Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (91 page)

“What do I do for a living?”

“You own an art gallery. Your business cards are in the zippered compartment.”

Gabriel found the cards and removed one:

L
ANDAU
A
RT
G
ALLERY
S
HEINKIN
S
TREET
, T
EL
A
VIV

“Does it exist?”

“It does now.”

The last item in the envelope was a gold wristwatch with a black leather band. Gabriel turned over the watch and read the engraving on the back.
FOR EHUD FROM HANNAH WITH LOVE.

“Nice touch,” Gabriel said.

“I’ve always found it’s the little things.”

The watch, the airline tickets, and the wallet joined the passport in Gabriel’s pocket. The two men stood. As they walked outside, the longhaired girl in the bronze-colored wrap came quickly to Shamron’s side. Gabriel realized she was the old man’s bodyguard.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to Tiberias,” Shamron replied. “If you pick up something interesting, send it to King Saul Boulevard through the usual channels.”

“Whose eyes?”

“Mine, but that doesn’t mean little Lev won’t have a peek, so use appropriate discretion.”

In the distance, a church bell tolled. Shamron stopped in the center of the
campo,
next to the
pozzo,
and took one last look around. “Our first ghetto. God, how I do hate this place.”

“It’s too bad you weren’t in Venice in the sixteenth century,” Gabriel said. “The Council of Ten would never have dared to lock the Jews away here.”

“But I
was
here,” Shamron said with conviction. “I was always here. And I remember it all.”

4
MUNICH

D
ETECTIVE
A
XEL
W
EISS
of the Munich
Kriminal Polizei
was waiting outside Adalbertstrasse 68 two days later, dressed in civilian clothes and a tan raincoat. He shook Gabriel’s hand carefully, as though he were feeling its density. A tall man with a narrow face and a long nose, Weiss’s dark complexion and short-cropped black hair gave him the appearance of a Doberman pinscher. He released Gabriel’s hand and patted him fraternally on the shoulder.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Herr Landau, though I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances. Let me take you somewhere comfortable to talk before we go up to the apartment.”

They set off down the rain-soaked pavement. It was late afternoon, and the lights of Schwabing were slowly coming up. Gabriel never liked German cities at night. The detective stopped in front of a coffeehouse and peered through a fogged window. Wood floors, round tables, students and intellectuals hunched over books. “This will do,” he said. Then he opened the door and led Gabriel to a quiet table in the back.

“Your people at the consulate tell me you own an art gallery.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“In Tel Aviv?”

“You know Tel Aviv?”

The detective shook his head. “It must be very hard for you now—with the war and all.”

“We make do. But then, we always have.”

A waitress appeared. Detective Weiss ordered two coffees.

“Something to eat, Herr Landau?”

Gabriel shook his head. When the waitress was gone, Weiss said, “Do you have a card?”

He managed to pose the question in an offhand way, but Gabriel could tell his cover story was being probed. His work had left him incapable of seeing things as they appeared to be. When he viewed paintings, he saw not only the surface but the underdrawings and layers of base paint. The same was true of the people he met in his work for Shamron and the situations in which he found himself. He had the distinct impression Axel Weiss was more than just a detective for the Munich
Kriminal Polizei
. Indeed, Gabriel could feel Weiss’s eyes boring into him as he reached into his wallet and produced the business card Shamron had given him in Venice. The detective held it up to the light, as if looking for the marks of a counterfeiter.

“May I keep this?”

“Sure.” Gabriel held open his wallet. “Do you need any other identification?”

The detective seemed to find this question offensive and made a grandiose German gesture of dismissal. “
Ach,
no! Of course not. I’m just interested in art, that’s all.”

Gabriel resisted the temptation to see how little the German policeman knew about art.

“You’ve spoken to your people?”

Gabriel nodded solemnly. Earlier that afternoon, he had paid a visit to the Israeli consulate for a largely ceremonial briefing. The consular officer had given him a file containing copies of the police reports and clippings from the Munich press. The file was now resting in Ehud Landau’s expensive leather briefcase.

“The consular officer was very helpful,” Gabriel said. “But if you don’t mind, Detective Weiss, I’d like to hear about Benjamin’s murder from you.”

“Of course,” the German said.

He spent the next twenty minutes giving Gabriel a thorough account of the circumstances surrounding the killing. Time of death, cause of death, caliber of weapon, the well-documented threats against Benjamin’s life, the graffiti left on the walls of his flat. He spoke in the calm but forthright manner that police the world over seem to reserve for the relatives of the slain. Gabriel’s demeanor mirrored that of the German detective. He did not feign grief. He did not pretend that the gruesome details of his half brother’s death caused him pain. He was an Israeli. He saw death nearly on a daily basis. The time for mourning had ended. Now was the time for answers and clearheaded thinking.

“Why was he shot in the knee, Detective?”

Weiss pulled his lips down and tilted his narrow head. “We’re not sure. There may have been a struggle. Or they may have wanted to torture him.”

“But you told me that none of the other tenants heard any sound. Surely, if he was tortured, the sound of his screaming would have been audible in other parts of the building.”

“As I said, Herr Landau, we’re not sure.”

Weiss was clearly frustrated by the line of questioning, but Herr Landau, art dealer from Tel Aviv, was not quite finished.

“Is a wound to the knee consistent with other murders carried out by right-wing extremists?”

“I can’t say that it is.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“We’re questioning a number of different people in connection with the murder. I’m afraid that’s all I can say at the moment.”

“Have you explored the possibility that his death was somehow linked to his teaching at the university? A disgruntled student, for example?”

The detective managed a smile, but it was clear his patience was being put to the test. “Your brother was much beloved. His students worshiped him. He was also on sabbatical this term.” The detective paused and studied Gabriel a moment. “You
were
aware of that, weren’t you, Herr Landau?”

Gabriel decided it was best not to lie. “No, I’m afraid I wasn’t. We haven’t spoken in some time. Why was he on sabbatical?”

“The chairman of his department told us he was working on a new book.” The detective swallowed the last of his coffee. “Shall we have a look at the apartment now?”

“I just have one more question.”

“What’s that, Herr Landau?”

“How did the killer get into his building?”

“That’s one I can answer,” Weiss said. “Despite the fact that your brother received regular death threats, he lived in a very insecure building. The tenants are very casual about who they let in. If someone presses the intercom and says ‘advertisements,’ they’re routinely buzzed in. A student who lives one floor above Professor Stern is fairly certain she was the one who let the killer into the building. She’s still very upset. Apparently, she was very fond of him.”

THEY WALKED
back to the apartment building through a steady rain. The detective pressed a button on the intercom panel. Gabriel took note of the corresponding name.
LILLIAN RATZINGER
—
CARETAKER
. A moment later, a small, fierce-looking woman with hunted brown eyes peered at them around the edge of the door. She recognized Weiss and opened the door to them.

“Good afternoon, Frau Ratzinger,” the detective said. “This is Benjamin’s brother, Ehud Landau. He’s here to put Benjamin’s affairs in order.”

The old woman glanced at Gabriel and nodded. Then she turned away, as if the sight of him made her uneasy.

An acidic odor greeted Gabriel in the lobby. It reminded him of the solvents he used to strip dirty varnish from a canvas. He peered around a corner and saw the
kosmetik
. A fat woman in the midst of a pedicure looked up at him over a glossy German fashion magazine. Gabriel turned away. Benjamin the eternal student, he thought. Benjamin would be comfortable in a place like this.

On the wall adjacent to the door was a row of metal postboxes. The one corresponding to Benjamin’s flat still bore his name. Through the tiny window, Gabriel could see it was empty.

The old woman led them up the dimly lit staircase, a ring of passkeys tinkling in her hand. She paused outside Benjamin’s apartment. Tattered remnants of crime-scene tape hung from the doorjamb, and a mound of dead roses lay on the floor. Taped to the wall was a sign, scrawled in a desperate hand:
liebe ist stärker als ha
ß—
Love is stronger than hate.
Something about the idealistic naïveté of the slogan angered Gabriel. Then he remembered it was the same thing Leah had said to him before he left for Europe to kill Palestinians for Shamron.

“Love is stronger than hate, Gabriel. Whatever you do, don’t hate them. If you hate them, you’ll become just like Shamron.”

The old woman unlocked the door and left without looking at Gabriel. He wondered about the source of her anxiety. Perhaps it was her age. Perhaps she was of a generation still uncomfortable in the presence of Jews.

Weiss led Gabriel into the front room overlooking the Adalbertstrasse. The afternoon shadows were heavy. The detective illuminated the room by turning on the lamp on Benjamin’s desk. Gabriel glanced down, then quickly took a step back. The floor was coated with Benjamin’s blood. He looked up at the wall and saw the graffiti for the first time. Detective Weiss pointed to the first symbol, a diamond resting on a pedestal that resembled an inverted
V
.

“This one is known as the Odin Rune,” Weiss said. “It’s an ancient Norse symbol that expresses faith in the pagan religion called Odinism.”

“And the second one?” Gabriel asked, though he knew the answer already.

Weiss looked at it a moment before responding. Three numeral sevens, linked at their bases, surrounded by a sea of red.

“It’s called the Three Sevens or the Three-Bladed Swastika,” the German said. “It symbolizes supremacy over the devil as represented by the numbers 666.”

Gabriel took a step forward and tilted his head to one side, as though he were inspecting a canvas in need of restoration. To his well-trained eye it seemed the artist was an imitator rather than a believer. Something else struck him. The symbols of hatred were probably sprayed onto the wall in the moments after Benjamin’s murder, yet the lines were straight and perfectly executed, revealing no signs of stress or anxiety. A man used
to killing, thought Gabriel. A man comfortable around the dead.

He walked over to the desk. “Was Benjamin’s computer taken as evidence?”

Weiss shook his head. “Stolen.”

Gabriel looked down at the safe, which was open and empty.

“Stolen as well,” the detective said, anticipating the next question.

Gabriel removed a small notebook and pen from his jacket pocket. The policeman sat heavily on the couch, as if he had been walking a beat all day.

“I have to remain in the flat with you while you conduct your inventory. I’m sorry, but those are the rules.” He loosened his tie. “Take as much time as you need, Herr Landau. And whatever you do, don’t try to take anything, eh? Those are the rules too.”

GABRIEL COULD
do only so much in the presence of the detective. He started in the bedroom. The bed was unmade, and on the cracked leather armchair was a stack of freshly laundered clothing, still bound in brown paper and string. On the bedside table was a black mask and a pair of foam-rubber earplugs. Benjamin, Gabriel remembered, was a notoriously light sleeper. The curtains were heavy and dark, the kind usually kept by someone who works at night and sleeps during the day. When Gabriel drew them, the air was suddenly filled with dust.

He spent the next thirty minutes carefully going through the contents of the closet, the dresser, and the bedside table. He made copious notes in his leather-bound notebook, just in case Detective Weiss wanted to have a look at his inventory. In truth, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He entered the second bedroom. The walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets. Obviously, Benjamin had turned it into a storage room. It looked as though a bomb had exploded nearby. The floor was strewn with books, and the file drawers were flung open. Gabriel wondered who was responsible, the Munich police or Benjamin’s killer.