by Daniel Silva
The first contact was made on the morning of October the fifteenth—a telephone call, placed by Bloch from his hotel room to the headquarters of Global Vision Investments, requesting an interview with its chairman. The request was denied, and it was made clear to Bloch that further inquiries were not welcome. Bloch recklessly responded with an ultimatum. Unless he was granted an interview, he would take his material to Washington and show it to the relevant congressional committees and government agencies.
That seemed to get the attention of the person at the other end of the line, and an appointment was scheduled for two days later. Rafi Bloch would never keep that appointment—or any other, for that matter. A climber found his corpse the following spring in the French Alps, headless, handless, frozen solid. Martin Landesmann’s name never even came up in the investigation.
36
BUENOS AIRES
The electricity failed with the first flash of lightning. They gathered in the semidarkness of the living room and leafed through the files of Rafael Bloch while the entire building shook with thunder.
“Behind every fortune lies a great crime,” said Ramirez.
“Honoré de Balzac,” said Chiara.
Ramirez gave her an admiring nod. “The old boy could have been referring to Walter and Martin Landesmann when he wrote those words. Upon his death, Walter Landesmann bequeathed to his son a small private bank in Zurich—a bank with a great deal of blood money on its balance sheets—and Martin turned it into an empire.” Ramirez looked at Gabriel. “How much do you know about him?”
“Landesmann?” Gabriel shrugged. “He’s one of the world’s richest men but likes to play the role of reluctant billionaire.” Gabriel furrowed his brow in mock concentration. “Remind me of the name of that foundation of his.”
“One World,” said Ramirez.
“Ah, yes, how could I forget?” Gabriel asked sardonically. “Landesmann’s devoted followers regard him as something of a prophet. He preaches debt relief, corporate responsibility, and renewable energy. He’s also engaged in a number of development projects in Gaza that have caused him to form rather close ties to Hamas. But I doubt that would upset his friends in Hollywood, the media, or leftist political circles. As far as they’re concerned, Martin Landesmann never puts a foot wrong. He’s pure of heart and noble of intent. He’s a saint.” Gabriel paused. “Have I left anything out?”
“Just one thing. It’s all a lie. Well, not all of it. Saint Martin does have many friends and admirers among the smart set. But I doubt even the sheep in Hollywood would stand by him if they ever discovered the true source of his enormous wealth and power. As for his charitable activities, they’re funded by capitalism at its most base and ruthless. Saint Martin pollutes, drills, mines, and exploits with the best of them.”
“Money makes the world go round, Alfonso.”
“No, my friend. As the good book says, ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil.’ And the fount of Saint Martin’s wealth is an unspeakable evil. That’s why Martin disposed of his father’s bank within a year of the old man’s death. And why he moved from Zurich to the shores of Lake Geneva. He wanted to flee the scene of the crime and shed his Alemannic roots. Do you know he refuses to even speak German in public anymore? Only English and French.”
“Why didn’t you ever pursue the story?”
“I considered it.”
“But?”
“There were things Rafi knew that he didn’t put into his files—things I was never able to duplicate on my own. In short, I didn’t have the goods. Saint Martin has very deep pockets, and he’s a litigious son of a bitch. To properly investigate him would require the resources of a powerful law enforcement agency.” Ramirez gave Gabriel a knowing smile. “Or perhaps an intelligence service.”
“Any chance you can let me have those cables?”
“No problem,” Ramirez said. “I might even allow you to borrow Rafi’s files. But those are going to cost you.”
“Name your price.”
“I want to know the rest of the story.”
“Get a pen.”
“Mind if I record it, for accuracy’s sake?”
“Surely you jest, Alfonso.”
“Sorry,” Ramirez said. “I almost forgot who I was talking to.”
IT WAS APPROACHING three p.m. when they finished, leaving Gabriel and Chiara just enough time to make the evening KLM flight back to Amsterdam. Ramirez offered to drive them to the airport, but Gabriel insisted on taking a taxi. They bade farewell to Ramirez at the door of his apartment and headed quickly down the spiral staircase, the cables and Rafi Bloch’s files tucked safely inside Gabriel’s shoulder bag.
The events of the next few seconds would play incessantly in Gabriel’s mind for months to come. Unfortunately, they were images he had seen too many times before—images of a world he thought he had finally left behind. Another man might have missed the warning signs—the large suitcase in the corner of the lobby that had not been there earlier, the muscular figure with blond hair and sunglasses stepping rather too quickly into the street, the car waiting curbside with its back door ajar—but Gabriel noticed them all. And without a word he wrapped his arm around Chiara’s waist and swept her through the doorway.
Neither he nor Chiara would ever be able to recall the actual sound of the explosion, only the searing wave of air and the helpless sensation of being hurled into the street like toys thrown by a petulant child. They came to rest side by side, Gabriel facedown with his hands flung over his head, Chiara on her back with her eyes tightly closed in pain. Gabriel managed to shield her from the hailstorm of masonry and shattered glass that rained down upon them but not from the sight of Alfonso Ramirez. He was lying in the center of the street, his clothing blackened by fire. Fluttering all around them were thousands of pieces of paper, the priceless files of Ramirez’s archives. Gabriel crawled to Ramirez’s side and felt his neck for a pulse. Then he rose and returned to Chiara.
“Are you all right?”
“I think so.”
“Can you stand up?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You have to try.”
“Help me.”
Gabriel pulled Chiara gently to her feet, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. Chiara’s first steps were unsteady, but by the time the sirens began to sound in the distance she was moving along the devastated street at a brisk pace. Gabriel led her around a corner, then pulled out his mobile phone and dialed a number from memory. A female voice answered calmly in Hebrew; in the same language, Gabriel recited a code phrase followed by a series of numbers. After a few seconds, the female voice asked, “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“I need an extraction.”
“How soon?”
“Immediately.”
“Are you alone?”
“No.”
“How many in your party?”
“Two.”
“What is your present location?”
“Avenida Caseros, San Telmo, Buenos Aires…”
37
BEN GURION AIRPORT, ISRAEL
There is a room at Ben Gurion Airport known to only a handful of people. It is located to the left of passport control, behind an unmarked door kept locked at all times. Its walls are faux Jerusalem limestone; its furnishings are typical airport fare: black vinyl couches and chairs, modular end tables, cheap modern lamps that cast an unforgiving light. There are two windows, one looking onto the tarmac, the other onto the arrivals hall. Both are fashioned of high-quality one-way glass. Reserved for Office personnel, it is the first stop for operatives returning from secret battlefields abroad, thus the permanent odor of stale cigarettes, burnt coffee, and male tension. The cleaning staff has tried every product imaginable to expel it, but the smell remains. Like Israel’s enemies, it cannot be defeated by conventional means.
Gabriel had entered this room, or versions of it, many times before. He had entered it in triumph and staggered into it in f
ailure. He had been fêted in this room, consoled in it, and once he had been wheeled into it with a bullet wound in his chest. Usually it was Ari Shamron who was waiting to receive him. Now, as Gabriel slipped through the door with Chiara at his side, he was greeted by the sight of Uzi Navot. He had shed at least thirty pounds since Gabriel had seen him last and was wearing a new pair of stylish spectacles that made him look like the editor of a trendy magazine. The stainless steel chronometer he had always worn to emulate Shamron was gone, replaced by a tank-style watch that went well with his tailored navy blue suit and white open-collared dress shirt. The metamorphosis was complete, thought Gabriel. Any trace of the hard-bitten field operative had been carefully erased. Uzi Navot was now a headquarters man, a spy in the prime of life.
Navot stared at them wordlessly for a moment, a look of genuine relief on his face. Then, satisfied that Gabriel and Chiara had suffered no serious injuries, his expression darkened.
“This is a special occasion,” he said finally. “My first personnel crisis as chief. I suppose it’s only fitting that you’re involved. Then again, it was rather mild by your exalted standards—just an apartment building in ruins and eight people dead, including one of Argentina’s most prominent journalists and social critics.”
“Chiara and I are fine, Uzi, but thank you for asking.”
Navot made a placatory gesture, as if to say he wanted the tone of the conversation to remain civil.
“I realize your status is somewhat vague at the moment, Gabriel, but there is no ambiguity over the rules governing your movements. Because your passports and identities are still managed by the Office, you’re supposed to tell me when you travel.” Navot paused. “You do recall making that promise, don’t you, Gabriel?”
With a nod, Gabriel conceded the point.
“When were you planning to tell me about your little adventure?”
“It was a private matter.”
“Private? There’s no such thing where you’re concerned.” Navot frowned. “And what the hell were you doing in Alfonso Ramirez’s apartment?”
“We were looking for a portrait by Rembrandt,” Gabriel said. “And a great deal of money.”
“And I thought it was going to be something dull.” Navot sighed heavily. “I assume that you were the target of that bomb, and not Alfonso Ramirez?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Any suspects?”
“Just one.”
THEY CLIMBED into the back of Navot’s armored limousine, with Chiara between them like a separation fence, and headed up Highway 1 toward Jerusalem. Navot appeared intrigued by Gabriel’s account at first, but by the time the briefing was concluded his arms were folded defensively across his chest and his face was fixed in an expression of transparent disapproval. Navot was like that. A veteran field agent trained to conceal his emotions, he had never been good at hiding the fact he was annoyed.
“It’s a fascinating story. But if the point of your little excursion was to find your friend Julian Isherwood’s painting, you don’t seem much closer. And it appears you’ve tread on some serious toes. You and Chiara are lucky to be alive right now. Take the hint. Drop the case down a very deep hole and forget about it. Julian will survive. Go back to your cottage by the sea in Cornwall. Live your life.” Navot paused, then asked, “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
Gabriel left the question unanswered. “This may have started out as a search for a stolen painting, Uzi, but it’s become much more. If everything we’ve learned is correct, Martin Landesmann is sitting on a mountain of stolen money. He and his father have killed several people to protect that secret, and someone just tried to kill us in Buenos Aires. But I can’t prove it on my own. I need—”
“The resources of the Office?” Navot stared incredulously. “Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, but at the moment the State of Israel is confronting more serious threats. Our friends in Iran are on the verge of becoming a nuclear power. In Lebanon, Hezbollah is arming for an all-out war. And, in case the news hasn’t reached Cornwall, we’re not exactly popular in the world right now. It’s not that I don’t take what you’ve discovered seriously, Gabriel. It’s just we have other things to worry about.”
Chiara interjected for the first time. “You might feel otherwise if you met Lena Herzfeld.”
Navot raised a hand in his own defense. “Listen, Chiara, in a perfect world we would go after all the Martin Landesmanns out there. But it’s not a perfect world. If it was, the Office could close its doors, and we could all spend the rest of our days thinking pure thoughts.”
“So what should we do?” Gabriel asked. “Wash our hands of it?”
“Let Eli handle it. Or give it to the bloodhounds at the Holocaust restitution agencies.”
“Landesmann and his lawyers will swat them away like flies.”
“Better them than you. Given your history, you’re not exactly the best candidate to take on a man like Landesmann. He has friends in high places.”
“So do I.”
“And they’ll disown you if you try to bring down a man who’s given away as much money as he has.” Navot was silent for a moment. “I’m going to say something I’ll probably regret later.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t say it.”
Navot didn’t heed Gabriel’s advice. “If you had taken the director’s job the way Shamron wanted, then you would be the one making the decisions like this. But you—”
“Is that what this is about, Uzi? Putting me in my place?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Gabriel. My decision is based on my need to set priorities. And one of those priorities is maintaining good relations with the security and intelligence services of Western Europe. The last thing we need is some ill-conceived cowboy operation against Martin Landesmann. This discussion is now officially over.”
Gabriel peered silently out the window as the car turned into Narkiss Street. Near the end was a small limestone apartment house largely concealed by a sprawling eucalyptus tree growing in the front garden. As the car came to a stop at the entrance, Navot was shifting uneasily in his seat. Personal confrontation had never been his strong suit.
“I’m sorry about the circumstances, but welcome home. Go upstairs and lie low for a few days until we’ve had a chance to sort through the wreckage in Buenos Aires. And try to get some rest. Don’t take this the wrong way, Gabriel, but you look like hell.”
“I can’t sleep on airplanes, Uzi.”
Navot smiled. “It’s good to know some things never change.”
38
RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS
By the afternoon of Gabriel Allon’s unheralded return to Jerusalem, Maurice Durand was thoroughly regretting that he had ever heard the name Rembrandt van Rijn or laid eyes on the portrait of his delectable young mistress. Durand’s predicament was now twofold. He was in possession of a bloodstained painting too badly damaged to deliver to his client, along with a very old list of names and numbers that had been gnawing at the edges of his conscience from the moment he saw it. He decided to confront his problems sequentially. Methodical in all things, he knew no other way.
He dealt with the first problem by dispatching a brief e-mail to an address at yahoo.com. It stated that, much to the regret of Antiquités Scientifiques, the item requested by the client had not arrived as scheduled. Sadly, Durand added, it never would, for it had been involved in a tragic warehouse fire and now was little more than a worthless pile of ash. Given the fact that the item was a one-of-a-kind and therefore irreplaceable, Antiquités Scientifiques had no choice but to immediately refund the client’s deposit—two million euros, a figure not included in the communiqué—and to offer its deepest apologies for any inconvenience caused by the unforeseen turn of events.
Having dealt with his first dilemma, Durand turned his attention to the troubling three pages of decaying onionskin paper he had found inside the painting. This time he chose a more archaic solution, a box of wooden matches from Fouquet’s.
Striking one, he lifted it toward the bottom right corner of the first page. For the next several seconds, he tried to close the three-inch gap between fuel and flame. The names, however, would not allow it.
Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld…
The match extinguished itself in a puff of smoke. Durand tried a second time, but with the same result. He didn’t bother to make a third attempt. Instead, he carefully returned the document to its wax paper sheath and placed it in his safe. Then he picked up his phone and dialed. A woman answered after the first ring.
“Is your husband there?”
“No.”
“I need to see you.”
“Hurry, Maurice.”
ANGÉLIQUE BROSSARD was a good deal like the glass figurines lining the display cases of her shop—small, delicate, and pleasing to look at provided one’s gaze did not linger too long or in too critical a manner. Durand had known her for nearly ten years. Their liaison fell under the heading of what Parisians politely refer to as a cinq à sept, a reference to the two hours in late afternoon traditionally reserved for the commission of adultery. Unlike Durand’s other relationships, it was relatively uncomplicated. Pleasure was given, pleasure was demanded in return, and the word love was never spoken. That is not to say their attachment lacked affection or commitment. A thoughtless word or forgotten birthday could send Angélique into a fury. As for Durand, he had long ago given up on the idea of marriage. Angélique Brossard was the closest thing to a wife he would ever have.
Invariably, their encounters took place on the couch in Angélique’s office. It was not large enough for proper lovemaking, but through many years of regular use they had trained themselves to utilize its limited geography to its full potential. On that afternoon, however, Durand was in no mood for romance. Clearly disappointed, Angélique lit a Gitane and looked at the cardboard tube in Durand’s hand.
