The Rembrandt Affair ga-10

by Daniel Silva

  Having established himself as one of the most prominent human rights activists in Latin America and the world, Alfonso Ramirez turned his attention to exposing another tragic aspect of Argentina's history, its close ties to Nazi Germany. Sanctuary of Evil, his 2006 historical masterwork, detailed how a secret arrangement among the Peron government, the Vatican, the SS, and American intelligence allowed thousands of war criminals to find safe haven in Argentina after the war. It also contained an account of how Ramirez had assisted Israeli intelligence in the unmasking and capture of a Nazi war criminal named Erich Radek. Among the many details Ramirez left out was the name of the legendary Israeli agent with whom he had worked.

  Though the book had made Ramirez a millionaire, he had resisted the pull of the smart northern suburbs and still resided in the southern barrio of San Telmo. His building was a large Parisian-style structure with a courtyard in the center and a winding staircase covered by a faded runner. The apartment itself served as both his residence and office, and its rooms were filled to capacity with tens of thousands of dog-eared files and dossiers. It was rumored that Ramirez's personal archives rivaled those of the government. Yet in all his years of rummaging through Argentina's dark past, he had never digitized or organized his vast holdings in any way. Ramirez believed that in clutter lay security, a theory supported by empirical evidence. On numerous occasions, he had returned home to find his files in disarray, but none of his important documents had ever been stolen by his adversaries.

  One section of the living room was largely free of historical debris, and it was there Ramirez received Gabriel and Chiara. Propped in one corner, exactly where she had left it the night of her abduction, was Maria's dusty cello. On the wall above were two handwritten pages of poetry, framed and shielded by glass, along with a photograph of Ramirez at the time of his release from prison. He bore little resemblance to that emaciated figure now. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked more like a man who wrestled with machinery and concrete than words and ideas. His only vanity was his lush gray beard, which in the opinion of right-wing critics made him look like a cross between Fidel Castro and Karl Marx. Ramirez did not take the characterization as an insult. An unrepentant communist, he revered both.

  Despite the abundance of irreplaceable paper in the apartment, Ramirez was a reckless, absent-minded smoker who was forever leaving burning cigarettes in ashtrays or dangling off the end of tables. Somehow, he remembered Gabriel's aversion to tobacco and managed to refrain from smoking while holding forth on an array of topics ranging from the state of the Argentine economy to the new American president to Israel's treatment of the Palestinians, which, of course, he considered deplorable. Finally, as the first drops of afternoon rain made puddles on the dusty windowsill, he recalled the afternoon several years earlier when he had taken Gabriel to the archives of Argentina's Immigration Office. There, in a rat-chewed box of crumbling files, they discovered a document suggesting that Erich Radek, long assumed dead, was actually living under an assumed name in the first district of Vienna.

  "I remember one thing in particular about that day," Ramirez said now. "There was a beautiful girl on a motor scooter who followed us wherever we went. She wore a helmet the entire time, so I never really saw her face. But I remember her legs quite clearly." He glanced at Chiara, then at Gabriel. "Obviously, your relationship was more than professional."

  Gabriel nodded, though by his expression he made it clear he wished to discuss the matter no further.

  "So what brings the two of you to Argentina this time?" Ramirez asked.

  "We were doing a bit of wine tasting in Mendoza."

  "Find anything to your liking?"

  "The Bodega de la Mariposa Reserva."

  "The '05 or the '06?"

  "The '05, actually."

  "I've had it myself. In fact, I've had the opportunity to speak with the owner of that vineyard on a number of occasions."

  "Like him?"

  "I do," Ramirez said.

  "Trust him?"

  "As much as I trust anyone. And before we go any further, perhaps we should establish the ground rules for this conversation."

  "The same as last time. You help me now, I help you later."

  "What exactly are you looking for?"

  "Information about an Argentine diplomat who died in Zurich in 1967."

  "I assume you're referring to Carlos Weber?" Ramirez smiled. "And given your recent trip to Mendoza, I also assume that you're searching for the missing fortune of one SS-Hauptsturmfuhrer Kurt Voss."

  "Does it exist, Alfonso?"

  "Of course it exists. It was deposited in Bank Landesmann in Zurich between 1938 and 1945. Carlos Weber died trying to bring it to Argentina in 1967. And I have the documents to prove it."

  35

  BUENOS AIRES

  There was just one problem. Alfonso Ramirez had no idea where he had hidden the documents. And so for the next half hour, as he shuffled from room to room, lifting dusty covers and frowning at stacks of faded paper, he recited the details of Carlos Weber's disgraceful curriculum vitae. Educated in Spain and Germany, Weber was an ultranationalist who served as a foreign policy adviser to the parade of military officers and feeble politicians who had ruled Argentina in the decade before the Second World War. Profoundly anti-Semitic and antidemocratic, he tilted naturally toward the Third Reich and forged close ties to many senior SS officers—ties that left Weber uniquely positioned to help Nazi war criminals find sanctuary.

  "He was one of the linchpins of the entire shitty deal. He was close to Peron, close to the Vatican, and close to the SS. Weber didn't help the Nazi murderers come here merely out of the goodness of his heart. He actually believed they could help build the Argentina of his dreams."

  Ramirez yanked open the top drawer of a battered metal file cabinet and fingered his way quickly through the tabs of several dozen manila folders.

  "Is there any chance his death was an accident?" asked Gabriel.

  "None," Ramirez replied emphatically. "Carlos Weber was known to be an excellent athlete and a strong swimmer. There's no way he slipped into the lake and drowned."

  Ramirez rammed the file drawer closed and opened the next. A moment later, he smiled and triumphantly withdrew a folder. "Ah, here's the one I was looking for."

  "What is it?"

  "About five years ago the government announced it was going to release another batch of so-called Nazi files. Most of it was rubbish. But the archivists let a couple of gems slip through." Ramirez held up the folder. "Including these."

  "What are they?"

  "Copies of the cables Weber sent from Switzerland during his trip in 1967. Take a look."

  Gabriel accepted the documents and read the first dispatch:

  PLEASE INFORM THE MINISTER THAT MY MEETING WAS PRODUCTIVE AND I EXPECT A FAVORABLE OUTCOME IN SHORT ORDER. ALSO, PLEASE PASS ALONG A SIMILAR MESSAGE TO THE INTERESTED PARTY, AS HE IS QUITE ANXIOUS FOR NEWS OF ANY SORT.

  "Weber was clearly referring to his meetings with Walter Landesmann," Ramirez said. "And the interested party was obviously a reference to Kurt Voss."

  Gabriel looked at the second dispatch:

  PLEASE INFORM THE MINISTER BANK LANDESMANN HAS LOCATED THE ACCOUNTS IN QUESTION. ALERT THE TREASURY TO EXPECT A TRANSFER OF FUNDS IN SHORT ORDER.

  "The next day, Carlos Weber was found dead." Ramirez picked up a stack of thick files, bound by metal clasps and heavy elastic bands. He held them silently for a moment, then said, "I need to warn you, Gabriel. Everyone who goes looking for that money ends up dead. These files were assembled by a friend of mine, an investigative reporter named Rafael Bloch."

  "Jewish?"

  Ramirez nodded gravely. "At university, he was a communist like me. He was arrested briefly during the Dirty War, but his father paid a very large bribe and managed to secure his release. Rafi was damn lucky. Most of the Jews who were arrested never stood a chance."

  "Go on, Alfonso."

  "Rafi Bloch specialized in fin
ancial stories. Unlike the rest of us, he studied something useful—namely, economics and business. Rafi knew how to read a ledger sheet. Rafi knew how to trace wire transfers. And Rafi never, ever took no for an answer."

  "It's hereditary."

  "Yes, I know," said Ramirez. "Rafi spent years trying to prove what happened to that money. But along the way he found something else. He discovered that the entire Landesmann empire was dirty."

  "Dirty? How?"

  "Rafi never went into specifics with me. But in 2008, he finally felt confident he had his story."

  "What did he do?"

  "He went to Geneva to have a word with a man named Landesmann. Martin Landesmann. And he never came back again."

  IN RETROSPECT, said Ramirez, a journalist with Rafael Bloch's experience should have proceeded with a bit more caution. But given the impeccable public reputation of the man in question, Bloch foolishly allowed himself to believe he was in no danger.

  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.

  "Honore 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 failure. He had been feted 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."