The Fallen Angel

22 QUAI DES CÉLESTINS, PARIS

THERE WAS A BOTTLE OF Armagnac on the sideboard. After hearing Gabriel’s proposal, Maurice Durand poured himself a very large glass. He hesitated before drinking it.

“Don’t worry, Maurice,” said Gabriel reassuringly. “We save the poisoned brandy for special occasions.”

Durand took a guarded sip. “There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he said after a moment. “Why not just steal this object yourself or borrow an item from one of your museums?”

“Because I’m going to tell a story,” replied Gabriel. “And like all good stories, it requires verisimilitude. If an object of great value were to appear suddenly out of thin air, our target would rightly suspect a trap. But if he believes the object has recently been stolen by a band of thieves with a long track record . . .”

“He will assume he’s dealing with professional criminals rather than professional spies.”

Gabriel was silent.

“How clever,” Durand said, raising his glass a fraction of an inch in a mock toast. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“A red-figure Attic vessel, fourth or fifth century BC, something large enough to turn heads on the illicit market.”

“Would you like it to come from a public source or private?”

“Private,” replied Gabriel. “No museums.”

“It’s not as difficult as you think.”

“Robbing a museum?”

Durand nodded.

“But it would be bad manners.”

“Suit yourself.” Durand sat down and stared into his drink thoughtfully. “There’s a villa outside Saint-Tropez. It’s located on the Baie de Cavalaire, not far from the estate that used to be owned by that Russian oligarch. His name escapes me.”

“Ivan Kharkov?”

“Yes, that’s him. Know him?”

“Only by reputation.”

“He was killed outside his favorite restaurant in Saint-Tropez. Very messy.”

“So I heard. But you were telling me about his neighbor’s house.”

“It’s not as big as Ivan’s old place, but its owner has impeccable taste.”

“Who is he?”

“Belgian,” said Durand disdainfully. “He inherited an industrial fortune and is doing his level best to spend every last centime of it. A couple of years ago, we relieved him of a Cézanne. It was a replacement job.”

“You left a copy behind.”

“Quite a good one, actually. In fact, our Belgian friend apparently still believes the painting is genuine because to my knowledge he’s never reported the theft to the police.”

“What was it?”

“The House of the Jas de Bouffan.”

“Who handled the forgery?”

“You have your secrets, Mr. Allon, I have mine.”

“Go on.”

“The Belgian has several other Cézannes. He also has a very impressive collection of antiquities. One piece in particular is quite lovely, a terra-cotta hydria by the Amykos Painter, fifth century BC. It depicts two young women presenting gifts to two nude male athletes. Very sensual.”

“You obviously know your Greek pottery.”

“It is a passion of mine.”

“How often is the Belgian at the villa?”

“July and August,” Durand said. “The rest of the year it’s unoccupied except for the caretaker. He has a small cottage on the property.”

“What about security?”

“Surely a man such as yourself realizes there’s no such thing as security. As long as there are no surprises, my men will be in and out of the house within a few minutes. And you will have your Greek pot in short order.”

“I think I’d like a Cézanne, too.”

“Verisimilitude?”

“It’s all in the details, Maurice.”

Durand smiled. He was a detail man himself.

He made but one request, that they resist the temptation to monitor his movements as he went about the business of fulfilling their contract. They readily agreed, despite the fact they had absolutely no intention of living up to their end of the bargain. Maurice Durand had once stolen several hundred million dollars’ worth of paintings in the span of a single summer. One could utilize the services of a criminal like Durand, but only a fool would ever turn his back on him.

For three days, he kept to his beau quartier at the northern end of the eighth arrondissement. His schedule, like his shop, was filled with pleasant oddities from another time. He drank two café crèmes each morning at the same table of the same brasserie with no company other than a stack of newspapers, which he purchased from the same tabac. After that, he would cross the narrow street and, at the stroke of ten, disappear into his gilded little cage. Occasionally, he was obliged to open its doors to a client or a deliveryman, but for the most part Durand’s confinement remained solitary. Lunch was taken at one and lasted until half past two, when he would return to the shop for the remainder of the afternoon. At five, he would pay a brief visit to Madame Brossard. Then it was back to his table at the brasserie for a glass of Côtes du Rhône, which he drank always with an air of supreme contentment.

For those unlucky souls who were forced to keep watch over this seemingly charmed life, Maurice Durand was the subject of both endless fascination and passionate resentment. Not surprisingly, there were a few members of the team, most notably Yaakov, who believed that Gabriel had erred by placing the opening stage of the operation in the hands of such a man. “Look at the watch reports,” Yaakov demanded over dinner at the team’s primary safe flat near the Bois de Boulogne. “It’s obvious that Maurice has salted away our million euros and has no intention of ever delivering the goods.” Gabriel, however, was unconcerned. Durand had shown himself in the past to be a man of some principle. “He’s also a natural thief,” said Gabriel. “And there’s nothing a thief enjoys more than stealing from the very rich.”

Gabriel’s faith was rewarded the following morning, when Unit 8200 overheard Durand booking first-class accommodations on the midday TGV train to Marseille. Yaakov and Oded made the trip with him, and at five that evening, they observed their quarry make a mildly clandestine meeting in the Old Port with a local fisherman. Later, they would identify the “fisherman” as Pascal Rameau, leader of one of Marseille’s many criminal organizations.

It was at this point that the operation appeared to gather its first momentum, for within twenty-four hours of Durand’s visit, members of Rameau’s crew were casing the Belgian’s lavish villa. Gabriel knew this because two members of his own crew, Yossi and Rimona, had taken a short-term lease on a villa in the hills above the property and were watching it constantly with the help of long-lens cameras and video recorders. They never saw Rameau’s men again. But two nights later, as a violent storm laid siege to the entire length of the Côte d’Azur, they were awakened by the wail of sirens along the coast road. For the next several hours, they watched blue lights flashing despondently in the drive of the Belgian’s seaside palace. The police scanner told them everything they needed to know. One Cézanne, one Greek vase, no arrests. C’est la vie.

It was in all the papers, which is exactly what they had hoped for. The Cézanne was the main attraction; the Greek vase, a lovely hydria by the Amykos Painter, a mere afterthought. The distraught Belgian