by Daniel Silva
“Let me back up a moment.” Lavon leaned over the coffee table and placed his hands on the surface, as though it were a map of Europe. “The vast majority of Holocaust victims were from Poland, the Baltics, and western Russia—places conquered and ruled directly by the Nazis. They rounded up Jews and slaughtered them at will, without any interference from other governments, because there were no other governments.”
Lavon paused, one hand sliding over the imaginary map to the south, the other to the west. “But Heydrich and Eichmann weren’t satisfied with murdering only the Jews under direct German rule. They wanted every Jew in Europe—eleven million in all.” Lavon tapped his right forefinger on the table. “The Jews in the Balkans”—he tapped his left forefinger—“and the Jews in Western Europe. In most of these places, they had to deal with local governments to pry the Jews loose for deportation and extermination. Luther’s section of the Foreign Office was responsible for that. It was Luther’s job to deal with the local governments on a ministry-to-ministry basis to make certain that the deportations went smoothly and all diplomatic niceties were adhered to. And he was damned good at it.”
“For argument’s sake, let’s assume the old man was referring to this Martin Luther. What would he have been doing at a convent in northern Italy?”
Lavon shrugged his narrow shoulders. “It sounds to me as if the old man was trying to tell you that something happened at the convent during the war. Something that Mother Vincenza is trying to cover up. Something that Beni knew about.”
“Something that got him killed?”
Lavon shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Who would be willing to kill a man over a book?”
Lavon hesitated, taking a moment to slip the protocol of the Wannsee Conference back into the file. Then he looked up at Gabriel, eyes narrowed, and drew a deep breath.
“There was one government in particular that Eichmann and Luther were concerned about. It maintained diplomatic relations with both the Allies and Nazi Germany during the war. It had representatives in all of the countries where the roundups and deportations were taking place—representatives who could have made the task more difficult had they chosen to forcefully intervene. For obvious reasons, Eichmann and Luther considered it critical that this government not raise objections. Hitler considered this government so pivotal that he dispatched the second-ranking official at the Foreign Office, Baron Ernst von Weizäcker, to serve as his ambassador. Do you know which government I’m talking about, Gabriel?”
Gabriel closed his eyes. “The Vatican.”
“Indeed.”
“So who are the clowns that have been following me?”
“That’s a very good question.”
Gabriel crossed the room to Lavon’s desk, lifted the receiver of the telephone, and dialed a number. Lavon did not need to ask who Gabriel was calling. He could see it in the determined set of his jaw and the tension in his hands. When a man is being stalked by an enemy he does not know, it is best to have a friend who knows how to fight dirty.
THE MAN standing on the steps of Vienna’s famed Konzerthaus radiated open-air Austrian good looks and Viennese sophistication. Had anyone spoken to him, he would have replied in perfect German, with the lazy inflection of a well-heeled young man who had spent many happy hours sampling the Bohemian delights of Vienna. He was not Austrian, nor had he been raised in Vienna. His name was Ephraim Ben-Avraham, and he had spent his childhood in a dusty settlement deep in the Negev, a place far removed from the world in which he moved now.
He glanced casually at his watch, then surveyed the expanse of the Beethoven Platz. He was on edge, more so than usual. It was a simple job: Meet an agent, deliver him safely to the communications room of the embassy. But the man he was meeting was no ordinary agent. The Vienna station chief had made the stakes clear to Ben-Avraham before dispatching him. “If you fuck it up, Ari Shamron will track you down and strangle you with one of his patented death grips. And whatever you do, don’t try to talk to the agent. He’s not the most approachable of men.”
Ben-Avraham stuck an American cigarette between his lips and ignited it. It was at that moment, through the dancing blue flame of his lighter, that Ben-Avraham saw the legend emerge from the darkness. He dropped his cigarette to the wet pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe, watching while the agent made two complete circuits of the square. No one was following him—no one but the disheveled little man with flyaway hair and a wrinkled coat. He was a legend too: Eli Lavon, surveillance artist extraordinaire. Ben-Avraham had met him once at the Academy when Lavon had been a guest lecturer at a seminar on man-to-man street work. He had kept the recruits up till three in the morning, telling war stories about the dark days of the Black September operation.
Ben-Avraham watched the pair in admiration for a moment as they drifted among the evening crowd like synchronized swimmers. Their routine was by the book, but it had a certain flair and precision that came from working together in situations where one misstep could cost one of them his life.
Finally, the young officer started down the steps toward his target. “Herr Mueller,” he called out. The legend looked up. “So good to see you.”
Lavon vanished as though stepping through a stage curtain. Ben-Avraham hooked his fingers inside the elbow of the legend and pulled him toward the darkened footpaths of the Stadt Park. They walked in circles for ten minutes, diligently checking their tail. He was smaller than Ben-Avraham expected, lean and spare, like a cyclist. It was difficult to imagine that this was the same man who had liquidated half of Black September—the same man who had walked into a villa in Tunis and gunned down Abu Jihad, the second-ranking leader of the PLO, in front of his wife and children.
The legend said nothing. It was as if he were listening for his enemies. His footfalls on the pavement of the pathways made no sound. It was like walking next to a ghost.
The car was waiting a block from the park. Ben-Avraham climbed behind the wheel and for twenty minutes wound his way around the city center. The station chief was right—he was not a man who invited small talk. Indeed the only time he spoke was to politely ask Ben-Avraham to extinguish his cigarette. His German had the hard edge of a Berliner.
Satisfied that no one was following, Ben-Avraham turned into a narrow street in northeast Vienna called the Anton Frankgasse. The building at No. 20 had been the target of numerous terror attacks over the years and was heavily fortified. It was also under constant surveillance by the Austrian secret services. As the car slipped into the entrance of the underground parking garage, the legend ducked below the dashboard. For an instant, his head pressed lightly against Ben-Avraham’s leg. His scalp was burning, like a man in the grip of a death fever.
THE SECURE communications room was located in a soundproof glass cubicle two levels belowground. It took several minutes for the operator in Tel Aviv to patch the call through to Shamron’s home in Tiberias. Over the scrambler, his voice sounded as if it was emanating from the bottom of a steel drum. In the background, Gabriel heard water running into a basin and the tinkle of cutlery against china. He could almost picture Shamron’s long-suffering wife, Ge’ulah, washing dishes in the kitchen sink. Gabriel gave Shamron the same briefing he had given earlier to Lavon. When he finished, Shamron asked what he planned to do next.
“I thought I’d go to London and ask Peter Malone why Beni called him from a hotel in Brenzone.”
“Malone? What makes you think he’ll talk? Peter Malone is in business for himself. If he’s actually got something, he’ll sit on it harder than even poor Beni.”
“I’m working on a subtle way to make my approach.”
“And if he’s not interested in opening his notebook to you?”
“Then I’ll try a not-so-subtle approach.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“He’s the only lead I have at the moment.”
Shamron sighed heavily. Despite the distance and the scrambler, Gabriel could hear an edgy rattle in his
chest.
“I want the meeting done the right way,” Shamron said. “No more wandering into situations blind and without backup. He gets surveillance before and after. Otherwise, you can wash your hands of this thing and go back to Venice to finish your Bellini.”
“If you insist.”
“Helpful suggestions are not my way. I’ll contact London station tonight and put a man on him. Keep me informed.”
Gabriel hung up the phone and stepped outside into the corridor. Ephraim Ben-Avraham was waiting. “Where now?” the young field man asked.
Gabriel looked at his watch. “Take me to the airport.”
13
LONDON
ON HIS SECOND DAY in London, Gabriel visited a used bookstore in the Charing Cross Road at dusk and purchased a single volume. He tucked it beneath his arm and walked to the Leicester Square underground station. At the entrance he removed the well-worn dust jacket and tossed it into a rubbish bin. Inside the station, he bought a ticket from the automated dispenser and rode the long escalator down to the Northern Line platform, where he endured an obligatory ten-minute delay. He used the time to leaf through the book. When he found the passage he was looking for, he circled it in red ink and folded the page to mark the place.
The train finally grumbled into the station. Gabriel squeezed into the crowded carriage and wound his arm around a metal pole. His destination was Sloane Square, which required a change of trains at the Embankment. As the train jerked forward, he looked down at the faded gold lettering on the spine of the book. THE DECEIVERS: PETER MALONE.
Malone . . . one of the most dreaded names in London. Revealer of personal and professional misdeeds, destroyer of lives and careers. An investigative reporter for The Sunday Times, Malone had a list of victims that was long and diverse: two Cabinet ministers, the second-ranking official at MI5, a slew of crooked businessmen, even the editor-in-chief of a rival newspaper. During the past decade, he had also published a string of sensational biographies and political exposés. The Deceivers dealt with the exploits of the Office. It had caused something of a firestorm in Tel Aviv, largely because of its telling accuracy. It included the revelation that Ari Shamron had recruited a spy from the senior ranks of MI6. The crisis that followed, Shamron would later say, was the worst between the British and the Jews since the bombing of the King David Hotel.
Ten minutes later, Gabriel was walking through the streets of Chelsea in the gathering darkness, Malone’s book under his arm. He crossed Cadogan Square and paused in front of the handsome white Georgian town house. Lights were burning in the second-floor windows. He climbed the steps to the front door, laid the book on a braided straw mat, then turned and walked quickly away.
Parked on the opposite side of the square was a gray commercial van of American manufacture. When Gabriel tapped on the blacked-out rear window, the door swung open, revealing a darkened interior lit only by the soft glow of an instrument panel. Sitting before the console was a reedy, rabbinical-looking boy named Mordecai. He offered Gabriel a bony hand and pulled him inside. Gabriel closed the door and crouched next to him. The floor was littered with grease-spotted panini wrappers and empty Styrofoam cups. Mordecai had been living in the van for most of the past thirty-six hours.
“How many people in the house?” Gabriel asked.
Mordecai reached out and turned a knob. Over the speakers, Gabriel could hear the faint voice of Peter Malone talking to one of his assistants.
“Three,” Mordecai said. “Malone and two girls.”
Gabriel dialed Malone’s number. The ringing of his office telephone sounded like a fire alarm over Mordecai’s speakers. The surveillance man reached out and turned down the volume. After three rings, the reporter answered and identified himself by name in a soft Scottish brogue.
Gabriel spoke English and made no attempt to conceal his Israeli accent. “I just left a copy of your last book outside your door. I suggest you take a look at it. I’ll call you back in exactly five minutes.”
Gabriel rang off and rubbed a clear patch on the fogged glass of the window. The front door opened a few inches and Malone, turtlelike, poked out his head. It swiveled from side to side as he searched in vain for the man who had just telephoned. Then he bent down and scooped up the book. Gabriel looked at Mordecai and smiled. Victory. Five minutes later, he pressed the redial button on his phone. This time Malone answered on the first ring.
“Who are you?”
“Did you see the passage I circled in the book?”
“The Abu Jihad assassination? What about it?”
“I was there that night.”
“For which side?”
“The good guys.”
“So you’re a Palestinian?”
“No, Abu Malone, I’m not a Palestinian.”
“Who are you, then?”
“I’m the agent who was code-named Sword.”
“Good Lord,” Malone whispered. “Where are you? What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“Benjamin Stern.”
A long pause: “I have nothing to say to you.”
Gabriel decided to push a little harder. “We found your telephone number among his things. We know you were working with him on his book. We think you might know who killed him and why.”
Another long silence while Malone pondered his next move. Gabriel’s use of the pronoun we was quite deliberate, and it had its intended effect.
“And if I do know something?”
“I’d like to compare notes.”
“And what do I get in return?” Malone, ever the alert reporter, was going to make Gabriel sing for his supper.
“I’ll talk to you about that night in Tunis,” Gabriel said, then added: “And others like it.”
“Are you serious?”
“Benjamin was my friend. I’d do almost anything to find the men who killed him.”
“Then you have a deal.” Malone’s tone was suddenly brisk. “How do you want to go about this?”
“Are there assistants in the house?” Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.
“Two girls.”
“Get rid of them. Leave the front door unlatched. When I see them go, I’ll come inside. No tape recorders, no cameras, no fucking around. Do you understand me?”
Gabriel killed the connection before the reporter could answer, then slipped the telephone into his pocket. Two minutes later, the front door opened and a pair of young women stepped outside. When they were gone, Gabriel climbed out of the van and walked across the square toward the house. The front door was unlocked, just as he had instructed. He turned the latch and stepped inside.
THEY APPRAISED each other across the marble entrance hall like captains of opposing football teams. Gabriel could see why it was difficult to watch British television without seeing Malone’s face—and why he was considered one of London’s most eligible bachelors. He was trim and fine-boned, immaculately dressed in wool trousers and a cardigan sweater the color of claret wine. Gabriel, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, his face concealed behind a pair of sunglasses and a ball cap, seemed a man from the wrong side of town. Malone did not offer Gabriel his hand.
“You can take off that ridiculous disguise. I’m not in the habit of betraying sources.”
“If you don’t mind, I prefer to keep it on.”
“Suit yourself. Coffee? Something stronger?”
“No, thank you.”
“My office is upstairs. I think you’ll find it comfortable.”
It was an old drawing room, long and rectangular, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and Oriental carpets. In the center of the room were two antique library tables, one for Malone, another for his research assistants. Malone switched off the computer and sat down in one of the wing chairs next to the gas fire, motioning for Gabriel to do the same.
“I must say it is rather bizarre to actually be in the same room with you. I’ve heard so much about y
our exploits that I feel I actually know you. You’re quite the legend. Black September, Abu Jihad, and countless others in between. Have you killed anyone lately?”
When Gabriel did not rise to the bait, Malone carried on. “While I find you morbidly fascinating, I must admit that I find the things you’ve done to be morally repugnant. In my opinion, a state which resorts to assassination as a matter of policy is no better than the enemy it’s trying to defeat. In many respects, it’s worse. You’re a murderer in my book, just so you understand where I’m coming from.”
Gabriel began to wonder whether he had made a mistake by coming here. He had learned long ago that arguments like this could never be won. He’d had too many just like it with himself. He sat very still, gazing at Peter Malone through his dark glasses, waiting for him to come to the point. Malone crossed his legs and picked a bit of lint from his trousers. It was a gesture that betrayed anxiety. This pleased Gabriel.
“Perhaps we should finalize the details of our arrangement before we proceed,” Malone said. “I will tell you what I know about Benjamin Stern’s murder. In return, you’ll grant me an interview. Obviously, I’ve written about intelligence matters before, and I know the rules. I will do nothing to reveal your true identity, nor will I write anything that will compromise current operations. Do we have a deal?”
“We do.”
Malone spent a moment gazing up at the recessed lighting, then looked down at Gabriel. “You’re right about Benjamin. I was working with him on his book. Our partnership was supposed to be confidential. I’m surprised you were able to find me.”
“Why did Benjamin come to you?”
Malone stood up and walked over to the bookshelves. He removed a volume and handed it to Gabriel. CRUX VERA: THE KGB OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH.
“Benjamin had something big—something dealing with the Vatican and the war.”
Gabriel held up the book. “Something dealing with Crux Vera?”
Malone nodded. “Your friend was a brilliant academic, but he didn’t know the first thing about investigating a story. He asked me if I would work for him as a consultant and investigator in all matters dealing with Crux Vera. I agreed, and we negotiated compensation. The money was to be paid half in advance and half on completion and acceptance of the manuscript. Needless to say, I only received the first payment.”