“I’m sure I can track down someone qualified.” She looked at him for a moment, then asked, “Is that your wish, Monsieur Durand?”

He nodded. “But I have a small favor. I would appreciate it if you would keep my name out of it. My business, you understand. Some of my clients might—”

“Don’t worry,” Hannah Weinberg said, cutting him off. “Your secret is safe with me, Maurice. This will be strictly entre nous. I give you my word.”

“But you’ll call if you learn anything interesting?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, madame.” Maurice Durand closed his attaché case and gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I hate to admit it, but I’ve always loved a good mystery.”

HANNAH WEINBERG stood in the window of her library and watched Maurice Durand recede into the gathering darkness along the rue Pavée. Then she gazed at the list.

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

She wasn’t at all sure she believed Durand’s story. Regardless, she had made a promise. But what to do with the list? She needed an expert. Someone who knew a thing or two about Swiss banks. Someone who knew where the bodies were buried. In some cases, literally.

She opened the top drawer of her writing desk—a desk that had once belonged to her grandfather—and removed a single key. It opened a door at the end of an unlit corridor. The room behind it was a child’s room, Hannah’s old room, frozen in time. A four-poster bed with a lace canopy. Shelves stacked with stuffed animals and toys. A faded pinup of an American heartthrob actor. And hanging above a French provincial dresser, shrouded in heavy shadow, was a painting, Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table, by Vincent van Gogh. Several years earlier, she had lent it to a man who was trying to find a terrorist—a man from Israel with the name of an angel. He had given her a number where he could be reached in an emergency or if she needed a favor. Perhaps it was time to renew their relationship.

CHAPTER 45

45

THAMES HOUSE, LONDON

The conference room was preposterously large, as was the gleaming rectangular table that ran nearly the entire length of it. Shamron sat at his assigned place, dwarfed by his executive swivel chair, and gazed across the river toward the Emerald City-like headquarters of MI6. Gabriel sat next to him, hands neatly folded, eyes flickering over the two men opposite. On the left, dressed in an ill-fitting blazer and crumpled gabardine trousers, was Adrian Carter, director of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. On the right was Graham Seymour, deputy director of MI5.