Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (164 page)

After clearing passport control, Becker and Navot made their way into the arrivals hall. There, standing amid the crowds, was a tall, reedy surveillance specialist called Mordecai. He wore a drab black suit and held a cardboard sign that read BAUER. His car, a large black Mercedes sedan, was waiting in short-term parking. Two spaces away was a silver Audi hatchback. The keys were in Zalman’s pocket.

Zalman gave them wide berth during the drive into Vienna. He dialed the Munich safe flat, and with a few carefully chosen words let Shamron know that Navot and Becker were on time and proceeding toward the target. By 4:45, Mordecai had reached the Danube Canal. By 4:50, he had crossed the line into the First District and was making his way through the rush-hour traffic along the Ringstrasse. He turned right, into a narrow cobblestone street, then made the first left. A moment later, he drew to a stop in front of Erich Radek’s ornate iron gate. Zalman slipped past on the left and kept driving.

“FLASH THE LIGHTS,” Becker said, “and the bodyguard will admit you.”

Mordecai did as he was told. The gate remained motionless for several tense seconds; then there was a sharp metallic clank, followed by the grind of a motor engaging. As the gate swung slowly open, Radek’s bodyguard appeared at the front door, the intense light of a chandelier blazing around his head and shoulders like a halo. Mordecai waited until the gate was fully open before easing forward into the small horseshoe drive.

Navot climbed out first, then Becker. The banker shook the bodyguard’s hand and introduced “my associate from Zurich, Herr Oskar Lange.” The bodyguard nodded and gestured for them to come inside. The front door closed.

Mordecai looked at his watch: 4:58. He picked up his cell phone and dialed a Vienna number.

“I’m going to be late for dinner,” he said.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

A FEW SECONDS LATER, in Munich, the signal flashed across Shamron’s computer screen. Shamron looked at his watch.

“How long are you going to give them?” Carter asked.

“Five minutes,” Shamron said, “and not a second more.”

THE BLACK AUDI sedan with a tall antenna mounted to the trunk was parked a few streets over. Zalman pulled in behind it, then climbed out and walked to the passenger door. Oded was seated behind the wheel, a compact man with soft brown eyes and a pugilist’s flattened nose. Zalman, settling in next to him, could smell tension on his breath. Zalman had had the advantage of activity that afternoon; Oded had been trapped in the Vienna safe flat with nothing to do but daydream about the consequences of failure. A cell phone lay on the seat, the connection already open to Munich. Zalman could hear Shamron’s steady breathing. A picture formed in his mind—a younger version of Shamron marching through a drenching Argentine rain, Eichmann stepping off a city bus and walking toward him from the opposite direction. Oded started the car engine. Zalman was hauled back to the present. He glanced at the dashboard clock:
5:03
…

THE E461, BETTER known to Austrians as the Brünnerstrasse, is a two-lane road that runs north from Vienna through the rolling hills of the
Weinviertel,
Austria’s wine country. It is fifty miles to the Czech border. There is a crossing, sheltered by a high arching canopy, usually manned by two guards who are reluctant to leave the comfort of their aluminum and glass hut to carry out even the most cursory inspection of outgoing vehicles. On the Czech side of the crossing, the examination of travel documents typically takes a bit longer, though traffic from Austria is generally welcomed with open arms.

One mile across the border, anchored to the hills of South Moravia, stands the ancient town of Mikulov. It is a border town, with a border town’s siege mentality. It suited Gabriel’s mood. He stood behind the brick parapet of a medieval castle, high above the red-tile roofs of the old city, beneath a pair of wind-bent pine. The cold rain beaded like tears on the surface of his oilskin coat. His gaze was down the hillside, toward the border. In the blackness, only the lights of the traffic along the highway were visible, white lights rising toward him, red lights receding toward the Austrian border.

He looked at his watch. They would be inside Radek’s villa now. Gabriel could picture briefcases opening, coffee and drinks being poured. And then another image appeared, a line of women dressed in gray, making their way along a snowy road drenched in blood. His mother, shedding tears of ice.

“What will you tell your child about the war, Jew?”

“The truth, Herr Sturmbannführer. I’ll tell my child the truth.”

“No one will believe you.”

She had not told him the truth, of course. Instead, she had set the truth to paper and locked it away in the file rooms of Yad Vashem. Perhaps Yad Vashem was the best place for it. Perhaps there are some truths so appalling they are better left confined to an archive of horrors, quarantined from the uninfected. She had been unable to tell him she was Radek’s victim, just as Gabriel could never tell her he was Shamron’s executioner. She always knew, though. She knew the face of death, and she had seen death in Gabriel’s eyes.

The telephone in his coat pocket vibrated silently against his hip. He brought it slowly to his ear and heard the voice of Shamron. He dropped the telephone into his pocket and stood for a moment, watching the headlights floating toward him across the black Austrian plain.

“What will you say to him when you see him?”
Chiara had asked.

The truth,
Gabriel thought now.
I’ll tell him the truth.

He started walking, down the narrow stone streets of the ancient town, into the darkness.

35

VIENNA

U
ZI NAVOT KNEW a thing or two about body searches. Klaus Halder was very good at his job. He started with Navot’s shirt collar and ended with the cuffs of his Armani trousers. Next he turned his attention to the attaché case. He worked slowly, like a man with all the time in the world, and with a monkish attention to detail. When the search was finally over, he straightened the contents carefully and snapped the latches back into place. “Herr Vogel will see you now,” he said. “Follow me, please.”

They walked the length of the central corridor, then passed through a pair of double doors and entered a drawing room. Erich Radek, in a herringbone jacket and rust-colored tie, was seated near the fireplace. He acknowledged his guests with a single nod of his narrow head but made no attempt to rise. Radek, Navot gathered, was a man used to receiving visitors seated.

The bodyguard slipped quietly from the room and closed the doors behind him. Becker, smiling, stepped forward and shook Radek’s hand. Navot did not wish to touch the murderer, but given the circumstances he had no choice. The proffered hand was cool and dry, the grip firm and without a tremor. It was a testing handshake. Navot sensed that he had passed.

Radek flicked his fingers toward the empty chairs, then his hand returned to the drink resting on the arm of his chair. He began twisting it back and forth, two twists to the right, two to the left. Something about the movement made acid pour into Navot’s stomach.

“I hear very good things about your work, Herr Lange,” Radek said suddenly. “You have a fine reputation among your colleagues in Zurich.”

“All lies, I assure you, Herr Vogel.”

“You’re too modest.” He twisted his drink. “You did some work for a friend of mine a few years back, a gentleman named Helmut Schneider.”

And you’re trying to lead me into a trap,
thought Navot. He had prepared himself for a ploy like this. The real Oskar Lange had provided a list of his clients for the last ten years for Navot to memorize. The name Helmut Schneider had not appeared on it.

“I’ve handled a good many clients over the last few years, but I’m afraid the name Schneider was not among them. Perhaps your friend has me confused with someone else.”

Navot looked down, opened the latches of his attaché case, and lifted the lid. When he looked up again, Radek’s blue eyes were boring into his, and his drink was rotating on the arm of the chair. There was a frightening stillness about his eyes. It was like being studied by a portrait.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Radek’s conciliatory tone did not match his expression. “Konrad said you required my signature on some documents concerning the liquidation of the assets in the account.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Navot removed a file from his attaché and placed the attaché on the floor at his feet. Radek followed the progress of the briefcase downward, then returned his gaze to Navot’s face. Navot lifted the lid of the file folder and looked up. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Sharp and electronic, it sounded to Navot’s sensitive ears like a scream in a cemetery.

Radek made no movement. Navot glanced toward the Biedermeier desk, and the telephone rang a second time. It started to ring a third time, then went suddenly silent, as though it had been muzzled midscream. Navot could hear Halder, the bodyguard, speaking on an extension in the corridor.

“Good evening…. No, I’m sorry, but Herr Vogel is in a meeting at the moment.”

Navot removed the first document from the file. Radek was now visibly distracted, his gaze distant. He was listening to the sound of his bodyguard’s voice. Navot inched forward in his chair and held the paper at an angle so Radek could see it.

“This is the first document that requires—”

Radek lifted his hand, demanding silence. Navot heard footfalls in the corridor, followed by the sound of the doors opening. The bodyguard stepped into the room and walked to Radek’s side.

“It’s Manfred Kruz,” he said in a chapel murmur. “He’d like a word. He says it’s urgent and can’t wait.”

ERICH RADEK ROSE slowly from his chair and walked to the telephone.

“What is it, Manfred?”

“The Israelis.”

“What about them?”

“I have intelligence to suggest that during the past few days a large team of operatives has assembled in Vienna in order to kidnap you.”

“How certain are you of your intelligence?”

“Certain enough to conclude it’s no longer safe for you to remain in your home. I’ve dispatched a Staatspolizei unit to collect you and take you to a safe location.”

“No one can get inside here, Manfred. Just put an armed guard outside the house.”

“We’re dealing with the
Israelis,
Herr Vogel. I want you out of the house.”

“All right, if you insist, but tell your unit to stand down. Klaus can handle it.”

“One bodyguard isn’t enough. I’m responsible for your security, and I want you under police protection. I’m afraid I have to insist. The intelligence I have is very specific.”

“When will your officers be here?”

“Any minute. Get ready to move.”

He hung up the telephone and looked at the two men seated next to the fire. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I have something of an emergency. We’ll have to finish this another time.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Open the gates, Klaus, and get me a coat.
Now.
”

THE MOTORS OF the front gates engaged. Mordecai, seated behind the wheel of the Mercedes, looked into his rearview mirror and saw a car turning into the drive from the street, a blue light whirling on the dash. It pulled up behind him and braked hard. Two men piled out and bounded up the front steps. Mordecai reached down and slowly turned the ignition.

ERICH RADEK WENT into the corridor. Navot packed his attaché case and stood. Becker remained frozen in place. Navot hooked his fingers beneath the banker’s armpit and lifted him to his feet.

They followed Radek into the corridor. Blue emergency lights flashed across the walls and ceilings. Radek was next to his bodyguard, speaking quietly into his ear. The bodyguard was holding an overcoat and looked tense. As he helped Radek into the coat, his eyes were on Navot.

There was a knock at the door, two sharp reports that echoed from the high ceiling and marble floor of the corridor. The bodyguard released Radek’s overcoat and turned the latch. Two men in plainclothes pushed past and entered the house.

“Are you ready, Herr Vogel?”

Radek nodded, then turned and looked once more at Navot and Becker. “Again, please accept my apologies, gentlemen. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

Radek turned toward the door, Klaus at his shoulder. One of the officers blocked his path and put a hand on the bodyguard’s chest. The bodyguard swatted it away.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Herr Kruz gave us very specific instructions. We were to take only Herr Vogel into protective custody.”

“Kruz would have never given an order like that. He knows that I go wherever
he
goes. That’s the way it’s always been.”