by Daniel Silva
“Pathetic,” Chiara murmured.
“It was 1948,” Carter said. “Things were different by then. The Nuremberg process had run its course, and all sides had lost interest in further prosecutions. Nazi doctors had returned to practice. Nazi theoreticians were lecturing again in the universities. Nazi judges were back on the bench.”
“And a Nazi mass murderer named Erich Radek was now an important American agent who needed protection,” Gabriel said. “When did he return to Vienna?”
“In 1956, Konrad Adenauer made the Org the official West German intelligence service: the Bundes-nachrichtendienst, better known as the BND. Erich Radek, now known as Ludwig Vogel, was once again working for the German government. In 1965, he returned to Vienna to build a network and make certain the new Austrian government’s official neutrality remained tilted firmly toward NATO and the West. Vogel was a joint BND-CIA project. We worked together on his cover. We cleaned up the files in the Staatsarchiv. We created a company for him to run, Danube Valley Trade and Investment, and funneled enough business his way to make certain the firm was a success. Vogel was a shrewd businessman, and before long, profits from DVTI were funding all of our Austrian nets. In short, Vogel was our most important asset in Austria—and one of our most valuable in Europe. He was a master spy. When the Wall came down, his work was done. He was also getting on in years. We severed our relationship, thanked him for a job well done, and parted company.” Carter held up his hands. “And that, I’m afraid, is where the story ends.”
“But that’s not true, Adrian,” Gabriel said. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here.”
“You’re referring to the allegations made against Vogel by Max Klein?”
“You knew?”
“Vogel alerted us to the fact that we might have a situation in Vienna. He asked us to intercede and make the allegations go away. We informed him that we couldn’t do that.”
“So he took matters into his own hands.”
“You’re suggesting Vogel ordered the bombing at Wartime Claims and Inquiries?”
“I’m also suggesting he had Max Klein murdered in order to silence him.”
Carter took a moment before answering. “If Vogel is involved, he’s worked through so many cutouts and front men you’ll never be able to pin a charge on him. Besides, the bombing and Max Klein’s death are Austrian matters, not Israeli, and no Austrian prosecutor is going to open a murder investigation into Ludwig Vogel. It’s a dead end.”
“His name is Radek, Adrian, not Vogel, and the question is why. Why was Radek so concerned about Eli Lavon’s investigation that he would resort to murder? Even if Eli and Max Klein were able to prove conclusively that Vogel was really Erich Radek, he would have never been brought to trial by the Austrian state prosecutor. He’s too old. Too much time had elapsed. There were no witnesses left, none except Klein, and there’s no way Radek would have been convicted in Austria on the word of one old Jew. So why resort to violence?”
“It sounds to me as if you have a theory.”
Gabriel looked over his shoulder and murmured a few words in Hebrew to Shamron. Shamron handed Gabriel a file containing all the material he had gathered in the course of the investigation. Gabriel opened it and removed a single item: the photograph he had taken from Radek’s house in the Salzkammergut, Radek with a woman and a teen-aged boy. He laid it on the table and turned it so Carter could see. Carter’s eyes moved to the photo, then back to Gabriel.
“Who is she?” Gabriel asked.
“His wife, Monica.”
“When did he marry her?”
“During the war,” said Carter, “in Berlin.”
“There was never a mention of an SS-approved marriage in his file.”
“There were many things that didn’t make it into Radek’s SS file.”
“And after the war?”
“She settled in Pullach under her real name. The child was born in 1949. When Vogel moved back to Vienna, General Gehlen didn’t think it would be safe for Monica and the son to go with him openly—and neither did the Agency. A marriage was arranged for her to a man employed in Vogel’s net. She lived in Vienna, in the house behind Vogel’s. He visited them in the evening. Eventually, we constructed a passage between the houses, so that Monica and the boy could move freely between the two residences without fear of detection. We never knew who was watching. The Russians would have dearly loved to compromise him and turn him around.”
“What was the boy’s name?”
“Peter.”
“And the agent that Monica Radek married? Please tell us his name, Adrian.”
“I think you already know his name, Gabriel.” Carter hesitated, then said, “His name was Metzler.”
“Peter Metzler, the man who is about to be chancellor of Austria, is the son of a Nazi war criminal named Erich Radek, and Eli Lavon was going to expose that fact.”
“So it would seem.”
“That sounds like a motive for murder to me, Adrian.”
“Bravo, Gabriel,” Carter said. “But what can you do about it? Convince the Austrians to bring charges against Radek? Good luck. Expose Peter Metzler as Radek’s son? If you do that, you’ll also expose the fact that Radek was our man in Vienna. It will cause the Agency much public embarrassment at a time when it is locked in a global campaign against forces that wish to destroy my country and yours. It will also plunge relations between your service and mine into the deep freeze at a time when you desperately need our support.”
“That sounds like a threat to me, Adrian.”
“No, it’s just sound advice,” Carter said. “It’s Realpolitik. Drop it. Look the other way. Wait for him to die and forget it ever happened.”
“No,” Shamron said.
Carter’s gaze moved from Gabriel to Shamron. “Why did I know that was going to be your answer?”
“Because I’m Shamron, and I never forget.”
“Then I suppose we need to come up with some way to deal with this situation that doesn’t drag my service through the cesspool of history.” Carter looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. I’m hungry. Let’s eat, shall we?”
FOR THE NEXT hour, over a meal of roast duckling and wild rice in the candlelit dining room, Erich Radek’s name was not spoken. There was a ritual about affairs such as these, Shamron always said, a rhythm that could not be broken or rushed. There was a time for hard-nosed negotiation, a time to sit back and enjoy the company of a fellow traveler who, when all is said and done, usually has your best interests at heart.
And so, with only the gentlest prod from Carter, Shamron volunteered to serve as the evening’s entertainment. For a time, he played the role expected of him. He told stories of night crossings into hostile lands; of secrets stolen and enemies vanquished; of the fiascos and calamities that accompany any career, especially one as long and volatile as Shamron’s. Carter, spellbound, laid down his fork and warmed his hands against Shamron’s fire. Gabriel watched the encounter silently from his outpost at the end of the table. He knew that he was witnessing a recruitment—and a perfect recruitment, Shamron always said, is at its heart a perfect seduction. It begins with a bit of flirtation, a confession of feelings better left unspoken. Only when the ground has been thoroughly plowed does one plant the seed of betrayal.
Shamron, over the hot apple crisp and coffee, began to talk not about his exploits but about himself: his childhood in Poland; the sting of Poland’s violent anti-Semitism; the gathering storm clouds across the border in Nazi Germany. “In 1936, my mother and father decided that I would leave Poland for Palestine,” Shamron said. “They would remain behind, with my two older sisters, and wait to see if things got any better. Like so many others, they waited too long. In September 1939, we heard on the radio that the Germans had invaded. I knew I would never see my family again.”
Shamron sat silently for a moment. His hands, when he lit his cigarette, were trembling slightly. His crop had been sown. His demand, though never spoken, was clear. H
e was not leaving this house without Erich Radek in his pocket, and Adrian Carter was going to help him do it.
WHEN THEY RETURNED to the sitting room for the night session, a tape player stood on the coffee table in front of the couch. Carter, back in his chair next to the fire, loaded English tobacco into the bowl of a pipe. He struck a match and, with the stem between his teeth, nodded toward the tape machine and asked Gabriel to do the honors. Gabriel pressed the PLAY button. Two men began conversing in German, one with the accent of a Swiss from Zurich, the other a Viennese. Gabriel knew the voice of the man from Vienna. He had heard it a week earlier, in the Café Central. The voice belonged to Erich Radek.
“As of this morning, the total value of the account stands at two and a half billion dollars. Roughly one billion of that is cash, equally divided between dollars and euros. The rest of the money is invested—the usual fare, securities and bonds, along with a substantial amount of real estate….”
TEN MINUTES LATER, Gabriel reached down and pressed the STOP button. Carter emptied the contents of his pipe into the fireplace and slowly loaded another bowl.
“That conversation took place in Vienna last week,” Carter said. “The banker is a man named Konrad Becker. He’s from Zurich.”
“And the account?” Gabriel asked.
“After the war, thousands of fleeing Nazis went into hiding in Austria. They brought several hundred million dollars’ worth of looted Nazi assets with them: gold, cash, artwork, jewelry, household silver, rugs, and tapestries. The stuff was stashed all through the Alps. Many of those Nazis wanted to resurrect the Reich, and they wanted to use their looted assets to help accomplish that goal. A small cadre understood that Hitler’s crimes were so enormous that it would take at least a generation or more before National Socialism would be politically viable again. They decided to place a large sum of money in a Zurich bank and attach a rather unique set of instructions to the account. It could only be activated by a letter from the Austrian chancellor. You see, they believed that revolution had begun in Austria with Hitler and that Austria would be the fountain of its revival. Five men were initially entrusted with the account number and password. Four of them died. When the fifth took ill, he sought out someone to become the trustee.”
“Erich Radek.”
Carter nodded and paused a moment to ignite his pipe. “Radek is about to get his chancellor, but he’ll never see a drop of that money. We found out about the account a few years ago. Overlooking his past in 1945 was one thing, but we weren’t about to allow him to unlock an account filled with two and a half billion in Holocaust loot. We quietly moved against Herr Becker and his bank. Radek doesn’t know it yet, but he’s never going to see a penny of that money.”
Gabriel reached down, pressed REWIND, then STOP, then PLAY:
“Your comrades provided generously for those who assisted them in this endeavor. But I’m afraid there have been some unexpected…complications.”
“What sort of complications?”
“It seems that several of those who were to receive money have died recently under mysterious circumstances….”
STOP.
Gabriel looked up at Carter for an explanation.
“The men who created the account wanted to reward those individuals and institutions who had helped fleeing Nazis after the war. Radek thought this was sentimental horseshit. He wasn’t about to start a benevolent aid association. He couldn’t change the covenant, so he changed the circumstances on the ground.”
“Were Enrique Calderon and Gustavo Estrada supposed to receive money from the account?”
“I see you learned a great deal during your time with Alfonso Ramirez.” Carter gave a guilty smile. “We were following you in Buenos Aires.”
“Radek is a wealthy man who doesn’t have long to live,” Gabriel said. “The last thing he needs is money.”
“Apparently, he plans to give a large portion of the account to his son.”
“And the rest?”
“He’s going to turn it over to his most important agent to carry out the original intentions of the men who created the account.” Carter paused. “I believe you and he are acquainted. His name is Manfred Kruz.”
Carter’s pipe had gone dead. He stared into the bowl, frowned, and relit it.
“Which brings us back to our original problem.” Carter blew a puff of smoke toward Gabriel. “What do we do about Erich Radek? If you ask the Austrians to prosecute him, they’ll take their time about it and wait for him to die. If you kidnap an elderly Austrian from the streets of Vienna and cart him back to Israel for trial, the shit will rain down on you from on high. If you think you have trouble in the European Community now, your problems will be multiplied tenfold if you snatch him. And if he’s placed on trial, his defense will undoubtedly involve exposing our links to him. So what do we do, gentlemen?”
“Perhaps there’s a third way,” Gabriel said.
“What’s that?”
“Convince Radek to come to Israel voluntarily.”
Carter gazed at Gabriel skeptically over the bowl of his pipe.
“And how would you suppose we could convince a first-class shit like Erich Radek to do that?”
THEY TALKED THROUGH the night. It was Gabriel’s plan, and therefore his to outline and defend. Shamron added a few valuable suggestions. Carter, resistant at first, soon crossed over to Gabriel’s camp. The very audacity of the plan appealed to him. His own service would have probably shot an officer for putting forward so unorthodox an idea.
Every man had a weakness, Gabriel said. Radek, through his actions, had shown he possessed two: his lust for the money hidden in the Zurich account, and his desire to see his son become chancellor of Austria. Gabriel maintained that it was the second that had led Radek to move against Eli Lavon and Max Klein. Radek didn’t want his son tarred by the brush of his previous life, and he had proven that he would take almost any step to protect him. It involved swallowing a bitter pill—making a deal with a man who had no right to demand concessions—but it was morally just and produced the desired result: Erich Radek behind bars for crimes he committed against the Jewish people. Time was the critical factor. The election was less than three weeks away. Radek needed to be in Israeli hands before the first vote was cast in Austria. Otherwise their leverage over him would be lost.
As dawn drew near, Carter posed the question that had been gnawing at him from the moment the first report of Gabriel’s investigation crossed his desk: Why? Why was Gabriel, an Office assassin, so determined that Radek be brought to justice after so many years?
“I want to tell you a story, Adrian,” Gabriel said, his voice suddenly distant, as was his gaze. “Actually, maybe it would be better if she told you the story herself.”
He handed Carter a copy of his mother’s testimony. Carter, seated next to the dying fire, read it from beginning to end without uttering a word. When finally he looked up from the last page, his eyes were damp.
“I take it Irene Allon is your mother.”
“She was my mother. She died a long time ago.”
“How can you be sure the SS man in the woods was Radek?”
Gabriel told him about his mother’s paintings.
“So I take it you’ll be the one who’ll handle the negotiations with Radek. And if he refuses to cooperate? What then, Gabriel?”
“His choices will be limited, Adrian. One way or another, Erich Radek is never setting foot in Vienna again.”
Carter handed the testimony back to Gabriel. “It’s an excellent plan,” he said. “But will your prime minister go for it?”
“I’m certain there will be voices raised in opposition,” Shamron said.
“Lev?”
Shamron nodded. “My involvement will give him all the grounds he needs to veto it. But I believe Gabriel will be able to bring the prime minister around to our way of thinking.”
“Me? Who said I was going to brief the prime minister?”
“I did,” Shamro
n said. “Besides, if you can convince Carter to put Radek on a platter, surely you can convince the prime minister to partake in the feast. He’s a man of enormous appetites.”
Carter stood and stretched, then walked slowly toward the window, a doctor who has spent the entire night in surgery only to achieve a questionable outcome. He opened the drapes. Gray light filtered into the room.
“There’s one last item we need to discuss before leaving for Israel,” Shamron said.
Carter turned around, a silhouette against the glass. “The money?”
“What exactly were you planning to do with it?”
“We haven’t reached a final decision.”
“I have. Two and a half billion dollars is the price you pay for using a man like Erich Radek when you knew he was a murderer and a war criminal. It was stolen from Jews on the way to the gas chambers, and I want it back.”
Carter turned once more and looked out at the snow-covered pasture.
“You’re a two-bit blackmail artist, Ari Shamron.”
Shamron stood and pulled on his overcoat. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Adrian. If all goes according to plan in Jerusalem, we’ll meet again in Zurich in forty-eight hours.”
29
JERUSALEM
THE MEETING WAS called for ten o’clock that evening. Shamron, Gabriel, and Chiara, delayed by weather, arrived with two minutes to spare after a white-knuckle car ride from Ben-Gurion Airport, only to be told by an aide that the prime minister was running late. Evidently, there was yet another crisis in his brittle governing coalition, because the anteroom outside his office had taken on the air of a temporary shelter after a disaster. Gabriel counted no fewer than five cabinet officials, each surrounded by a retinue of acolytes and apparatchiks. They were all shouting at each other like quarreling relatives at a family wedding, and a fog bank of tobacco smoke hung on the air.
