The Fallen Angel (14 page)

20

KING SAUL BOULEVARD, TEL AVIV

H
E CALLS HIMSELF
D
AVID
G
IRARD
. But like almost everything else about him, it's a lie.”

Gabriel dropped the file folder onto Uzi Navot's preposterously large executive desk. It was fashioned of smoked glass and stood near the floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows overlooking downtown Tel Aviv and the sea. Hazy sunlight filtered through the vertical blinds, imprisoning Navot in bars of shadow. He left the file untouched and with a wave of his hand invited Gabriel to elaborate.

“His real name is Daoud Ghandour. He was born in the village of Tayr Dibba in southern Lebanon, the same town as Imad Mughniyah, which means they probably knew each other when they were growing up.”

“How did he get from a shithole like Tayr Dibba to an antiquities gallery in St. Moritz?”

“The Lebanese way,” replied Gabriel. “In 1970, when Arafat and the PLO set up shop in southern Lebanon, the Ghandour family moved to Beirut. Apparently, Daoud was an exceptionally bright child. He went to a good school and learned to speak French and English. When it came time for him to attend university, he moved to Paris to study ancient history at the Sorbonne.”

“Is that when Daoud Ghandour became David Girard?”

“That wasn't until he moved on to Oxford,” Gabriel answered. “After completing his PhD in classical archaeology, he went to work in the antiquities department of Sotheby's in London. He was there in the late nineties when Sotheby's was accused of selling unprovenanced antiquities. He left London under something of a cloud.”

“And went into business for himself?”

Gabriel nodded.

“How much does it cost to open a gallery in St. Moritz?”

“A lot.”

“Where did he get the money?”

“Good question.”

Gabriel removed a photograph from the file and dealt it across the desktop. It showed a slender figure in his late forties leaning against a glass display case filled with Greek and Etruscan pottery. He wore a dark pullover and a dark blazer. His gaze was soft and thoughtful. His posed smile managed to appear genuine.

“Handsome devil,” said Navot. “Where'd you get the photo?”

“From the Web site of the gallery. His official bio has a couple of glaring holes in it, such as his given name and place of birth.”

“What flavor passport is he carrying these days?”

“Swiss. He has a Swiss wife, too.”

“Which variety?”

“German speaker.”

“How cosmopolitan.” Navot frowned at the photograph. “What do we know about his travel habits?”

“Like most people in the antiquities trade, he spends a great deal of time on airplanes and in hotel rooms.”

“Lebanon?”

“He pops into Beirut at least twice a month.” Gabriel paused, then added, “He also spends a fair amount of time here in Israel.”

Navot looked up sharply but said nothing.

“According to Eli's friends over at the Israel Antiquities Authority, Daoud Ghandour, aka David Girard, is a frequent visitor to the Temple Mount. Actually,” Gabriel corrected himself, “he spends most of his time
under
the Mount.”

“Doing what?”

“He's an unpaid adviser to the Palestinian Authority and the Waqf on issues related to archaeological matters. By the way, that's not in his official bio, either.”

Navot stared at the photo for a moment. “What's your theory?”

“I think he's Hezbollah's man in Carlo's network. He sells looted goods out of his gallery in St. Moritz, sends the profits back home through LBB, and gives a ten percent cut to his godfather Carlo Marchese.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Not yet. Which is why I'm proposing we go into business with him.”

“How?”

“I'm going to offer him something irresistible, and see if he bites.”

“I probably shouldn't ask,” Navot sighed, “but just where do you intend to get something so irresistible?”

“I'm going to steal it, of course.”

“Of course,” said Navot, smiling. “Is there anything you need from me?”

“Money, Uzi. Lots of money.”

 

Office doctrine dictates that field agents departing for missions abroad spend their final night in Israel at a safe flat known as a jump site. There, free from the distractions of spouses, lovers, children, and pets, they assume the identities they will wear like body armor until they return home again. Only Gabriel and Eli Lavon chose not to participate in this enduring operational ritual, for by their own calculation, they had spent more time living under false names than their own.

As it turned out, both chose to pass at least part of that last evening in the company of damaged women. Lavon headed to the Western Wall Tunnel to spend a few hours with his beloved Rivka, while Gabriel made a pilgrimage to the Mount Herzl Psychiatric Hospital to see Leah. As usual, he arrived after normal visiting hours. Leah's doctor was waiting in the lobby. A rabbinical-looking man with a
kippah
and a long gray beard, he was the only person in Israel not connected to the Office who knew precisely what had happened that night in Vienna.

“It's been a while since your last visit.” The doctor gave a forgiving smile. “She's looking forward to seeing you.”

“How is she?”

“The same. At this stage of her life, that's the best we can hope for.”

The doctor took Gabriel by the arm and guided him along a corridor of Jerusalem limestone to a common room with windows overlooking the hospital's garden. It was there, in the shade of a stone pine, that Gabriel had sought Leah's permission to marry Chiara. The moment was only partially imprinted in Leah's watery memory. At times, she seemed to realize that Gabriel was no longer her husband, but for the most part she remained a prisoner of the past. In Leah's bewildered mind, there was nothing unusual about Gabriel's long absences. Thanks to Shamron, he had always entered and departed her world with little or no warning.

She was seated in her wheelchair with the twisted remnants of her hands resting in her lap. Her hair, once long and dark like Chiara's, was now cut institutional short and shot with gray. Gabriel kissed the cool, firm scar tissue of her cheek before lowering himself into the armless little chair the doctor had placed at her side. Leah seemed unaware of his presence. She was staring sightlessly into the darkened garden.

“Do you love this girl?” she asked suddenly, her gaze still straight ahead.

“Which girl?” asked Gabriel. And then, when he realized Leah was merely reliving the conversation that had dissolved their marriage, his heart gave a sideways lurch. “I love you,” he said softly, squeezing her frozen hands. “I'll always love you, Leah.”

A smile briefly graced her lips. Then she looked directly at Gabriel for a moment with an expression of wifely disapproval. “You're working for Shamron again,” she said.

“How can you tell?”

“I can see it in your eyes. You're someone else.”

“I'm Gabriel,” he said.

“Only a part of you is Gabriel.” She turned her face toward the glass.

“Don't go yet, Leah.”

She came back to him. “Who are you fighting this time? Black September?”

“There is no Black September anymore.”

“Who is it then?”

“Hezbollah,” he answered after a moment's hesitation. “It's Hezbollah, Leah.”

The name appeared to mean nothing to her. “Tell me about it,” she said.

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's secret.”

“Like before?”

“Yes, Leah, like before.”

Leah frowned. She hated secrets. Secrets had destroyed her life.

“Where will you go this time?”

“Paris,” Gabriel replied truthfully.

Her expression darkened. “Why Paris?”

“There's a man there who can help me.”

“A spy?”

“A thief.”

“What does he steal?”

“Paintings.”

She seemed genuinely troubled. “Why would a man like you want to work with someone who steals paintings?”

“Sometimes it's necessary to work with bad people to accomplish good things.”

“Is this man bad?”

“Not really.”

“Tell me about him.”

Gabriel could see no harm in it, so he complied with her request. But after a moment, she appeared to lose interest, and her face turned once again toward the window.

“Look at the snow,” she said, gazing at the cloudless evening sky. “Isn't it beautiful?”

“Yes, Leah, it's beautiful.”

Her hands began to tremble. Gabriel closed his eyes.

 

When Gabriel returned to Narkiss Street, he found Chiara stretched on the couch in the half-light, a glass of red wine balanced on her abdomen. She offered him the wine and watched him carefully as he drank, as though searching for evidence of betrayal. Then she led him into the bedroom and wordlessly removed her clothing. Her body was feverishly warm. She made love as though it were for the last time.

“Take me with you to Paris.”

“No.”

She didn't press the issue. She knew there was no point. Not after what had happened in Rome. And not after what had happened in Vienna before that.

“Did she remember you this time?”

“She remembered.”

“Which version of you?”

“Both,” he answered.

Chiara was silent for a moment. Then she asked, “Does she know you love me, Gabriel?”

“She knows.”

A pause. “
Do
you?” she asked.

“What?”

“Love me.”

“Chiara . . .”

She turned her back to him. “I'm sorry,” she said after a moment.

“For what?”

“The baby. If I hadn't lost the baby, you wouldn't be going to Paris without me.”

Gabriel made no reply. Chiara climbed slowly atop his body.

“Do you love me?” she asked again.

“More than anything.”

“Show me.”

“How?”

She kissed his lips and whispered, “Show me, Gabriel.”

21

RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

A
NTIQUITÉS
S
CIENTIFIQUES OCCUPIED A LONELY
outpost at the end of rue de Miromesnil where tourists rarely ventured. There were some in the Parisian antiques trade who had urged its owner, the fastidious Maurice Durand, to relocate to the rue de Rivoli or perhaps even the Champs-Élysées. But Monsieur Durand had always resisted for fear he would spend his days watching overweight Americans pawing his precious antique microscopes, cameras, spectacles, barometers, and surveyors, only to depart the shop empty-handed. Besides, Durand had always preferred his tidy little life at the quiet end of the arrondissement. There was a good brasserie across the street where he took his coffee in the morning and drank his wine at night. And then there was Angélique Brossard, a seller of glass figurines who was always willing to change the sign in her window from
OUVERT
to
FERMÉ
whenever Durand came calling.

But there was another reason why Maurice Durand had resisted the lure of Paris's busier streets. Antiquités Scientifiques, while reasonably profitable, operated largely as a front for his primary occupation. Durand specialized in conveying paintings and other objets d'art from homes, galleries, and museums into the hands of collectors who did not care about meddlesome details such as a clean provenance. There were some in law enforcement who might have described Durand as an art thief, though he would have quibbled with that characterization, for it had been many years since he had actually stolen a painting himself. He now operated solely as a broker in the process known as commissioned theft—or, as Durand liked to describe it, he managed the acquisition of paintings that were not technically for sale. His clients tended to be the sort of men who did not like to be disappointed, and Durand rarely failed them. Working with a stable of Marseille-based professional thieves, he had been the linchpin in some of history's greatest art heists. Topping his list of achievements, at least in monetary terms, was Van Gogh's
Self-Portrait with a Bandaged Ear
. Stolen from the Courtauld Gallery in London, it was now hanging in the palace of a Saudi sheikh who had a penchant for violence involving knives.

But it was Maurice Durand's link to a lesser-known work—
Portrait of a Young Woman
, oil on canvas, by Rembrandt van Rijn—that had led to his unlikely alliance with the secret intelligence service of the State of Israel. After accepting a commission to steal the painting, Durand had discovered that hidden within it was a list of numbered Swiss bank accounts filled with looted assets from the Holocaust. The list had allowed Gabriel to blackmail a Swiss billionaire named Martin Landesmann into sending a shipment of sabotaged industrial centrifuges to his steady customers in the Islamic Republic of Iran. At the conclusion of the operation, Gabriel had decided to take no action against Durand lest the Office ever require the services of a professional thief.

All of which goes some way to explaining why, twenty-four hours after arriving in Paris, Eli Lavon presented himself at the entrance of the little shop at 106 rue de Miromesnil. The buzzer, when pressed, emitted an inhospitable howl. Then the deadbolts snapped open with a thud, and Lavon, shaking the rain from his sodden overcoat, slipped inside.

 

“Stolen anything lately, Monsieur Durand?”

“Not even a kiss, Monsieur Lavon.”

The two men appraised each other for a moment without speaking. They were roughly equals in height and build, but the similarities ended there. While Lavon wore an outfit he called Left Bank revolutionary chic, Durand was impeccably attired in a somber chalk-stripe suit and lavender necktie. His bald head shone like polished glass in the restrained overhead lighting. His dark eyes were expressionless and unblinking.

“How can I assist you?” he asked, as though helping Lavon was the last thing in the world he wished to do.

“I'm looking for something special,” Lavon replied.

“Well, then, you've certainly come to the right place.” Durand walked over to a display case filled with microscopes. “This just arrived,” he said, running his hand over one of the instruments. “It was made by Nachet & Sons of Paris in 1890. The optics and mechanics are all in good condition. So is the walnut case.”

“Not that kind of something, Monsieur Durand.”

Durand's hand had yet to move from the oxidized surface of the microscope. “It seems my debt has come due,” he said.

“You make us sound like blackmailers,” Lavon said, hoisting his most benevolent smile. “But I assure you that's not the case.”

“What do you want?”

“Your expertise.”

“It's expensive.”

“Don't worry, Maurice. Money isn't the problem.”

 

The rain chased them across the Place de la Concorde and along the Seine embankments. It was not the pleasing Parisian rain of songwriters and poets but a frigid torrent that clawed its way through their overcoats. Durand, thoroughly miserable, pleaded for the warmth of a taxi, but Lavon wanted to make certain they were not being followed, and so they slogged on. Finally, they entered the foyer of a luxury apartment building overlooking the Pont Marie and climbed the spiral staircase to a flat on the fourth floor. Seated in the living room, looking comfortable and relaxed, was Gabriel. With only a slight movement of his emerald-colored eyes, he invited Durand to join him. The Frenchman hesitated. Then, after receiving a nudge from Lavon, he approached with the slowness of a condemned man being led to the gallows.

“You obviously recognize me,” Gabriel said, watching Durand intently as he settled into his seat. “That's usually a liability in our business. But not in this case.”

“How so?”

“Because you know I'm a professional, just like you. You also know I'm not someone who would waste valuable time by making idle threats.”

Gabriel looked down at the coffee table. On it were two matching attaché cases.

“Time bombs?” asked Durand.

“Your future.” Gabriel placed his hand on one of the attaché cases. “This one contains enough evidence to put a man in prison for the rest of his life.”

“And the other?”

“One million euros in cash.”

“What do I have to do for it?”

Gabriel smiled. “What you do best.”