The Fallen Angel ga-12

by Daniel Silva

  The theft sent the usual tremors of apprehension through the art galleries of Paris, but in Maurice Durand’s world it was but a pebble cast upon an otherwise tranquil surface. They overheard him discussing the case with his favorite waitress at the brasserie, but otherwise his life moved at the same monotonous rhythm. He opened his shop at ten. He lunched at one. And at five o’clock sharp, he treated himself to the pleasures of Madame Brossard and then drank his red wine for the sake of his guiltless little heart.

  Finally, a week after the theft, he rang Gabriel on a prearranged number to say the items he had requested—an early twentieth-century Swiss pocket barometer and a brass-and-wood telescope by Merz of Munich—had arrived safely. At Gabriel’s request, Durand delivered the items that evening to the flat overlooking the Pont Marie and departed as quickly as he could. The painting, a landscape of Cézanne’s beloved Mont Saint-Victoire, had been expertly removed from its stretcher and placed in a cardboard tube. The hydria was packed into a nylon Adidas sports bag. Eli Lavon removed it and placed it carefully on the kitchen table. Then he sat there for several minutes with Gabriel at his side, staring at the image of the Greek maidens attending to the nude athletes.

  “Someone has to do it,” Lavon said finally, “but it’s not going to be me.”

  “I’m a restorer,” said Gabriel. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “And I’m an archaeologist,” Lavon replied defensively. “Besides, I’ve never been one for the rough stuff.”

  “I’ve never assassinated a vase.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lavon said. “Unlike your previous work, it will only be temporary.”

  Gabriel exhaled heavily, returned the hydria to the Adidas sports bag, and gently pushed it over the edge of the table. The sound it made on impact was like the shattering of bone. Lavon slowly opened the zipper and peered mournfully inside.

  “Murderer,” he whispered softly.

  “Someone had to do it.”

  The Cézanne, however, received no such maltreatment. Indeed, during the final hours of the team’s stay in Paris, Gabriel ministered tenderly to its wounds as though it were a patient in intensive care. His goal was to stabilize the image so that the painting could one day be returned to its owner in the same condition in which it had been found. No ordinary art thief would ever have taken such a step, but Gabriel’s commitment to operational verisimilitude went only so far. He was a restorer first and foremost, and caring for the Cézanne helped to relieve his guilt over breaking the vase.

  He briefly considered returning the canvas to a stretcher, but ruled out such a procedure on the grounds it would make the painting too difficult to move securely. Instead, he adhered a protective layer of tissue paper to the surface using a rabbit-skin glue that he concocted in the kitchen of the Bois de Boulogne safe flat. Next morning, when the glue had dried, he returned the canvas carefully to its cardboard tube and ferried it to the Israeli Embassy at 3 rue Rabelais. The Office station chief was understandably apprehensive about accepting stolen property, but he relented after receiving a phone call from Uzi Navot. Gabriel tucked the painting into a moisture-free corner of the station’s vault and set the thermostat to a comfortable sixty-eight degrees. Then he headed to the Gare de Lyon and boarded the midday train for Zurich.

  He passed the four-hour journey plotting the next phase of the operation, and by six that evening, he was guiding a rented Audi sedan down the graceful sweep of Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse. Seated next to him, the Adidas sports bag between his feet, was Eli Lavon. “Switzerland,” he said, staring glumly out his window. “Why does it always have to be Switzerland?”

  23

  ST. MORITZ, SWITZERLAND

  BY THEN IT WAS MARCH, which meant that St. Moritz, the quaint former spa town in the Upper Engadine valley, was once more in the grip of madness. On the Via Serlas, perhaps the world’s costliest shopping street, faded aristocrats wandered aimlessly from Chopard to Gucci to Chanel to Bulgari, along with film stars, supermodels, politicians, tycoons, and all their entourages and assorted hangers-on. They fought over the best tables at La Marmite or the Terrace and at night smiled their way into the private rooms at Dracula or the King’s Club. Only a handful ever bothered to put on a pair of skis. In St. Moritz, skiing was the pastime of those who didn’t have something better to do.

  But tucked away on a quiet side street like an island of reason was the stately old Jägerhof Hotel. She was dowdy and dour and, most of all, unfashionable, which troubled her not one whit. Indeed, she seemed to revel in it. Her restaurants were without note; her amenities, such as they were, were second to everyone. She had no spa or indoor swimming pool and no nightclub to lure those who liked to see their names in boldface. The only music one ever heard at the Jägerhof was the sound of the string quartet that sawed away in the salon each afternoon during the drowsy lull euphemistically referred to as après ski.

  Her rooms, like her manners, were dusty relics from another time. Returning guests tended to request the lower floors because the lift was forever breaking down, while those seeking a bargain gravitated to the cramped garrets. Staying in one was a tall, lanky Russian with gray eyes and bloodless skin the color of the snow atop the Piz Bernina. Sadly, he had severely twisted his knee on the first day of his holiday and had been largely confined to his room ever since. Occasionally, he would sit in the tiny arrow slit of a window and gaze longingly into the street, but for the most part he remained in his bed with his injured leg elevated. To pass the time, he watched movies and listened to music on his notebook computer. The chambermaids described him as polite to a fault, which was unusual for a Russian.

  The same could not be said, however, of the doctor who appeared at the Jägerhof four days after the Russian’s unfortunate accident. He was of medium height and build with a full head of silvery hair and watchful brown eyes that were partially concealed by thick spectacles. Those members of the Jägerhof staff who were unfortunate enough to encounter him during his brief visit would later remark that he seemed better suited to inflicting wounds than healing them.

  “How’s your knee?” asked Gabriel.

  “It still hurts if I put too much weight on it.”

  “It doesn’t look so good.”

  “You should have seen it two days ago.”

  The knee was propped upon a pair of pillows embroidered with the Jägerhof’s discreet crest. Gabriel winced mildly as he inspected the swelling.

  “Where did all those bruises come from?”

  “I had to hit it a few times.”

  “With what? A sledgehammer?”

  “I used the bottle of complimentary champagne.”

  “How was it?”

  “As a blunt instrument, it was fine.”

  Gabriel went to the window and peered down at the postcard-perfect Swiss square. On one side, a limousine was docking with the slowness of a luxury liner at the doorway of one of the resort’s pricier hotels. On the other, three fur-drenched women were posing for a photograph next to a horse-drawn carriage. After a moment, the carriage moved off to the gentle clatter of snow-muffled hoof beats, revealing the understated entrance of Galleria Naxos. Through the large front display window, Gabriel could see David Girard speaking to a customer about one of the gallery’s better pieces, a first-century Roman statue of a now-limbless adolescent boy posed in recline. The soundtrack of the conversation, which was being conducted in German, issued softly from the speakers of Mikhail’s notebook computer.

  “Where’s the transmitter hidden?”

  “On his desk.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “During my one and only visit to the shop, I left behind a very costly gold pen. Monsieur Girard has been good enough to hold on to it for me until I have a chance to drop by again. The only problem is that it’s right next to the telephone. Every time someone calls the gallery, it sounds like a fire alarm is going off.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Slow. He generally sees one or two c
ustomers in the morning and a few more in the late afternoon when the slopes start to close down. By five o’clock, the place is dead.”

  “Any employees?”

  “The wife usually spends a couple of hours in the gallery after she drops off Hansel and Gretel at the daycare center. They live a few miles from St. Moritz in a town called Samedan. Nice place. I have a feeling Daoud is the only member of Hezbollah who lives there.”

  “His name is David,” Gabriel said pointedly. “And for the moment, we can’t prove he’s a member of anything except the Swiss Association of Dealers in Art and Antiques.”

  “Until he sees that pretty Greek pot.”

  “It’s possible he won’t bite.”

  “He’ll bite,” Mikhail said assuredly. “Then we’ll burn him to a crisp and turn him around, just the way you drew it up on the chalkboard at King Saul Boulevard.”

  “Sometimes operations don’t go as planned.”

  “Tell me about it.” Mikhail examined Gabriel for a moment. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for you to be playing footsy with someone from Hezbollah right now.”

  “I barely recognize myself in this getup.”

  “Your famous face isn’t the only reason you should think twice about walking into that gallery.”

  Gabriel turned and looked at Mikhail directly. “You don’t think I’m up to it? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “It hasn’t been that long since Nadia al-Bakari died in your arms in the Empty Quarter. Maybe you should let someone else go in there and dangle the bait.”

  “Like who?”

  “Me.”

  “You can barely walk.”

  “I’ll take some aspirin.”

  “How much do you know about red-figure Attic vases?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “That might be a problem.”

  Mikhail was silent.

  “Are we finished?” asked Gabriel.

  “We’re finished.”

  Gabriel opened the aluminum attaché case he had brought with him into the hotel. Inside was a single fragment of the hydria, carefully wrapped in baize cloth, along with several eight-by-ten photographs of the remaining pieces of the vase. With the flip of a small interior switch, Gabriel activated the case’s audio and video transmission system. Then he closed the case and looked at Mikhail.

  “Are you picking up the signal?”

  “Got it.”

  Gabriel walked over to the mirror and inspected the unfamiliar face reflected in the glass. Satisfied with his appearance, he departed the room without another word and headed downstairs to the Jägerhof’s dreary lobby. By the time he stepped into the street, he was no longer the taciturn physician who had come to treat an injured Russian; he was Anton Drexler of Premier Antiquities Services, Hamburg, Germany. Ten minutes later, having performed a thorough check for surveillance, he presented himself at the entrance of Galleria Naxos. In the window lay the limbless Roman boy, looking perversely like the victim of a roadside bomb. Herr Drexler examined the statue for a moment with the discerning gaze of a professional. Then, after ringing the bell and announcing his intentions, he was admitted without further delay.

  24

  ST. MORITZ, SWITZERLAND

  THE EXHIBITION ROOM WAS BRILLIANTLY lit and artfully staged to avoid the impression of clutter—here a selection of Greek kraters and amphorae, here a litter of Egyptian bronze cats, here a gathering of marble amputees and disembodied heads, price available on request. In the back corner of the gallery was a Chinese lacquer-finished table where David Girard, aka Daoud Ghandour, sat waiting to receive him. He wore a dark blazer, a zippered sweater, and trim-cut trousers that looked as though they were made of velvet. A sleek black telephone was wedged between his shoulder and his ear, and he was scribbling something illegible on a piece of paper using Mikhail’s expensive gold pen. Gabriel could only imagine the scraping sound it was making in the garret room of the Jägerhof Hotel.

  Finally, Girard murmured a few words of French into the phone and replaced the receiver. He appraised his visitor in silence for a moment with his soft brown eyes, then, without rising, asked to see a business card. Gabriel wordlessly granted his wish.

  “Your card has no address and no telephone number,” Girard said in German.

  “I’m something of a minimalist.”

  “Why haven’t I heard of you?”

  “I try not to make waves,” Gabriel responded with a docile smile. “High seas make it harder for me to do my job.”

  “Which is what, exactly?”

  “I find things. Lost dogs, loose change behind the couch cushions, hidden gems in cellars and attics.”

  “You’re a dealer?”

  “Not like you, of course,” Gabriel said with as much modesty as he could muster.

  “Who sent you?”

  “A friend in Rome.”

  “Does the friend have a name?”

  “The friend is like me,” Gabriel said. “He prefers calm waters.”

  “Does he find things, too?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Girard returned the business card and, with a movement of his eyes, asked to see the contents of Herr Drexler’s attaché case.

  “Perhaps you have some place a bit more private,” suggested Gabriel, glancing briefly toward the gallery’s large window overlooking the crowded square.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all,” answered Gabriel in his most reassuring tone. “It’s just that St. Moritz isn’t what it used to be.”

  Girard studied Gabriel before rising to his feet and walking over to a cipher-protected door. On the other side was a climate-controlled storage room filled with inventory that had yet to find its way onto the gallery’s main exhibition floor, and probably never would. Gabriel led himself on a brief tour before popping the combination locks of the attaché case. Then he unveiled the fragment of the hydria with a magician’s flourish and laid it carefully on an examination table so Girard could see the image clearly.

  “I don’t deal in fragments,” he said.

  “Neither do I.”

  Gabriel handed him the stack of photographs. The last showed the hydria pieced loosely together.

  “It’s missing a few small surface fragments here and there,” Gabriel said, “but it’s nothing that can’t be repaired by a good restorer. I have a man who can do the work if you’re interested.”

  “I prefer to use my own restorer,” Girard responded.

  “I assumed that would be the case.”

  Girard pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and examined the fragment of pottery with a professional-grade magnifier. “It looks to me like the work of the Amykos Painter. Probably about 420 BC.”

  “I concur.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Here and there,” answered Gabriel. “Most of the pieces came from old family collections in Germany and here in Switzerland. It took me five years to track them all down.”

  “Really?”

  Girard returned the fragment and without another word walked over to a computer. After a few keystrokes, a single sheet of paper came shooting out of the color printer. It was an alert, issued by the Swiss Association of Dealers in Art and Antiques. The subject was a red-figure Attic hydria by the Amykos Painter that had been stolen two weeks earlier from a private home in the South of France. Girard placed the alert on the table next to the photos and looked to Herr Drexler for an explanation.

  “As you know,” Gabriel said, reciting words that had been written for him by Eli Lavon, “the Amykos Painter was a prolific artist who created numerous stock figures that appear many times throughout his body of work. My hydria is simply a copy of the vessel that was stolen in France.”

  “So it’s coincidental?”

  “Entirely.”

  Girard emitted a dry, humorous laugh. “I’m afraid your friend in Rome has led you astray, because this gallery does not trade in stolen or looted antiquities. It is a
violation of our association’s code of ethics, not to mention Swiss law.”

  “Actually, Swiss law allows you to acquire a piece if you believe in good faith that it’s not stolen. And I am giving you my assurance, Herr Girard, that this hydria is the result of five years’ work on my part.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not willing to accept the word of a man who has no address and no telephone number.”

  It was an impressive performance but flawed by the fact that David Girard’s eyes were now fixed on the fragment of pottery. Gabriel had spent enough time around art dealers to see that his target was already calculating an offer. All he needed, thought Gabriel, was a small crack of the whip.

  “In fairness, Herr Girard,” Gabriel said, “I should tell you that other parties are interested in acquiring the hydria. But I came to St. Moritz because I was told you had the ability to move merchandise like this with a single phone call.”

  “I’m afraid you overestimate my abilities.”

  Gabriel smiled as if to say he was having none of it. “Your list of Middle Eastern clients is legendary in the trade, Herr Girard. Surely, you have the means to produce a provenance that will satisfy one of them. By my estimate, the reassembled and restored hydria is worth four hundred thousand Swiss francs. I’d be willing to accept one hundred thousand for the fragments, leaving you a profit of three hundred thousand.” Another smile. “Not bad for the price of a long-distance call to Riyadh or Dubai.”

  The dealer lapsed into a contemplative silence, thus surrendering any pretense that he was unwilling to handle the hydria. “Fifty thousand,” he countered, “payable on completion of the sale.”

  Gabriel returned the fragment to its baize blanket. “If you want the hydria, Herr Girard, you will pay me the money up front. The price is not negotiable.”

  “I need some time.”

  “You have twenty-four hours.”

  “How do I reach you?”

  “You don’t. I’ll call you tomorrow at five for your answer. If it is yes, I will deliver the fragments at six and expect payment in full. If the answer is no, I will hang up, and you will never hear from me again.”