- The Messenger Excerpt

www.readersread.com [cached]

Ari Shamron, the twice former chief of the Israeli secret service, now special adviser to the prime minister on all matters dealing with security and intelligence, emerged from the backseat.
Rami, the black-eyed chief of his personal security detail, moved silently at his heels. Shamron had made countless enemies during his long and turbulent career, and because of Israel's tangled demographics, many were uncomfortably close. Shamron, even when he was inside his fortresslike villa in Tiberias, was surrounded always by bodyguards. He paused for a moment on the garden walkway and looked up. It was a dowdy little building of Jerusalem limestone, three floors in height, with a large eucalyptus tree in front that cast a pleasant shadow over the front balconies. The limbs of the tree were swaying in the first cool wind of autumn, and from the open window on the third floor came the sharp odor of paint thinner. Shamron, as he entered the foyer, glanced at the mailbox for apartment number three and saw it was absent a nameplate. He mounted the stairs and tramped slowly upward. He was short of stature and was dressed, as usual, in khaki trousers and a scuffed leather jacket with a tear in the right breast. His face was full of cracks and fissures, and his remaining fringe of gray hair was cropped so short as to be nearly invisible. His hands were leathery and liver-spotted and seemed to have been borrowed from a man twice his size. In one was the file. The door was ajar when he arrived on the third-floor landing. He placed his fingers against it and gently pushed. The flat he entered had once been meticulously decorated by a beautiful Italian-Jewish woman of impeccable taste. Now the furniture, like the beautiful Italian woman, was gone, and the flat had been turned into an artist's studio. Not an artist, Shamron had to remind himself. Shamron settled himself quietly on a paint-smudged stool and watched him work for a few moments. He had always been mystified by Gabriel's ability to imitate the brushstrokes of the Old Masters. To Shamron it was something of a parlor trick, just another of Gabriel's gifts to be utilized, like his languages or his ability to get a Beretta off his hip and into firing position in the time it takes most men to clap their hands. "It certainly looks better than when it first arrived," Shamron said, "but I still don't know why anyone would want to hang it his home." Shamron asked abruptly, as though inquiring about the perpetrator of a bombing. "We need to talk," Shamron said. Shamron had been the intelligence officer chosen by Golda Meir to hunt down and assassinate the perpetrators of the 1972 Munich Massacre, and a promising young art student named Gabriel Allon had been his primary gunman. Shamron sat down at the small table and waited for Gabriel to turn his back before hurriedly lighting one of his foul-smelling Turkish cigarettes. Gabriel, hearing the familiar click-click of Shamron's old Zippo lighter, pointed toward the Rubens in exasperation, but Shamron made a dismissive gesture and defiantly raised the cigarette to his lips. Shamron was content to listen to the wind moving in the eucalyptus trees outside in the garden. Devoutly secular, he marked the passage of time not by the Jewish festivals but by the rhythms of the land-the day the rains came, the day the wildflowers exploded in the Galilee, the day the cool winds returned. Shamron's gaze still was focused on the tangled little garden. "He's a patient man, but he won't wait forever." "I told you that I'd give him an answer when I was finished with the painting." Shamron looked at Gabriel. Shamron scooped sugar into his and gave it a single violent stir. Shamron squeezed the life out of his cigarette butt. "You should accept the prime minister's offer before he makes it to someone else." "Nothing would make me happier." "Really? And what will you do with yourself? Greeted by silence, Shamron pressed on. Shamron's pause was theatrical in nature, for he knew the answer was no. "You can't go back to Europe until you're officially cleared in the bombing of the Gare de Lyon. Shamron lapsed into a momentary silence and listened to the wind. "Of course," Shamron said. "Boldness," countered Shamron. "Audacity. I just wish Amos would think a little less like a battlefield commander and a little more like . . ." His voice trailed off while he searched for the right word. When he found it, he rubbed his first two fingers against his thumb and said, "Like an artist. Shamron started to light another cigarette, but this time Gabriel managed to stay his hand before he'd struck his lighter. Shamron looked at him, his eyes suddenly serious. Shamron looked down at his captured hand. Shamron rolled the unlit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Shamron nodded in agreement. 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. "Simple," Shamron said. "Catch him in the act. Compromise him. Threaten him. Turn him around. "Fortunately we didn't come away completely empty-handed," Shamron said. Shamron placed the file folder in front of Gabriel and, with a terse nod of his head, instructed Gabriel to open the cover. "Technical found something else on Massoudi's computer," Shamron said. "Saudi Arabia," said Shamron. "To be more specific, the interior minister of Saudi Arabia, Prince Nabil." Inside the Office, Nabil was routinely referred to as the Prince of Darkness for his hatred of Israel and the United States and his support of Islamic militancy around the globe. "Nabil created the committee at the height of the second intifada," Shamron continued. Shamron peered into his coffee for a moment. "Charity," he said, his tone disdainful. "And a noble quality," Shamron said, "accept when the zakat ends up in the hands of murderers." "Consider it your first assignment as chief of Special Ops," Shamron said. Shamron shrugged. "You were lured into it by a clever opponent. Besides, I've always believed that a career free of controversy is not a proper career at all. The prime minister shares that view." "Maybe that's because he's been involved in a few scandals of his own."Italian soil-" "There's no need for you to go to Rome," Shamron said, cutting him off. "Rome is coming to you." "Enough for him to ask Alitalia if he could borrow a plane for a few hours," Shamron said. Shamron shrugged.

FM Coupon: Books: The Messenger

www.fmcoupon.com [cached]

In Daniel Silva's "The Messenger," Ari Shamron, special advisor to the Israeli prime minister on security and intelligence, once again lures art restorer (and master spy) Gabriel Allon out of retirement.

Fu Kung.net: Kung Fu Books: The Messenger

www.fukung.net [cached]

In Daniel Silva's "The Messenger," Ari Shamron, special advisor to the Israeli prime minister on security and intelligence, once again lures art restorer (and master spy) Gabriel Allon out of retirement.

Prince of Fire, A Death in Vienna by Daniel Silva - reviews

www.mostlyfiction.com [cached]

Believing the Rome bombing to be connected to the bombings of a Jewish Community Center in Buenos Aires in 1994 and the bombing of Istanbul's main synagogue in 2003, Allon and his mentor, Ari Shamron, an advisor to the prime minister of Israel, soon focus on three generations of a single family.Following the war, and Sheikh Asad's continued attacks on the newly established country of Israel, a then-young Ari Shamron was assigned to assassinate him by Israeli security's deputy commander Yitzhak Rabin.A protégé of Ari Shamron, the man who apprehended Adolf Eichmann and who is regarded in Israel as "the [security] service made flesh," Allon investigated Nazi art looting and the involvement of Swiss banks, in Silva's The English Assassin, and the role of the Vatican and Pope Pius XII in The Confessor.Having lost his son in a retaliatory bombing which has left his wife institutionalized and mute for the past thirteen years, Allon is suddenly summoned by Shamron to investigate the bombing in Vienna of the Office of Wartime Claims and Inquiries, which has killed two young women and left a long-time member of the secret service, Eli Lavon, comatose.

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