Perhaps it explained the silence that descended on those who had survived. Perhaps they had been mercifully released from the pain of their memories as a means of self-preservation. One idea turned ceaselessly in his thoughts: If Radek had murdered his mother that day in Poland instead of two other girls, he would have never existed. He, too, began to feel the guilt of survival.
He was certain of only one thing-he was not ready to forget. And so he was pleased when one of Lev’s acolytes telephoned one afternoon and wondered whether he would be willing to write an official history of the affair. Gabriel accepted, on the condition that he also produce a sanitized version of the events to be kept in the archives at Yad Vashem. There was a good deal of back and forth about when such a document could be made public. A release date of forty years hence was set, and Gabriel went to work.
He wrote at the kitchen table, on a notebook computer supplied by the Office. Each evening he locked the computer in a floor safe concealed beneath the living room couch. He had no experience writing, so, instinctively, he approached the project as though it were a painting. He started with an underdrawing, broad and amorphous, then slowly added layers of paint. He used a simple palette, and his brush technique was careful. As the days wore on, Radek’s face returned to him, as clearly as it had been rendered by the hand of his mother.
He would work until the early afternoon, then take a break and walk over to the Hadassah University Hospital, where, after a month of unconsciousness, Eli Lavon was showing signs that he might be emerging from his coma. Gabriel would sit with Lavon for an hour or so and talk to him about the case. Then he would return to the flat and work until dark.
On the day he completed the report, he lingered at the hospital until early evening and happened to be there when Lavon’s eyes opened. Lavon stared blankly into space for a moment, then the old inquisitiveness returned to his gaze, and it flickered around the unfamiliar surroundings of the hospital room before finally settling on Gabriel’s face.
“Where are we? Vienna?”
“ Jerusalem.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m working on a report for the Office.”
“About what?”
“The capture of a Nazi war criminal named Erich Radek.”
“Radek?”
“He was living in Vienna under the name Ludwig Vogel.”
Lavon smiled. “Tell me everything,” he murmured, but before Gabriel could say another word he was gone again.
WHEN GABRIEL RETURNED to the flat that evening, the light was winking on the answering machine. He pressed the Play button and heard the voice of Moshe Rivlin.
“The prisoner of Abu Kabir would like a word. I’d tell him to go to hell. It’s your call.”
40 JAFFA, ISRAEL
THE DETENTION CENTER was surrounded by a high wall the color of sandstone topped by coils of razor wire. Gabriel presented himself at the outer entrance early the following morning and was admitted without delay. To reach the interior, he had to travel a narrow, fenced passage that reminded him too much of the Road to Heaven at Treblinka. A warder awaited him at the other end. He led Gabriel silently into the secure lockup, then into a windowless interrogation room with bare cinderblock walls. Radek was seated statuelike at the table, dressed for his testimony in a dark suit and tie. His hands were cuffed and folded on the table. He acknowledged Gabriel with an almost imperceptible nod of his head but remained seated.
“Remove the handcuffs,” Gabriel said to the warder.
“It’s against policy.”
Gabriel glared at the warder, and a moment later, the cuffs were gone.
“You do that very well,” Radek said. “Was that another psychological ploy on your part? Are you trying to demonstrate your dominion over me?”
Gabriel pulled out the crude iron chair and sat down. “I wouldn’t think that under these conditions a demonstration like that would be necessary.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Radek said. “Still, I do admire the way you handled the entire affair. I would like to think I would have done as well.”
“For whom?” Gabriel asked. “The Americans or the Russians?”
“You’re referring to the allegations made in Paris by that idiot Belov?”
“Are they true?”
Radek regarded Gabriel in silence, and for just a few seconds some of the old steel returned to his blue eyes. “When one plays the game as long as I did, one makes so many alliances, and engages in so much deception, that in the end it’s sometimes difficult to know where the truth and the lies part company.”
“Belov seems certain he knows the truth.”
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s the certainty of a fool. You see, Belov was in no position to know the truth.” Radek changed the subject. “I assume you’ve seen the papers this morning?”
Gabriel nodded.
“His margin of victory was larger than expected. Apparently, my arrest had something to do with it. Austrians have never liked outsiders meddling in their affairs.”
“You’re not gloating, are you?”
“Of course not,” Radek said. “I’m only sorry I didn’t drive a harder bargain at Treblinka. Perhaps I shouldn’t have agreed so easily. I’m not so certain Peter’s campaign would have been derailed by the revelations about my past.”
“There are some things that are politically unpalatable, even in a country like Austria.”
“You underestimate us, Allon.”
Gabriel permitted a silence to fall between them. He was already beginning to regret his decision to come. “Moshe Rivlin said you wanted to see me,” he said dismissively. “I don’t have much time.”
Radek sat a little straighter in his chair. “I was wondering whether you might do me the professional courtesy of answering a couple of questions.”
“That depends on the questions. You and I are in different professions, Radek.”
“Yes,” Radek said. “I was an agent of American intelligence, and you are an assassin.”
Gabriel stood to leave. Radek put up a hand. “Wait,” he said. “Sit down. Please.”
Gabriel returned to his seat.
“The man who telephoned my house the night of the kidnapping-”
“You mean your arrest?”
Radek dipped his head. “All right, myarrest. I assume he was an imposter?”
Gabriel nodded.
“He was very good. How did he manage to impersonate Kruz so well?”
“You don’t expect me to answer that, do you, Radek?” Gabriel looked at his watch. “I hope you didn’t bring me all the way to Jaffa to ask me one question.”
“No,” Radek said. “There is one other thing I’d like to know. When we were at Treblinka, you mentioned that I had taken part in the evacuation of prisoners from Birkenau.”
Gabriel interrupted him. “Can we please, at long last, drop the euphemisms, Radek? It wasn’t anevacuation. It was a death march.”
Radek was silent for a moment. “You also mentioned that I personally killed some of the prisoners.”
“I know you murdered at least two girls,” Gabriel said. “I’m sure there were more.”
Radek closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Therewere more,” he said distantly. “Manymore. I remember that day as though it were last week. I had known the end was coming for some time, but seeing that line of prisoners marching toward the Reich… I knew then that it was Gotterdammerung. It was truly the Twilight of the Gods.”
