Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  “Sounds to me as if you gentlemen are ready,” he said. “What are you waiting for? If I were you, I’d put it in motion be fore my hands-on director decides he wants to be part of the snatch team.”

  Gabriel agreed. He picked up the telephone and dialed Uzi Navot in Zurich.

  33

  VIENNA • MUNICH

  KLAUS HALDER KNOCKED softly on the door of the study. The voice on the other side granted permission for him to enter. He pushed open the door and saw the old man seated in the half-light, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen of the television: a Metzler rally that afternoon in Graz, adoring crowds, talk already turning to the composition of the Metzler cabinet. The old man killed the image by remote and turned his blue eyes on the bodyguard. Halder glanced toward the telephone. A green light was winking.

  “Who is it?”

  “Herr Becker, calling from Zurich.”

  The old man picked up the receiver. “Good evening, Konrad.”

  “Good evening, Herr Vogel. I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m afraid it couldn’t wait.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Oh, no, quite the contrary. Given the recent election news from Vienna, I’ve decided to quicken the pace of my preparations and proceed as though Peter Metzler’s victory is a fait accompli.”

  “A wise course of action, Konrad.”

  “I thought you’d agree. I have several documents that require your signature. I thought it would be best for us to start that process now rather than waiting until the last moment.”

  “What sort of documents?”

  “My lawyer will be able to explain them better than I can. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to come to Vienna for a meeting. It won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  “How does Friday sound?”

  “Friday would be fine, as long as it’s late afternoon. I have an appointment in the morning that can’t be moved.”

  “Shall we say four o’clock?”

  “Five would be better for me, Herr Vogel.”

  “All right, Friday at five o’clock.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  “Konrad?”

  “Yes, Herr Vogel.”

  “This lawyer—tell me his name, please.”

  “Oskar Lange, Herr Vogel. He’s a very talented man. I’ve used him many times in the past.”

  “I assume he’s a fellow who understands the meaning of the word ‘discretion’?”

  “Discreet doesn’t even begin to describe him. You’re in very capable hands.”

  “Goodbye, Konrad.”

  The old man hung up the phone and looked at Halder.

  “He’s bringing someone with him?”

  A slow nod.

  “He’s always come alone in the past. Why is he suddenly bringing along a helper?”

  “Herr Becker is about to receive one hundred million dollars, Klaus. If there’s one man in the world we can trust, it’s the gnome from Zurich.”

  The bodyguard moved toward the door.

  “Klaus?”

  “Yes, Herr Vogel?”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Call some of our friends in Zurich. See if anyone’s heard of a lawyer named Oskar Lange.”

  ONE HOUR LATER, a recording of Becker’s telephone call was sent by secure transmission from the offices of Becker & Puhl in Zurich to the safe flat in Munich. They listened to it once, then again, then a third time. Adrian Carter did not like what he heard.

  “You realize that as soon as Radek put down the phone, he made a second phone call to Zurich to check out Oskar Lange. I hope you’ve accounted for that.”

  Shamron seemed disappointed in Carter. “What do you think, Adrian? We’ve never done this sort of thing before? We’re children who need to be shown the way?”

  Carter put a match to his pipe and puffed smoke, awaiting his answer.

  “Have you ever heard of the term sayan?” Shamron said. “Or sayanim?”

  Carter nodded with the pipe between his teeth. “Your little volunteer helpers,” he said. “The hotel clerks who give you rooms without checking in. The rental car agents who give you cars that can’t be traced. The doctors who treat your agents when they have wounds that might raise difficult questions. The bankers who give you emergency loans.”

  Shamron nodded. “We’re a small intelligence service, twelve hundred full-time employees, that’s all. We couldn’t do what we do without the help of the sayanim. They’re one of the few benefits of the Diaspora, my private army of little volunteer helpers.”

  “And Oskar Lange?”

  “He’s a Zurich tax and estate lawyer. He also happens to be Jewish. It’s something that he doesn’t advertise in Zurich. A few years ago, I took Oskar to dinner in a quiet little restaurant on the lake and added him to my list of helpers. Last week, I asked him for a favor. I wanted to borrow his passport and his office, and I wanted him to disappear for a couple of weeks. When I told him why, he was all too willing to help. In fact, he wanted to go to Vienna himself and help capture Radek.”

  “I hope he’s in a secure location.”

  “You might say so, Adrian. He’s in a safe flat in Jerusalem at the moment.”

  Shamron reached down toward the tape player, pressed REWIND, STOP, then PLAY:

  “How does Friday sound?”

  “Friday would be fine, as long as it’s late afternoon. I have an appointment in the morning that can’t be moved.”

  “Shall we say four o’clock?”

  “Five would be better for me, Herr Vogel.”

  “All right, Friday at five o’clock.”

  STOP.

  MOSHE RIVLIN LEFT the safe flat the following morning and returned to Israel on an El Al flight, with an Office minder in the seat next to him. Gabriel remained until seven o’clock Thursday evening, when a Volkswagen van with two pairs of skis mounted to the roof pulled up outside the flat and honked its horn twice. He slipped his Beretta into the waist of his trousers. Carter wished him luck; Shamron kissed his cheek and sent him down.

  Shamron opened the curtains and peered into the darkened street. Gabriel emerged from the passageway and went to the driver’s side window. After a moment of discussion, the door opened and Chiara emerged. She walked around the front of the van and was briefly illuminated by the glow of the headlights before climbing into the passenger seat.

  The van eased away from the curb. Shamron followed its progress until the crimson taillights disappeared around a corner. He did not move. The waiting. Always the waiting. His lighter flared, a cloud of smoke gathered against the glass.

  34

  ZURICH

  KONRAD BECKER AND Uzi Navot emerged from the offices of Becker & Puhl at precisely four minutes past one o’clock on Friday afternoon. An Office watcher called Zalman, posted on the opposite side of the Talstrasse in a gray Fiat sedan, recorded the time as well as the weather, a drenching downpour, then flashed the news to Shamron in the Munich safe flat. Becker was dressed for a funeral, in a gray pinstripe suit and charcoal-colored tie. Navot, mimicking Oskar Lange’s stylish attire, wore an Armani blazer with matching electric blue shirt and tie. Becker had ordered a taxi to take him to the airport. Shamron would have preferred a private car, with an Office driver, but Becker always traveled to the airport by taxi and Gabriel wanted his routine left undisturbed. So it was an ordinary city taxi, driven by a Turkish immigrant, that bore them out of central Zurich and across a fogbound river valley to Kloten Airport, with Gabriel’s watcher in tow.

  They were soon confronted with the first glitch. A cold front had moved over Zurich, turning the rain to sleet and ice and forcing Kloten Airport authorities to briefly suspend operations. Swiss International Airlines Flight 1578, bound for Vienna, boarded on time, then sat motionless on the tarmac. Shamron and Adrian Carter, monitoring the situation on the computers in the Munich safe flat, debated their next move. Should they instruct Becker to call Radek and warn him about the delay? What if Radek had other plans and dec
ided to cancel the meeting and reschedule it for another time? The teams and vehicles were at final staging positions. A temporary stand-down would jeopardize operational security. Wait, counseled Shamron, and wait is what they did.

  By 2:30, weather conditions had improved. Kloten reopened and Flight 1578 took its place in the queue at the end of the runway. Shamron made the calculations. The flight to Vienna took less than ninety minutes. If they got off the ground soon, they could still make it to Vienna in time.

  At 2:45, the plane was airborne, and disaster was averted. Shamron flashed the reception team at Schwechat Airport in Vienna that their package was on its way.

  The storm over the Alps made the flight to Vienna a good deal more turbulent than Becker would have preferred. To settle his nerves he consumed three miniature bottles of Stolichnaya and visited the toilet twice, all of which was recorded by Zalman, who was seated three rows behind. Navot, a picture of concentration and serenity, stared out the window at the sea of black cloud, his sparkling water untouched.

  They touched down at Schwechat a few minutes after four o’clock in a dirty gray twilight. Zalman shadowed them through the terminal toward passport control. Becker made one more visit to the toilet. Navot, with an almost imperceptible movement of his eyes, commanded Zalman to go with him. After availing himself of the facilities, the banker spent three minutes primping in front of the mirror—an inordinate amount of time, thought Zalman, for a man with virtually no hair. The watcher considered giving Becker a kick in the ankle to move him along, then decided to let him have the reins instead. He was, after all, an amateur acting under duress.

  After clearing passport control, Becker and Navot made their way into the arrivals hall. There, standing amid the crowds, was a tall, reedy surveillance specialist called Mordecai. He wore a drab black suit and held a cardboard sign that read BAUER. His car, a large black Mercedes sedan, was waiting in short-term parking. Two spaces away was a silver Audi hatchback. The keys were in Zalman’s pocket.

  Zalman gave them wide berth during the drive into Vienna. He dialed the Munich safe flat, and with a few carefully chosen words let Shamron know that Navot and Becker were on time and proceeding toward the target. By 4:45, Mordecai had reached the Danube Canal. By 4:50, he had crossed the line into the First District and was making his way through the rush-hour traffic along the Ringstrasse. He turned right, into a narrow cobblestone street, then made the first left. A moment later, he drew to a stop in front of Erich Radek’s ornate iron gate. Zalman slipped past on the left and kept driving.

  “FLASH THE LIGHTS,” Becker said, “and the bodyguard will admit you.”

  Mordecai did as he was told. The gate remained motionless for several tense seconds; then there was a sharp metallic clank, followed by the grind of a motor engaging. As the gate swung slowly open, Radek’s bodyguard appeared at the front door, the intense light of a chandelier blazing around his head and shoulders like a halo. Mordecai waited until the gate was fully open before easing forward into the small horseshoe drive.

  Navot climbed out first, then Becker. The banker shook the bodyguard’s hand and introduced “my associate from Zurich, Herr Oskar Lange.” The bodyguard nodded and gestured for them to come inside. The front door closed.

  Mordecai looked at his watch: 4:58. He picked up his cell phone and dialed a Vienna number.

  “I’m going to be late for dinner,” he said.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

  A FEW SECONDS LATER, in Munich, the signal flashed across Shamron’s computer screen. Shamron looked at his watch.

  “How long are you going to give them?” Carter asked.

  “Five minutes,” Shamron said, “and not a second more.”

  THE BLACK AUDI sedan with a tall antenna mounted to the trunk was parked a few streets over. Zalman pulled in behind it, then climbed out and walked to the passenger door. Oded was seated behind the wheel, a compact man with soft brown eyes and a pugilist’s flattened nose. Zalman, settling in next to him, could smell tension on his breath. Zalman had had the advantage of activity that afternoon; Oded had been trapped in the Vienna safe flat with nothing to do but daydream about the consequences of failure. A cell phone lay on the seat, the connection already open to Munich. Zalman could hear Shamron’s steady breathing. A picture formed in his mind—a younger version of Shamron marching through a drenching Argentine rain, Eichmann stepping off a city bus and walking toward him from the opposite direction. Oded started the car engine. Zalman was hauled back to the present. He glanced at the dashboard clock: 5:03…

  THE E461, BETTER known to Austrians as the Brünnerstrasse, is a two-lane road that runs north from Vienna through the rolling hills of the Weinviertel, Austria’s wine country. It is fifty miles to the Czech border. There is a crossing, sheltered by a high arching canopy, usually manned by two guards who are reluctant to leave the comfort of their aluminum and glass hut to carry out even the most cursory inspection of outgoing vehicles. On the Czech side of the crossing, the examination of travel documents typically takes a bit longer, though traffic from Austria is generally welcomed with open arms.

  One mile across the border, anchored to the hills of South Moravia, stands the ancient town of Mikulov. It is a border town, with a border town’s siege mentality. It suited Gabriel’s mood. He stood behind the brick parapet of a medieval castle, high above the red-tile roofs of the old city, beneath a pair of wind-bent pine. The cold rain beaded like tears on the surface of his oilskin coat. His gaze was down the hillside, toward the border. In the blackness, only the lights of the traffic along the highway were visible, white lights rising toward him, red lights receding toward the Austrian border.

  He looked at his watch. They would be inside Radek’s villa now. Gabriel could picture briefcases opening, coffee and drinks being poured. And then another image appeared, a line of women dressed in gray, making their way along a snowy road drenched in blood. His mother, shedding tears of ice.

  “What will you tell your child about the war, Jew?”

  “The truth, Herr Sturmbannführer. I’ll tell my child the truth.”

  “No one will believe you.”

  She had not told him the truth, of course. Instead, she had set the truth to paper and locked it away in the file rooms of Yad Vashem. Perhaps Yad Vashem was the best place for it. Perhaps there are some truths so appalling they are better left confined to an archive of horrors, quarantined from the uninfected. She had been unable to tell him she was Radek’s victim, just as Gabriel could never tell her he was Shamron’s executioner. She always knew, though. She knew the face of death, and she had seen death in Gabriel’s eyes.

  The telephone in his coat pocket vibrated silently against his hip. He brought it slowly to his ear and heard the voice of Shamron. He dropped the telephone into his pocket and stood for a moment, watching the headlights floating toward him across the black Austrian plain.

  “What will you say to him when you see him?” Chiara had asked.

  The truth, Gabriel thought now. I’ll tell him the truth.

  He started walking, down the narrow stone streets of the ancient town, into the darkness.

  35

  VIENNA

  UZI NAVOT KNEW a thing or two about body searches. Klaus Halder was very good at his job. He started with Navot’s shirt collar and ended with the cuffs of his Armani trousers. Next he turned his attention to the attaché case. He worked slowly, like a man with all the time in the world, and with a monkish attention to detail. When the search was finally over, he straightened the contents carefully and snapped the latches back into place. “Herr Vogel will see you now,” he said. “Follow me, please.”

  They walked the length of the central corridor, then passed through a pair of double doors and entered a drawing room. Erich Radek, in a herringbone jacket and rust-colored tie, was seated near the fireplace. He acknowledged his guests with a single nod of his narrow head but made no attempt
to rise. Radek, Navot gathered, was a man used to receiving visitors seated.

  The bodyguard slipped quietly from the room and closed the doors behind him. Becker, smiling, stepped forward and shook Radek’s hand. Navot did not wish to touch the murderer, but given the circumstances he had no choice. The proffered hand was cool and dry, the grip firm and without a tremor. It was a testing handshake. Navot sensed that he had passed.

  Radek flicked his fingers toward the empty chairs, then his hand returned to the drink resting on the arm of his chair. He began twisting it back and forth, two twists to the right, two to the left. Something about the movement made acid pour into Navot’s stomach.

  “I hear very good things about your work, Herr Lange,” Radek said suddenly. “You have a fine reputation among your colleagues in Zurich.”

  “All lies, I assure you, Herr Vogel.”

  “You’re too modest.” He twisted his drink. “You did some work for a friend of mine a few years back, a gentleman named Helmut Schneider.”

  And you’re trying to lead me into a trap, thought Navot. He had prepared himself for a ploy like this. The real Oskar Lange had provided a list of his clients for the last ten years for Navot to memorize. The name Helmut Schneider had not appeared on it.

  “I’ve handled a good many clients over the last few years, but I’m afraid the name Schneider was not among them. Perhaps your friend has me confused with someone else.”

  Navot looked down, opened the latches of his attaché case, and lifted the lid. When he looked up again, Radek’s blue eyes were boring into his, and his drink was rotating on the arm of the chair. There was a frightening stillness about his eyes. It was like being studied by a portrait.