The problem lay in the fact that, despite repeated efforts, Technical had been unable to penetrate GVI’s well-fortified computer systems or to crack into Martin’s ever-present mobile phone. Given no advance warning of Martin’s hectic schedule, Gabriel’s watchers were little more than a pack of hounds chasing a crafty fox. Only the flight plans filed by Martin’s pilots betrayed his movements, but even those proved to be of little value. Ten days into the Landesmann watch, Gabriel announced that he never wanted to see another photo of Martin getting on or off an airplane. Indeed, Gabriel declared, he would be happy if he never saw Martin’s face again. What he needed was a way inside Martin’s world. A way to get his phone. A way to get his computer. And for that he needed an accomplice. Given Martin’s daunting security, it would not be possible to create one out of whole cloth. Gabriel needed the help of someone close to Martin. He needed an agent in place.
AFTER A WEEK of around-the-clock searching, the team found its first potential candidate while staking out Martin at his luxury penthouse apartment located at 21 Quai de Bourbon, on the northern edge of the Île Saint-Louis in Paris. She was delivered to his door by way of a chauffeured Mercedes at five minutes past nine in the evening. Her hair was dark and cut fashionably short; her eyes were large and liquid and brimming with an obvious intelligence. The surveillance team judged her to be a self-assured woman and, after hearing her bid good night to her driver, British. She punched the code into the entry keypad as though she had performed the task many times before, then disappeared through the doorway. They saw her again two hours later admiring the view of the Seine from Martin’s window with Martin at her back. The intimacy of their pose, combined with the fact that her torso was bare, left no doubt about the nature of their relationship.
She departed at 8:15 the next morning. The watchers took several additional photos as she climbed into the back of a chauffeured Mercedes, then followed her to the Gare du Nord where she boarded the 9:13 Eurostar train to London. After three days of surveillance, Gabriel knew her name, her address, her telephone number, and the date of her birth. Most important, he knew where she worked.
It was the last piece of information—the place of her employment—that caused Uzi Navot to immediately declare her “flagrantly unsuitable” for recruitment. Indeed, during the heated argument that followed, an exasperated Navot would once again say things he would later regret. Not only did he call into question Gabriel’s judgment but his sanity as well. “Obviously, the Cornish wind has affected your brain,” he snapped at one point. “We don’t recruit people like her. We avoid them at all costs. Cross her off your list. Find someone else.”
In the face of Navot’s tirade, Gabriel displayed a remarkable equanimity. He patiently refuted Navot’s arguments, calmed Navot’s fears, and reminded Navot of the formidable nature of Martin’s many defenses. The woman they had first seen in Paris was the proverbial bird in the hand, he said. Release her to the wind, and it might be months before they found another candidate. Navot finally capitulated, as Gabriel had known he would. Given Martin’s secret commercial ties to the Iranians, he was no longer a can that could be kicked down the road. Martin had to be dealt with and dealt with quickly.
The global nature of Martin’s sins, combined with the passport carried by the potential recruit, meant it was not possible for the Office to proceed alone. A partner was required, perhaps two for good measure. Navot issued the invitations; the British quickly agreed to act as host. Gabriel had one final request, and this time Navot did not object. One didn’t bring a knife to a gunfight, Navot conceded. And one never went to war against a man like Martin Landesmann without Ari Shamron in his back pocket.
44
THE MARAIS, PARIS
Many years earlier, Maurice Durand had stumbled across a newspaper article about the case of Christoph Meili, a private security guard who had the misfortune of being assigned to work at the Union Bank of Switzerland’s headquarters on the Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich. While making his rounds on a January afternoon in 1997, the devoutly Christian father of two entered the bank’s shredding room and discovered a pair of large rolling bins filled with old documents, including several ledgers detailing transactions conducted between UBS and Hitler’s Germany. Meili found the presence of the material in the shredding room more than a little suspicious, since weeks earlier Swiss banks had been prohibited by federal law from destroying wartime documents. Sensing something was amiss, he stuffed two of the ledgers under his shirt and smuggled them to his modest home outside Zurich. The next morning, he handed the documents over to the Israeli Cultural Center, at which point his problems began.
The head of the center quickly called a press conference to denounce UBS for its wanton destruction of records. UBS dismissed the shredding as a regrettable mistake and promptly laid blame at the feet of the bank’s archivist. As for Christoph Meili, he was summarily fired from his job and soon became the target of a criminal investigation into whether he had violated Swiss bank-secrecy laws by stealing the wartime records. Meili was hailed around the world as a “document hero,” but in his native land he was hounded by public denunciations and death threats. Much to Switzerland’s shame, the security guard who acted on his conscience had to be granted political asylum by the U.S. Senate and was quietly resettled with his family in New York.
At the time, Maurice Durand concluded that Meili’s actions, while admirable and courageous, were ultimately foolhardy. Which made it all the more strange that Durand had now decided he had no choice but to embark on a similar path. Ironically, his motivations were identical to Meili’s. Though Monsieur Durand was a career criminal who habitually violated two of God’s most sacred commandments, he regarded himself as a deeply spiritual and honorable man who tried to operate by a certain code. That code would not allow him to ever accept payment for a painting stained in blood. Nor would it permit him to suppress the document he had discovered hidden inside. To do so would not only be a crime against history but make him an accessory after the fact to a mortal sin.
There were, however, two aspects of the Meili affair Maurice Durand was determined not to repeat—public exposure and the threat of prosecution. Meili’s lapse, he concluded, had been to place his trust in a stranger. Which explained why, late that afternoon, Durand decided to close his shop early and personally deliver a pair of eighteenth-century lorgnette opera glasses to one of his most valued clients, Hannah Weinberg.
Fifty years of age and childless, Madame Weinberg had two passions: her impressive collection of antique French eyewear and her tireless campaign to rid the world of racial and religious hatred in all its forms. Hannah’s first passion had caused her to form an attachment to Antiquités Scientifiques. Her second had compelled her to found the Isaac Weinberg Center for the Study of Anti-Semitism in France, named for her paternal grandfather who was arrested during Jeudi noir, Black Thursday, the roundup of Jews in Paris, on July 16, 1942, and subsequently murdered at Auschwitz. Hannah Weinberg was now regarded as the most prominent so-called memory militant in France. Her fight against anti-Semitism had earned her a legion of admirers—including the current French president—but many determined enemies as well. The Weinberg Center was the target of constant threats, as was Hannah Weinberg herself. As a result, Maurice Durand was one of the few people who knew that she lived in her grandfather’s old apartment at 24 rue Pavée, in the fourth arrondissement.
She was waiting for him on the landing outside her apartment, dressed in a dark sweater, a pleated wool skirt, and heavy stockings. Her dark hair was streaked with gray; her nose was narrow and aquiline. She greeted Durand warmly with kisses on each cheek and invited him inside. It was a large apartment, with a formal entrance hall and a library adjoining the sitting room. Antique furniture covered in faded brocade stood sedately about, thick velvet curtains hung in the windows, and an ormolu clock ticked quietly on the mantel. The effect of the décor was to create the impression of a bygone era. Indeed, for a moment Durand felt as though
he were standing in an annex of Antiquités Scientifiques.
Durand formally presented Hannah with her opera glasses and informed her about a number of interesting pieces that might soon be coming into his possession. Finally, he opened his attaché case and in an offhanded tone said, “I stumbled upon some interesting documents a few days ago, Madame Weinberg. I was wondering whether you might have a moment to take a look.”
“What are they?”
“To be honest, I have no idea. I was hoping you might know.”
He handed the sheath of old wax paper to Hannah Weinberg and watched as she removed the delicate sheets of paper.
“It was hidden inside a telescope I purchased a few weeks ago,” he said. “I found it while I was doing some repair work.”
“That’s odd.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Where did the telescope come from?”
“If it’s all right with you, Madame Weinberg, I’d rather not—”
She held up a hand. “Say no more, Monsieur Durand. You owe your clients absolute discretion.”
“Thank you, madame. I knew you would understand. The question is, what is it?”
“The names are clearly Jewish. And it obviously has something to do with money. Each name is assigned a corresponding figure in Swiss francs, along with an eight-digit number of some sort.”
“It looks like wartime paper to me.”
She fingered the edge of one page carefully. “It is. You can tell by the shoddy quality. In fact, it’s a miracle the pages are even intact.”
“And the eight-digit numbers?”
“Hard to say.”
Durand hesitated. “Is it possible they’re account numbers of some sort, Madame Weinberg?”
Hannah Weinberg looked up. “Swiss bank accounts?”
Durand gave a deferential smile. “You’re the expert, madame.”
“I’m not, actually. But it’s certainly plausible.” She studied the pages again. “But who would assemble a list like this? And why?”
“Perhaps you know someone who might be able to answer that question. Someone at the center, for example.”
“We really don’t have anyone who focuses purely on financial matters. And if you’re right about the meaning of the numbers, these documents need to be reviewed by someone who knows a thing or two about Swiss banking.”
“Do you happen to know someone like that, madame?”
“I’m sure I can track down someone qualified.” She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “Is that your wish, Monsieur Durand?”
He nodded. “But I have a small favor. I would appreciate it if you would keep my name out of it. My business, you understand. Some of my clients might—”
“Don’t worry,” Hannah Weinberg said, cutting him off. “Your secret is safe with me, Maurice. This will be strictly entre nous. I give you my word.”
“But you’ll call if you learn anything interesting?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, madame.” Maurice Durand closed his attaché case and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve always loved a good mystery.”
HANNAH WEINBERG stood in the window of her library and watched Maurice Durand recede into the gathering darkness along the rue Pavée. Then she gazed at the list.
Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld…
She wasn’t at all sure she believed Durand’s story. Regardless, she had made a promise. But what to do with the list? She needed an expert. Someone who knew a thing or two about Swiss banks. Someone who knew where the bodies were buried. In some cases, literally.
She opened the top drawer of her writing desk—a desk that had once belonged to her grandfather—and removed a single key. It opened a door at the end of an unlit corridor. The room behind it was a child’s room, Hannah’s old room, frozen in time. A four-poster bed with a lace canopy. Shelves stacked with stuffed animals and toys. A faded pinup of an American heartthrob actor. And hanging above a French provincial dresser, shrouded in heavy shadow, was a painting, Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, by Vincent van Gogh. Several years earlier, she had lent it to a man who was trying to find a terrorist—a man from Israel with the name of an angel. He had given her a number where he could be reached in an emergency or if she needed a favor. Perhaps it was time to renew their relationship.
45
THAMES HOUSE, LONDON
The conference room was preposterously large, as was the gleaming rectangular table that ran nearly the entire length of it. Shamron sat at his assigned place, dwarfed by his executive swivel chair, and gazed across the river toward the Emerald City-like headquarters of MI6. Gabriel sat next to him, hands neatly folded, eyes flickering over the two men opposite. On the left, dressed in an ill-fitting blazer and crumpled gabardine trousers, was Adrian Carter, director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. On the right was Graham Seymour, deputy director of MI5.
The four men seated around the table represented a secret brotherhood of sorts. Though each remained loyal to his own country, their close bond transcended time and the fickle whims of their political masters. They did the unpleasant chores no one else was willing to do and worried about the consequences later. They had fought for one another, killed for one another, and in some cases bled for one another. During multiple joint operations, all conducted under conditions of extreme stress, they had also developed an uncanny ability to sense one another’s thoughts. As a result, it was painfully obvious to both Gabriel and Shamron that there was tension on the Anglo-American side of the table.
“Something wrong, gentlemen?” asked Shamron.
Graham Seymour looked at Carter and frowned. “As our American cousins like to say, I’m in the doghouse.”
“With Adrian?”
“No,” Carter interjected quickly. “We revere Graham. It’s the White House that’s angry with him.”
“Really?” Gabriel looked at Seymour. “That’s quite an accomplishment, Graham. How did you manage that?”
“The Americans had an intelligence failure last night. A significant failure,” he added. “The White House has gone into full damage-control mode. Tempers are flaring. Fingers are pointing. And most of them seem to be pointing at me.”
“What exactly was this failure?”
“A Pakistani citizen who sometimes resides in the United Kingdom attempted to blow himself up on a flight from Copenhagen to Boston. Luckily, he was as incompetent as the last fellow, and international passengers seem to have become quite adept at taking matters into their own hands.”
“So why is anyone angry with you?”
“Good question. We alerted the Americans several months ago that he was associating with known radicals and was probably being groomed for an attack. But according to the White House, I wasn’t forceful enough in my warnings.” Seymour glanced at Carter. “I suppose I could have written an op-ed piece in the New York Times, but I thought that might be a bit excessive.”
Gabriel looked at Carter. “What happened?”
“His name was misspelled by someone on our end when it was entered into the database of suspected militants.”
“So he never made it onto the no-fly list?”
“That’s correct.”
Graham Seymour shook his head in amazement. “There’s a ten-year-old American Boy Scout who can’t get his name off the no-fly list, but I can’t get a known jihadi on it. Quite the contrary, they gave him an open-ended visa and allowed him to get on an airplane with a one-way ticket and explosive powder in his carry-on.”
“Is that true, Adrian?” asked Gabriel.
“In a nutshell,” Carter conceded morosely.
“So why take it out on Graham?”
“Political convenience,” Carter said without hesitation. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are powerful people around our new president who like to pretend there’s no such thing as a war on terror. In fact, I’m no lon
ger allowed to utter those words. So when something does happen…”
“The powerful men around your president go looking for a scapegoat.”
Carter nodded.
“And they picked Graham Seymour?” asked Gabriel incredulously. “A loyal friend and ally who’s been at your side from the beginning of the war on terror?”
“I’ve pointed that out to the president’s counterterrorism adviser, but he’s in no mood to listen. Apparently, his job is less than secure at the moment. As for Graham, he’ll survive. He’s the only person in Western intelligence who’s been in his job longer than I have.”
Seymour’s mobile telephone purred softly. He dispatched the call to his voice mail with the press of a button, then rose from his chair and walked over to the credenza for a cup of coffee. He was dressed, as usual, in a perfectly fitted charcoal gray suit and a regimental tie. His face was even featured, and his full head of hair had a rich silvery cast that made him look like a model one sees in ads for costly but needless trinkets. Though he had worked briefly as a field officer, he had spent the lion’s share of his career toiling behind locked doors at MI5 headquarters. Graham Seymour waged war against Britain’s enemies by attending briefings and reading dossiers. The only light that shone upon his patrician features emanated from his halogen desk lamp. And the only surface his handmade English shoes ever trod upon was the fine woolen carpet stretching between his office and the director-general’s.
“How goes the search for the missing Rembrandt?” Seymour asked.
“It’s evolved.”
“So I’m told.”
“How much do you know, Graham?”
“I know that after leaving Christopher Liddell’s studio with a rubber glove filled with evidence, you headed to Amsterdam. From there, you traveled to Argentina, where, two days later, one of the country’s most important voices of conscience was killed in a bombing.” Seymour paused. “Was it an old enemy or have you already managed to make a new one?”