'Haven't you heard, Eli? I'm retired.'
'If you're retired, why are we walking down an Amsterdam street on a freezing night?' Greeted by silence, Lavon answered his own question. 'Because it never ends, does it, Gabriel? If Shamron had tried to lure you out of retirement to hunt down a terrorist, you would have sent him packing. But this is different, isn't it? You can still see that tattoo on your mother's arm, the one she always tried to hide.'
'Have you finished psychoanalyzing me, Professor Lavon?'
'I know you better than anyone in the world, Gabriel. Even better than that pretty girl walking behind us. I'm the closest thing to family you have—other than Shamron, of course.' Lavon paused. 'He sends his best, by the way.'
'How is he?'
'Miserable. It seems the sun is finally setting on the era of Shamron. He's puttering around his villa in Tiberias with nothing to do. Apparently, he's driving Gilah to distraction. She's not at all sure how much longer she can put up with him.'
'I thought Uzi's promotion meant Shamron would have carte blanche at King Saul Boulevard.'
'So did Shamron. But much to everyone's surprise, Uzi's decided he wants to be his own man. I had lunch with him a few weeks ago. Bella's given the poor boy quite a makeover. He looks more like a corporate CEO than an Office chief.'
'Did my name come up?'
'Only in passing. Something tells me Uzi likes the fact you're hiding at the end of the earth in Cornwall.' Lavon gave him a sideways glance. 'Any regrets about not taking the job?'
'I never wanted the job, Eli. And I'm genuinely pleased for Uzi.'
'But he might not be so pleased to hear you're thinking of running off to Argentina to talk to the son of Adolf Eichmann's right-hand man.'
'What Uzi doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, it's an in-and-out job.'
'Where have I heard that one before?' Lavon smiled. 'If you want my opinion, Gabriel, I think the Rembrandt is probably long gone. But if you're convinced Peter Voss might be able to help, let me go to Argentina.'
'You're right about one thing, Eli. I can still see that tattoo on my mother's arm.'
Lavon exhaled heavily. 'At least let me make a phone call and see if I can arrange the meeting. I wouldn't want you to go all the way to Mendoza to be turned away empty-handed.'
'Quietly, Eli.'
'I don't know any other way. Just promise me you'll watch your step down there. Argentina is filled with the sort of people who would love nothing better than to see your head on a stick.'
They had reached Plantage Middenlaan. Gabriel led Lavon into a side street and stopped before the narrow little house with the narrow black door. Lena Herzfeld, the child of darkness, sat alone in a gleaming white room without memory.
'Do you remember what Shamron told us about coincidences when we were kids, Eli?'
'He told us that only idiots and dead men believed in them.'
'What do you think Shamron would have to say about the disappearance of a Rembrandt that had once been in the hands of Kurt Voss?'
'He wouldn't like it.'
'Can you keep an eye on her while I'm in Argentina? I'd never forgive myself if anything happened. She's suffered enough already.'
'I was already planning to stay.'
'Be careful around her, Eli. She's fragile.'
'They're all fragile,' Lavon said. 'And she'll never even know I'm here.'
28
AMSTERDAM
Zentrum Security of Zurich, Switzerland, operated by a simple creed. For the right amount of money, and under the proper circumstances, it would undertake almost any task. Its investigative division conducted inquiries and background checks into businesses and individuals. A counterterrorism unit provided advice on asset hardening and published an authoritative daily newsletter on current global threat levels. A personal protection unit provided uniformed security guards for businesses and plain-clothes bodyguards for individuals. Zentrum's computer security division was regarded as among Europe's finest while its international consultants provided entree to firms wishing to do business in dangerous corners of the world. It operated its own private bank and maintained a vault beneath the Talstrasse used for storage of sensitive client assets. At last estimate, the value of the items contained in the vault exceeded ten billion dollars.
Filling Zentrum's various divisions with qualified staff provided a unique challenge since the company did not accept applications for employment. The process of recruitment never varied. Zentrum talent spotters identified targets of interest; then, without the target's knowledge, Zentrum investigators conducted a quiet but invasive background check. If the target was deemed 'Zentrum material,' a team of recruiters would swoop in for the kill. Their task was made easier by the fact that Zentrum's salaries and perks far exceeded those of the overt business world. Indeed, Zentrum executives could count on one hand the number of targets who had turned them down. The firm's workforce was highly educated, multinational, and multiethnic. Most employees had spent time in the military, law enforcement, or the intelligence services of their respective countries. Zentrum recruiters demanded fluency in at least three languages, though German was the language of the workplace and was therefore a requirement for employment. Resignations were almost unheard of, and terminated employees rarely found work again.
Like the intelligence services it sought to emulate, Zentrum had two faces—one it reluctantly showed the world, another it kept carefully hidden. This covert branch of Zentrum handled what were euphemistically referred to as special tasks: blackmail, bribery, intimidation, industrial espionage, and 'account termination.' The name of the unit never appeared in Zentrum's files nor was it spoken in Zentrum's offices. The select few who knew of the unit's existence referred to it as the Cellar Group, or Kellergruppe, and its chief as the Kellermeister. For the past fifteen years, that position had been held by the same man, Ulrich Muller.
The two operatives Muller had sent to Amsterdam were among his most experienced. One was a German who specialized in all things audio; the other was a Swiss with a flair for photography. Shortly after six p.m., the Swiss operative snapped a photo of the trim Israeli with gray temples gliding through the entrance of the Ambassade Hotel, accompanied by the tall, dark-haired woman. A moment later, the German raised his parabolic microphone and aimed it toward the third-floor window on the left side of the hotel's facade. The Israeli appeared there briefly and stared into the street. The Swiss snapped one final picture, then watched as the curtains closed with a snap.
29
MONTMARTRE, PARIS
The steps of the rue Chappe were damp with morning drizzle. Maurice Durand stood at the summit, kneading the patch of pain in his lower back, then made his way through the narrow streets of Montmartre to an apartment house on the rue Ravignan. He peered up at the large windows of the unit on the top floor for a moment before lowering his gaze to the intercom. Five of the names were neatly typed. The sixth was rendered in distinctive script:
For a single night, twenty-two years earlier, the name had been on the lips of every important collector in Paris. Even Durand, who normally kept a discreet distance from the legitimate art world, felt compelled to attend Morel's auspicious debut. The collectors pronounced Morel a genius—a worthy successor to such greats as Picasso, Matisse, and Vuillard—and by evening's end every canvas in the gallery was spoken for. But that all
