“I’m surprised to see you in Paris, Monsieur Allon. The last time I read your name in the newspaper you were still wanted for questioning by the French police.”

“I’m afraid that’s still the case.”

“But you still came—just to see me? It must be very important.”

“It is, Mademoiselle Weinberg.”

Gabriel filled two glasses with wine, handed one to her, and raised his own in a silent toast. She did the same, then lifted the glass to her lips.

“Are you aware of what happened here in the Marais after the bombing?” She answered her own question. “Things were very tense. Rumors were flying that it had been carried out by Israel. Everyone believed it was true, and unfortunately the French government was very slow to do anything about the situation, even after they knew it was all a lie. Our children were beaten in the streets. Rocks were thrown through the windows of our homes and shops. Terrible things were spray-painted on the walls of the Marais and other Jewish neighborhoods. We suffered because of what happened inside that train station.” She gave him a scrutinizing look, as though trying to determine whether he was really the man she had seen in the newspapers and on television. “But you suffered, too, didn’t you? Is it true your wife was involved in it?”

The directness of her question surprised Gabriel. His first instinct was to lie, to conceal, to guide the conversation back onto ground of his choosing. But this was a recruitment—and a perfect recruitment, Shamron always said, is at its heart a perfect seduction. And when one was seducing, Gabriel reminded himself, one had to reveal something of oneself.

“They lured me to Gare de Lyon by kidnapping my wife,” he said. “Their intention was to kill us both, but they also wanted to discredit Israel and make things unbearable for the Jews of France.”

“They succeeded…for a little while, at least. Don’t misunderstand me, Monsieur Allon, things are still bad for us here. Just not as bad as they were during those days after the bombing.” She drank some more of the wine, then crossed her legs and smoothed the pleats of her skirt. “This might sound like a silly question, considering who you work for, but how did you find out about my van Gogh?”

Gabriel was silent for a moment, then he answered her truthfully. The mention of Isherwood’s visit to this very apartment more than thirty years earlier caused her lips to curl into a vague smile of remembrance.

“I think I remember him,” she said. “A tall man, quite handsome, full of charm and grace but at the same time somehow vulnerable.” She paused, then added, “Like you.”

“Charm and grace are words that are not often applied to me.”