by Daniel Silva
“Do you love this girl?” she asked suddenly, her gaze still straight ahead.
“Which girl?” asked Gabriel. And then, when he realized Leah was merely reliving the conversation that had dissolved their marriage, his heart gave a sideways lurch. “I love you,” he said softly, squeezing her frozen hands. “I’ll always love you, Leah.”
A smile briefly graced her lips. Then she looked directly at Gabriel for a moment with an expression of wifely disapproval. “You’re working for Shamron again,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“I can see it in your eyes. You’re someone else.”
“I’m Gabriel,” he said.
“Only a part of you is Gabriel.” She turned her face toward the glass.
“Don’t go yet, Leah.”
She came back to him. “Who are you fighting this time? Black September?”
“There is no Black September anymore.”
“Who is it then?”
“Hezbollah,” he answered after a moment’s hesitation. “It’s Hezbollah, Leah.”
The name appeared to mean nothing to her. “Tell me about it,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s secret.”
“Like before?”
“Yes, Leah, like before.”
Leah frowned. She hated secrets. Secrets had destroyed her life.
“Where will you go this time?”
“Paris,” Gabriel replied truthfully.
Her expression darkened. “Why Paris?”
“There’s a man there who can help me.”
“A spy?”
“A thief.”
“What does he steal?”
“Paintings.”
She seemed genuinely troubled. “Why would a man like you want to work with someone who steals paintings?”
“Sometimes it’s necessary to work with bad people to accomplish good things.”
“Is this man bad?”
“Not really.”
“Tell me about him.”
Gabriel could see no harm in it, so he complied with her request. But after a moment, she appeared to lose interest, and her face turned once again toward the window.
“Look at the snow,” she said, gazing at the cloudless evening sky. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, Leah, it’s beautiful.”
Her hands began to tremble. Gabriel closed his eyes.
When Gabriel returned to Narkiss Street, he found Chiara stretched on the couch in the half-light, a glass of red wine balanced on her abdomen. She offered him the wine and watched him carefully as he drank, as though searching for evidence of betrayal. Then she led him into the bedroom and wordlessly removed her clothing. Her body was feverishly warm. She made love as though it were for the last time.
“Take me with you to Paris.”
“No.”
She didn’t press the issue. She knew there was no point. Not after what had happened in Rome. And not after what had happened in Vienna before that.
“Did she remember you this time?”
“She remembered.”
“Which version of you?”
“Both,” he answered.
Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Does she know you love me, Gabriel?”
“She knows.”
A pause. “Do you?” she asked.
“What?”
“Love me.”
“Chiara . . .”
She turned her back to him. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
“For what?”
“The baby. If I hadn’t lost the baby, you wouldn’t be going to Paris without me.”
Gabriel made no reply. Chiara climbed slowly atop his body.
“Do you love me?” she asked again.
“More than anything.”
“Show me.”
“How?”
She kissed his lips and whispered, “Show me, Gabriel.”
21
RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS
ANTIQUITÉS SCIENTIFIQUES OCCUPIED A LONELY outpost at the end of rue de Miromesnil where tourists rarely ventured. There were some in the Parisian antiques trade who had urged its owner, the fastidious Maurice Durand, to relocate to the rue de Rivoli or perhaps even the Champs-Élysées. But Monsieur Durand had always resisted for fear he would spend his days watching overweight Americans pawing his precious antique microscopes, cameras, spectacles, barometers, and surveyors, only to depart the shop empty-handed. Besides, Durand had always preferred his tidy little life at the quiet end of the arrondissement. There was a good brasserie across the street where he took his coffee in the morning and drank his wine at night. And then there was Angélique Brossard, a seller of glass figurines who was always willing to change the sign in her window from OUVERT to FERMÉ whenever Durand came calling.
But there was another reason why Maurice Durand had resisted the lure of Paris’s busier streets. Antiquités Scientifiques, while reasonably profitable, operated largely as a front for his primary occupation. Durand specialized in conveying paintings and other objets d’art from homes, galleries, and museums into the hands of collectors who did not care about meddlesome details such as a clean provenance. There were some in law enforcement who might have described Durand as an art thief, though he would have quibbled with that characterization, for it had been many years since he had actually stolen a painting himself. He now operated solely as a broker in the process known as commissioned theft—or, as Durand liked to describe it, he managed the acquisition of paintings that were not technically for sale. His clients tended to be the sort of men who did not like to be disappointed, and Durand rarely failed them. Working with a stable of Marseille-based professional thieves, he had been the linchpin in some of history’s greatest art heists. Topping his list of achievements, at least in monetary terms, was Van Gogh’s Self-Portrait with a Bandaged Ear. Stolen from the Courtauld Gallery in London, it was now hanging in the palace of a Saudi sheikh who had a penchant for violence involving knives.
But it was Maurice Durand’s link to a lesser-known work—Portrait of a Young Woman, oil on canvas, by Rembrandt van Rijn—that had led to his unlikely alliance with the secret intelligence service of the State of Israel. After accepting a commission to steal the painting, Durand had discovered that hidden within it was a list of numbered Swiss bank accounts filled with looted assets from the Holocaust. The list had allowed Gabriel to blackmail a Swiss billionaire named Martin Landesmann into sending a shipment of sabotaged industrial centrifuges to his steady customers in the Islamic Republic of Iran. At the conclusion of the operation, Gabriel had decided to take no action against Durand lest the Office ever require the services of a professional thief.
All of which goes some way to explaining why, twenty-four hours after arriving in Paris, Eli Lavon presented himself at the entrance of the little shop at 106 rue de Miromesnil. The buzzer, when pressed, emitted an inhospitable howl. Then the deadbolts snapped open with a thud, and Lavon, shaking the rain from his sodden overcoat, slipped inside.
“Stolen anything lately, Monsieur Durand?”
“Not even a kiss, Monsieur Lavon.”
The two men appraised each other for a moment without speaking. They were roughly equals in height and build, but the similarities ended there. While Lavon wore an outfit he called Left Bank revolutionary chic, Durand was impeccably attired in a somber chalk-stripe suit and lavender necktie. His bald head shone like polished glass in the restrained overhead lighting. His dark eyes were expressionless and unblinking.
“How can I assist you?” he asked, as though helping Lavon was the last thing in the world he wished to do.
“I’m looking for something special,” Lavon replied.
“Well, then, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” Durand walked over to a display case filled with microscopes. “This just arrived,” he said, running his hand over one of the instruments. “It was made by Nachet & Sons of Par
is in 1890. The optics and mechanics are all in good condition. So is the walnut case.”
“Not that kind of something, Monsieur Durand.”
Durand’s hand had yet to move from the oxidized surface of the microscope. “It seems my debt has come due,” he said.
“You make us sound like blackmailers,” Lavon said, hoisting his most benevolent smile. “But I assure you that’s not the case.”
“What do you want?”
“Your expertise.”
“It’s expensive.”
“Don’t worry, Maurice. Money isn’t the problem.”
The rain chased them across the Place de la Concorde and along the Seine embankments. It was not the pleasing Parisian rain of songwriters and poets but a frigid torrent that clawed its way through their overcoats. Durand, thoroughly miserable, pleaded for the warmth of a taxi, but Lavon wanted to make certain they were not being followed, and so they slogged on. Finally, they entered the foyer of a luxury apartment building overlooking the Pont Marie and climbed the spiral staircase to a flat on the fourth floor. Seated in the living room, looking comfortable and relaxed, was Gabriel. With only a slight movement of his emerald-colored eyes, he invited Durand to join him. The Frenchman hesitated. Then, after receiving a nudge from Lavon, he approached with the slowness of a condemned man being led to the gallows.
“You obviously recognize me,” Gabriel said, watching Durand intently as he settled into his seat. “That’s usually a liability in our business. But not in this case.”
“How so?”
“Because you know I’m a professional, just like you. You also know I’m not someone who would waste valuable time by making idle threats.”
Gabriel looked down at the coffee table. On it were two matching attaché cases.
“Time bombs?” asked Durand.
“Your future.” Gabriel placed his hand on one of the attaché cases. “This one contains enough evidence to put a man in prison for the rest of his life.”
“And the other?”
“One million euros in cash.”
“What do I have to do for it?”
Gabriel smiled. “What you do best.”
22
QUAI DES CÉLESTINS, PARIS
THERE WAS A BOTTLE OF Armagnac on the sideboard. After hearing Gabriel’s proposal, Maurice Durand poured himself a very large glass. He hesitated before drinking it.
“Don’t worry, Maurice,” said Gabriel reassuringly. “We save the poisoned brandy for special occasions.”
Durand took a guarded sip. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said after a moment. “Why not just steal this object yourself or borrow an item from one of your museums?”
“Because I’m going to tell a story,” replied Gabriel. “And like all good stories, it requires verisimilitude. If an object of great value were to appear suddenly out of thin air, our target would rightly suspect a trap. But if he believes the object has recently been stolen by a band of thieves with a long track record . . .”
“He will assume he’s dealing with professional criminals rather than professional spies.”
Gabriel was silent.
“How clever,” Durand said, raising his glass a fraction of an inch in a mock toast. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“A red-figure Attic vessel, fourth or fifth century BC, something large enough to turn heads on the illicit market.”
“Would you like it to come from a public source or private?”
“Private,” replied Gabriel. “No museums.”
“It’s not as difficult as you think.”
“Robbing a museum?”
Durand nodded.
“But it would be bad manners.”
“Suit yourself.” Durand sat down and stared into his drink thoughtfully. “There’s a villa outside Saint-Tropez. It’s located on the Baie de Cavalaire, not far from the estate that used to be owned by that Russian oligarch. His name escapes me.”
“Ivan Kharkov?”
“Yes, that’s him. Know him?”
“Only by reputation.”
“He was killed outside his favorite restaurant in Saint-Tropez. Very messy.”
“So I heard. But you were telling me about his neighbor’s house.”
“It’s not as big as Ivan’s old place, but its owner has impeccable taste.”
“Who is he?”
“Belgian,” said Durand disdainfully. “He inherited an industrial fortune and is doing his level best to spend every last centime of it. A couple of years ago, we relieved him of a Cézanne. It was a replacement job.”
“You left a copy behind.”
“Quite a good one, actually. In fact, our Belgian friend apparently still believes the painting is genuine because to my knowledge he’s never reported the theft to the police.”
“What was it?”
“The House of the Jas de Bouffan.”
“Who handled the forgery?”
“You have your secrets, Mr. Allon, I have mine.”
“Go on.”
“The Belgian has several other Cézannes. He also has a very impressive collection of antiquities. One piece in particular is quite lovely, a terra-cotta hydria by the Amykos Painter, fifth century BC. It depicts two young women presenting gifts to two nude male athletes. Very sensual.”
“You obviously know your Greek pottery.”
“It is a passion of mine.”
“How often is the Belgian at the villa?”
“July and August,” Durand said. “The rest of the year it’s unoccupied except for the caretaker. He has a small cottage on the property.”
“What about security?”
“Surely a man such as yourself realizes there’s no such thing as security. As long as there are no surprises, my men will be in and out of the house within a few minutes. And you will have your Greek pot in short order.”
“I think I’d like a Cézanne, too.”
“Verisimilitude?”
“It’s all in the details, Maurice.”
Durand smiled. He was a detail man himself.
He made but one request, that they resist the temptation to monitor his movements as he went about the business of fulfilling their contract. They readily agreed, despite the fact they had absolutely no intention of living up to their end of the bargain. Maurice Durand had once stolen several hundred million dollars’ worth of paintings in the span of a single summer. One could utilize the services of a criminal like Durand, but only a fool would ever turn his back on him.
For three days, he kept to his beau quartier at the northern end of the eighth arrondissement. His schedule, like his shop, was filled with pleasant oddities from another time. He drank two café crèmes each morning at the same table of the same brasserie with no company other than a stack of newspapers, which he purchased from the same tabac. After that, he would cross the narrow street and, at the stroke of ten, disappear into his gilded little cage. Occasionally, he was obliged to open its doors to a client or a deliveryman, but for the most part Durand’s confinement remained solitary. Lunch was taken at one and lasted until half past two, when he would return to the shop for the remainder of the afternoon. At five, he would pay a brief visit to Madame Brossard. Then it was back to his table at the brasserie for a glass of Côtes du Rhône, which he drank always with an air of supreme contentment.
For those unlucky souls who were forced to keep watch over this seemingly charmed life, Maurice Durand was the subject of both endless fascination and passionate resentment. Not surprisingly, there were a few members of the team, most notably Yaakov, who believed that Gabriel had erred by placing the opening stage of the operation in the hands of such a man. “Look at the watch reports,” Yaakov demanded over dinner at the team’s primary safe flat near the Bois de Boulogne. “It’s obvious that Maurice has salted away our million euros and has no intention of ever delivering the goods.” Gabriel, however, was unconcerned. Durand had shown himself in the past to be a man of some principle. “He
’s also a natural thief,” said Gabriel. “And there’s nothing a thief enjoys more than stealing from the very rich.”
Gabriel’s faith was rewarded the following morning, when Unit 8200 overheard Durand booking first-class accommodations on the midday TGV train to Marseille. Yaakov and Oded made the trip with him, and at five that evening, they observed their quarry make a mildly clandestine meeting in the Old Port with a local fisherman. Later, they would identify the “fisherman” as Pascal Rameau, leader of one of Marseille’s many criminal organizations.
It was at this point that the operation appeared to gather its first momentum, for within twenty-four hours of Durand’s visit, members of Rameau’s crew were casing the Belgian’s lavish villa. Gabriel knew this because two members of his own crew, Yossi and Rimona, had taken a short-term lease on a villa in the hills above the property and were watching it constantly with the help of long-lens cameras and video recorders. They never saw Rameau’s men again. But two nights later, as a violent storm laid siege to the entire length of the Côte d’Azur, they were awakened by the wail of sirens along the coast road. For the next several hours, they watched blue lights flashing despondently in the drive of the Belgian’s seaside palace. The police scanner told them everything they needed to know. One Cézanne, one Greek vase, no arrests. C’est la vie.
It was in all the papers, which is exactly what they had hoped for. The Cézanne was the main attraction; the Greek vase, a lovely hydria by the Amykos Painter, a mere afterthought. The distraught Belgian owner offered a substantial reward for information leading to the recovery of his goods, while his insurers, the great Lloyd’s of London, quietly let it be known that they would consider making a ransom payment. The French police knocked on a few doors and questioned a few of the usual suspects, but after a week they decided they had more important things to do than chase down a swath of canvas and a very old lump of clay. Besides, they had dealt with this band of thieves before. These men were pros, not adventurers, and when they stole something, it never reappeared.
