Gabriel Allon 10 - The Rembrandt Affair Read online

  "When you called the embassy here in Paris, they immediately contacted a friend of mine who works at Yad Vashem. He knew I was coming to Paris on other business and asked whether I would be willing to look into it for him."

  "And what sort of business brought you to Paris?"

  "An academic conference."

  "I see." She drank some of her coffee.

  "Are the documents here, Madame Weinberg?"

  She nodded.

  "May I see them, please?"

  She peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup as if judging the veracity of his words, then rose and entered the library. When she returned, she was holding a discolored sheath in her hand. Lavon felt his heart begin to beat a little faster.

  "Is that wax paper?" he asked as casually as possible.

  She nodded. "That's how it came to me."

  "And the documents?"

  "They're inside." She handed the sheath to Lavon and said, "Be careful. The paper is quite fragile."

  Lavon lifted the covering and carefully removed three pages of brittle onionskin paper. Then he slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses, fingers trembling slightly, and read the names.

  Katz, Stern, Hirsch, Greenberg, Kaplan, Cohen, Klein, Abramowitz, Stein, Rosenbaum, Herzfeld...

  Herzfeld...

  He stared at the name a moment longer, then lifted his eyes slowly to Hannah Weinberg.

  "Where did you get this?"

  "I'm afraid I'm not in a position to say."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I promised the person complete confidentiality."

  "I'm afraid that's not a promise you should have made."

  She noticed the change in Lavon's tone. "You obviously seem to know something about this document."

  "I do. And I also know that many people have died because of it. Whoever gave you this is in very serious danger, Madame Weinberg. And so are you."

  "I'm used to that." She regarded him silently. "Were you telling me the truth when you said a friend from Yad Vashem asked you to come here?"

  Lavon hesitated. "No, Madame Weinberg, I wasn't."

  "Who sent you?"

  "A mutual friend." Lavon held up the list. "And he needs to know the name of the person who gave you this."

  "Maurice Durand."

  "And what does Monsieur Durand do for a living?"

  "He owns a small shop that sells antique scientific instruments. He says he found the documents while doing some repair work on a telescope."

  "Did he?" Lavon asked skeptically. "How well do you know him?"

  "I've done a great deal of business with him over the years." She nodded toward a circular wooden table arrayed with several dozen antique lorgnettes. "They're something of a passion of mine."

  "Where's his shop?"

  "In the eighth."

  "I need to see him right away."

  Hannah Weinberg rose. "I'll take you."

  55

  RUE DE MIROMESNIL, PARIS

  The Weinberg Center was located just around the corner on rue des Rosiers. Hannah and Lavon stopped there long enough to make several copies of the list and lock them away. Then, with the original tucked safely inside Lavon's leather satchel, they rode the Metro to the rue de Miromesnil and made the two-minute walk to Antiquites Scientifiques. The sign in the door read OUVERT. Lavon spent a moment admiring the window display before trying the latch. It was locked. Hannah rang the bell, and they were admitted without delay.

  The man waiting to receive them was equal to Lavon in height and weight, though in every other respect was his precise opposite. Where Lavon was shoddily attired in several layers of crumpled clothing, Maurice Durand wore an elegant blue suit and a wide necktie the color of Beaujolais nouveau. And where Lavon's hair was wispy and unkempt, Durand's monkish tonsure was cropped short and combed close to the scalp. He kissed Hannah Weinberg formally on both cheeks and offered Lavon a surprisingly strong hand. As Lavon accepted it, he had the uncomfortable feeling he was being eyed by a professional. And unless Lavon was mistaken, Maurice Durand felt exactly the same way.

  "You have a beautiful shop, Monsieur Durand."

  "Thank you," the Frenchman replied. "I consider it my shelter against the storm."

  "What storm is that, monsieur?"

  "Modernity," Durand replied instantly.

  Lavon gave an empathetic smile. "I'm afraid I feel the same way."

  "Really? And what is your field, monsieur?"

  "Archaeology."

  "How fascinating," Durand said. "When I was young, I was very interested in archaeology. In fact, I considered studying it."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Dirt."

  Lavon raised an eyebrow.

  "I'm afraid I don't like to get my hands dirty," Durand explained.

  "That would be a liability."

  "A rather large one, I think," Durand said. "And what is your area of expertise, monsieur?"

  "Biblical archaeology. I do most of my work in Israel."

  Durand's eyes widened. "The Holy Land?"

  Lavon hesitated, then nodded.

  "I've always wanted to see it for myself. Where are you working now?"

  "The Galilee."

  Durand seemed genuinely moved.

  "You are a believer, Monsieur Durand?"

  "Devout." He looked at Lavon carefully. "And you, monsieur?"

  "At times," said Lavon.

  Durand looked at Hannah Weinberg. "That shipment of lorgnettes has finally arrived. I set aside the best pieces for you. Would you like to see them now?"

  "Actually, my friend has something he needs to discuss with you."

  Durand's gaze returned to Lavon. It betrayed nothing but a mild curiosity, though Lavon once again had the feeling Durand was taking his measure.

  "How can I help you?"

  "Would it be possible to speak in private?"

  "But of course."

  Durand gestured toward the doorway at the back of the shop. Lavon entered the office first and heard the door close behind him. When he turned around, the expression on Maurice Durand's face was far less amiable than it had been a moment earlier.

  "Now what is this all about?"

  Lavon removed the wax paper sheath from the satchel. "This."

  Durand's eyes didn't move from Lavon's face. "I gave that document to Madame Weinberg on the condition she keep my name out of it."

  "She tried. But I convinced her to change her mind."

  "You must be very persuasive."

  "Actually, it wasn't hard. All I had to do was explain how many people have been killed because of these three pieces of paper."

  Durand's expression remained unchanged.

  "Most people would be a bit uncomfortable after hearing something like that," Lavon said.

  "Perhaps I'm not easily frightened, monsieur."

  Lavon returned the sheath to his satchel. "I understand you found the document inside a telescope."

  "It was a piece from the late eighteenth century. Brass and wood. Dollond of London."

  "That's odd," Lavon said. "Because I know for a fact that very recently it was hidden inside a painting by Rembrandt called Portrait of a Young Woman. I also know that the painting was stolen and that a man was killed during the robbery. But that's not why I'm here. I don't know how you got these documents, but you should know there are people looking for them who are very dangerous. And they assume these papers are still inside the painting." Lavon paused. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say, Monsieur Durand?"

  "I believe I do," Durand said carefully. "But I know nothing at all about a painting by Rembrandt--or anyone else, for that matter."

  "You're sure, monsieur?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "But perhaps you hear things from time to time. Or perhaps you have friends in the business who hear things. Friends who might know the whereabouts of this painting."

  "I don't make a habit of associating with people from the art business. They tend to look down their noses
at people like me."

  Lavon handed Durand a business card. "But if you do happen to hear anything about the Rembrandt--anything at all, monsieur--please call this number. I can guarantee you complete confidentiality. Rest assured recovery of the painting is our only concern. And do be careful. I wouldn't want anything unpleasant to happen to you."

  Durand slipped the card into his pocket, obviously anxious to end the conversation. "I wish I could be of help, monsieur, but I'm afraid I can't. Unless there's something else you require, I really should be getting back to the shop."

  "No, nothing. Thank you for your time."

  "Not at all."

  Durand opened the door. Lavon started to leave, then stopped and turned.

  "Actually, Monsieur Durand, there is one more thing."

  "What's that?"

  "Just remember that God is watching you. Please don't disappoint Him."

  "I'll keep that in mind, Monsieur Lavon."

  ELI LAVON and Hannah Weinberg parted at dusk in the Place de la Concorde. Hannah took the Metro back to the Marais, while Lavon made the short walk to 3 rue Rabelais, location of the Israeli Embassy. There, by the power vested in him by Operation Masterpiece, he instructed the Office station chief to put a security detail on Hannah Weinberg and a team of watchers on Maurice Durand. Then he requisitioned a car and driver to run him out to Charles de Gaulle Airport. "And make sure the driver has a gun in his pocket," Lavon said. "Maybe someday I'll be able to explain why."

  Lavon was able to secure an economy-class seat on the 8:50 Air France flight to Heathrow and by eleven that night was making his way wearily up the walkway of the Highgate safe house. Stepping inside, he was greeted by the sight of the entire team engaged in a tumultuous celebration. He looked at Gabriel and asked, "Would someone like to tell me what's going on?"

  "Valves, pipes, vacuum pumps, bellows, autoclaves, feed and withdrawal systems, frequency converters, motor housings, molecular pumps, rotors, magnets."

  "He's selling them centrifuges?"

  "Not just centrifuges," Gabriel said. "Saint Martin Landesmann is selling the Iranians everything they need to build their uranium enrichment plants."

  "And I thought I had a good day."

  "What have you got?"

  "Nothing much." Lavon held up the wax paper sheath. "Just Kurt Voss's list of Zurich bank accounts."

  PART FOUR

  UNVEILING

  56

  THE PLAINS, VIRGINIA

  The farm lay some fifty miles to the west of Washington, at the point where the first foothills of the Blue Ridge begin to sprout from the edge of the Shenandoah Valley. Residents of The Plains, a quaint hamlet located along the John Marshall Highway, believed the owner to be a powerful Washington lawyer with a great deal of money and many important friends in government, thus the black limousines and SUVs that were frequently seen roaring through town, sometimes at the oddest hours.

  On a bitterly cold morning in mid-December, a dozen such vehicles were spotted in The Plains, far more than usual. All followed the same route--a left at the BP gas station and mini-mart, a right after the railroad tracks, then straight for a mile or so on County Road 601. Because it was a Friday and close to the Christmas holidays, it was assumed in The Plains that the farm was playing host to a weekend Washington retreat--the sort of gathering where lobbyists and politicians gather to swap money and favors, along with tips on how to improve one's golf swing and love life. As it turned out, the rumors were no accident. They had been planted by a division of the Central Intelligence Agency, which owned and operated the farm through a front company.

  The security gate bore a handsome brass sign that read HEWITT, a name chosen at random by one of Langley's computers. Beyond it stretched a gravel road, bordered on the right by a narrow streambed and on the left by a broad pasture. Both were buried beneath more than two feet of snow, the remnants of a cataclysmic blizzard that had pummeled the region and paralyzed the federal government. Like most things these days, the storm had prompted a furious debate in Washington. Those who dismissed global warming as a hoax seized on the weather as validation of their point while prophets of climate change said it was yet more evidence of a planet in peril. The professional spies at Langley were not surprised by the discord. They knew all too well that two people could look at the same set of facts and come to radically different conclusions. Such was the nature of intelligence work. Indeed, such was the nature of life itself.

  At the end of the gravel road, atop a low wooded hill, stood a two-story Virginia farmhouse with a double-decker porch and a copper roof. The circular drive had been plowed the previous night; even so, there was not enough room to accommodate the armada of sedans and SUVs. Indeed, the drive was so crammed with vehicles that the last to arrive could find no pathway to the house--a problem, since it contained the most important participants of the conference. As a result, they had no choice but to abandon their SUV and trudge the final fifty yards through the snow. Gabriel led the way, with Uzi Navot following a step behind and Shamron in the trail position, holding the arm of Rimona.

  The entrance of the Israeli delegation prompted a round of cautious applause from the large group already gathered inside. The British had sent just two representatives--Graham Seymour of MI5 and Edmund Radcliff of MI6--but the Americans had shown no such restraint. Adrian Carter was there, along with Shepard Cantwell, the CIA's deputy director for intelligence, and Tom Walker, its top Iran analyst. There was also someone named Blanchard from the Office of National Intelligence and Redmond from the Defense Intelligence Agency. Representing the National Security Council was Cynthia Scarborough, and from the FBI was Steven Clark, though how the Bureau secured an invitation to the conference would forever remain one of Masterpiece's many mysteries.

  They gathered around the formal dining room table, behind nameplates, towers of black briefing books, and cups of weak coffee. Adrian Carter made a few introductory remarks before switching on the PowerPoint. A map of Iran appeared on the screen with four locations clearly labeled. Carter shone the red light of a laser pointer at each in succession and read the names.

  "Bushehr, Arak, Isfahan, Natanz. The key sites in the Iranian nuclear program. We all know the facilities well, but allow me to review them briefly. Bushehr is the nuclear power station built with German and Russian help. Isfahan is a conversion facility where uranium ore is turned into hexafluoride gas and uranium oxide. Arak is a heavy-water plant. And Natanz, of course, is Iran's primary uranium-enrichment facility." Carter paused, then added, "Or so it claims."

  Carter lowered the laser pointer and turned to face his audience. "Our governments have long suspected those four sites are just the tip of the iceberg and that Iran is also building a chain of secret underground enrichment facilities. Now, thanks to our friends from Tel Aviv, we appear to have proof of our suspicions. And we believe Martin Landesmann, chairman of Global Vision Investments, is helping the Iranians do it."

  Carter looked toward the Israeli delegation. "While it's true we've all been seeing the same intelligence on Landesmann for the past seventy-two hours, it was Rimona Stern who managed to connect the dots first. For those of you meeting her for the first time, Rimona is a former major in the Israel Defense Forces, an excellent field operative, and one of the country's most experienced intelligence analysts. You should also know that her uncle is none other than Ari Shamron. So I would advise you all to watch your step."

  Shamron smiled and watched his niece intently as she rose and took Carter's place at the front of the room. Without a word, she advanced the PowerPoint presentation to the next image. Once again, it was a map of Iran. But this time, only one location was labeled.

  The holy city of Qom...

  IT WAS QOM that proved the mullahs were lying, Rimona began. Qom that shattered any last misplaced hopes the Iranian nuclear program was intended for anything other than producing weapons. Why else would they conceal a secret uranium-enrichment facility deep in a desert mountain? And why els
e would they refuse to disclose the facility to the International Atomic Energy Agency, nuclear watchdog of the United Nations? But there was a nagging problem with Qom, she reminded them. It was designed to house just three thousand centrifuges. And if those centrifuges were Iranian-made IR-1s, Qom could only manu facture enough highly enriched uranium to produce one bomb every two years, not enough for Iran to become a full-fledged nuclear power.

  "Which should mean Qom is worthless," Rimona said. "Unless, of course, there are other Qoms, other secret enrichment facilities just like it scattered around the country. Two facilities with six thousand IR-1s spinning in tandem could produce enough highly enriched uranium to make a bomb each year. But what if there were four facilities with twelve thousand centrifuges? Or eight facilities with twenty-four thousand centrifuges?"

  It was Tom Walker, Rimona's counterpart from the Agency, who answered. "Then Iran could produce enough enriched uranium to build an effective nuclear arsenal in a matter of months. They could throw the nuclear inspectors out of the country and go for nuclear breakout. And if the chain of secret facilities is well hidden and fortified, there would be almost nothing we could do to stop them."

  "Correct," said Rimona. "But what if those centrifuges aren't wobbly, unreliable pieces of junk like the IR-1? What if they're similar to the P-2 models used by Pakistan? Or even better than the P-2? What if they're European designed and calibrated to the highest standards? What if they're manufactured under conditions where they don't end up with bothersome impurities like dust and fingerprints?"

  This time it was Adrian Carter who answered. "Then we would be staring down the barrel of a nuclear Iran in a very short period of time."

  "That's also correct. And I'm afraid that's exactly what's happened. While the civilized world has been talking, dithering, delaying, and wringing its hands, the Iranians have been quietly working to achieve their long-held nuclear ambitions. They've engaged in the time-honored deceptive practices of khod'eh and taqiyya. They've bluffed, deceived, and stalled their way to the doorstep of a nuclear arsenal. And Martin Landesmann has been helping them every step of the way. He's not just selling the Iranians the centrifuges. He's selling them the critical pumps, valves, and vacuums that link the centrifuges into a cascade. In short, Martin Landesmann is supplying the Islamic Republic of Iran with everything it needs to build uranium-enrichment plants."