The Heist (28 page)

They were supposed to be on holiday, thus the paperback novels lying open on the lounge chairs, and the badminton birdies scattered across the lawn, and the gleaming wooden motorboat, rented for the princely sum of twenty-five thousand a week, dozing at the end of the long dock. Inside the villa, however, it was all business. The walls of the dining room were hung with maps and surveillance photographs, and resting upon the formal table were several open notebook computers. On the screen of one was a static shot of a modern glass-and-steel mansion located in the hills above Linz. On another was the entrance of Bank Weber AG. At ten minutes past five, Herr Weber himself emerged from the doorway and climbed into a sensible BMW sedan. Two minutes later, there appeared a young girl who was so pale and pretty she looked scarcely real. And after the young girl came Jihan Nawaz. She hurried across the little square and stepped aboard a waiting streetcar. And though she did not realize it, the man with pockmarked skin seated across the aisle from her was an Israeli intelligence officer named Yaakov Rossman. Together they rode the tram to the Mozartstrasse, each staring into a private space, and then went their separate ways—Yaakov to the west, Jihan to the east. When she arrived at her apartment building, she saw Dina Sarid dismounting her shiny blue motor scooter on the opposite side of the street. The two women exchanged a fleeting smile. Then Jihan entered her building and climbed the stairs to her flat. Two minutes later, a message appeared on her Twitter feed, stating that she was thinking about running over to Bar Vanilli for a drink later that evening. There were no responses.

For the next three days, the two women floated through the tranquil streets of Linz along lines that did not meet. There was a near encounter on the promenade outside the Museum of Modern Art and a brief meeting of their eyes in the stalls of Alter Markt. But otherwise, fate seemed to conspire to keep them apart. They seemed destined to remain neighbors who did not speak, strangers who gazed at one another across a gulf that could not be bridged.

But unbeknownst to Jihan Nawaz, their eventual meeting was preordained. In fact, it was being actively plotted by a group of men and women operating from a beautiful villa along the shore of a lake twenty miles to the southwest. It was not a question of whether the two women would meet, only of when. All the team required was one more piece of evidence.

It arrived at dawn on the fourth day, when they overheard Hamid Khaddam, the London-based lawyer for LXR Investments, opening a pair of accounts at a dubious bank in the Cayman Islands. Afterward, he rang Waleed al-Siddiqi at his home in Linz and told him the accounts were now ready to receive funds. The money arrived twenty-four hours later, in a transaction that was monitored by the computer hackers of Unit 8200. The first account received $20 million in funds that flowed through Bank Weber AG. The second received $25 million.

Which left only the time, place, and circumstances of the meeting between the two women. The time would be half past five the following afternoon; the place would be the Pfarrplatz. Dina was seated outside at Café Meier, reading a tattered copy of
The Remains of the Day
, when Jihan walked past her table alone, a shopping bag dangling from her hand. She stopped suddenly, turned around, and walked over to the table.

“That’s such a coincidence,” she said in German.

“What’s that?” replied Dina in the same language.

“You’re reading my favorite book.”

“Whatever you do, don’t tell me how it ends.” Dina placed the novel on the table and held out her hand. “I’m Ingrid,” she said. “I believe I live across the street from you.”

“I believe you do. I’m Jihan.” She smiled. “Jihan Nawaz.”

T
HEY WALKED TO A SMALL
place not far from their apartments where they could get wine. Dina ordered an Austrian Riesling, knowing full well that, like
The Remains of the Day
, Riesling was Jihan’s favorite. The waiter filled their glasses and departed. Jihan raised hers and made a toast to a new friendship. Then she smiled awkwardly, as though she feared she had been presumptuous. She seemed eager, nervous.

“You haven’t been in Linz long,” she said.

“Ten days,” replied Dina.

“And where were you before?”

“I lived in Berlin.”

“Berlin is very different from Linz.”

“Very,” agreed Dina.

“So why did you come here?” Jihan gave another awkward smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry. It’s my worst fault.”

“Prying into other people’s affairs?”

“I’m hopelessly nosy,” she replied, nodding. “Feel free to tell me to mind my own business at any time.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Dina stared into her glass. “My husband and I were divorced recently. I decided I needed a change of pace, so I came here.”

“Why Linz?”

“My family and I used to spend summers in Upper Austria on a lake. I’ve always loved it here.”

“Which lake?”

“The Attersee.”

The long shadow of a church bell tower was stretching across the street toward their table. Yossi Gavish and Rimona Stern passed through it, laughing, as though sharing a private joke. The recently divorced Ingrid Roth seemed saddened by the sight of a happy couple. Jihan seemed annoyed.

“But you weren’t raised in Germany, were you, Ingrid?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You don’t sound like a native German speaker.”

“My father worked in New York,” Dina explained. “I grew up in Manhattan. When I was young, I refused to speak German at home. I thought it was totally uncool.”

If Jihan found the explanation suspicious, she gave no sign of it. “Are you working in Linz?” she asked.

“I suppose that depends on how you define working.”

“I define it as going to an office each morning.”

“Then I’m definitely not working.”

“So why are you here?”

I’m here because of you
, thought Dina. Then she explained that she had come to Linz to work on a novel.

“You’re a writer?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s your book about?”

“It’s a story of unrequited love.”

“Like Stevens and Miss Kenton?” Jihan nodded toward the novel that lay on the table between them.

“A little.”

“Is the story set here in Linz?”

“Vienna, actually,” replied Dina. “During the war.”

“World War Two?”

Dina nodded.

“Are your characters Jewish?”

“One is.”

“The boy or the girl?”

“The boy.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you Jewish, Ingrid?”

“No, Jihan,” said Dina. “I’m not Jewish.”

Jihan’s face remained expressionless.

“And what about you?” asked Dina, changing the subject.

“I’m not Jewish, either,” answered Jihan with a smile.

“And you’re not from Austria.”

“I grew up in Hamburg.”

“And before that?”

“I was born in the Middle East.” She paused, then added, “In Syria.”

“Such a terrible war,” Dina said distantly.

“If it’s all right with you, Ingrid, I’d rather not discuss the war. It depresses me.”

“Then we shall pretend the war doesn’t exist.”

“At least for now.” Jihan drew a packet of cigarettes from her handbag; and when she lit one, Dina could see her hand was trembling slightly. The first inhalation of tobacco seemed to calm her.

“Aren’t you going to ask
me
what I’m doing in Linz?”

“What are you doing in Linz, Jihan?”

“A man from my country bought a stake in a small private bank here. He needed someone on his staff who spoke Arabic.”

“Which bank?”

Jihan answered truthfully.

“I assume the man from your country isn’t named Weber,” Dina remarked.

“No.” Jihan hesitated, then said, “His name is Waleed al-Siddiqi.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

Jihan seemed grateful for the change of subject. “I’m the account manager.”

“Sounds important.”

“I can assure you it isn’t. Primarily, I open and close accounts for our clients. I also oversee transactions with other banks and financial institutions.”

“Is it as secretive as everyone says?”

“Austrian banking?”

Dina nodded.

Jihan adopted a stern expression. “Bank Weber takes the privacy of its clients very seriously.”

“That sounds like a slogan from a brochure.”

Jihan smiled. “It is.”

“And what about Mr. al-Siddiqi?” asked Dina. “Does he take the privacy of his clients seriously, too?”

Jihan’s smile evaporated. She drew on her cigarette and glanced nervously around the empty street.

“I need to ask a favor, Ingrid,” she said at last.

“Anything.”

“Please don’t ask me any questions about Mr. al-Siddiqi. In fact, I would prefer it if you never mention his name again.”

Thirty minutes later, in the Attersee safe house, Gabriel and Eli Lavon were seated before a laptop computer, listening as the two women parted in the street outside their opposing apartment buildings. When Dina was safely in her flat, Gabriel slid the toggle bar of the audio player back to the beginning and listened to the entire encounter a second time. Then he listened to it again. He might have replayed it a fourth time had Eli Lavon not reached out and clicked the
STOP
icon.

“I told you she was the one,” Lavon said.

Gabriel frowned. Then he set the toggle bar to 5:47 p.m. and clicked
PLAY
.

“
Are your characters Jewish?
”

“
One is
.”

“
The boy or the girl?
”

“
The boy
.”

“
And you?
”

“
What about me?
”

“
Are you Jewish, Ingrid?
”

“
No, Jihan. I’m not Jewish
.”

Gabriel clicked
STOP
and looked at Lavon.

“You can’t have everything, Gabriel. Besides, this is the important part.”

Lavon slid the toggle bar forward and pressed
PLAY
again.

“
I open and close accounts for our clients. I also oversee transactions with other banks and financial institutions
.”

STOP.

“Do you see my point?” asked Lavon.

“I’m not sure you’ve made one.”

“Flirt with her. Make her feel comfortable. And then bring her in for a landing. But whatever you do,” Lavon added, “don’t take too long. I wouldn’t want Mr. al-Siddiqi to find out that Jihan has a new girlfriend who may or may not be Jewish.”

“Do you think he’d mind?”

“He might.”

“So how should we proceed?”

Lavon moved the toggle bar forward and clicked
PLAY
.

“
It was a pleasure to meet you, Ingrid. I’m only sorry we didn’t get together sooner
.”

“
Let’s not let another ten days go by
.”

“
Are you free for lunch tomorrow?
”

“
I usually work during lunch
.”

Lavon clicked
STOP
.

“I think Ingrid’s been working too hard, don’t you?”

“It might be dangerous to break the rhythm of her writing routine.”

“Sometimes a change can help. Who knows? She might be inspired to write a different novel.”

“What’s the story line?”

“It’s about a girl who decides to betray her boss when she finds out he’s hiding money for the worst man in the world.”

“How does it end?”

“The good guys win.”

“Does the girl get hurt?”

“Send the message, Gabriel.”

Gabriel quickly dispatched an encrypted e-mail to Dina instructing her to make a lunch date with Jihan Nawaz for the following afternoon. Then he reset the toggle and pressed
PLAY
a final time.

“
And what about Mr. al-Siddiqi? Does he take the privacy of his clients seriously, too?
”

“
I need to ask a favor, Ingrid
.”

“
Anything
.”

“
Please don’t ask me any questions about Mr. al-Siddiqi. In fact, I would prefer it if you never mention his name again
.”

STOP.

“She knows,” said Lavon. “The only question is, how much?”

“I suspect it’s just enough to get her killed.”

“Hama Rules?”

Gabriel nodded slowly.

“Then I suppose that leaves us with only one option.”

“What’s that, Eli?”

“We’ll have to play by Hama Rules, too.”

The two women had lunch the next day at Ikaan, and the evening after that they had drinks at Bar Vanilli. Gabriel allowed two more days to pass without additional contact, in part because he needed to move a certain asset from Israel to the Attersee, namely, Uzi Navot. Then, on the Thursday of that week, Jihan and Dina had an accidental meeting in the Alter Markt that was not an accident at all. Jihan invited Dina for a coffee, but Dina apologized and said she had to get back to her writing.

“But are you doing anything on Saturday?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“Some friends of mine are having a party.”

“What kind of party?”

“Food, drinks, boat rides on the lake—the usual thing people do on a Saturday afternoon in the summertime.”

“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

“You won’t be. In fact,” Dina added, “I’m quite certain my friends will make you the guest of honor.”

Jihan smiled. “I’m going to need a new dress.”

“And a swimsuit,” said Dina.

“Will you come shopping with me now?”

“Of course.”

“What about your book?”

“There’ll be time for that later.”

T
HEY HAD TWO TRANSPORTATION OPTIONS:
Dina’s little motor scooter or Jihan’s fickle Volvo. They chose the fickle Volvo. It rattled out of the Innere Stadt a few minutes after noon, and by half past they had put the last suburbs of Linz behind them and were speeding through the Salzkammergut on the A1. The weather had conspired to create the illusion of gaiety. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, and the air that flowed through their open windows was cool and soft. Jihan wore the white sleeveless dress that Dina had chosen for her and wide movie-starlet sunglasses that concealed the plainness of her features. Her nails were freshly painted; her scent was warm and intoxicating. It filled Dina with guilt. She had given false happiness to a lonely and friendless woman. It was, she thought, the ultimate feminine betrayal.