Daniel Silva's Gabriel Allon Series

by Daniel Silva

  Gabriel closed the passport, but left it lying on the table.

  “I’m in the middle of a difficult restoration. I can’t go running off to Munich now.”

  “It will take a day—two at the most.”

  “That’s what you said last time.”

  Shamron’s temper, always seething below the surface, broke through. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted at Gabriel in Hebrew: “Do you wish to fix your silly painting or help me find out who killed your friend?”

  “It’s always that simple for you, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, but I wish it were so. Do you intend to help me, or will you force me to turn to one of Lev’s oafs for this delicate mission?”

  Gabriel made a show of contemplation, but his mind was already made up. He scooped up the passport with a smooth movement of his hand and slipped it into his coat pocket. Gabriel had the hands of a conjurer and a magician’s sense of misdirection. The passport was there; the passport was gone. Next, Shamron reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a mid-sized manila envelope. Inside, Gabriel found an airline ticket and an expensive Swiss-made wallet of black leather. He opened the wallet: Israeli driver’s license, credit cards, membership to an exclusive Tel Aviv health club, a checkout card for a local video store, a substantial amount of currency in euros and shekels.

  “What do I do for a living?”

  “You own an art gallery. Your business cards are in the zippered compartment.”

  Gabriel found the cards and removed one:

  LANDAU ART GALLERY

  SHEINKIN STREET, TEL AVIV

  “Does it exist?”

  “It does now.”

  The last item in the envelope was a gold wristwatch with a black leather band. Gabriel turned over the watch and read the engraving on the back. FOR EHUD FROM HANNAH WITH LOVE.

  “Nice touch,” Gabriel said.

  “I’ve always found it’s the little things.”

  The watch, the airline tickets, and the wallet joined the passport in Gabriel’s pocket. The two men stood. As they walked outside, the longhaired girl in the bronze-colored wrap came quickly to Shamron’s side. Gabriel realized she was the old man’s bodyguard.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to Tiberias,” Shamron replied. “If you pick up something interesting, send it to King Saul Boulevard through the usual channels.”

  “Whose eyes?”

  “Mine, but that doesn’t mean little Lev won’t have a peek, so use appropriate discretion.”

  In the distance, a church bell tolled. Shamron stopped in the center of the campo, next to the pozzo, and took one last look around. “Our first ghetto. God, how I do hate this place.”

  “It’s too bad you weren’t in Venice in the sixteenth century,” Gabriel said. “The Council of Ten would never have dared to lock the Jews away here.”

  “But I was here,” Shamron said with conviction. “I was always here. And I remember it all.”

  4

  MUNICH

  DETECTIVE AXEL WEISS of the Munich Kriminal Polizei was waiting outside Adalbertstrasse 68 two days later, dressed in civilian clothes and a tan raincoat. He shook Gabriel’s hand carefully, as though he were feeling its density. A tall man with a narrow face and a long nose, Weiss’s dark complexion and short-cropped black hair gave him the appearance of a Doberman pinscher. He released Gabriel’s hand and patted him fraternally on the shoulder.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Herr Landau, though I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances. Let me take you somewhere comfortable to talk before we go up to the apartment.”

  They set off down the rain-soaked pavement. It was late afternoon, and the lights of Schwabing were slowly coming up. Gabriel never liked German cities at night. The detective stopped in front of a coffeehouse and peered through a fogged window. Wood floors, round tables, students and intellectuals hunched over books. “This will do,” he said. Then he opened the door and led Gabriel to a quiet table in the back.

  “Your people at the consulate tell me you own an art gallery.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “In Tel Aviv?”

  “You know Tel Aviv?”

  The detective shook his head. “It must be very hard for you now—with the war and all.”

  “We make do. But then, we always have.”

  A waitress appeared. Detective Weiss ordered two coffees.

  “Something to eat, Herr Landau?”

  Gabriel shook his head. When the waitress was gone, Weiss said, “Do you have a card?”

  He managed to pose the question in an offhand way, but Gabriel could tell his cover story was being probed. His work had left him incapable of seeing things as they appeared to be. When he viewed paintings, he saw not only the surface but the underdrawings and layers of base paint. The same was true of the people he met in his work for Shamron and the situations in which he found himself. He had the distinct impression Axel Weiss was more than just a detective for the Munich Kriminal Polizei. Indeed, Gabriel could feel Weiss’s eyes boring into him as he reached into his wallet and produced the business card Shamron had given him in Venice. The detective held it up to the light, as if looking for the marks of a counterfeiter.

  “May I keep this?”

  “Sure.” Gabriel held open his wallet. “Do you need any other identification?”

  The detective seemed to find this question offensive and made a grandiose German gesture of dismissal. “Ach, no! Of course not. I’m just interested in art, that’s all.”

  Gabriel resisted the temptation to see how little the German policeman knew about art.

  “You’ve spoken to your people?”

  Gabriel nodded solemnly. Earlier that afternoon, he had paid a visit to the Israeli consulate for a largely ceremonial briefing. The consular officer had given him a file containing copies of the police reports and clippings from the Munich press. The file was now resting in Ehud Landau’s expensive leather briefcase.

  “The consular officer was very helpful,” Gabriel said. “But if you don’t mind, Detective Weiss, I’d like to hear about Benjamin’s murder from you.”

  “Of course,” the German said.

  He spent the next twenty minutes giving Gabriel a thorough account of the circumstances surrounding the killing. Time of death, cause of death, caliber of weapon, the well-documented threats against Benjamin’s life, the graffiti left on the walls of his flat. He spoke in the calm but forthright manner that police the world over seem to reserve for the relatives of the slain. Gabriel’s demeanor mirrored that of the German detective. He did not feign grief. He did not pretend that the gruesome details of his half brother’s death caused him pain. He was an Israeli. He saw death nearly on a daily basis. The time for mourning had ended. Now was the time for answers and clearheaded thinking.

  “Why was he shot in the knee, Detective?”

  Weiss pulled his lips down and tilted his narrow head. “We’re not sure. There may have been a struggle. Or they may have wanted to torture him.”

  “But you told me that none of the other tenants heard any sound. Surely, if he was tortured, the sound of his screaming would have been audible in other parts of the building.”

  “As I said, Herr Landau, we’re not sure.”

  Weiss was clearly frustrated by the line of questioning, but Herr Landau, art dealer from Tel Aviv, was not quite finished.

  “Is a wound to the knee consistent with other murders carried out by right-wing extremists?”

  “I can’t say that it is.”

  “Do you have any suspects?”

  “We’re questioning a number of different people in connection with the murder. I’m afraid that’s all I can say at the moment.”

  “Have you explored the possibility that his death was somehow linked to his teaching at the university? A disgruntled student, for example?”

  The detective managed a smile, but it was clear his patience was being put to the test. “Your brother w
as much beloved. His students worshiped him. He was also on sabbatical this term.” The detective paused and studied Gabriel a moment. “You were aware of that, weren’t you, Herr Landau?”

  Gabriel decided it was best not to lie. “No, I’m afraid I wasn’t. We haven’t spoken in some time. Why was he on sabbatical?”

  “The chairman of his department told us he was working on a new book.” The detective swallowed the last of his coffee. “Shall we have a look at the apartment now?”

  “I just have one more question.”

  “What’s that, Herr Landau?”

  “How did the killer get into his building?”

  “That’s one I can answer,” Weiss said. “Despite the fact that your brother received regular death threats, he lived in a very insecure building. The tenants are very casual about who they let in. If someone presses the intercom and says ‘advertisements,’ they’re routinely buzzed in. A student who lives one floor above Professor Stern is fairly certain she was the one who let the killer into the building. She’s still very upset. Apparently, she was very fond of him.”

  THEY WALKED back to the apartment building through a steady rain. The detective pressed a button on the intercom panel. Gabriel took note of the corresponding name. LILLIAN RATZINGER—CARETAKER. A moment later, a small, fierce-looking woman with hunted brown eyes peered at them around the edge of the door. She recognized Weiss and opened the door to them.

  “Good afternoon, Frau Ratzinger,” the detective said. “This is Benjamin’s brother, Ehud Landau. He’s here to put Benjamin’s affairs in order.”

  The old woman glanced at Gabriel and nodded. Then she turned away, as if the sight of him made her uneasy.

  An acidic odor greeted Gabriel in the lobby. It reminded him of the solvents he used to strip dirty varnish from a canvas. He peered around a corner and saw the kosmetik. A fat woman in the midst of a pedicure looked up at him over a glossy German fashion magazine. Gabriel turned away. Benjamin the eternal student, he thought. Benjamin would be comfortable in a place like this.

  On the wall adjacent to the door was a row of metal postboxes. The one corresponding to Benjamin’s flat still bore his name. Through the tiny window, Gabriel could see it was empty.

  The old woman led them up the dimly lit staircase, a ring of passkeys tinkling in her hand. She paused outside Benjamin’s apartment. Tattered remnants of crime-scene tape hung from the doorjamb, and a mound of dead roses lay on the floor. Taped to the wall was a sign, scrawled in a desperate hand: liebe ist stärker als haß—Love is stronger than hate. Something about the idealistic naïveté of the slogan angered Gabriel. Then he remembered it was the same thing Leah had said to him before he left for Europe to kill Palestinians for Shamron.

  “Love is stronger than hate, Gabriel. Whatever you do, don’t hate them. If you hate them, you’ll become just like Shamron.”

  The old woman unlocked the door and left without looking at Gabriel. He wondered about the source of her anxiety. Perhaps it was her age. Perhaps she was of a generation still uncomfortable in the presence of Jews.

  Weiss led Gabriel into the front room overlooking the Adalbertstrasse. The afternoon shadows were heavy. The detective illuminated the room by turning on the lamp on Benjamin’s desk. Gabriel glanced down, then quickly took a step back. The floor was coated with Benjamin’s blood. He looked up at the wall and saw the graffiti for the first time. Detective Weiss pointed to the first symbol, a diamond resting on a pedestal that resembled an inverted V.

  “This one is known as the Odin Rune,” Weiss said. “It’s an ancient Norse symbol that expresses faith in the pagan religion called Odinism.”

  “And the second one?” Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.

  Weiss looked at it a moment before responding. Three numeral sevens, linked at their bases, surrounded by a sea of red.

  “It’s called the Three Sevens or the Three-Bladed Swastika,” the German said. “It symbolizes supremacy over the devil as represented by the numbers 666.”

  Gabriel took a step forward and tilted his head to one side, as though he were inspecting a canvas in need of restoration. To his well-trained eye it seemed the artist was an imitator rather than a believer. Something else struck him. The symbols of hatred were probably sprayed onto the wall in the moments after Benjamin’s murder, yet the lines were straight and perfectly executed, revealing no signs of stress or anxiety. A man used to killing, thought Gabriel. A man comfortable around the dead.

  He walked over to the desk. “Was Benjamin’s computer taken as evidence?”

  Weiss shook his head. “Stolen.”

  Gabriel looked down at the safe, which was open and empty.

  “Stolen as well,” the detective said, anticipating the next question.

  Gabriel removed a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. The policeman sat heavily on the couch, as if he had been walking a beat all day.

  “I have to remain in the flat with you while you conduct your inventory. I’m sorry, but those are the rules.” He loosened his tie. “Take as much time as you need, Herr Landau. And whatever you do, don’t try to take anything, eh? Those are the rules too.”

  GABRIEL COULD do only so much in the presence of the detective. He started in the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and on the cracked leather armchair was a stack of freshly laundered clothing, still bound in brown paper and string. On the bedside table was a black mask and a pair of foam-rubber earplugs. Benjamin, Gabriel remembered, was a notoriously light sleeper. The curtains were heavy and dark, the kind usually kept by someone who works at night and sleeps during the day. When Gabriel drew them, the air was suddenly filled with dust.

  He spent the next thirty minutes carefully going through the contents of the closet, the dresser, and the bedside table. He made copious notes in his leather-bound notebook, just in case Detective Weiss wanted to have a look at his inventory. In truth, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  He entered the second bedroom. The walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. Obviously, Benjamin had turned it into a storage room. It looked as though a bomb had exploded nearby. The floor was strewn with books, and the file drawers were flung open. Gabriel wondered who was responsible, the Munich police or Benjamin’s killer.

  His search lasted nearly an hour. He flipped through the contents of every file and the pages of every book. Weiss appeared once in the doorway to check on his progress, then yawned and wandered back to the sitting room. Again, Gabriel made abundant notes for the benefit of the detective but found nothing linking Benjamin to the Office—and nothing that might explain why he was murdered.

  He walked back to the sitting room. Weiss was watching the evening news on Benjamin’s television. He switched it off as Gabriel entered. “Finished?”

  “Did Benjamin have a storage room in the building?”

  The detective nodded. “German law requires landlords to provide tenants with one.”

  Gabriel held out his hand. “May I have the key?”

  IT WAS Frau Ratzinger who took Gabriel down to the basement and led him along a corridor lined with narrow doorways. She paused at the one marked 2B, which corresponded to Benjamin’s flat. The old woman opened the door with a grunt and pulled down on the drawstring connected to the overhead light. A moth scattered, brushing Gabriel’s cheek. The woman nodded and receded silently down the hallway.

  Gabriel peered into the storage room. It was little more than a closet, some four feet wide and six feet deep, and it reeked of linseed oil and damp. A rusted bicycle frame with one wheel, a pair of ancient skis, unlabeled cardboard boxes stacked to a water-stained ceiling.

  He removed the broken bicycle and the skis, and began searching through the boxes of Benjamin’s things. In several he found bound stacks of yellowing papers and old spiral notebooks, the flotsam of a lifetime spent in the lecture halls and libraries of academia. There were boxes of dusty old books—the ones, Gabriel supposed, he deemed too unimportant to place on the
shelves in his flat. Several more held copies of Conspiracy at Wannsee: A Reappraisal, Benjamin’s last book.

  The final box contained the purely personal. Gabriel felt like a trespasser. He wondered how he would feel if the roles were reversed, if Shamron had sent someone from the Office to rummage through his things. And what would they find? Only what Gabriel wanted them to see. Solvents and pigment, his brushes and his palette, a fine collection of monographs. A Beretta by his bedside.

  He drew a long breath and proceeded. Inside a cigar box he found a pile of tarnished medals and tattered ribbons and remembered that Benjamin had been something of a star runner at school. In an envelope were family photographs. Benjamin, like Gabriel, was an only child. His parents had survived the horrors of Riga only to be killed in a car accident on the road to Haifa. Next he found a stack of letters. The stationery was the color of honey and still smelled of lilac. Gabriel read a few lines and quickly put the letters aside. Vera . . . Benjamin’s only love. How many nights had he lain awake in some wretched safe flat, listening to Benjamin complain about how the beguiling Vera had ruined him for all other women? Gabriel was quite certain he hated her more than Benjamin had.

  The last item was a manila file folder. Gabriel lifted the cover and inside found a stack of newspaper clippings. His eyes flickered over the headlines. ELEVEN ISRAELI ATHLETES AND COACHES TAKEN HOSTAGE IN OLYMPIC VILLAGE . . . TERRORISTS DEMAND RELEASE OF PALESTINIAN AND GERMAN PRISONERS . . . BLACK SEPTEMBER . . .

  Gabriel closed the file.

  A black-and-white snapshot slipped out. Gabriel scooped it off the floor. Two boys, blue jeans and rucksacks. A pair of young Germans spending a summer roaming Europe, or so it appeared. It had been taken in Antwerp near the river. The one on the left was Benjamin, forelock of wavy hair in his eyes, mischievous smile on his face, his arm flung around the young man standing at his side.

  Benjamin’s companion was serious and sullen, as though he couldn’t be bothered with something as trivial as a snapshot. He wore sunglasses, his hair was cropped short, and even though he was not much more than twenty years old, his temples were shot with gray. “The stain of a boy who’s done a man’s job,” Shamron had said. “Smudges of ash on the prince of fire.”