“The usual. I so enjoyed our time together, darling. Can’t wait to see you in Geneva next week, darling. Something about a dress. I didn’t understand that part.” Whitcombe straightened the papers on his little headmasterly desk. “At some point, we’re going to decide whether she has to attend Martin’s little soirée or whether she should come down with a sudden case of swine flu instead.”

“I’m aware of that, Nigel.”

“May I offer an opinion?”

“If you must.”

“Swine flu.”

“And what if her absence makes Martin suspicious?”

“Better a suspicious Martin Landesmann than a dead British investigative reporter. That might not be good for my career.”

It was nearly midnight by the time Gabriel returned to the Highgate safe house. He found his team hard at work and an intriguing message from King Saul Boulevard waiting in his encrypted in-box. It seemed an old acquaintance from Paris wanted a word. Reading the message a second time, Gabriel ordered himself to be calm. Yes, it was possible this was what they were looking for, but it was probably nothing. A mistake, he thought. A waste of time when he had none to spare. But it was also possible he had just been granted the first piece of good fortune since Julian Isherwood had appeared on the cliffs of Cornwall to ask him to find a missing portrait by Rembrandt. Someone would have to check it out. But given the demands of Operation Masterpiece, it would have to be someone other than Gabriel. All of which explains why Eli Lavon, surveillance artist, archaeologist, and tracker of missing Holocaust assets, returned to Paris early the next morning. And why, shortly after one that afternoon, he was walking along the rue des Rosiers, twenty paces behind a memory militant named Hannah Weinberg.

CHAPTER 54

54

THE MARAIS, PARIS

She rounded the corner into rue Pavée and disappeared into the apartment house at No. 24. Lavon walked the length of the street twice, searching for evidence of surveillance, before presenting himself at the doorway. The directory identified the resident of apartment 4B as MME. BERTRAND. Lavon pressed the call button and peered benignly into the security camera.

“Oui?”

“I’m here to see Madame Weinberg, please.”

A silence, then, “Who are you, monsieur?”

“My name is Eli Lavon. I’m—”

“I know who you are, Monsieur Lavon. Just a moment.”

The entry buzzer moaned. Lavon crossed the damp interior courtyard, entered the foyer, and headed up the stairs. Waiting on the fourth-floor landing, arms folded, was Hannah Weinberg. She admitted Lavon into her apartment and quietly closed the door. Then she smiled and formally extended her hand.

“It is an honor to meet you, Monsieur Lavon. As you might expect, you have many admirers at the Weinberg Center.”

“The honor is mine,” Lavon said humbly. “I’ve been watching you from a distance. Your center is doing marvelous work here in Paris. Under increasingly difficult conditions, I might add.”