Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (102 page)

S
TAATSSEKRETÄR
D
R
. B
ÜHLER
, O
FFICE OF THE
G
ENERAL
G
OVERNMENT

U
NTERSTAATSSEKRETÄR
D
R
. L
UTHER
, F
OREIGN
O
FFICE

Gabriel looked up at Lavon. “Luther was at Wannsee?”

“Indeed, he was. And he got exactly what he so desperately wanted. Heydrich mandated that the Foreign Office would play a pivotal role in facilitating deportations of Jews from countries allied with Nazi Germany and from German satellites such as Croatia and Slovakia.”

“I thought the SS handled the deportations.”

“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

O
N 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.”